Chapter Text
London, Spring 1805
Aziraphale Fell was not customarily given to falling asleep in church. He may have been all of eleven, but he could usually find a way to remain conscious throughout the whole of the service, whether it was by imagining a scene out of Shakespeare being performed behind the altar, recalling the book he had read the previous evening, or on one occasion, actually continuing the book he had read the previous evening, tucked between the pages of his book of hymns.
Given the response of his father, Viscount Gabriel Fell of ——-shire, on the day in question, Aziraphale never attempted that again. He could not tell, on this warm Sunday morning, whether reading would have been the lesser sin than somnolescence, but in any case, he had been summarily hauled into the vestry to await chastisement from the vicar after the conclusion of the service.
He was not alone in anticipating punishment. A boy he did not recognize but who was approximately the same age, sat reclined in the pew beside him, his heels kicking restlessly. He had a shock of bright red hair and was quite astonishingly thin, as if he’d grown too quickly for his body to manage.
“Hullo,” Aziraphale attempted. “Did you fall asleep, too?”
The boy tilted his head and peered round as if he hadn’t realized Aziraphale was even there. “Nah. I got caught tossing barley at the Honorable R.P. Tyler’s head.”
Aziraphale let out a startled laugh, and the boy gave him a lazy grin. “It does make for a sizable target,” Aziraphale said, and the boy’s grin widened. “I’m Aziraphale Fell,” he said, offering out a hand to shake.
The red-haired boy eyed him for a moment before gripping his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Aziraphale waited expectantly for the boy to give his name in return, and when he didn’t, felt himself quite at a loss for what to say next. “I don’t recall seeing you at church before today,” he managed at last. “Are you new to this part of London?”
The boy gave a casual shrug, a gesture for which Aziraphale would surely have been chastised and yet which seemed to him to be utterly elegant when performed by someone so slim and carelessly poised. The red-haired boy contrived it admirably. “Not really,” he said evasively.
Mr. Hayter, the vicar, shut the vestry door with a bang and came to stand before the two boys, his arms crossed and his brow severe. Aziraphale sat up even straighter than he already had been, while the red-haired boy stubbornly maintained his slouch. “Aziraphale Fell, I am surprised to see you here,” he said, and Aziraphale’s face grew hot.
“I…I apologize, Mr. Hayter. I did not sleep well last night, and I—“
“Because you stayed up late reading, I’ve no doubt,” the vicar interrupted, in a statement that was, unfortunately, quite accurate. “Now you on the other hand,” he continued, sneering at the red-haired boy. “I am not at all surprised to see. Anthony Crawly, you’ve not been in my parish a fortnight and already you’re stirring up trouble.”
Crawly, Aziraphale noted. Anthony Crawly. It was not a name which was familiar to him. Odd, as he was quite familiar with all of the families in the area, or so he had thought.
Anthony Crawly widened his eyes innocently, eyes which Aziraphale could not help noticing were quite unusual in color—a sort of light amber, almost golden. “Stir up trouble, Mr. Hayter? Why would you ever suppose that I would do such a thing? As you say, I’ve only just arrived, and—“
“And your reputation precedes you,” Mr. Hayter said sternly, before softening ever so slightly. “It is not your fault, of course. We cannot help the circumstances of our birth. And yet, we must endeavor to rise above them, yes? Do you not agree, Master Fell?”
Aziraphale blinked uncertainly before settling on, “Yes. Yes, we must, er, endeavor.”
“Quite so. To that end, I’ll have you lads working in the sacristy today, polishing. I’ve let your families know to expect you home after two hours.” With that, he led them into the small, dark storage room and handed them a pair of cloths and a jar of vinegar before departing.
Aziraphale held his cloth and looked doubtful. “I’ve never polished anything before.”
“I don’t doubt it, with hands as soft as those,” Crawly said, but not in such a way that Aziraphale felt insulted. “What have you got on them, anyway?”
He glanced down at his fingers, stained black as ever. “Oh, ink. I was up late reading,” he admitted in a hushed tone. “And then I had some thoughts I wanted to jot down before I forgot them, but the candle had burned quite low by that point, and I’m afraid I made rather a mess.”
“Mayhap the vinegar will clean it away,” Crawly offered with a grin. “Come on, then, best to get it done quick so we’ll have time afterward. Odds are he won’t be coming to check on us until we’re meant to have finished.”
Crawly showed him how to soak the rag and rub at the candlesticks, ciborium, crucifixes, and other gold and silver chalices, many of which had grown quite stained with use. “Are you…a footboy then?” Aziraphale asked.
Crawly laughed, but did not appear to be insulted. “No,” he said, his hair falling in his eyes as he bent his head to his task. “But I get scolded so often that I’ve plenty of experience with most any punishment you can think of. Polishing’s simple enough.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. “I apologize.”
Crawly nudged him with his shoulder. “Put your back into it, or it’ll never shine.”
Aziraphale scrubbed harder, and was pleased to see the results of his efforts beginning to gleam in the dim light.
“I don’t see the point of all these things,” Crawly said after a period of silence. “What’s it all for?”
“Well…” Aziraphale floundered. “This one’s for burning incense, and that one you’ve got there is for sprinkling holy water—“
“I know that, I mean what’s the point of burning incense? Or sprinkling holy water? It’s only water.”
Aziraphale almost dropped his thurible, he was so taken aback. “Of course it’s not just water, it’s…it’s holy. ”
“So Mr. Hayter mumbles some words over it and does a blessing or whatever it is. It’s still water.”
“No, it isn’t!” Aziraphale cried, his voice rising in pitch. “It’s holy. It can bless someone who is sick, and baptise children, and…” he trailed off, unable to think of any other uses for holy water than simply being sprinkled on occasion. “It’s important,” he concluded, feeling that he hadn’t really done justice to his own argument.
It was not clear whether Crawly shared that sentiment, but he didn’t argue, merely shrugging as he went back to work. When at last they finished, Crawly sprawled on the stone floor, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his arms tucked behind his head. Aziraphale elected to sit on the wooden chair in the corner.
“What do you suppose Eden would have been like?” Crawly asked. “Kew Gardens?”
“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “It wouldn’t have been likely to have been quite so neat, if it was before civilization. It was probably more like Sherwood Forest.”
Crawly tilted his head back to peer up at Aziraphale. “The woods where Robin Hood would hide from Prince John? That Sherwood Forest?”
If Aziraphale could have managed a shrug, this would have been the moment to employ one. “I’ve always liked that story. Robin of Locksley and his Merry Men, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, fighting against corruption and avarice…”
“Oh, it’s a terrific story,” Crawly agreed. “Mrs. Hurst used to read it to me, when I lived in Devonshire. But I don’t have it anymore.”
“You don’t have a copy of Joseph Ritson?”
“Who’s that?”
“He wrote Robin Hood: A Collection of All the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads, Now Extant, Relative to That Celebrated English Outlaw,” Aziraphale recited.
“That’s the one,” Crawly said agreeably. “I liked Robin Hood and the Monk.”
“Oh, I rather enjoyed Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne,” Aziraphale said eagerly. “Do you recall that one?”
Crawly squinted in thought. “Don’t think so.”
“I can loan you my copy,” Aziraphale offered. “I could bring it next Sunday, if you like.”
Crawly rolled over onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands and kicking his boots in the air. “That’s kind of you,” he said at last.
Aziraphale beamed, a flush of pleasure moving through him. “Then I will.”
But Aziraphale did not see Crawly the following Sunday, or the Sunday after that. In fact, he was not to see Crawly again for a very long time, indeed.