Chapter 1: should auld acquaintance be forgot
Notes:
A song for this chapter: "The Joint is Jumpin'" by Fats Waller.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale looked right, then left, then walked into the dark alley in front of him. It was the fifth establishment he'd tried that evening, and the twelfth since he'd arrived in Chicago. Heaven had sent him to thwart Crowley's terrible wiles and keep him from pulling this entire city into Hell with him, but if even half of what he'd seen had been Crowley's doing, Aziraphale was going to be very impressed, and also extremely annoyed at his violation of the Arrangement. Then, maybe it was rowdier than usual right now; it was New Year's Eve, after all. Maybe things calmed down.
He knocked on the nondescript door in front of him. A hatch in the door slid back, revealing a pair of eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You got a password?"
"Ah! Hello, yes, of course. It's, er..." It was just at the front of the man's mind, and Aziraphale plucked it out easily enough. "Mirage."
The hatch slid shut, the door swung open, and Aziraphale walked in. "Thank you!" he told the doorman, and surveyed the goings-on inside the rowdy speakeasy. People were laughing and drinking and smoking and generally having a lovely time, although there was much more close dancing than was strictly necessary, and of course it was all dreadfully illegal and Aziraphale therefore disapproved wholeheartedly. He looked around for Crowley, or, failing that, a menu. He could use a good drink.
Aziraphale handed his coat and hat off to the coat-check girl, then returned to the door. "Young man, I don't suppose you've seen my... acquaintance anywhere in here, have you? Dark glasses, red hair... doesn't seem to know how to walk?" Whatever form Crowley had taken probably had those three attributes. Unless he'd been discorporated in the war. Oh dear. What if Crowley had an entirely new form? Not that it was any business of Aziraphale's, of course, but it would make him much more difficult to find.
"You lookin' for Mr. Crowley?" said the young man. "You sure?" Behind him, the fistfight had metastasized into an all-out brawl. "Hey!" the man shouted, but they ignored him. He turned back to Aziraphale as if they'd been dealt with.
"That's the one, yes! Where is he?" asked Aziraphale.
"Look, mister," said the man, who was now forced to shout over the sound of patrons cheering and shouting advice, "I'm here to keep the trouble to a minimum, and I'd love to help you out, but Mr. Crowley is kinda, uhh... he ain't gonna be happy if he don't know you, and I hear he's a lot of trouble if you do."
"I've known him for a very long time," said Aziraphale. "Trust me, I am aware." He smiled patiently and waited for the young man to get on with getting him Crowley.
Aziraphale sensed a familiar twinge in the fabric of reality as the brawl ended abruptly. The last man standing cheered, and he could see money changing hands. "Well, uh... lemme see what I can do, okay?" said the doorman. "No promises."
"Oh, I don't think you'll need to go get him," said Aziraphale, for he could see a familiar swaggering figure coming towards them, pocketing a fistful of green paper and wearing dark glasses even in this dimly-lit, smoky basement.
"My ears were burning, is there something -- Aziraphale!" said Crowley, with a grin that made odd things happen in Aziraphale's chest. "How the Heaven have you been? He's okay," he told the doorman. "He's an old, old friend." He turned back to Aziraphale. "Come over to the bar, I'll buy you a drink! Didn't think you'd turn up here."
"No, I would imagine not," said Aziraphale, trying to maintain an air of polite disapproval. "What happened to the Arrangement?" he whispered.
"Relax, angel, I haven't been doing anything," said Crowley, guiding him towards the bar, one hand gentle on his back.
Aziraphale walked a bit faster, so he would not have to think about Crowley's hand just there, just a few layers of fabric away from touching him. "You have! You ended that fight just now."
Crowley shrugged. "Would've gone that way anyway. I just sped it up a bit. Got bored. What are you here for, anyway?"
"I was sent by Heaven to thwart whatever nasty things you're doing here," said Aziraphale. "Gabriel was very cross with me when he'd found out I'd lost track of you. Why didn't you tell me you'd left London? How long have you been here?"
"Why would I tell you?" Crowley asked. He was no longer grinning. "I thought you were sick of all that... hmm, what did you call it? Fraternizing."
Aziraphale stared at him, open-mouthed. "What -- that's not -- I didn't mean -- what about our Arrangement?"
"Well, since you called it off --"
"I did not! And anyway, you were sulking and I tried to wake you up but --"
"So are you saying you'd like to pick up where we left off?" Aziraphale thought he sounded hopeful, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.
"I..." He knew he ought to say no and do his job properly. In fact, he should never have even let on that he was here.
Crowley watched him silently.
"I -- I would like that," Aziraphale admitted. Crowley's grin was strangely reassuring, as if being a failure of an angel was all right so long as Crowley was pleased.
"Well, that's all right, then! Come on, I'll get you that drink."
"Are the drinks any good?" Aziraphale asked.
"Mmmh." His ambivalent gesture became a whole body wriggle. "The recipes are good, but the alcohol they're working with is terrible. Been trying to fix that, but there's only so much I can do. Free will and all that. They keep cutting my stuff with drain cleaner and gasoline." He made a face. "At least I can report it as a success downstairs. I'll see to it you get something you like, though." He sat down at the bar.
Aziraphale sat next to him. It was remarkable how much better he felt now. Wandering through a strange, chaotic city was all well and fine, but meeting up for drinks with Crowley was safe.
Crowley called the bartender over. "Oi, Pete! Get me another old fashioned, and a gin fizz for my friend here!"
They weren't even supposed to be friends.
He's just tempting me, Aziraphale reminded himself again. The problem was, all too often, it worked.
These past few years, Crowley had been telling himself he was having a grand old time, but he'd especially had to remind himself of that tonight. Drinking alone was just how he happened to enjoy spending his New Year's Eves. He'd picked the most raucous hole-in-the-wall he knew, or at least the most raucous one where they all knew him as Anthony Crowley and not any of his other aliases, and he had at least enjoyed seeing everyone reveling in ways they weren't supposed to. Observing his evil handiwork. Not that it was particularly evil, or particularly his.
(He had three other aliases, all with slightly different faces and bodies, but sometimes the roles he'd chosen for himself got tiring, and lately, he'd wanted to be recognized. By anyone who happened to know him under the name Crowley. Not specifically Aziraphale, but should Aziraphale come and check in on him, Crowley felt he oughtn't make it too hard for the poor bastard to see just how well Crowley was doing without him. It would serve him right.)
If he was honest with himself (and he tried not to be) seeing all these attractive people with their equally attractive companions for the evening made him a little bit lonely. He'd watched two couples break up tonight and another get together, and near the back of the room there was a group of three who were getting awfully pally. He'd considered finding somebody just for the night, but nobody he'd met tonight really appealed.
Then the door had opened and the chill wind had carried a slight scent of vellum and sanctimony to him, and he knew without turning around that Aziraphale was here. So he'd thrown his voice, whispered some insults from one zozzled patron to another, and started a fight so he had an excuse to not turn and look at the newcomer, to be totally absorbed in this fight, to make a bet, to ostentatiously buy everyone a round of drinks with his winnings, and only then, once the whole bar had had a chance to admire him, would he deign to acknowledge Aziraphale.
Only then he really, really wanted to know what Aziraphale was doing here. And to see him. And to talk to him. And to watch him try a really good cocktail and show him all the best restaurants in town and take him to concerts and impress him with how very well-connected and influential Crowley was now that he'd been free of the Arrangement for sixty-four years.
(He had a sudden, feverish image of taking Aziraphale to all those oyster bars in the Loop and... no. He couldn't think about that just now. He had to stay cool.)
So he'd ended the fight with a snap of his fingers, collected his winnings, tried very hard to look suave, and then failed as soon as he actually set eyes on Aziraphale. And now he was buying drinks. Well, not buying, precisely, but he was ordering drinks, and putting forth the fiction that at some point he would be paying a human for them, and Aziraphale politely pretended to believe that.
"Ooh, this is good!" Aziraphale said, after a sip or two of his gin fizz. He looked good. He looked happy.
"How long have you been in town?" Crowley asked.
"A few days. I spent Christmas on a ship to New York." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "It was a bit much. The food was good, though. You?"
"Oh, I've been here a few years. They wanted me to be sure the States didn't become a bastion of holiness overnight just because of this Prohibition nonsense."
"And?" Aziraphale asked.
"I traveled around, saw that humans were still humaning, and settled in here to take credit for whatever horrible thing they came up with next. Considered New York at first, spent an hour in Los Angeles -- somebody else got there before me, I think, so I left -- and I tried out New Orleans, which -- you really need to get down to New Orleans, angel, it's amazing, you'd love the food -- but this seemed to be the best place to hang around and watch everything go to Hell in a handbasket. Not so much going on that I can't keep track of most of it, but definitely plenty of havoc to be had. I did think I'd made an awful mistake in '23, because they elected a mayor who might actually... not be a crook --"
"Is that unusual here?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley snorted. "Dunno, but everybody was so impressed with themselves for voting someone decent in that I got worried."
"Ah, well." Aziraphale took a thoughtful sip of his drink. "So what happened to him?"
Crowley laughed. "Poor bastard's still mayor, only everything he does to clean up the mess just makes it worse! I don't have to do a blessed thing. I just write my reports and enjoy the show."
"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "You know, my lot think you've ruined this city personally."
"Nah," said Crowley. "Barely touched it, really. It was like this when I found it." He shrugged. "Fun, though. So, what, did they send you here to clean up my mess?"
"More or less." Aziraphale stared at his glass contemplatively. Crowley watched him, wondering what had him looking so moody, until he said, "I was worried about you, you know."
Of all the things Crowley had been prepared to hear Aziraphale say to him about their long separation, this wasn't it. "Worried? What? You were worried? About me?"
"Well, you..." Aziraphale trailed off. "After our... misunderstanding, I stopped seeing you anywhere, so I --" He was avoiding Crowley's eye now, looking over his shoulder at the other bar patrons. "I checked in on you. I -- I don't know if you remember..." He looked down at his drink again, apparently distraught.
"I don't," Crowley said softly. He hadn't realized Aziraphale would care that much. Or at all, really, given their last conversation.
An uneasy silence lay between them. Finally, Aziraphale said, "And then when the war started up you were nowhere and I found a bunch of complete strangers living in your flat!"
The expression on Aziraphale's face made him want to reassure, to apologize, to comfort. To stop being everything he was. "I thought you didn't want me hanging around anymore, that's all," he said. "I thought you were done with our Arrangement. And war is hell, so... I had a job to do." London had reminded him so much of Aziraphale that the war had seemed a welcome reprieve. Blood and screaming he could handle, but he hadn't counted on the gas or the schrapnel.
"In the war," Aziraphale started, and then paused. "Did you --"
"No, angel," he said, rolling his eyes. "I didn't start the war, I didn't do much to make it worse, and frankly I don't know if I could have made it any worse than it already was. I did take credit for it because it got my head office off my back for a few years, and if you're going to judge me for that --"
"Crowley," said Aziraphale, looking wounded. "I was only going to ask if you saw much of the front."
"Oh." Crowley took a long swallow of his old fashioned then, so as to avoid looking Aziraphale in the eye, not that Aziraphale could see his eyes. (Thank Satan for small and accidental mercies.) "Yeah. I saw... enough."
"I'm sorry," said Aziraphale.
"Don't be. I could have slithered out of it if I'd had to." Unlike so many of the humans. "I just hung about asking questions, trying to get people to disobey orders, slack off...."
Aziraphale stared at him. "That wasn't you, was it? In 1914?" Crowley frowned at him. A lot had happened in 1914. "Christmas?"
He recoiled. "That? I thought that must be you!" said Crowley. "Seemed exactly like something you'd come up with except for the football part, although I did wonder how you'd managed it. Don't know how I'd even pull off something that big," he admitted. "No, it wasn't me. How could I possibly justify that Downstairs? It was so treacly too, and on Christmas."
"It certainly wasn't me," said Aziraphale. "I got a very angry note about it from Gabriel. I'd sort of hoped it was you. I thought... you know, you'd like people questioning authority and not doing their jobs, even if their jobs were murdering each other. But I didn't tell Gabriel that, of course."
Crowley took another swallow of his drink, and said "Gabriel's a wanker."
"Crowley..."
"He is. I loathe him and I think I've only ever met him properly once, but everything you tell me is awful. The way he talks to you...." Crowley finished off his drink and waved the bartender over to get another one. "He got angry at you for it? What, did it show up in his miracle queue under your name by mistake? Or however that works."
"He said it didn't show up at all and asked if I knew of any rogue angels operating on the Western Front." The way he said "rogue angel" made it seem like he couldn't imagine such a thing, not even with Crowley sitting there. "I suppose I was the nearest agent they had. I was... not really asked to leave London but I felt I should check in on the front every now and again. You know, do some rounds at some hospitals. Brush up on my French and German."
Aziraphale could have been discorporated, Crowley thought. It was probably a good thing he hadn't known about it until now, although part of him mourned the loss of an opportunity to sweep in and be very impressive and good-looking and save Aziraphale from the perils of war and bureaucracy.
He didn't want to think about all of that now, so he turned the conversation back to 1914. "So... nobody did the truce, then?" Crowley asked.
"Humans did it," said Aziraphale. "Must have. Nobody else was involved. Unless one of your lot had a very strange change of heart --"
"They didn't," said Crowley.
"-- or one of my lot thought 'Today I'm going to upset the Archangel Gabriel on purpose!' Which seems unlikely."
"Well. Maybe. I would. I'd have fun with it," said Crowley.
"Yes, but you're a demon," Aziraphale said, in that infuriating tone of voice that suggested maybe Crowley had forgot.
Crowley ignored him. "Why didn't they want it happening? It ought to be right up your lot's alley."
Aziraphale shrugged. "Wasn't part of the Plan, I suppose. Gabriel didn't really specify. It is, after all --"
"Ineffable," Crowley finished for him, rolling his eyes.
Aziraphale made no reply. He finished off his gin fizz instead.
"You can't plan for humans, that's the trouble," said Crowley. "All you can do is assume they'll go haring off in some wild direction --"
"And whose fault is that?" Aziraphale asked, pointedly.
Crowley shrugged. "I didn't make her eat the apple, you know. Still don't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil. For one thing, I'm not sure it took."
Aziraphale sighed. "Much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point, my dear."
They soon got to reminiscing about times, drinks, temptations, and miracles past, and somewhere after his sixth or seventh or... possibly tenth drink, Aziraphale stopped feeling guilty and let himself be warm and happy in this boozy, smoky barroom. These sugary gin drinks really weren't as bad as he'd assumed they would be, and the people here seemed to be having such a good time. It was a shame it was all illegal, and also apparently immoral. Aziraphale was enjoying listening to Crowley tell a complicated story about an enterprising fellow he'd met in Cincinnati.
Crowley was explaining how his friend had hired people to hijack his own trucks when a young lady shouted "Hey, it's almost midnight!" from one of the tables near the back of the room, and they both looked up from their conversation.
"Oh, are they going to be counting down to midnight?" Aziraphale asked.
"I s'pose so," said Crowley. "In New York they have this... ball."
"Oh! Like with masks?" Aziraphale asked. He'd rather enjoyed those. All the costumes were so much fun, and sometimes the menus were extraordinary.
"No, no, like... big round bastard," said Crowley, with an evocative gesture. "Falls down at the stroke of midnight."
"Oh," said Aziraphale, frowning. He tried to picture this, but it still didn't quite make sense. Not that he was drunk. As an ethereal being, he could put away a fair amount of alcohol, and he could barely taste anything but sugar in these drinks, so they couldn't be very strong.
"You know, like a circle, but more," Crowley added. His evocative gestures were getting more and more patronizing, and Aziraphale wasn't having it.
"Yes, I know what a sphere is, thank you very much," he said. "Why does it fall down?"
Crowley considered this. Aziraphale was beginning to think Crowley might be a bit drunk, silly sugary drinks notwithstanding. "Gravity?"
"So you don't know either," Aziraphale said.
Crowley chose not to answer this. "I think they used to use them as... as a signal, for ships? Only the New York one's just a signal for drunk people. I think... I think they might have one at Greenwich," he said. "For ships, not drunk people."
Aziraphale felt he was on firmer ground now that they were (conversationally) back in London. "You know, they moved Greenwich."
"Did they?" Crowley asked. "That must've been a lot of work. Where'd they put it?"
Aziraphale tried to remember. "Not Greenwich. I think it had something to do with trains. To be perfectly honest I wasn't paying attention."
"I'll have to find out where it went, then," said Crowley, making a face. "Because. The Obvers... the... y'know, the bit with the telescope."
Aziraphale peered at him. "Crowley, I didn't know you were interested in astrono--"
"I'm not," said Crowley.
Well then. "So why are you --"
"To avoid it, obviously. Last thing I want to do, find myself surrounded by a bunch of boffins who think they know everything about the stars." Crowley somehow managed to visibly roll his eyes despite his dark glasses.
"I didn't know you were so against astronomy," said Aziraphale.
"I'm not against it," snapped Crowley. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Well... that's fine, then," said Aziraphale. He wished he hadn't brought it up. Being back on good terms with Crowley had been so nice, for this evening, and he didn't want to lose that over Greenwich Observatory, of all things. "So what happens at midnight? The ball drops, and...?"
"They all kiss each other," said Crowley. "You know, for luck."
"Oh!" Aziraphale remembered a little village in Swabia with a tradition like that. He thought it had been very touching. Actually, it had been a bit more touching than Aziraphale was prepared to endure, so he'd gone invisible after the first few friendly little pecks on the cheek from people he'd never met, wishing him luck he didn't need. He'd only been waiting for the year to roll over to perform a miracle which, for obscure bookkeeping purposes, couldn't happen until the first of the year. "That's a nice tradition. A bit lonely, though, if everybody knows everybody else except you."
Crowley shrugged. "I'm always a stranger. I'm used to it."
Aziraphale realized then how much worse it must be for Crowley, who couldn't even feel the love and happiness of others as they shared their well-wishes en masse, of whom humans' first impressions tended to be mistrust and unease. "No! No, you aren't," he said. "Not really." He was having trouble putting this into words. Maybe he had had a few too many drinks.
Crowley frowned at him. "Sorry?"
Somewhere in the crowd beyond, Aziraphale heard someone shout "Ten!"
"You're not a stranger, Crowley. Not always," said Aziraphale. It was, he felt, absolutely vital that Crowley understand this, especially right now. Aziraphale couldn't bear to lose him again.
"Nine!" There were more voices joining in.
"Ah. Thanks? Aziraphale, how many of those have you had?" Crowley asked.
"Eight! Seven!"
Aziraphale was having trouble concentrating on counting the drinks he'd had with everyone shouting numbers around him, so he dismissed this question. He didn't see how it was relevant anyway. "That has nothing to do with anything," he said, over the entire rest of the room counting down. "You're not a stranger to me, my dear."
"Aziraphale," Crowley said, sounding worried.
"Four! Three!"
"You aren't, and you never will be, and I'm sorry we haven't spoken in so long, and --"
"Two! One!"
Aziraphale decided that since it was midnight, and since they were among humans -- who would presumably be expecting it anyway -- he might as well express himself more traditionally, so he leaned over and kissed Crowley.
His lips tasted like cognac and lemon, and he smelled good -- well, evil, technically, but in a way Aziraphale had always quite liked -- and it was all lovely until Crowley pushed him away, and said "Right. You'd better sober up."
"I'm perfectly sober, don't be silly! Can't be enough to get me drunk in those cocktails, anyway, mostly sugar and --"
"Sugar and industrial alcohol, yes," said Crowley. He stood, a bit wobbly himself. "I'm sorry, I should have been paying attention --"
"I'm fine, Crowley, I'm not some lightweight," said Aziraphale, and he tried to stand too, but the room was surprisingly spinny and he ended up leaning against Crowley for support.
"Oof. You definitely aren't," said Crowley, putting an arm around him. It was very nice of him, Aziraphale thought. He was such a nice demon. "Come on, you can sober up or I can get you home, but I think you've had enough for now."
"I'm fine," Aziraphale insisted once more. But, in order to humor Crowley, he tried to extricate the alcohol from his system. Only it wasn't just alcohol, and some of it was definitely the wrong sort of alcohol, and he was having a bit of trouble, drunk as he was, evicting it from his person. "Oh. Oh dear." He stumbled forward. "Oh, you were right. This is -- this is very strong stuff, Crowley."
All around them, people were singing Auld Lang Syne very badly. They'd got through old acquaintance being forgot and never brought to mind, and now they were faltering. Aziraphale considered helping them out, but all he remembered was something about cups of kindness, which he had probably had enough of tonight anyway.
"Come on," said Crowley, gently. "I'll get you a cab. Where are you staying?" He managed to help Aziraphale through the smoky room, and with a snap of his fingers they both had their hats and coats back.
"Not staying anywhere in particular," said Aziraphale. "I didn't think I'd need to. Not as if I sleep." It had seemed more urgent to find Crowley than to waste time finding rooms.
"Ah," said Crowley, frowning. He went strangely quiet as he held the door for Aziraphale.
The cold wind rushed into the room, crashing over Aziraphale like a wave. At least it cleared his mind a bit as he stumbled into the alleyway. He paused, waiting for Crowley to catch up.
"Well," said Crowley, "you could... you could stay at my place. I've got plenty of room."
"Oh, I don't want to put you to any trouble," said Aziraphale, although if the headache he was getting now just from the minuscule amount of alcohol he'd managed to get out of his bloodstream was any indication, he would appreciate somewhere quiet and warm and safe very soon.
"It's no trouble at all," said Crowley, and he sounded like he meant it.
"Oh... well, if you insist," said Aziraphale, feeling he had put up enough token resistance to the idea to concede. He leaned up against Crowley for support again. "You are... such a good friend."
"I know," said Crowley, sounding miserable. "Don't rub it in."
"Without you things were very quiet," Aziraphale said. "Nobody to talk to. I joined a club and that was all right for a while. You might've liked it. Or maybe you would have hated it, I don't know, but it would have been nice to find out."
Crowley sighed. "I missed you too, angel."
The cab ride home was too long for Crowley's taste, but the last time he'd miracled a cab to go faster, the cabbie had panicked and they'd almost crashed, so Crowley put up with it. He'd never bothered to learn himself; he hadn't enjoyed driving carriages with horses, because... horses, and he assumed cars would be much the same, only even stupider and harder to control. Horses at least cared about saving their own skins, whereas cars had all the self-preservation instinct of sheep, which was to say, none at all.
But he was avoiding the real problem.
Aziraphale was drunk. Aziraphale was drunk enough he couldn't sober himself up. He had been in the city for two days; had in fact only been in the States for maybe four days. Had not known what the drinks on order were. Crowley realized he should've been clearer in his warning about the quality of American alcohol; should have mentioned that the reason they put so much fucking sugar in it these days was because it tasted extremely bad, was possibly laced with poison by the distributor, and occasionally made people go blind.
(The actual government had been poisoning it lately too. Crowley had written an entire report about it; governments murdering their own people always won him praise downstairs.)
Anyway, Aziraphale would probably be fine in the morning. At least, he would be fine physically.
Maybe he wouldn't remember kissing Crowley?
No. No, Crowley always remembered everything he'd said and done while drunk, unfortunately. It was probably one of the dubious perks of being a celestial being. So Aziraphale would remember everything he'd said and did and he'd be horrified at himself. And he'd be absolutely insufferable towards Crowley.
It hadn't even been a very good kiss, although Crowley felt that was probably because he'd been too surprised to respond in kind. He looked across the back seat of the cab, to where Aziraphale was watching buildings go past, and decided he didn't dare ask for a do-over.
Hooray, 1926.
Ah, well. He'd been hoping to invite Aziraphale back to his new digs for a nightcap anyway, so he could rub Aziraphale's face in just how completely, utterly, totally, undeniably, fantastically well Crowley was doing without him, but all those earnest pronouncements about what a good friend Crowley was had almost made him feel guilty about that plan. He'd expected the Aziraphale who insisted they weren't friends, not beatific smiles and endearments.
There was also the matter of sleeping arrangements. It was quite a large house, but there was only one resident, so Crowley had only furnished one bedroom, and used the rest for storage. Were Aziraphale sober, there was no question what Crowley would do -- apologize profusely to the point of making Aziraphale suspicious, then suggest they share the bed, because obviously Crowley didn't have any other furniture at all upon which he could sleep; none of the couches would do, or the arm chairs, or even the pool table, oh no. Because after all, if Aziraphale was sober, he would probably just opt to sit up and read all night rather than discomfort Crowley in any way. It was fair if Aziraphale was sober.
(What would he sit up reading? Crowley's small and haphazard pile of paperback novels and pulp magazines? No, that wouldn't do at all. Crowley decided that his first order of business once they pulled up to the house would be to miracle himself a library before Aziraphale could notice its absence. And after that, he would just have to miracle up a second bed. In its own room, for preference.)
So Crowley sat in the back of the cab, watching the dark water of the lake lap up against the snowy beach outside, wishing things had gone differently. He couldn't even put his finger on which things. Should he have kissed Aziraphale back? Told him to go easy on the cocktails? Sought him out before sixty-four years had passed?
Maybe Crowley just shouldn't have Fallen. That would've solved pretty much all of his current problems neatly, and doubtless replaced them with an entirely different set of insoluble problems, mostly to do with Heaven being full of bastards with all the self-awareness of a chunk of pumice. Also, he would never have met Aziraphale -- his heavenly CV would never have got him stationed any nearer to Earth than the Oort Cloud -- so it was a rotten solution even if he could go back in time and not just forward.
"What a beautiful night. From inside a cab, at any rate," said Aziraphale, watching the lights of the houses go past. This stretch of the shoorline was lined with mansions, and every light in every house blazed through picture windows that must have cost a fortune in heating bills.
"From inside a cab, lots of things are beautiful," said Crowley. "You don't have to look too closely from inside a cab."
They drove in silence for a few more minutes. Crowley tried to watch the scenery passing by on Aziraphale's side, and not look at Aziraphale himself. Now the mansions had been replaced with greystones and courtyard buildings. Here and there tipsy people wandered out of buildings, or stared out at the dark, flat expanse of the water from chilly balconies, as if the lake was an especially ill-tempered crystal ball.
"Crowley, I haven't ruined your evening, have I?" Aziraphale said, quietly.
The question took him by surprise. "No! Why would you say that?"
"Well, I mean, if you had plans..."
You showed up and you made my evening, angel, thought Crowley. I can ruin my own evenings without you. Aloud, he said, "I didn't, especially. Er. Speaking of plans, have you got any meetings with your Head Office scheduled yet, or can we do brunch tomorrow?"
"Oh, heavens no, they're not expecting me to check in for a good long time. To be -- to be perfectly candid I don't think they expected me to get here so quickly, my dear. Should have some time to myself. Brunch would be lovely."
Crowley grinned to himself, then remembered he barely knew any restaurants that were open in the daytime, because he only ate once every two weeks or so. And he wasn't in a position to judge any of the food at those diners, although their rat populations had all taken a drastic hit as soon as Crowley had started coming around when he was peckish. He'd have to call around to ask for recommendations from some of the people who showed up at his parties.
He wondered what Aziraphale would think of his parties. Probably not much. Not enough food.
He could fix that.
When they got to the house, Aziraphale stumbled out and handed the cabbie a fistful of cash before Crowley could stop him, and they made their way to the front door. "Quite a house," said Aziraphale, looking up at it. Crowley could not tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Lots of columns," Aziraphale added. "And stairs." Crowley realized Aziraphale had fallen behind, and went back to help him up the stairs. "Thank you," said Aziraphale. "What do you need so much house for?"
"What does anybody need it for?" Crowley asked, because if Aziraphale was going to be drunkenly judgmental about his house he'd also better sniff superciliously at everyone else in the neighborhood.
"Just asking," Aziraphale said. "It's very... it's very..." He stared up at the house for a moment, so intent that he began to lurch precariously backwards without appearing to notice.
Crowley caught him and steadied him, then unlocked the door and held it. "Come on, Aziraphale."
"Oh my," said Aziraphale, leaning against the doorframe and looking up at the vaulted ceiling of the entry. "Looks almost like a chur--"
"If you must know," said Crowley, steering him forcefully into the house with an arm around his shoulder, "I need it for parties."
"Parties?" Aziraphale asked. They continued into the living room. Crowley quietly added some built-in bookshelves and filled them with books while Aziraphale was looking at the grand piano. He'd even read some of them. But Aziraphale didn't even look at them as Crowley led him through a corridor and once more offered him help up the stairs.
"Sort of obligatory, parties," said Crowley. He was trying not to enjoy how Aziraphale was leaning on him. He could probably offer more support with his arm around Aziraphale's waist, but that seemed... dangerous. "If you're going to show up out of nowhere being extremely wealthy and mysterious and clever --"
"Who's doing all that, then?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley pointedly ignored him "-- you've got to throw parties." They paused at the landing. "I'm practically carrying you up these stairs, you know, you should be nicer to me."
"I'm always nice, Crowley, I'm an angel. Who do you invite?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley made a noncommittal noise. "I don't really invite people, I just sort of decide, eh, it's been long enough between, let's have a party, and people think I invited them last week and have their weeks arranged so they can show up, and sometimes they bring a friend or two. Nobody I already hate, though. Then I keep them around 'til I'm sick of them or the neighbors are angry enough to come over, whichever comes first."
Aziraphale tsk'd. "Poor neighbors."
Crowley left him to hang onto the banister for balance while he went to inspect one particular section of the wood paneling. There was a forest motif here. Or rather, a garden motif. "Oh, don't pity them, angel, they deserve to be upset. I returned their lost cat once and they've hated me ever since. Couldn't stand the thought of it rubbing... cat elbows...? with new money. Somebody'd hit it with a car, too, it was an awful job getting the poor thing back in working order." Crowley found the tree he was looking for, pressed the highest apple in the tree, and the panel swung open. "Be careful here, there's a step up," he said to Aziraphale.
He'd sort of hoped Aziraphale would say something about the secret door, like maybe, "Oh wow, a secret door," or "What an impressive secret door you have," or perhaps even "Take me now, you beautiful secret door-haver!" but Aziraphale seemed unmoved. He merely took Crowley's generously-offered hand and stepped through the secret door as if it was a blatant and conspicuous door. "Well, that is a pity," he said. "Still, you did them a great kindness."
"Oh, don't, angel, don't act like I did them a favor," said Crowley. "I reanimated their cat. It's probably haunted or something. Perversion of nature, sort of thing." The cat seemed pretty normal, from what Crowley had seen of it, but it must be furious with Crowley, because sometimes it left eviscerated birds on his doorstep, and it was always trying to trip him when he went out to get the post. So probably it'd been a bad deed. (Crowley did not know much about cats.)
"I don't think that's how it works, my dear," said Aziraphale. He stumbled a bit, and when Crowley caught him, he beamed apologetically. "I'm so sorry, you're being terribly hospitable and I'm..." His face was so close. Crowley could have leaned in, and...
He swallowed, and looked away. "No problem at all."
They were slowing down now, because Crowley, specifically, was slowing down, because this whole "Oh, by the way, I only have one bed in this whole mansion, whatever shall we do?" conversation felt much less fun to have now that it was imminent. They'd shared beds before, in other times and places when that was perfectly normal for two man-shaped beings who were merely cordial acquaintances, and it had been... well. It hadn't been much, but it'd been nice. This wasn't that, though; this was Aziraphale sloppy-drunk and overaffectionate, who was already going to wake up the next day and realize he'd done too much. And if he blamed Crowley for that, well, he wouldn't exactly be wrong.
Crowley finally lost his nerve, and decided he'd have to just make a new bedroom. There were plenty of other rooms here; it was only that they were unfurnished and completely packed with smuggled liquor. The Canadian whiskey would be easiest to replace, so he sent a hundred and sixty-one crates of Old Log Cabin into the lake. Then he realized he didn't know what sort of decor Aziraphale would like, except that probably it would be hideous and incorporate tartan, and he froze up.
"Is everything... all right, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.
"Fine, just -- fine," said Crowley. "Er. Which bedroom would you like?" he asked.
"What are my options?" said Aziraphale. "Can I see them?"
"No!" said Crowley. "I mean. Not all of them. It'd take a while. There's. So many of them. Big mansion. Just, you know. Describe... a bedroom. And maybe I'll have it here."
"It doesn't really matter, Crowley, I just need somewhere to rest while this awful stuff makes its way out of my blood stream," said Aziraphale. He was frowning, which Crowley did not like, and then suddenly he was smirking, which Crowley liked even less. "Have you got any tartan?"
Crowley knew Aziraphale had caught him now, but there was nothing for it except to brazen his way onward. "I might do," he said, faintly. "What, er, sort of tartan?"
"Oh, there's a lovely pattern I just don't see enough of these days," said Aziraphale, and he went on a long drunken ramble about the particular history of some ill-fated Scottish clan, and by the end of it Crowley still didn't know what bloody colors the tartan was, but he sort of wanted shortbread now. He managed to get a color scheme out of Aziraphale and tried to make the bedroom cozy, but he mildly regretted dumping all that whiskey into the lake. He could use some, and unlike crates of Old Log Cabin, Aziraphale floated.
Instead of sending Aziraphale into Lake Michigan, Crowley opened the door to the former whiskey storage room and waved him into it. "Oh, it's lovely!" said Aziraphale, seeing the hideous room Crowley had made for him. He beamed. "Thank you for everything," he said, eyes wide and earnest, and he took Crowley's hand and squeezed it. He looked at Crowley, expectantly.
He was still holding Crowley's hand.
Crowley panicked slightly. "Yes -- well -- it's nothing. Goodnight!" He took his hand back and retreated quickly to his own bedroom, where, hands shaking slightly, he took his glasses off and placed them carefully on the nightstand. He sent his hat and coat down to the hall closet with a dismissive wave of his hand and fell back onto the bed, clawing his hands down his face.
Chapter 2: an infidel's capital six days a week
Notes:
A song for this chapter: "Welcome Home" by insaneintherainmusic (covering "Home" from the Undertale OST)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale awoke feeling as though perhaps he had been discorporated, but God, in Her infinite and baffling mercy, had plucked his spirit out of Heaven and poured it back into his body without bothering to heal said body in any way. For a moment he contemplated revenging himself upon the speakeasy that had brought him so low by reporting them to somebody.
Then he decided that would take far too much work; for one thing, he'd have to get out of this bed and open his eyes, and the bed was warm and soft, and his head hurt, and he really could get the hang of this sleeping thing if it meant avoiding being conscious for his first hangover in millennia.
The door to the bedroom creaked open, and he heard soft footsteps on the carpet. Of course. He'd already imposed upon Crowley for too long, and Crowley was likely impatient to get him out of here. But the bed was so comfortable and he felt so awful. Maybe Aziraphale could convince Crowley he was still dead asleep.
But Crowley only made a soft sound under his breath, as if he'd just discovered a pile of kittens. Aziraphale felt the blanket move to cover his shoulder and tuck itself in. He heard curtains being moved, and the awful light that had been plaguing him suddenly lessened. Then Crowley left the room, shutting the door very gently. A few minutes later, Aziraphale thought he heard Crowley speaking from several rooms away -- a telephone call, perhaps.
Aziraphale drifted back to sleep wondering what on earth that had been about, and when he woke again, he felt well enough to open one eye. The room was illuminated very slightly by light filtering in through a small gap between the heavy curtains. A sunbeam struck a silver pitcher on the nightstand next to the bed, and once Aziraphale's eyes adjusted, he saw a glass sitting next to the pitcher.
There were also a couple of little white pills on the tray. Aziraphale didn't know what those were about, but he couldn't imagine why Crowley thought he would take any old mystery pills left lying about. He couldn't accept pills from an enemy agent! Even if he did have an awful headache. Crowley must know he wasn't that gullible.
(Crowley, who Aziraphale had blundered into and then kissed last night in a drunken haze, probably interfering with any temptations Crowley had been planning that evening. Who Aziraphale had suspected of trying to tempt him for ages, but who had instead gently pushed him away after the kiss, and brought him to warmth and safety. Who had warned him about how dire the state of liquor was in the States before Aziraphale had sampled the speakeasy's entire drinks menu on an empty stomach.)
Aziraphale reconsidered, poured himself a glass of water, and took the pills. Then he drank the rest of the glass, and then the rest of the pitcher.
(It wasn't that he wasn't relieved Crowley was, in fact, actually very trustworthy and would never, say, take advantage of his drunken over-familiarity to get handsy, or to come into his bedroom and stay there, or kiss Aziraphale back. It was only that relief felt an awful lot like disappointment sometimes.)
He had slept in his clothes, alas, and he was feeling too rotten to summon up the suitcases he'd deposited safely into the ether when he'd arrived in Chicago and gone hunting for Crowley, so he merely straightened his bow tie and tried to keep his hair from making him look as wretched as he felt.
(Aziraphale did not like to imagine how dreadful things might have been, had Crowley been a different sort of demon. He especially, he reminded himself, did not like to think about how Crowley would have gone about undressing him. He imagined Crowley's clever fingers working their way down the buttons of his shirt, until they got to Aziraphale's trousers, and found himself in a terrible reverie for a few moments as he had some very vivid ideas about what might happen after that. No, Aziraphale should not contemplate such things; it was borrowing trouble.)
He studied his face in the mirror for a moment, and when he was satisfied that he looked like himself, he steeled himself up for daylight, went to the windows, and drew back the curtain.
Sunlight gleamed off the lake, which lapped up against the beach in the back garden, and extended as far as the eye could see. Something about it seemed familiar, but perhaps it was just that he'd done an ocean crossing so recently. It was disgustingly bright outside, though, and Aziraphale wondered if it would be wrong to make the weather as cloudy as it'd been the day he arrived. Briefly, he tried to convince himself that such a miracle would be for the good of all poor souls who were suffering from terrible hangovers today, not just himself. He decided it was too big a miracle to get away with without somebody asking questions.
Crowley had mentioned something about brunch, hadn't he? Aziraphale supposed he should go find him.
It didn't take much wandering to find Crowley. He was in a richly-furnished office with a roaring fireplace, sitting with his feet up on the desk, speaking into a telephone in placating feminine tones. For some reason, there were three other telephones on the desk in front of him.
"No, I know, I know I said I'd have it for you, I just -- I must have miscounted." There was a pause while Crowley looked up and raised a few fingers to wave at Aziraphale without putting the receiver down, then rolled his eyes theatrically at whoever was on the phone. He was not wearing his spectacles. "All right, Al, fine, since you're going to be like that, you want to know what really happened? I didn't want to say this, but I don't think that Purple Gang can be trusted, because they're the ones who held me up. Yes, of course really. No, I don't think they knew I was working for you. ...Well, I didn't like to brag!"
Another pause. Aziraphale looked around the room, and immediately wished he hadn't, because his eye had landed on a statue of two angels... wrestling.
Probably.
Aziraphale settled his eyes on the extraneous telephones instead. Each was labeled with a different name. The one Crowley was using now had a piece of paper taped to it that said Lilith; the other three were labeled Merit, Felix, and Crowley.
"Yeah," said Crowley, "I think I can get it for you within a few days. I know somebody. No guarantees, but --" He mouthed something at Aziraphale, which Aziraphale didn't catch at all. "Oh! Oh, is that so? Well, happy birthday! When is it? Oh my goodness! Of course I'm free. Lovely. Can I bring a friend?" He winked at Aziraphale, who pointed at himself and frowned at Crowley. Was he the friend?
"Yes, he's my, er, late husband's solicitor. Lovely man." Crowley nodded furiously, and pointed at him. His expression suddenly became stricken at something the person on the other end was saying. "No! We're just -- we're not -- well of course I've talked about him, he's an old friend. Yes. Oh, wonderful! What do you want for your birthday, then?" Crowley giggled in a very forced way. "No, no, I can get it to you before that, I promise. Right. Of course. Yes. Happy New Year!" He pressed down on the hook to disconnect the line, and looked up at Aziraphale. In his normal voice, he said, "Sorry about that. Business. Want to come with me to Al Capone's birthday party?"
"What, now?" Aziraphale asked.
"No, no, 'course not," said Crowley. "In a couple of weeks. I, er, lost a shipment of whiskey meant for him, but I think I can smooth it over easily enough. Shall I call a car to take us to brunch?"
Aziraphale brightened. "Yes, please. How late is it?"
"Twoish, I think." He checked his watch. "Oh. Threeish." At Aziraphale's expression, he said, "Well I didn't want to wake you. Let sleeping angels lie, and all that. You might've smote me or something."
"I would never," said Aziraphale. "Who's Al Capone?"
Crowley gave him a hopeless look. "Really did your research before coming here, didn't you? Let me call the car first, angel."
Aziraphale was a bit miffed at this response, but he waited patiently, watching the flickering of the fireplace, while Crowley called for the car using the phone labeled Crowley. He tried not to think about how he'd practically thrown himself at Crowley last night.
Crowley hung the receiver up. "Car'll be here in a few minutes. You feeling better?"
"Some," said Aziraphale. "Thank you for the, ah, water. And the pills. And the bed."
Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "It's nothing. Trust me, that was me a few years ago when I misjudged how bad the paint thinner here was." He laughed to himself. "It did inspire me to start a minor trend for prairie oysters as a hangover cure, though, so it wasn't a total loss."
Aziraphale shuddered. "Vile things." He paused, considering how to address the elephant in the room. Trunk first, he decided, and barreled on. "Crowley, last night I --"
"Don't worry about it," said Crowley quickly. "Forgot it already." Aziraphale was so relieved he could ignore the little sting in his chest. Crowley grabbed his spectacles from the desk and put them on. "It was pretty strong stuff. Come on, car'll be here soon, we should go downstairs."
"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked, following him out of the room.
"Place with pancakes. I convinced them to stay open after breakfast," said Crowley.
They made their way out the secret door -- Aziraphale said "Oh, what a lovely motif!" as Crowley pulled it shut; Crowley was silent -- then down the stairs and outside, where it was far too cold.
"You know, I think I've been here before?" Aziraphale said, looking around, absorbing the neat, tree-lined road and high fences protecting vast houses. It wasn't as though anything looked familiar, but it felt familiar, and it was something more than the aura of intimidating exclusivity that had permeated all wealthy neighborhoods from Ur onwards.
"No you haven't," said Crowley. "I mean. I'd definitely know."
"Not recently," said Aziraphale. He considered the feeling. "Oh! I think it was the Fifth Day or so. Do you remember that big glacier brouhaha?"
Crowley shook his head. "Heard about it after, but I was stuck working billion-year shifts out on the opposite end of the galaxy. 'It's the first twenty minutes that's the important part,' they said, 'that's the big bang!' Well, they don't mention the crunch, that's for sure." He made a face.
"Oh, were you on stars?" Aziraphale asked. He'd never known what Crowley's job had been before he'd Fallen.
And he immediately regretted asking, because something in Crowley's face closed right up. "Astronomical team, yeah," he said. "Not relevant. Go on."
Aziraphale tried to salvage the topic. "No, but they're lovely," he said, "you did a splendid job --"
"I don't want to talk about it, angel," Crowley said firmly. His expression softened. "But tell me about the glaciers?"
"Well," said Aziraphale, now feeling terribly guilty, "they pulled me off of cephalopods to work on it --"
"Cephalopods?" Crowley asked.
"Yes. You know, like, er, like octopuses -- octopi? Octopodes? And squids, and --"
"Calamari," Crowley suggested, with a little smile.
Aziraphale laughed. "Yes, that's the one! Although, you know, I was terribly fond of the ammonites. By the time the glacier nonsense was dealt with, they’d been forgot and everyone back in Cephalopods had moved on without me. The later models turned out very well for cuisine, I must say, but the ammonites were so elegant."
"Did they give you any, I don't know, geology training?" Crowley asked. "I mean, before taking you off of designing... fish?"
"Mollusks," said Aziraphale. "And no, there wasn't time, we had a deadline in two days. Anyway, what happened was that somebody, and I don't know who but I've always suspected Phanuel, actually -- somebody left a very rude glyph etched into the landscape so we had to wipe it all clean with glaciers at the last minute, and then by the time the glaciers had melted we didn't have time to put any landscape in, so it was all flat with a bunch of big puddles. Which I suppose it still is."
"See, that's the sort of thing that better management would've planned for," said Crowley.
"There's no such thing as better management, Crowley, there's --"
"What was the rude thing?" Crowley asked. "The glyph, I mean."
Aziraphale went very red. "Really, Crowley?"
"Well you can't tell me that story without telling me what it was!" said Crowley
Aziraphale sighed. "All right, fine, I did warn you." He whispered it into Crowley's ear, in syllables that could not be comprehended by mortal ears.
Crowley boggled at him. "Phanuel? You think Phanuel wrote that?"
"Well, I haven't got any proof, but he was looking awfully guilty all Fifth Day," said Aziraphale. "And most of the Sixth as well."
"Phanuel. Really? I don't think it can have been Phanuel. Hasn't got it in him," said Crowley.
"You think what you like, my dear, but I was there," said Aziraphale.
In a few minutes (during which Aziraphale tried, and failed, to work out how to get Crowley to talk about making stars without upsetting him) the car arrived, and in a few more minutes they were at the restaurant, which smelled of cinnamon and bacon and diner coffee.
Crowley looked slyly over his menu after they were seated. "I hear their specialty is apple pancakes."
Aziraphale swatted him lightly over the head with his own menu. "Stop that, you fiend!"
Crowley flashed him a grin. "Got to be better than the Dutch baby. Bet it's not even Dutch."
"Or a baby," said Aziraphale. "We should complain. Tea please?" he asked the waitress who was hovering nearby. "Milk, two sugars."
"Black coffee," said Crowley.
When she was gone, Aziraphale said, "You were going to tell me about Mr. Capone, I believe?"
"Ah. Yeah," said Crowley. "He's. Well. Let's just say he's been a boon to every memo I send Downstairs."
"Ah. Not a nice fellow, then," said Aziraphale, flipping over his page to contemplate the sandwiches. "Hang on, this is going to be a difficult decision." The waitress came back with their drinks; Aziraphale hemmed and hawed over his order and finally narrowed it down to three things. Crowley ordered the apple pancake, and Aziraphale resolved not to touch it no matter how good it smelled.
Once they'd ordered and handed over their menus, Crowley spilled a little of his water out onto the tabletop.
Aziraphale grabbed his napkin and pulled it out of the way just in time to avoid getting it soaked. "What are you --"
"I'm drawing you a map, angel, relax," said Crowley, and, indeed, the puddle of water did not spread very far, in defiance of all diner spill tradition; it stayed in a long, narrow line along the right side of the table. "There's the lake." He took out a tin of breath mints and plonked a mint down by the edge of the water, near the top of the 'map.' "We're here right now." He looked speculatively at the condiments before grabbing the salt and pepper. "This," he said, showing Aziraphale the salt, "is Hymie Weiss and the North Side Gang." He put them slightly more towards the center of the map.
"What an imaginative name," said Aziraphale.
"And this," he said, showing Aziraphale the pepper shaker, "is Al Capone and his outfit." He put it down well to the south.
"That's all well and good, Crowley, but where are they going to put your apple pancake when it comes?"
"Over there in Naperville, probably," said Crowley, with a vague gesture westward. "Plenty of room there, nothing happens in Naperville. Anyway. I, Crowley, work for Mr. Weiss, in a procurement capacity, obviously. I didn't really know what I was doing when I started working for the North Siders, so I didn't think to come up with a different name. But!"
And here he placed another mint carefully, slightly north of the pepper shaker. "I, Lilith Cambion, work for Mr. Capone, in a similar capacity. I've got a house out there too, but the neighbors here are more fun to upset and Capone throws bigger parties than I could so I don't really bother." Here he grinned. "You see, my poor sainted husband died in a mysterious boating accident, leaving only his gobs and gobs of cash to comfort me, but the authorities think I killed him. So I escaped to the States to avoid that unpleasantness."
Aziraphale should have been telling Crowley off for his ridiculous plan, for all this dastardly deception, and for making a mess of the table. But he couldn't help it; this was exactly the sort of harebrained nonsense Crowley loved most, and it probably wasn't hurting anyone, so Aziraphale didn't feel guilty about not thwarting it. "I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself."
"I'm not done!' said Crowley.
"Of course not," said Aziraphale. "Please, go on."
"So this," said Crowley, reaching for the sugar, "is --"
"Uh. 'Scuse me?" They both turned to look at the waitress, who was precariously balancing Crowley's apple pancake, and Aziraphale's omelet, corned beef hash, mushroom sauce, and side of extra-crispy bacon. "Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is, but where'dja want me to put all this?" she asked.
"Naperville," said Crowley, pointing once more at the empty space to Aziraphale's left.
"Uh. Sure," said the waitress. "You had the, uh --"
"Apple pancake here, everything else is his," said Crowley.
She put the dishes down carefully, managing to avoid damaging the map. "And I'll get you a fresh napkin to clean up the --"
"No, that's the lake!" said Crowley.
She paused to look at the map, then studied it with the expression of someone who thinks the street preacher is probably wrong about the End Times but is more interested in correcting him on a small detail about the life and wine preferences of Christ. (Not that Aziraphale had ever done such a thing.) Finally, she said, "You got the lake coming out too far west, I think, but I'm impressed you got Montrose Harbor on there. How'dja get it to curve like that?"
Crowley shrugged.
"I'm expecting a hell of a tip," she told them. "Enjoy your meal." And she left them in peace.
"Right," said Crowley, seizing the sugar, "so this is City Hall." He plonked it down on the map, dividing North from South. "Now, I, Felix, used to --"
"Felix hasn't got a last name?" Aziraphale asked. He examined his omelet, which smelled amazing, and took a little taste of the mushroom sauce. Delightful.
"Nobody asked," Crowley said, while Aziraphale dumped sauce on his omelet. "I think they assumed it was fake when I gave it to them."
"Convenient for you, then," said Aziraphale, sampling the omelet. The egg was nicely fluffy, the mushroom sauce was extraordinarily creamy, and the overall effect was delicious. "This is wonderful, Crowley, would you like to try some?"
Crowley looked across the table at the apple pancake, exiled, as it was, to Naperville, whatever that was. It was bigger than his head and smelled of cinnamon and future dental cavities. "I'm not all that hungry," he said. "You can have some of mine if you like." He turned back to his impromptu map. "So, as Felix I used to work for the old mayor. But he ran off to the South Seas to look for a climbing fish."
"A climbing fish?" Aziraphale asked. He was about to say he'd never heard of such a thing, but it was ringing a small, worrisome bell somewhere in his head, and then he had it -- he'd read it in a newspaper with relief, because the mayor of some city in the States -- he had misremembered it as Boston, but it must've been here -- had lost his election and now he would go look for climbing fish instead of... "Crowley, you're not working for that maniac, what was his name... Thomas, or, no, Thompson -- the one who wanted to burn all those books! Tell me you're not working for him!"
"Well, like I said, he's off to the South Seas, and -- angel, do you mean to tell me you know all about the mayor's bizarre conspiracy theories about --"
"King George trying to undo the American Revolution or something through library books, yes," said Aziraphale. "We gave them those books after that awful fire, there were donations, it was ever so charitable, and --"
"Did you give them any books?" Crowley asked.
This caught Aziraphale up short. "Well, the people of London gave them books, and --"
"But did you?" Crowley asked, leaning forward. He was smirking.
Aziraphale didn't see what that had to do with anything. "Well, for Heaven's sake, Crowley, the whole city had burned down, I don't think there's anything wrong with waiting a few... years, perhaps, or decades even --"
"Centuries?" prompted Crowley.
"A little while," said Aziraphale, "before letting them have anything valuable. It's the responsible thing to do."
Crowley nodded, trying and failing to look very serious. "Of course, obviously. And you'd heard about Big Bill's jingoism but you don't know who Al Capone is?"
"Is Al Capone telling people to take library books out and burn them?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well, no, but --"
"Then I already like him a good deal more," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, how on Earth did you work for this Thompson fellow, didn't he notice --"
"I can do accents!" said Crowley.
"You can," agreed Aziraphale. "Anybody can do accents."
"I can do accents well," Crowley said.
"Mm," said Aziraphale, not willing to concede that point. He turned his attention back to his poor, neglected omelet, which was miraculously still hot.
"Well, I did an accent, which was good enough to convince Big Bill --"
"Oh yes, he must be very clever if he thinks the same King George has been reigning for a hundred and fifty years," said Aziraphale.
"Anyway," said Crowley, "Big Bill -- who I really don't think believes all that, he's just doing it for votes -- left us all in the hands of this incompetent wet blanket Dever who likes things to be --" here he used his fingers to put quotes around his speech "-- 'above board,' or something, so I don't work for him. Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John are still in the game though, so I do odd jobs. Mostly encouraging people to vote."
"Hinky Dink," repeated Aziraphale, distastefully.
"Yeah, and you're called Aziraphale, what's your point?" Crowley asked.
"My name was given to me by the Almighty, and cannot, therefore, sound absolutely ridiculous," said Aziraphale.
"Oh, I don't know, I used to work with someone whose God-given name was Leonard," said Crowley. "Dunno why Satan made him keep it. Probably out of cruelty."
Aziraphale waved off this alleged Leonard as irrelevant. "Is it so demonic to encourage voting?"
"It is when the voters have been dead for years," said Crowley.
"Ah. And the humans don't... question...?" He was glad Crowley was having such a good time, but using resurrection to gain political advantage was fiendish, in an actively distasteful way, and he thought he'd better at least register his objection.
"Oh, they don't check," said Crowley. "They're just like my lot. Long as it gets done they're pleased. They pay a lot better, too."
"Seems a little gauche if you ask me," said Aziraphale.
Crowley shrugged. "Well, good thing I haven't asked you. Less fuss than filling out all the ballots myself."
"Well, I suppose as long as you put them back when you're finished with them..." Aziraphale had another bite of omelet.
"'Put them back when you're finished!'" said Crowley, doing a very bad imitation of Aziraphale. "Obviously! What else am I gonna do with them?" he snapped. "They'd ruin my parties." He reached for the Tabasco sauce, and put it just west of the sugar.
"You're going to run out of condiments soon," Aziraphale said.
"Nah, we've still got ketchup," said Crowley. "Anyway, this is Jane Addams."
"And what band of cutthroats does she run?" he asked.
"The most dangerous ones, at least to me. They're social reformers. Do-gooders." Crowley made a face. "I've been working on this woman for years now. She's contemplated lying once, then wasn't good enough at it to follow through. It's maddening. She's just so... good."
"You poor thing," said Aziraphale. "Still, it sounds like you're making a little progress! If you keep trying maybe you can budge her?"
Crowley gave him a wide grin. "Thank you for trying, Aziraphale, but I think she's got me beat. She's already in her sixties, and her health's never been good; she'll probably be gone before I can get her soul. Hanging around there is fun, at least."
"I suppose you're somebody called Merit when you're there?" Aziraphale prompted, mopping up the rest of his mushroom sauce with the last of his omelet
"Yes! Merit O'Malley!" said Crowley.
Aziraphale paused, omelet halfway to his mouth. "Please tell me there's not a bad Irish accent involved, Crowley."
"Well, there was but both sets of O'Donnells sussed me out," said Crowley, "and then I had to wipe their memories and stop being a safecracker in a hurry. Which was fine, really, being a safecracker is dead boring unless you do it by miracles. Anyway, I decided to try and corrupt all the nicey-nice reform types. But most of them are very... churchy, and it's difficult to get at them."
Aziraphale smiled to himself. "Quite."
"Also most of them are full-up on Pride and Greed and Envy already," said Crowley. Aziraphale stopped smiling. "Not as fun to corrupt someone who's already halfway there. So I found Jane Addams and I started volunteering at her... thing, and I thought, aha, I'll work my way into her confidences and find out what her weaknesses are."
"And you haven't found them?" Aziraphale asked.
"Nothing I can do anything with. I was thinking of turning her over to you, actually. I can introduce you if you like," said Crowley. "You'll like her, she's not some awful saint."
"Oh! That sounds lovely," said Aziraphale. He wouldn't mind an excuse to stay on in Chicago as long as Crowley did.
"I will warn you, she is insufferable about Prohibition," said Crowley. "It's her only vice, alas. So don't talk about wine around her, she'll just give you this disappointed look and you'll feel you've let her down."
Aziraphale considered this. "You're certain your lot won't take her?"
Crowley laughed and waved a hand over his mess of a map. In an instant the water and breath mints were gone and the condiments were back in their places. He reached across the table and retrieved his apple pancake from its long exile, and a delicious waft of cinnamon and baked apples reached Aziraphale's nose.
"Oh! I was looking forward to seeing what the ketchup was for, though," said Aziraphale.
"I think some people like it on their eggs," said Crowley, sounding doubtful. He cut a small piece of the apple pancake with his fork and sampled it. "This is good. Aziraphale, you've got to try --"
"No thank you," said Aziraphale, primly.
"Oh come on, it's their specialty," said Crowley. Aziraphale tried not to watch as Crowley licked the fork off. Licking anything like that in public could probably get you arrested in some places. Safer to look at the pancake. Which also looked good enough to eat, but one was meant to think that about breakfast foods. "Will you at least come with me to Al's birthday party?" Crowley asked.
"Well." Aziraphale hesitated. "I don't know that it's really the place for me..."
Crowley gave him a pleading look that was only slightly less effective for the dark lenses covering his eyes. "It won't be half as fun without you there."
It's false flattery. He wants to lead me into a den of iniquity, Aziraphale thought, watching Crowley pick at the apple pancake.
"Ah, well. I understand, angel," said Crowley. He sounded genuinely disappointed. "I'll have to find out when Miss Addams is going to be around, though, I still think you'd like --"
"No, no, I didn't say I wouldn't go with you," said Aziraphale, quickly. "Of course I'll go. Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."
"'Course. Definitely. You'll keep me out of trouble." Crowley looked skeptically over his glasses. Aziraphale could just see the yellow slits of his eyes, and there was such fondness in his expression that Aziraphale didn't think he could stand it. He swallowed and tried to pay more attention to his corned beef hash. "Your food was good, then?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale nodded. "The apple pancake?"
"It's pretty good," said Crowley. "Sure you don't want any?"
Aziraphale resisted for all of two seconds. "Just... let me have a look at it."
"A look?" Crowley asked.
"A glance. I won't have any, I just want to see it. Here, we can switch," he said, offering to exchange his small plate of corned beef hash for the enormous apple pancake. "Just. Just for a moment."
It was a very good apple pancake, and Aziraphale felt only mildly guilty at finishing it off. He tried not to notice Crowley's soft smile as they talked, or the brush of his hand against Aziraphale's when they switched plates back, or the way he seemed pleased even to watch patiently as Aziraphale ate the rest of his corned beef hash.
When it was time to go, Aziraphale left a hundred-dollar bill on the table for a tip, and Crowley left a scrawled note to the waitress, with a suggestion as to where and how long to invest it; then they paid their bill and went back out into the fresh, chill air of January first.
Saturday, Crowley took Aziraphale for dim sum in Chinatown, and was careful that he got a little bit of everything. Sunday they went to Field's; partly to eat at the Walnut Room, and partly for Aziraphale to try out his new identity as Merit O'Malley's dear friend Seraphina Fell, so that Crowley could introduce him to Jane Addams.
"Seraphina, really?" Crowley had asked him. "You're putting on airs, angel."
"You're the one calling yourself Merit," said Aziraphale. Crowley watched him try on dresses and fret about how he didn't really have the figure for this year's fashions, and tried to be encouraging without saying anything too revealing, and they left with bags full of hats and gloves and horrible tartan things, and also a box of chocolates, and they'd held hands (Crowley was shocked at his own daring) and walked up and down State Street looking in shop windows before stopping for supper and heading home.
Monday morning, Crowley came home to find Aziraphale reading in the living room by the fireplace.
"Oh, good morning, Crowley!" he said, looking up from his newspaper. "You must have left very early; I thought you were still asleep."
Crowley yawned. "Yeah, nah, couldn't sleep in today. I had to get up early so I could get the box of coathangers onto the inbound train tracks before the morning rush. It's blessed cold out there."
Aziraphale tsked. "You work so hard, my dear. Come sit here by the fire, it's nice and warm."
He couldn't argue with that invitation. He sent his hat and coat back to the entryway coat rack, and sat next to Aziraphale. There were about eight sofas in this room alone, but the one with Aziraphale on it looked the warmest, by dint of having Aziraphale on it. Aziraphale threw a tartan blanket over him, which Crowley was extremely sure he had not owned until half a second ago. It was certainly ugly, but it was also very comfortable. "Since when do I get the newspaper?" he asked Aziraphale, settling in under the blanket.
"Don't think you do," said Aziraphale. "But, you know, I was letting your neighbors' cat in for breakfast --"
"Oh no," said Crowley. "I told you, angel, that thing is probably possessed." He eyed the newspaper; it was definitely too soon to hope to see his train track antics reported on, but he'd have to check back tomorrow.
"It seems like a perfectly normal cat to me," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I noticed they had several newspapers they hadn't bothered to bring inside --"
"I can't see any part of my neighbors' property from mine, it's one of the perks of living here. There's fierce competition in this neighborhood to have the highest walls and the most expensive privacy hedges, and I am winning."
"I told you, I was letting the cat in," said Aziraphale.
"You mean you were hunting the cat down," Crowley said.
"Well, for the last few days it's come to your door, but today it didn't, and I got worried," said Aziraphale. "It's too cold to leave a cat out, and I'd like to speak to your neighbors about it."
"You wouldn't like to speak to them about anything," said Crowley, recalling a thousand snotty noise complaints. He didn't understand why they couldn't put off sleeping until morning like civilized people.
"I don't think their cat's very fond of them either," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I did them a service. Leaving all those papers out like that, somebody might think they weren't home and try to break into their house."
"You stole my neighbors' newspaper," said Crowley. A black-and-white shape leapt into his lap from the floor. "And their cat," he added.
"It was for their own good, Crowley, it wasn't stealing," said Aziraphale.
The cat watched him with luminous yellow eyes for a moment, blinked, then began to make a sound like a motor. Crowley hissed at it to scare it off, but the cat merely rubbed its head against his chest. He wondered if he was losing his touch.
"It likes you," said Aziraphale. "Probably thankful you resurrected it. You should pet it. Do you know what it's called?"
"No idea," said Crowley. Tentatively, he put a hand out to touch the cat. Animals, as a rule, disliked him on sight -- or, more likely, perception by some sense humans ignored -- so he was expecting a finger full of fangs for his troubles, but the cat leaned its head into his hand and kept making that noise.
Aziraphale was beaming at him. Crowley didn't even have to see him to know; he could feel it on his skin, like sunlight. "Oh, don't," he said.
"I didn't say anything," said Aziraphale, turning a page. He sounded so smug.
"Let's have a party this week," said Crowley. The heat and the sound of the cat were making him drowsy. "Wednesday night? I've got Hull House stuff tomorrow, you can come with me, and --" he paused to yawn "-- got to get Al his missing whiskey by Friday. Think I'll just nick it from somebody else, though," he decided. "'Swhat I usually do." As a bootlegger who owned no vehicles, he generally relied upon the misfortune of others.
"Thou shalt not steal," said Aziraphale.
"You just stole a whole cat!" said Crowley. "And a newspaper." He lay back on the couch, and if the side of his head ended up somewhat on Aziraphale's shoulder, Aziraphale did not say anything. "You know they haven't got crossword puzzles in there on Mondays," said Crowley.
"Obviously," said Aziraphale. "That's why I took the Sunday paper too."
"Two newspapers and a cat, and you're fussing at me about whiskey," muttered Crowley, closing his eyes. "Whoever's got the whiskey now isn't s'posed to have it. Why not ssteal it?"
"You should really take your spectacles off if you're going to sleep," said Aziraphale.
"'M wide awake," Crowley said, although he was slightly muffled by Aziraphale's shoulder.
"Of course you are," said Aziraphale. Crowley didn't see any reason to continue arguing, when the point would be made so clearly by his continuing to be awake.
The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was somebody delicately taking his glasses off and tucking the blanket in around his side.
Crowley looked very dashing as Merit O'Malley. He wore a younger, slightly more feminine body than usual, with loose trousers and a vest, and looked rather like a globe-trotting heiress on an adventure. It was... not unattractive, Aziraphale had to admit, if only to himself.
Aziraphale, in contrast, had gone with a fairly conservative dress, and a longer skirt than was fashionable, partly because it was very cold, and partly because, while Aziraphale quite liked his body, it was clear this decade's fashions were meant to flatter someone who looked more like Crowley. Crowley had assured him that he looked very sweet, but Aziraphale assumed this was a kind way of saying that he looked like he'd had a few too many pastries.
They'd arrived at Hull House, a large brick building that had once been a private mansion, and Crowley'd showed Aziraphale around a bit. He seemed to know quite a lot of people as Merit -- several of the people rehearsing in the theater waved at him as they went past, and there was a cluster of children in the dining hall who'd scrambled to say hello to Miss O'Malley, and who were excited to meet her visiting friend from London. Crowley was terribly sweet with children, Aziraphale thought. Not that he took it well if anybody said anything about it, of course; he claimed he was only setting them on wicked paths.
The wicked path he was currently leading a child down was being able to play the piano. Aziraphale sat in the corner, pretending to read one of Crowley's books (which seemed largely to be about horrid people having affairs at each other) and watching Crowley guide the little girl through a new piece of music, note by note. Aziraphale didn't know the language they were speaking, but Crowley seemed to know it well. His long, graceful hands were gentle with her smaller ones when he showed her how she could reach across an octave with just a little stretch. The girl giggled through the entire lesson, and asked a lot of questions.
Aziraphale grew fonder of Crowley every moment he watched them. He was glad Crowley was preoccupied with the girl, because otherwise Crowley would have a lot to say about how this was, despite appearances, an evil deed.
By the end of the lesson, the girl was able to play the whole piece through, if a little clumsily, and when Aziraphale clapped for her, she first covered her face in embarrassment, and then thought better of it, and stood to give him a little curtsy.
Crowley said something to her under his breath, and the girl approached Aziraphale hesitantly. "My name is Halina," she said in English, extending a hand.
Aziraphale took her hand and shook it. "Very pleased to meet you, Halina! I'm Seraphina."
Halina's eyes went wide, like he'd said a magic word. "I have an aunt named that!"
Aziraphale looked to Crowley to see if he had anything to say about this perfectly good human name. "Is that so?" he asked Halina.
"I've never met her," said Halina. "Father sends her money, sometimes. She's s'posed to come here someday."
"And when she does, she'll be delighted to meet her talented niece," said Aziraphale, with the sort of certainty that only a being with miraculous powers could have. Crowley gave him an incredulous look over the girl's head. Aziraphale smiled back at him, undaunted.
Crowley patted her on the shoulder. "You're learning so much! And I think if you hurry you can listen to Mrs. Porter read more about the Knights of the Round Table in the library."
Halina scrambled out the door, pausing only to shout "Bye!" at them.
Crowley pushed his dark glasses up irritably. "Fine, go ahead, say it," he said, spreading his arms as if inviting a blow.
Aziraphale smiled at him. "I'm just so glad I was here to thwart you for that entire spectacularly evil piano lesson. That poor little girl, helpless against your fiendish scales."
Crowley felt his face, alarmed. "They're not showing, are they?"
"Piano scales," Aziraphale clarified.
"Oh, that. Well, musicians are easy to tempt, of course I want them all to be musicians," he said. "Have you met musicians?"
"I think you just like it here," said Aziraphale. Crowley refused to respond to this, and went to put the book of piano music back on the shelf. Something occurred to Aziraphale. "If you hand Miss Addams over to me, will you still come here?"
"Well," said Crowley, clearly having expected this question, "I've got to counter your angelic influence, haven't I? Just because she's yours doesn't mean the whole place is off limits."
"I suppose that's fair enough," said Aziraphale, pleased.
"The thing is," said Crowley, and then he trailed off. "The thing is Halina's aunt back in Poland is ill and recently widowed. She can't afford to pay for the crossing anytime soon, so..."
Aziraphale closed his eyes, seeing the shape of the little miracle he'd done for the girl. "They'll get a little windfall that lets her spend the rest of this winter in more comfort than usual," he said, "and by spring she'll be well enough to travel. There'll be enough left over for the journey here."
Crowley looked like he didn't quite know what to say. Finally he settled on a grudging "Thanks, angel."
"Of course," said Aziraphale. "Are we going to meet with Miss Addams now?"
"Think so. She never has any time, but I may have shifted her schedule around a bit," said Crowley. "Come on, then."
Aziraphale took his arm. "Lead the way," he said, and Crowley led him back into the main building and up a narrow flight of stairs to Miss Addams' office.
Jane Addams was a woman at the far end of middle age, with wispy gray hair and a kind, tired face; her desk groaned under the great stacks of paperwork that Aziraphale supposed must build up when one was trying to solve the problems of an entire city without the aid of miracles. "Miss O'Malley," she said, standing slowly to shake Crowley's hand. "And you must be the infamous friend..."
"Infamous?" Aziraphale asked, startled. He looked at Crowley, who shrugged.
"Miss O'Malley is fond of recounting unimaginably farfetched stories about her bookish friend who she's apparently traveled the world with," said Addams. "Quite impressive at her age. Perhaps I should say I hope you are that friend because I certainly would like to know more about how it is you came to spend nearly half a year stranded on a raft, which prince it was exactly that you tutored in music, and whatever happened to your flying machine." She did look amused, at least.
"I don't know that we were really stranded," said Crowley, who looked almost embarrassed.
"Flying machine?" Aziraphale asked. He remembered the Flood and young Nero, but he didn't see much point in having a flying machine. They both had wings, after all.
"Oh, yeah, that was definitely a different friend," said Crowley. "Miss Adams, this is Seraphina Fell. Seraphina, Jane Addams."
"I don't know what she's told you," said Aziraphale, "and now I'm not entirely certain I want to, but it is an honor to meet you." He offered a hand, and Miss Addams shook it.
"Well, some of her stories must be true, I suppose," said Miss Addams. "I mean. There are a great number of them. Statistically, some of them are probably close to the truth."
"I see how it is," Crowley said. "I see everyone's against me here. I'm used to it." He gave them a noble and long-suffering look of unspeakable pain, which, in Aziraphale's experience, was probably all that was keeping him from laughing.
"If you really want to play a dramatic role, Merit," said Miss Addams, "Agatha Krzyworzeka has a sore throat and somebody needs to read her part in rehearsals downstairs."
"Merit very much enjoys dramas great and small," Aziraphale confirmed, grinning.
"Come on, angel, you're no better," said Crowley.
"I meant the theater," said Aziraphale, projecting as much innocence as he could.
"Perhaps the theater will appreciate me more, then," said Crowley, and left in a manufactured huff.
"Have fun!" Aziraphale shouted after him. He turned back to Miss Addams. "I do hope it wasn't too much trouble to see me at such short notice. I know you must be very busy."
Miss Addams smiled and motioned for him to sit. "I don't mind. Somebody canceled a visit I'd been dreading anyway. One of these generous men of industry who promise me money if only I give up my principles." She sighed. "I should stop letting them make appointments, only every now and then I can talk them into donating without strings attached."
"Oh, yes," said Aziraphale, "Merit says half the do-gooders in Chicago are terrible hypocrites."
"Does she?" Miss Addams asked. "Has she made a survey of them?"
"She might've," said Aziraphale. He wondered how many of them Crowley'd tried to tempt before giving up because they were already Hell-bound.
"I can believe it," said Miss Addams. "I'd be surprised if it was only half, though."
"Out of curiosity," said Aziraphale, "what do potential patrons usually ask of you that you're unwilling to give them?"
"Oh, the usual. They want me to speak against labor unions, or they want us to engage in religious education, or they're desperately uncomfortable with the Colored Mothers' Club having their meeting just before whatever they want to sponsor." She sighed. "None of their demands surprise me anymore, but I still surprise them, which is in its own way a reward. And we make things work. Now, I won't ask who Merit is really --"
"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, startled. How could she know? Did she know?
Miss Addams closed her eyes and sighed. "I think you and I both know Merit O'Malley isn't her real name. There's something very odd about her. I'm only saying, Miss Fell -- and I don't know if I believe that's who you are either -- that I won't pry, but I hope the both of you are careful, whatever... else you may be doing in this city."
"Oh," said Aziraphale. "I mean -- I think -- of course we will." He tried not to look guilty, and evidently failed.
"Only, promise me one thing, Miss Fell," said Miss Addams. "Please, please don't let her use that horrible Irish accent again. It's frankly offensive."
"Oh, she didn't," said Aziraphale. "No, no, of course she did. Rest assured, I've told her that again and again."
"Well, then. She has only herself to blame," said Miss Addams. "Now, Miss O'Malley told me you wanted to learn how we do things here at Hull House?"
"Yes, I'm very interested in your methods," said Aziraphale. It seemed like a good way to work towards what Heaven wanted him to do here, although he got the impression most of what they did at Hull House was much more... hands-on than Heaven preferred him to be. (He wasn't very good at hands-on, either; when he was too immersed, he became overwhelmed with the seeming futility of his job and the nonsensical irrelevancies Heaven demanded of him. And then usually Crowley found him and picked a fight with him, and that made him feel a bit better.)
"How long will you be in town? You could volunteer," said Miss Addams. "And we have classes too, in all sorts of things, and lectures, and dances... we try to have something for everybody, no matter who they are. As long as they're willing to follow our rules while they're here, they ought to have a place." And he could tell she almost meant it, more than most humans he'd heard express similar sentiments.
He considered her question. "Well... I suppose I'm here until Merit leaves," he said.
Miss Addams smiled. "I had a feeling you might say that."
After they'd finished up at Hull House, Aziraphale and Crowley headed to Greektown, to a restaurant the bartender at the Green Mill had suggested to them Monday night. (Crowley had gone as Lilith Cambion, the Green Mill being an Outfit establishment, and introduced Aziraphale around a bit in preparation for Al's party.)
"You didn't tell me Miss Addams was a witch, Crowley," Aziraphale said. He cut a dolma in half and popped it into his mouth. Then he made the sort of delighted noise that made Crowley grateful for his sunglasses, and for low light in restaurants. He could take or leave human food, but watching Aziraphale eat was always a thrill.
Crowley poured them both a little ouzo. It wasn't technically on the menu, of course, but the kitchen staff had a stash of it and he'd swiped it with a quick miracle. "You noticed that too, did you?"
"I think she knows you're not human," said Aziraphale.
"She doesn't," said Crowley, swallowing the other half of the dolma in one gulp. "She can tell I'm not human, of course, but she thinks there's probably a more reasonable explanation so she's doing her best to ignore it. I don't think she's really a witch, is the thing. If she'd had anyone to give her the training, maybe, but she went to seminary instead. I didn't tell you because I wanted to see if she noticed anything about you," he said, "or if it was just a demon thing."
"I don't think it's just a demon thing," said Aziraphale. "Although she did tell me she's worried about you getting involved with the wrong sort."
Crowley laughed at that. "She's worried about me--"
"Well she doesn't know you're a demon, she just thinks you're a nice, service-minded young lady who recently stopped pretending to have an Irish accent, which she's very grateful about, by the way," said Aziraphale. "She asked me to mention it specifically -- oh!" He must have caught sight of the waiter approaching, because he quickly grabbed the bottle of ouzo and hid it under the table. The waiter put their food down, and Aziraphale leaned forward to inhale the aroma of the moussaka, eyes closed. "Oh, this is lovely. What a good idea, asking that young man if he knew any good restaurants."
"Here, try the cheese," he said, pushing the plate of saganaki over to Aziraphale. "I think it's like that stuff you liked in Alexandria."
"Ooh," said Aziraphale, cutting himself off a slice. "Oh, it is! Have some!" He scooted it back to Crowley, who took a little sliver of it. Aziraphale would enjoy it more.
"Anyway, Jane Addams might be a witch, sort of, but is that such a bad thing?" Crowley asked.
"It is if she works out what you are," Aziraphale said.
Crowley frowned. "Oh, that? I'm not worried about that."
"What did you think I was worried about?" Aziraphale asked.
"Whether your lot would take her," Crowley said. "Because, you know, witch stuff." Maybe he was underestimating Heaven here. He didn't think it was easy to underestimate Heaven, but maybe he'd found a way.
"No, that is... hmm. That could be an issue. I don't know what current policy is on witches," said Aziraphale, contemplatively. "Think it might be that they don't exist."
"Ah! So it's fine, then," said Crowley.
Aziraphale sighed. "Just try to be more careful around people with a sixth sense, Crowley? Try to be more careful in general. If she noticed only because of what you were getting up to at Hull House -- and I imagine you don't use miracles nearly as much there as you do when you're out pretending to be two entirely different bootleggers, or dabbling in election necromancy -- you could stand to be a bit subtler."
"You worry too much, angel," said Crowley. He tipped back his ouzo. "They don't care how the stuff gets into their supply line, or how the votes get into the ballot box, they only care that it gets done. Even Jane Addams doesn't worry about whether the people at Hull House are good people, she just wants them to follow the rules and hopes they'll be better for it. You don't need to worry about me."
"I know you have a reckless streak, my dear," Aziraphale said. "The cheese isn't the only thing I remember nearly burning up in Alexandria."
Crowley shrugged. "I was fine. 'S just a little fire, angel." He pulled a slice of bread in half and dunked it in olive oil. "You still have those scrolls?"
"That's not the point!"
"But do you?" Crowley pressed.
"Of course I do," said Aziraphale, softening. "You were such a dear to do that for me."
"You don't know my evil ulterior motives, angel," said Crowley. "Might've been anything. Now, I'm having a party tomorrow. What do you think I should serve?"
Chapter 3: she doesn't even go here
Notes:
Content notes for this chapter: anti-Irish sentiment, antisemitism, homophobia, classism, an unsuccessful attempt to harm an animal, and some mild, drunken suicidal ideation. Also it's kind of short, chapter-wise. Sorry about that.
A song for this chapter: "Demon Kitty Rag" by Katzenjammer.
Chapter Text
Everyone knew Anthony Crowley had the best parties on the North Shore. You didn't talk about them beforehand -- you weren't really supposed to, because what if someone who wasn't invited overheard? You just showed up at his place the night of and had a hell of a time, and pitied anyone who wasn't invited.
(In fact, if Effie had given it any thought at all, she might have realized she didn't remember getting an invitation, not even once. She'd just showed up one day with her friend Dot, who had, several parties before that, tagged along with her friend Millie, who a fellow named Frankie had brought along once ages ago.)
Crowley was English, he claimed, although rumor was he hadn't been able to buy a house in Kenilworth on suspicion of being a Jew, or maybe Irish. (Effie didn't actually know if they kept the Irish out of Kenilworth. They must let them in as servants, at least.)
"Are you?" Frankie had asked once, after Mr. Crowley had confirmed that yes, a last-minute inquiry into his heritage at the real estate closing had made him call the whole thing off, implying he really couldn't be bothered to answer such a presumptuous question to the satisfaction of the Village of Kenilworth.
"Am I what?" Crowley asked.
"Irish?" Frankie asked.
"That's not what they asked about, but they won't let me in either, so no," said Crowley, distastefully.
"So are you a Jew, then?" Frankie asked.
Crowley had said, in withering tones, "What, do you want to feel my head for horns or something?"
Later that night Frankie had been banished from Crowley's parties forevermore for pushing Millie into the icy lake after she'd given him the icy mitt, but Effie suspected his prying into Crowley's past was the real trouble. Effie didn't put it past him to have been from Boise this whole time and faking an accent, because Crowley was an incredible liar -- an obvious liar, but he told the sort of lies she wanted to be true. She even found herself half-believing them sometimes. Of course Crowley had the original cartoon of the Mona Lisa hanging above his fireplace. Of course he'd survived the sinking of the Titanic, and of course he'd done it by riding on the iceberg. Of course the yellowed, spiraling horn mounted in his living room was from the very last unicorn.
Whatever he was, he was an excellent host. The booze was always good, there was usually a live band, and there were plenty of places to go off and canoodle if you wanted to. (Dot even said she'd found a secret door once, but nobody believed her.)
But the real fun, to Effie, was watching people get booted from the party. It was just barely possible that Kenilworth was too exclusive (although really, she didn't blame them -- when you had that kind of money you could afford to be selective, unlike those social climbers in Highland Park), but Crowley really couldn't be exclusive enough so long as he was so entertaining enforcing it. The people who got thrown out were always so hilariously surprised, and sometimes they even cried. Frankie had actually fallen to his knees and pleaded with Crowley, and at brunch the next day the general consensus among her friends was that nobody understood why they'd ever let Frankie hang around with them in the first place, and that they had only ever pretended to be friends with him. Effie had said she'd always found him annoying. While this was not entirely true, she could think of some things to be retroactively annoyed with him about, and the claim had gotten her many compliments on her wisdom and good sense, which were otherwise so rarely recognized.
Frankie's dramatic expulsion from the party had been two parties ago, and Millie had been carrying a torch for Crowley ever since he'd pulled her out of the lake. He'd given her dry clothes to wear home and hot chocolate to drink, and had generally been surprisingly chivalrous for such a liar. (Why Crowley had women's clothes just lying around was a mystery for another day, but he was a sheik, he could probably have any girl he wanted, and was it any surprise if some of them had left their clothes at his place? Effie had to wonder about these mystery women, though; she'd flirted with Crowley for ages and he still didn't seem to even know her name.) It had gotten to the point that Effie kind of hoped Millie got the boot from the party this time around, she was so insufferable, and so demanding of Crowley's time and attention.
When Effie'd showed up to this party, though, she hadn't expected the cat. Or Crowley's friend.
She'd met the cat as soon as she'd come in the door. As she was taking her coat off, it wound itself around her legs and then looked hopefully up at her, like it actually thought she wanted to risk getting white cat hair on her black dress. "Are you being a bother, you nasty little hobgoblin?" Crowley asked it, kneeling. It meowed back at him and leapt into his arms.
"I didn't know you had a cat," said Effie.
"It's the neighbors' cat. My friend stole it," said Crowley, and, giving no further explanation, wandered off with an armful of cat.
And Crowley had friends, sure, but not close friends, as far as anyone knew. Not friends he was on cat-stealing terms with. So that was an interesting development. Effie wondered what they were planning to do with the cat -- get back at the neighbors for something, probably. That might be fun.
But then the friend, whose name was Fell, had turned out to be a complete flat tire. Effie had tried to get him to spill the beans on Mr. Crowley's origins while the man himself was off helping the band set up -- asking if he was really English ("Not exactly, but I suppose he is now," was the cryptic answer), and what he had done before coming to Chicago ("Oh, this and that, I expect."), and where his family had come from, if not England ("Somewhere other than England, presumably. Stands to reason."), and his answers had gotten shorter and shorter. Finally she'd asked if Crowley'd ever had a wife, and been met with an annoyed sigh and "Young lady, if he had a wife, she certainly wouldn't be you." Which was unspeakably rude, and she'd thrown her drink in his face and called him a fairy.
Later he'd told a guy off for being hard on the spine of a book from the little library that had somehow come into existence between now and the last party. Crowley had laughed it off and told him it was fine, and then he'd just draped himself over the sofa and talked to his friend for hours. The band played, and everybody danced but Mr. Crowley and his friend. (Effie'd even come over and asked Mr. Crowley. She hadn't missed the look his friend shot her, but Crowley only gave her a thin smile and said he wasn't much good at dancing, which was true enough. She'd seen him. She'd be able to put up with that, though, for a house like this. It was at least three times as big as her parents' house, and right on the lake, too.)
The stupid cat was back too. Crowley was draped over most of the sofa, leaning towards Fell, who sat in an armchair. Between them, on the arm of the sofa, was the cat, happy as anything. Fell fed it bits of smoked salmon from a tray that was probably supposed to be for the whole party. Effie watched them irritably out of the corner of her eye while she sipped at her champagne, eavesdropped on their conversation, and turned down all offers to dance. They'd both been drinking like fish, and were pretty well zozzled, and they were talking about nothing Effie understood.
"But there was no famil-- familili-- a cat or a toad or anything," Fell said. "Can't be a witch without that, can she? Demonic famililiars. Practically required for witches, I thought."
"'Snot necessary," said Crowley. "You think -- you think my lot wants to hang about up here in the shape of -- well, Hastur maybe, but not up here. No, no, no, nothing to do with us."
"So what is it then?" Fell asked.
"Iss the skill but also the training," said Crowley. "Iss the, what's the word, what is it..." He tapped on his forehead. "Headology."
Fell giggled. It was a ridiculous laugh and she hated it. "My dear, dear boy, that isn't a word at all."
"It is now," said Crowley, sounding belligerent. "I decided it was."
Another bout of disbelieving laughter. "You can't just make words up."
"Will did it all the time!" said Crowley. "Thass a double standard, is what that is."
"He was better at it," said Fell, offering another bit of salmon and cream cheese to the cat, and then having some himself. The tray was half gone now, and Effie decided she was going to liberate it from Fell and the cat before they finished it off between them. But Fell looked up at her from the chair, beaming. "Oh, thank you, my dear, if you could bring that back here once it's full again that'd be lovely," he said.
"I'm not the help, you stupid man," she snapped, and walked away.
"Hey!" shouted Crowley, and she knew she'd fucked up, and she walked faster.
"No, no, let her be, that was terribly rude of me..." she heard Fell saying as she hurried away to somewhere, anywhere else. She was still stuck with the tray, so she hid in the kitchen and drank for a while in the hopes Crowley would forget he was angry with her. There were no servants, which was a little weird, but maybe they'd all fucked off at once for a smoke break or something. Crowley ought to fire them, she though. She didn't think she'd seen any of his help ever, actually.
After she'd put away half a bottle of champagne, Dot found her. "Everyone's worried about you, Effie. Mr. Fell asked if you were all right and I said I'd go and check."
"Mr. Fell can fuck himself," Effie said. "Why hasn't he been kicked out? I'd pay to see that."
"Oh, he's really nice, actually, you two just got off on the wrong foot," said Dot, and Effie hated everything about her from her fat stupid face to her practical shoes. "Why don't you come and pet the cat, her name's Hobgoblin, I think. She's a sweetheart, very friendly."
"Fuck the cat, too," said Effie. If she'd been sober she'd have stopped there, but she added, "Trust you to take the side of the first pussy that wants to be petted and some limp-wristed degenerate like Fell."
Dot's cheeks colored and her fists clenched. Effie thought she might actually throw a punch, and waited patiently -- nay, eagerly -- for the assault, because she had so much dirt on Dot, but alas, Dot only gritted her teeth and sighed. "If you're going to be like this you can find your own ride home," she snapped. "Come out and join the rest of the party like an actual human being, and stop being disgusting." And she turned on her heel and left Effie in the empty kitchen.
Effie pouted. "Imagine her calling me disgusting," she told nobody at all. She knew nobody at all agreed with her, even if her friends didn't. Nobody at all understood her. She liked nobody at all better than everybody else.
And so she listened to the muffled music from the party, and she ate the rest of the salmon, and she drank the rest of the champagne, and when the cat came in and stared up at her hopefully, she contemplated kicking it.
Then she decided to pick it up.
She made her way out of the kitchen and around to the sunroom in back of the house, which was empty and cold now that it was January. She opened the door outside. The cat realized it didn't want to be here, and began to squirm.
She didn't much want to be here either. She didn't see why she had to suffer alone.
It was incredibly cold outside, and the wind coming off the lake made her start to shiver as she started down the path to the docks. The cat was clawing up her arm now; she didn't care. The steps were uneven, slippery stone. She wondered if she could manage this journey with the cat in her arms, but she couldn't turn back now, could she?
If I fall and break my neck, she thought, the stupid cat will land on its feet. She didn't like that. So she hesitated at the top of the stairs, looking out over the cold, cold lake below while her sense of self-preservation warred with an evening of self-created misery and most of a bottle of champagne.
"My dear, I don't think you want to do that," said a gentle voice from behind her. It was Fell.
She rounded on him, dropping the cat.
"You," she said.
The cat yelped and ran inside while Fell held the door for it. "Why don't you come inside and I'll make you some tea," he said gently. "You'll feel much better after that. Oh, dear, and you're bleeding," he said, trying to take her arm.
"Don't fucking touch me," she snarled. She stumbled badly as she shoved him away. Fell caught her arm, keeping her from falling down the stairs, and this time she took a few steps forward before jerking her arm away. It'd stopped hurting, at least. "Shouldn't you be inside, making eyes at your precious Mr. Crowley?"
He sighed. "Is there something so wrong with that? With thinking of someone as precious to you? Because I think you'll find, Miss Purcell, you'll be a lot happier in the long run if you open yourself up to the care of others. And I can tell that people care about you, but I don't think you want to care about them. Don't think they're good enough for you, do you? And maybe they're not the sort of people you enjoy, that's all right," he said, "but you'll never find your sort of people if you keep shutting all your friends out and throwing yourself at rich men you don't know very well, or even particularly like beyond their wealth."
Effie hadn't liked that this awful man knew her name, and she liked him playing headshrinker even less. "I suppose you would know about that. Liking men," she said.
He favored her with a stupid smile. "Really, you should let me help you," he said. "I'm the nice one, you see, and Crowley will be out soon enough to handle you. You are thoroughly within his domain now, I'm afraid."
"Fine. Good. Tell him he can come out here and, and, and --"
A dark shape emerged from the house, silhouetted against the bright lights from the windows of the house. The wind picked up, and it felt like the temperature had somehow dropped ten degrees. "Care to explain," said Crowley, "what the fuck you were going to do to the cat?"
Effie shivered, and the thing got closer. Crowley, it was only Mr. Crowley, she reminded herself, though she didn't understand how the windows of the house illuminated Fell in a soft, yellowy glow, but Crowley was only a man-shaped absence of light. A hand came out of the darkness and grabbed her throat, fingers sinking like fangs into her neck. "Pride. Envy. Greed. Wrath," said Crowley. "If I threw you down the stairs right now and you broke your neck it'd be another generous credit to my account, Euphemia Purcell. They'd find your body in the lake in a few days. I'd make it so nobody remembered you were here, of course, and probably have them find you a bit further north, and I'd carry on just as I have been. Would anyone miss you? Because I wouldn't."
"Oh, Crowley, don't pretend you'd do that," said Fell. "Honestly."
"Please, Mr. Crowley," said Effie. "Please, I --"
"Of courssse I'm not going to do that," said Crowley, releasing her. "That would be the sssimple way out, for you," he said, and there was something, something terrible in the dark here with them, something large and malevolent curling around her feet. She had the impression of gleaming black scales, though nothing gleamed but lights from the other houses along the lake. She heard something hissing, but not a cat. She had the strange impression of long pointed fangs coming for her, and suddenly, Crowley grabbed her arm and wrenched it, dragging her back into the warmth and light of the house, into the living room where everyone else just stared.
She'd thought it would be better here, but she still felt something just by her feet, waiting, angry. It might snap at her heel; the bite would burn her up from the inside. It might slither up around her and trap her; she wouldn't be able to breathe and her heart would explode in terror. It might, it might, it might be here now, its fingernails digging into her arm, shouting "What were you going to do to my cat?"
"I." She looked around at all the other guests, staring at her, horrified. She looked at Millie, who wouldn't meet her eye; she looked at Dot, who was comforting the cat. She looked at the fellow who'd asked her to dance and been turned down because she'd preferred to watch Crowley and his friend ignore the rest of the party. "I wasn't. I wasn't gonna. You said it was the neighbors' cat!" Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, but she found she couldn't move a muscle, not even to wipe her face.
"Get out of my houssse," whispered Crowley, and, mercifully, she found she could move now. She ran at full speed across the living room through the front hall and the chill of the entry, and stumbled out the front door. She didn't stop until she was panting by Dot's car, every breath of cold air slashing her lungs like a knife. She'd left her coat, but she couldn't go in and get it now. It was so cold and dark, and she was so alone, and she couldn't understand what had happened.
She stared at the lights of the house, and heard the music start up again. It was all closed off to her now. She had been judged and found wanting.
In a few minutes that felt like long, long hours, she heard the front door open, and the sound of sensible shoes on salted pavement approaching her, and she didn't dare look up. "I don't know why we keep making excuses for you, Effie," said Dot, her voice colder than the wind. She threw Effie's coat at her. "Come on, I'm driving you home."
"Wasn't there something strange about Mr. Crowley, though?" Effie asked. "Like, like, he was almost like some kind of --"
"I think anyone would start acting pretty strange if you tried to do God knows what to their cat because they wouldn't dance with you. Get in the car," snapped Dot.
It wasn't until the next morning, when she had awoken to the worst hangover she'd ever known, thrown up all over her bedroom, and was crying in the shower, that the word snake floated up into her consciousness.
Chapter 4: they tell me you are wicked
Notes:
Content notes for this chapter: there is some dated language around race (no slurs), "queer" used as a casual slur, and an explicit sex scene wherein Aziraphale has a penis and Crowley has a vulva (fingering, cunnilingus, and fellatio).
A song for this chapter: "Ain't Misbehaving" by Fats Waller.
Chapter Text
For the past thousand years or so, the tallest building in town was often the church. Aziraphale had not expected Chicago to follow suit -- and of course, there were all manner of places of worship in the city -- but the building he stood in now was a chapel inside of a skyscraper that towered over all the others, at least for now. Above them, lawyers and accountants toiled, but the first few floors belonged to God.
(Well, technically everything belonged to God, of course, but Her love was more difficult to find in a foreclosures office, even for an angel.)
It was a beautiful sanctuary, and colored light swept in through the tall windows to either side, but Aziraphale couldn't help feeling the weight of the floors above. He sat down in one of the pews, trying to put his thoughts in order.
The sanctuary was empty for a few moments, and then, suddenly Gabriel was there. The way he was dressed, he wouldn't have been at all out of place at the party Crowley'd thrown last night, and Aziraphale wished he could say so, just to see the horrified look on Gabriel's face. Then he admonished himself for such an uncharitable, dangerous thought. "Wow, you're really on top of this assignment, Aziraphale," said Gabriel.
"I thought it best not to put it off," said Aziraphale. "Especially not if a whole city is at risk."
"Admirable," said Gabriel, who looked like he approved of himself at least as much as he did Aziraphale. "And you're making progress?"
"Yes and no," said Aziraphale. "The good news is, I've been able to, er, ascertain some of the demon Crowley's methods. The bad news is I don't think he's... entirely responsible for the state of the city?" He had to be careful here. He hoped, someday, that Heaven would see fit to welcome Crowley back into the fold, but on occasion things they'd told Above got leaked Below and vice-versa, and he didn't want to put Crowley at any risk by admitting he'd barely done anything.
"You don't think so? Place seems pretty demonic to me," said Gabriel. "Honestly, we weren't sure it was worth saving, but when we realized it was Crowley's work, we figured, hey, we have an expert on that!"
"Quite," said Aziraphale, smiling. "It's just that, well, Crowley has been on the Continent until recently, and given what I understand to be the general history of the area, it's had a... reputation for longer than that. Are there other local active demons that we know of?"
"Hmm. I think there was a sighting of the demon Nisroc here about a hundred years ago, but that was never confirmed," said Gabriel. He frowned. "Either here or Texas. I always get those two mixed up. Anyway, Nisroc's dead, so it can't be him. Got holy water dumped on him." He laughed. "Demons, am I right?"
Aziraphale managed to turn his shock into a weak laugh. "Yes. Hilarious." He wasn't really sure what the punchline was, but to have Gabriel explain one of his jokes to you was a sort of torture Aziraphale didn't think Hell had topped yet, and the last thing he wanted to think about was what holy water did to demons. And Nisroc had been a fellow Principality before she'd Fallen, probably for committing sexual indiscretions with humans. Which of course he knew he shouldn't be sympathetic towards, but.... "What I was wondering, was, ah. It's quite a large city. I mean, for the States, anyway. Does it not have its own assigned Principality?" Aziraphale had managed to convince Heaven that the British Isles didn't need another Principality, because the last thing Aziraphale needed was a fellow angel to watch and to keep away from Crowley -- but he knew he was an exception.
Gabriel made a face that suggested Aziraphale was going to regret asking the question, and Gabriel was going to regret having let him do so. "Well. That's a complicated question."
"Is it?"
Gabriel rolled his eyes now. "Look, Aziraphale, you're one of our best agents on Earth. Some of these other Principalities... well, their work is shoddy. They don't take pride in it, when they do it at all. It's like they don't want to work." Aziraphale would've liked the compliment a lot better had it not come wrapped in an insult of some other poor Principality who probably didn't even have anybody to go to the theater with. "The truth is, Chicago does have a Principality, but she's been on leave for the better half of a century."
"On leave?" Angels being able to go on leave was not something he was particularly familiar with as a general practice of Heaven's. He wondered where they left to. Probably somewhere in Heaven that was even less interesting, if that was even possible. "Is she all right?"
Gabriel made another face. "Just between you and me, we all think Vehuel's a little..." He put a finger to the side of his face and moved it in a circle. "Cuckoo. You know? Not really all there. Michael feels sorry for her, I think. Has her doing little errands here and there, but she always rolls her eyes when I ask her to do something. She's very lazy."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. In his experience Michael was a much more demanding supervisor, and he'd never known her to feel sorry for anyone. "Well -- well, there's a lot for her to do down here, and perhaps she needs... more of a challenge?" Mostly he did not want Heaven to be upset with him if he took Crowley back to London and Chicago continued to be very much itself. And in ten years or so, once the paperwork was done and this Vehuel had been sent back down to her assigned city, she could take the blame for it. Aziraphale had London to look after, after all. "Of course, while I'm here I'll see if I can't put things in better order. I've made contact with a human who's doing very good works, and --"
"Wow, really?" Gabriel asked. "I have to say, that sounds a little crazy. Talking to a human? Maybe try a few well-placed miracles first? They're a safer bet."
Aziraphale made a polite and meaningless sound and nodded. "At any rate, after I'm done here," he said, and I can talk Crowley into coming back home with me so he's safe, he thought, "I think it would be for the best if Vehuel, or somebody, anyway, was permanently assigned here."
"We can't really afford to transfer anyone," said Gabriel. "It's just not that important. Tell you what, we'll alternate sending Cerviel and whoever we have in Los Angeles out here every ten years to make sure Chicago isn't totally on fire. Again."
Aziraphale had met with Cerviel briefly for lunch before boarding the train onward to Chicago. He seemed to have plenty on his hands in New York without having an entirely different city to check up on. "I don't think that will work," he said. "Cerviel has a lot going on, and New York and Los Angeles are pretty far away, you know, unless you use a miracle. Do we even have anybody in Los Angeles?"
Gabriel frowned. "Well. The name. We have to, don't we? They wouldn't have forgotten."
"I really do think Chicago could benefit from some actual supervision," said Aziraphale, who, while he wanted somebody to take the responsibility on, certainly did not want Cerviel to be upset with him, because Cerviel had a wonderful collection of demonology texts in his hoard of apotropaic antiquities, and his deli's kreplach soup was superb. "Even if this Vehuel isn't very good at it, it's not fair to Cerviel, or... whoever's in Los Angeles."
Gabriel considered this, nodding to himself. "All right. Well. Why don't you sit tight here for a while and I'll see if I can't get Vehuel out of... whatever she's supposed to be doing, and you can show her all your little tips and tricks?"
"Tips and tricks?" Aziraphale asked.
"You know. Retrain her." Gabriel looked about as thoughtful as he ever did, which was to say, he wasn't talking for several seconds together. "I have to say, Aziraphale, you might be just what she needs to turn her career around. Her performance issues are... let's just say this is probably her last chance. But if anyone can help her turn this place around, well... gotta be our demon-thwarting expert, right?" He smiled at Aziraphale, who smiled tentatively back. Her last chance? Aziraphale wondered. What on Earth could that mean? "I'll see you in a few, okay? Great talking to you." And Gabriel vanished.
Aziraphale sighed and looked at the altar. "Well, I certainly hope You know what You're doing," he muttered, "because I definitely don't, and sometimes I don't think Gabriel does either." He did not wait for a response.
Crowley looked, well. Stunning. At least, Aziraphale was stunned. He was trying not to be. He should have known Crowley was going to be like this.
(He had known. Some small, secret part of him had been anticipating it. Preparing for it, Aziraphale told himself. You had to prepare for temptation if you knew it was coming.)
"You like it?" Crowley asked, smiling over his shoulder at Aziraphale, before looking back to the mirror to put on lipstick. The dark red gown he wore was shockingly short, showing off what seemed like several miles of slender leg, and his shoulders were bare, and.... "Aziraphale?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale realized he was staring. "Yes, it's... nice!" he said quickly, hoping Crowley had been too wrapped up in makeup to have seen his expression in the mirror. "Aren't you -- aren't you going to be cold though?"
"I'll be fine, I've got a fur coat," said Crowley. "Hmm. Gold or silver jewelry, d'you think?"
"Gold would bring out your eyes," said Aziraphale, although he knew what the response would be. Crowley already had his dark glasses on, which was a pity.
"No one's going to see my eyes, angel," said Crowley. He snapped his fingers and suddenly his neck and wrists and fingers were arrayed in delicate silver and glittering rubies. He even wore a jeweled tiara.
"Ah, well," said Aziraphale. "You would know. And I would. But you look lovely either way."
Crowley frowned at himself in the mirror again. He made a considering noise, then snapped again, and the silver and rubies turned to gold and onyx.
He turned and looked Aziraphale up and down. "The tux suits you."
Aziraphale certainly did not blush, although he did think Crowley probably kept the heat too high in this cavernous mansion of his. "Thank you!"
"No tartan, even," said Crowley, with something almost like disappointment. "You needn't have made such a sacrifice for me." He reached to straighten Aziraphale's bowtie, which was, Aziraphale thought, already straight. "We are definitely going to be the best-looking couple at this party."
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. The heels he was wearing exaggerated the difference in their heights, which was... unexpectedly interesting, Aziraphale had to admit. He looked at Crowley's red lips, the coppery curls he'd miracled up, and the tiara that almost looked like a halo from this angle, and resolved not to think about smudged lipstick and mussed hair for the duration of the party. And anyway, the tiara was worked into the shape of two snakes winding about Crowley's head, which ought to be reminder enough. "Well, shall we?" he said, taking a step back and offering his arm to Crowley.
Crowley took it and grinned. "Let's."
When they arrived at the party, there was already beer flowing and music playing in the Hawthorn Inn's saloon. Cheerful men in suits circulated inside, telling war stories and laughing raucously. Crowley recognized most of them; they all had nicknames like "Lucky" and "the Butcher" and "Big Frankie" and "Crazy Charlie." Aziraphale probably didn't want to meet them, although Crowley thought he would introduce Aziraphale to Big Frankie; they both liked opera and good wine, and for someone who could probably crush your head with minimal effort, Frankie didn't do much head-crushing, as far as Crowley was aware. (Crowley had accidentally shot him once while out on a job for the North Siders. He didn't feel guilty about it, of course, but he supposed if he had felt guilty, saving Frankie's immortal soul might make him feel better.)
"Lil, you made it!" said a familiar voice, and there was Al Capone, a doughy, cheerful man in his mid-twenties, striding across the room. "And this is your... uh, lawyer friend?" He squinted at Aziraphale. "Looks more like a librarian. Now you got me all worried about library fines and bein' too loud. Don't do this to me on my birthday, Lil."
"I promise he isn't a librarian," said Crowley, although considering how few books Aziraphale had sold, this point was only debatable because he never lent any of them out, either. "And yes, Mr. Fell was my dear husband's solicitor. He's taking care of my husband's estate for me until these dreadful criminal allegations go away. Doing a splendid job of it. Darling, this is Al Capone, our host."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Capone," said Aziraphale, extending a hand.
Capone shook it firmly. "I heard a lot about you from Lil! Glad you could make it over here to visit. She's a very resourceful gal and I'm glad to have her working for me while all that murder shit is --" He made a sweeping motion. "-- you know, dealt with."
"Ah. Yes. Very unpleasant," said Aziraphale. His smile was polite to the casual observer, but Crowley could see that, while he was not quite out of his depth yet, the early discussion of "murder shit" had prepared him to start treading water soon.
"Yes, let's not worry about all that," said Crowley, quickly. "The point is we're all here and safe from ridiculous persecutions of inept law enforcement and it's your birthday! I had your present sent to the kitchens; it's been outside for a bit, so it'll stay chilled for a while." Crowley had let Aziraphale miracle the cheap champagne into something quite a lot better and quite a bit older, although he'd handled the labels himself.
"Great! Well, I gotta make the rounds, I guess, you know how it is," said Capone, cheerfully. "We'll talk later." He turned to Aziraphale. "And it was good to meet you, Mr. Fell." He paused, and then added, "I gotta say, you'd be smart to treat this lady right, and very very stupid not to. She's very resourceful."
Aziraphale blinked. "Oh, I -- I don't think --"
"Oh, don't worry for my sake, Al," said Crowley, taking the opportunity to cling to Aziraphale's arm -- sure, he hadn't initially meant to give anyone the impression that Lilith Cambion was in love with her husband's solicitor, but somewhere along the way Capone had decided it was true, and Crowley was finding it made him brave enough to flirt outrageously with Aziraphale as long as he was doing it all in-character. "Mr. Fell is an absolute angel. He's the one who should be worried about me." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale blushing.
Capone laughed. "Yeah, I can see that." And he wandered off, leaving them to their own devices.
"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, sounding mildly horrified.
"My name's Lilith, angel," said Crowley.
"Lilith, then," said Aziraphale, rolling his eyes. "I think they may be under the impression we are more than just business acquaintances."
"Oh, do you think so?" Crowley asked. "Well, we are, aren't we? We're enemies, too! And you know how humans are. Wouldn't be the first time they've jumped to conclusions. Shall we go get something to drink now, or should we wait until they break out the champagne?"
"Wait for the champagne, I think," said Aziraphale. "Ooh, those canapés do look lovely, though." And he wandered off, leaving Crowley for a plate of caviar on toast.
Well. At least he'd stopped looking so uncomfortable with the company. Crowley took a moment to revel in the feel of the room -- all the vices wafting off of the various party attendees were delicious, almost intoxicating in and of themselves. But he noticed a distinct spike of terror near the piano, in the corner of the room. Fear wasn't a vice, but it was an unpleasant emotion, usually, so Crowley could sense it. Unlike proper vices, it wasn't in and of itself enjoyable, but in the right amount and pitch it was incredible, and of course Crowley was not immune to the schadenfreude of watching someone who'd well and truly pissed him off come dangerously close to cardiac arrest as he made their nightmares real. This wasn't that, though -- it was mortal terror, laced with quiet fury, and made stale by hours of... imprisonment? Uncertainty? Whatever it was, it was ruining the mood.
Aziraphale returned with an entire plate of canapés. "My dear, you must try the salmon mousse," he said.
Crowley took one, and licked the salmon mousse from its cucumber slice thoughtfully, mostly to watch Aziraphale's cheeks go pink. "Not bad," he said, and ate the cucumber.
"Really very good," said Aziraphale, taking a deviled egg.
"Tell me, Aziraphale, do you notice anything strange about the pianist?" Crowley asked.
"Hmm?" Aziraphale asked, through a mouthful of egg. He swallowed. "No. It is awfully lively music, though, isn't it?" he asked, as if he didn't know if he liked that.
"You know, if you were human I'd be expecting an earful of moralizing about how a good beat is the Devil's work and the first step on the pathway to damnation."
Aziraphale blinked. "What? Really? How absurd? Why?"
Crowley nodded at the pianist, who was the only colored person at the whole party, as far as Crowley could tell. "Well, you see, it's 'race music.' Which was fine until it got a wider audience. A whiter audience, really."
"Yes, well, they could just not like it," says Aziraphale, sounding very cross. "They don't have to bring Heaven and Hell into it. You and I both know our superiors would know what a piano was if it trotted into their respective domains and slammed its lid down on their noses. Anyway, I can tell he loves the music, even if I don't. He's very talented."
"Yeah, he's great," said Crowley. "I feel like I've seen him play before, actually." Which didn't explain how terrified he was.
"Oh, you know everybody around here," said Aziraphale. Crowley grinned, because it was true. "I expect -- good lord," he said, throwing an arm in front of Crowley and pushing him back, almost protectively. (The plate of canapés remained miraculously safe, although Aziraphale certainly wasn't paying any attention to it.)
"What is it?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale whispered into his ear. "Fellow with a gun, just there. I'd rather not point him out."
Crowley saw him in a moment; he had his body splayed across the couch in the sort of way that only extremely rude people (and Crowley) ever did at parties, with one foot on the cushions and one on the floor. One of his hands was resting on the top of the couch, and in it was a gun, vaguely aimed at the pianist. He watched, casually chewing on a toothpick. When the pianist came to the end of the song, he looked back at the man, who made a "get on with it" gesture. The pianist immediately turned back to his piano and began to play again, with manic, terrified energy. "I see what you mean," said Crowley.
"But that's dreadful," said Aziraphale. "That poor man. He must be very frightened."
"He is," said Crowley. "I can tell."
"We ought to do something," said Aziraphale. He took a toothpick full of melon and prosciutto, slid it off the toothpick, and chewed contemplatively. When he had swallowed, he said, "We could help him escape, or something."
"Escape to where?" Crowley asked. "We're in Cicero. Capone bought the town and beat up the mayor a couple years ago. Besides, he's a very good pianist. It's not a good party if the music's no good. And he might be shot escaping."
"Well, we ought to do something," said Aziraphale, again.
"What's this we nonsense, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked. "You ought to do something; I don't have any obligation to be a good Samaritan."
"You know, I've always wondered about the origins of that story," said Aziraphale. "I remember they kept shuffling you between Jerusalem and Jericho for temptations --"
"It was a parable, it didn't really happen," Crowley snapped. Until relatively recently, Crowley had actually been under the mistaken impression that a Samaritan was a sort of urn you made tea in, and he lived in fear of Aziraphale recalling previous arguments they'd had and realizing this. "Anyway, this is your move, angel."
They watched the pianist for a while; the more Crowley looked at him, the more Crowley was certain he'd seen him playing somewhere in town. When he reached the end of the song, he turned around to the man with the gun. "Got any requests?" he asked the man with the gun, with bravado Crowley could tell was false.
Aziraphale stepped forward. "My dear fellow!" he started, but Crowley noticed that the man with the gun looked like he might object
Crowley shot a burst of concentrated Sloth at the man, who nodded off. He put the gun carefully into his purse (a black clutch he was only carrying when it suited him), and returned his attention to Aziraphale and the pianist.
"...don't seem to be here of your own accord," Aziraphale was saying.
The pianist gave Aziraphale a slightly worried smile. "Yeah?" Maybe, just the once, Aziraphale should've started out with "Be not afraid."
Crowley decided to cut into the conversation. "Haven't I seen you at the Sherman Hotel?"
"Yeah?" said the pianist. "Yeah, actually, quick question, ma'am -- where am I now?"
"Mmm. Well," said Crowley. "You're in Cicero."
The pianist did not look terribly pleased to hear this. "Yeah?"
"You're at Al Capone's birthday party," Crowley told him.
The pianist looked even less pleased. "Oh. Okay."
"He's turning twenty-seven," Crowley added, although he supposed this was not strictly necessary information.
The pianist frowned at Crowley. "Good for him?"
"Do you need help?" Aziraphale asked, gently.
The pianist looked at him. "Just what kind of help do you think you're gonna get me? You wanna smuggle me out in a crate of champagne, or do you just wanna feel good that you asked?"
Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look. It was a valid question. "D'you think we could get him into a car without anyone noticing?" Crowley asked.
The pianist looked doubtfully at the room full of gangsters. "I wouldn't wanna come across as too critical of my own rescue, ma'am, but it'd take a miracle," he said.
Aziraphale ignored him. "You might be able to but I only just spoke to Gabriel, he's liable to check up on me, and he'd certainly ask --"
Crowley bristled. "Gabriel can go fuck himself, you are saving a promising young musician from -- from --"
"A party I shouldn't be at," said Aziraphale, desperately. Crowley supposed he had a point there.
"Uhh," said the pianist.
"Hang on," Crowley told him. To Aziraphale, he said, "Well I can't do it."
"Why not? I thought your lot specialized in lurking," said Aziraphale. "Surely hiding someone else isn't that different."
"I'd very much like to see you try and lurk in this dress," snapped Crowley. "Anyway, it's protection he needs and that's your specialty."
The pianist cleared his throat. "Hey, I uh, I love a good argument same as any guy but could I say something?" Crowley looked at him expectantly. "Well, it's not so much that I don't wanna be here, although, between you, me, and this piano, I don't -- it's just, uh. They're not paying me, far as I can tell. And I dunno if the Sherman'll take me back, 'cause I don't know why they'd believe I got kidnapped for Al Capone's birthday. It's more creative than 'the check's in the mail,' but it's a little less plausible than 'the devil made me do it.'"
Crowley couldn't help but agree; he had never once been kidnapped by Al Capone, but he'd definitely been made to do things by various devils often enough. Still, at least he could use that to his advantage. "I'll see if I can't put in a word in your favor with the people at the Sherman," he told the pianist. "But they're probably not paying you, no. Some people will go to any lengths to skimp on buying a birthday present."
"Dreadful," said Aziraphale.
The pianist looked glum. "Well. Maybe it'll be good exposure."
Crowley, who had come up with the concept of artists doing things for free publicity, had had more than a few regrets about this over the centuries, mostly when people whose work he'd enjoyed (or who had at least been fun at parties) had had the audacity to starve. "People die of that," he snapped. He looked to Aziraphale. "Well?"
"Well what?" Aziraphale asked. "We can't spirit him away, we've already worked that out."
"We can get him paid, though," said Crowley. "Tell you what, I'll go grab Al and bring him in, you request a song, and at the end of the song, give him an extraordinary tip. Show off. Be insufferable."
"What good will that do?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well, Al doesn't like to be outdone so he'll give him a much bigger tip," said Crowley, "and then everybody will have to do the same because --"
"I see!" said Aziraphale, excitedly. "What, er. What shall I request?"
Crowley sighed. "Forgive him," he told the pianist, "he just doesn't do popular culture until it's about a hundred years too late. Do you know 'Has Anybody Seen My Gal?'"
"Does anyone not know that one by now?" said the pianist, making a face. "Because I'm jealous of 'em."
"Yes, I know, it's inescapable," said Crowley. "But Al likes that kind of thing, so you might as well play it for him."
After some finagling, Crowley lured Capone out of a discussion about how to hit the North Siders where it hurt, and back into the saloon. The pianist was playing animatedly -- and singing, which he hadn't done all that night -- and Crowley was able to lure Al near the front of the room so he had a good view.
"There she is, I've found her!" said Aziraphale, as soon as the pianist finished up "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" He put a fistful of twenties on the piano with a flourish, and took Crowley's hands and beamed up at him. Crowley was so caught off-guard that he nearly missed it when Capone, not to be outdone, put several hundred-dollar bills on the piano.
"Angel, did you even listen to the lyrics of that one?" Crowley whispered, trying to channel his flusteredness into... something else. Anything else.
"It was about somebody looking for their lady friend, I thought," said Aziraphale. He patted Crowley's hand. "And here you are. It was a splendid idea, my dear, just look at all of them!" Indeed, many of the other guests were putting large bills down on top of the piano, chucking them at him, and occasionally tucking them into his pockets.
"Five foot two, eyes of blue?" Crowley asked.
"Well, the specifics don't especially matter," said Aziraphale. "At least the song is over."
"He's got better songs in his repertoire. And he's very talented," Crowley added. "Don't gripe."
"I believe you," said Aziraphale. "All those very fast notes. Sounds complicated. Takes skill. It's just not to my taste."
Crowley watched as the money kept piling up. "Are you doing this? Making them all..." He grimaced. "Generous?"
"I might be," said Aziraphale, looking a bit shifty.
"Well, stop for a minute, I want to request a song," said Crowley. When the crowd had thinned out a bit, he walked up and put down some cash of his own. He was pretty sure he remembered who the pianist was now. "If you'll take another request, I'd like 'Squeeze Me.'" It was good for dancing, with saucy lyrics Crowley was sure Aziraphale would disapprove of.
The pianist's face lit up. "That's one of mine!"
"See, Mr. Waller? You don't need to work for exposure," said Crowley. "Fuck exposure."
"Well. In that case, you gonna pay me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and grinning.
Crowley laughed, put down a hundred dollars, and sauntered back to Aziraphale as the music started back up. "I'd ask you to dance," he said, "but I know your lot don't do that sort of thing."
"Actually... I, er, I did learn a dance!" said Aziraphale. "I don't think it really goes with this music, though."
"What? Really? How'd I miss this?" Crowley asked.
"Oh, well, it was -- you were -- you were asleep, I think," said Aziraphale, a bit sadly.
Crowley tried to ignore a sudden pang of regret. "Are you any good at it?" he asked.
"I like to think so," said Aziraphale, smugly.
"So no, then," said Crowley, because there was nothing as fun as winding Aziraphale up.
"I am!" Aziraphale insisted.
"It's all right, angel, whenever I try to do the Charleston I get my arms all twisted around each other," said Crowley. "Think it unnerves the humans. What dance did you learn?" He contemplated asking Aziraphale to dance after all. Was he brave enough for that? Surely not. The flirting was already a lot.
"Oh! The gavotte," said Aziraphale. "Shall I show you? Oh, but you really need more people to do it, maybe we could ask these gentlemen here if they'd like to join in!"
Crowley revised his daydreams of having Aziraphale's arm around him, resting his head against Aziraphale's shoulder, maybe whispering something into his ear that would make him laugh. "Let's... let's not, angel. I bet that champagne's ready now."
"Oh, you're right," said Aziraphale. "Good thinking!"
The party wore on for hours. Crowley suggested that Aziraphale speak to a rather intimidating fellow named Frank about the latest productions of Tosca and Aida at the Civic Opera. To Aziraphale's delight, Frank was extremely passionate about the arts and they had a lovely conversation. Aziraphale was also amused to find that apparently Crowley had gone to visit Frank in hospital after he'd been shot by somebody called "Tony the Snake." "She's a real nice lady, Mr. Fell," Frank told him, earnestly. "You're lucky you got someone so nice, my mom didn' even come see me, yanno? Half my buddies stayed away too. Think they was afraid of cops. But not Mrs. Cambion."
"Yes, she is quite something, isn't she?" Aziraphale said. He smiled, wondering how Crowley would justify this act of selfless kindness to Aziraphale. (Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Crowley casually slip a wallet out of somebody's pocket, peel off several bills, and replace the wallet. Ah, well. At least he was enjoying himself.) "Absolutely fearless."
After a bit, Aziraphale excused himself to get more champagne, both for himself and for the pianist, and found Crowley apparently already having had the same thought. He was leaning over the piano, sipping from a glass that was nearly empty. Gold shone at the crown of his head and his wrists and his neck, and, just barely, peering out over the lenses of his spectacles, which were sliding slightly down his long nose. Aziraphale watched as he straightened up slightly and pulled a small wad of green bills out of a purse he'd pulled out of nowhere. "I went to the trouble of getting some compensation from the people who brought you here, Mr. Waller," he told the pianist, who was finishing off a glass of champagne.
Aziraphale could not help but smile at this. He decided, just this once, to spare Crowley the ordeal of justifying his kindness, slid his own extra champagne glass onto the piano, and wandered off again before Crowley noticed him there.
He was having an awfully nice time at this party despite being surrounded by cutthroats; they were at least cutthroats who enjoyed good food and Aziraphale felt that generally encouraging kindness and decency among them was closer to useful work than anything Heaven'd assigned to him in ages. The hotel restaurant began to serve dinner, and Aziraphale had a terribly interesting conversation about Italian literature with the fellows at his table. (Crowley had wandered by, almost sat down, then heard someone mention the fourteenth century and became scarce once more.) Aziraphale was certainly enjoying himself, but it did feel odd to be the last one at the table with no one to keep him company while he finished up his cannoli.
But he'd just received his tiramisu (there was no reason not to have two desserts, Aziraphale reasoned) when his table was suddenly and uncomfortably surrounded by strangers. He thought they were the young men at the table Crowley'd been at, which had been all the way across the room. (Not that Aziraphale had paid any undue attention to Crowley's whereabouts.)
"Mr. Fell," said one of the men, "you about done with that?" Aziraphale thought his name was Two-Bullet Something or Other, although he did not look like he needed to resort to bullets, singly or doubly, all that often.
"Yes?" Aziraphale asked, looking up from his tiramisu. "Is there something wrong? Oh dear."
"We couldn't help but notice," said Two-Bullet, "you ain't been paying attention to your lady friend."
"I, er. Well." Aziraphale had not wanted to force Crowley to spend the entire party with him. That had not worked out well at the last party they'd attended together, where he'd been very rude in monopolizing Crowley's attention for hours. And, well, he was dressed up so very... very... tonight, that Aziraphale thought it was best not to keep looking at him. "Well, I assumed she'd like to circulate."
"She does, she does. Lil Cambion is a very nice lady."
"Yeah!"
"She shouldn't be left alone like that, I don't think. What with her bein' obviously in love with you and --"
"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale asked.
There was a brief moment of confusion among the three young men.
"You think he doesn't know? He's gotta know."
"You don't think he's queer, do you?"
"Nah, he's English, right? They all act like that. Maybe he's just dumb?"
"Nobody's that dumb," said Two-Bullet, decisively. He turned to Aziraphale. "Are you?"
Aziraphale laughed nervously. "I assure you, young man, I would be the very first to know if Mrs. Cambion was -- was in love with me." That came out sounding more upset than Aziraphale had meant it to, but the idea was ridiculous. Crowley was a demon and as kind as he could be, Aziraphale doubted he could actually love someone else. Until Aziraphale redeemed him, of course. (Aziraphale tried not to hope too much about what might happen after that.) Besides, he could sense love. Could in fact, sense these fellows' good intentions. They must be genuinely confused. "I mean. She's very...." No, that sentence didn't lead anywhere good. "We've been... business associates, for a long while, that's all."
"Well, consider this your opportunity to find out for sure," said Two-Bullet, grabbing his shoulder, and the three frog-marched him into the hotel part of the hotel. Aziraphale decided it would be less risky to go along with them. Since this had something to do with Crowley, he was sure Crowley could sort this all out... somehow. And in a way, that was true, because eventually, they reached one of the hotel rooms, opened it up (revealing a very worried-looking Crowley), and shoved Aziraphale inside. "You two have a nice night," said Two-Bullet, and shut the door in their faces.
The lock clicked.
He looked at Crowley, who appeared genuinely worried. "I'm so sorry," Crowley said quietly, "I didn't realize -- I didn't mean --"
They were probably still out there listening, Aziraphale decided. "Mrs. Cambion," said Aziraphale, in a normal tone, "I fear it is I who should be apologizing."
"What," Crowley said. It was not even a question.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I -- I, ah, must have behaved in such a way that, that brought your honor into question. The, er. The young gentlemen who brought me here seem to think you're in love with me, which, I'm certain, is, is..."
He trailed off, because Crowley had his face in his hands and was making a noise between a sigh and a whine. "Yeah, I know," he whispered. "I know."
Aziraphale nodded at the door and mimed somebody listening on the other side.
Crowley pulled a miserable face. "Aziraphale," he hissed, "they're not going to let us out until we convince them that we've... confessed, or something." He sighed. "We'll just fake it." Then, in a more audible tone, he purred, "Oh, Mr. Fell, I don't think you have to worry much about my honor. I don't care about all that nonsense, all I care about is, well..." He trailed off, teasingly, and smiled at Aziraphale, with an expression that clearly started off intending to be seductive but ended up somewhere more in the vein of sheepish. It was terribly endearing.
Aziraphale swallowed. He was... he was sorely tempted. He mustn't. "I, I, er -- Mrs. Cambion --"
"Please, darling, call me Lilith," said Crowley.
"Ah. Yes," said Aziraphale. He tried to think of what the next step in this dance would have been, had they been humans, courting. "Well. I -- Lilith, I -- I suppose I should have made my feelings for you known sooner. The -- the truth is..." He looked up into Crowley's face, his heart pounding. "...that you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I've admired you from afar for so long."
"Such a gentleman," Crowley said. He made a sort of 'let's move it along' gesture, and when Aziraphale didn't immediately respond, he grinned wickedly. "Do go on, though. I very much enjoy hearing about how beautiful I am."
Oh no. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, looked at his long legs, his red lips, his face all angles and shadow, and his copper hair. He swallowed. He didn't trust himself to talk about any of that right now. "Your eyes," he finally said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. "My dear, I think your eyes are absolutely lovely. I wish I could see them more often."
Crowley's smug expression had gone now; it had been replaced with confusion, or astonishment, perhaps.
"May I?" Aziraphale asked, gesturing at the dark spectacles.
"I -- well -- I..." Crowley boggled. "Sure. Yeah."
Aziraphale removed them, gently, and miracled them to one of the bedside tables. Crowley's eyes were golden and lovely. "See?" Aziraphale asked. "Isn't that better?"
"Uh," said Crowley. "Well. If you like that sort of thing... I..."
"I very much do," he said, smiling.
"Well," said Crowley. "That's." For some reason he looked almost distressed. "Angel, don't do this to me," he whispered, although he wasn't looking at Aziraphale anymore.
"Do what to you?" Aziraphale asked.
"Oh, fuck it," said Crowley, and he took Aziraphale's face in his hands and kissed him.
Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley's neck and craned his neck up, kissing him back frantically. He had kissed Crowley before, but it had always been brief and chaste, in times and places where any two friends might do the same. At most, they'd shared kisses like the one Aziraphale had attempted on New Year's Eve. But never like this. Crowley's clever tongue had never darted into his mouth, making him want more. He had never let his teeth nip lightly at Crowley's lip, or let his hand travel up the back of Crowley's neck to play with the hair there. He had never tasted champagne on Crowley's tongue.
Really, it would be fine, he decided. Heaven wouldn't want him to be inconveniently discorporated by romantic, overinvested mafiosos or something. And he'd been so good for so long, he was perfectly justified in indulging a little bit. Or indulging quite a lot, even. Anyway, it would be on Crowley, really, since Aziraphale was working so hard to redeem him. And Heaven would never know; this was the last place they'd look for Aziraphale as long as he kept his miracles to a minimum.
"Fuck," Crowley moaned, when Aziraphale kissed down his neck. Aziraphale shoved him against the wall. "Fuck," said Crowley, again. He was looking at Aziraphale in wonder and disbelief and want.
Aziraphale grinned and pulled Crowley's face down again for another kiss. He let one of his hands travel down Crowley's body, over his chest, his hip, down one leg and then back up to hike up his scandalously short skirt.
Crowley moaned against his lips as Aziraphale slid his hand into Crowley's knickers. "Aziraphale," Crowley whispered. "We could still fake -- you don't have to --"
Aziraphale ran two fingers along the slick opening between Crowley's legs, and Crowley whimpered. He had a passing familiarity with how this particular set of genitals worked; he'd tried them himself a few times on his own. But he'd never been with someone else who had them, and it'd been a while since he'd been with anyone else at all. "Was that a good noise, or --"
"Yeah," said Crowley, breathlessly, so he did it again, and Crowley moaned louder. He eased his fingers in a little further, and circled his thumb across the lovely little nub of flesh at the top. Crowley shuddered, his hips jerking. "I think," he gasped, "I think, the bed?"
"But you look so good here," said Aziraphale. He kept stroking, pushing his fingers in further, and slipping another one in there while he was at it. Crowley clenched around them, slick and hot, hips jerking wildly against Aziraphale's hand. Every sound he made was delicious. Aziraphale had envisioned so many variations on this theme, and now he was trying to drink in all the details his imagination had been unclear on -- Crowley's eyes pressed shut, his head thrown back, his hands against the wall gripping at nothing.
"Nh, Aziraphale, you're such a -- aaah!" He caught his breath and tried again. "...knew you'd be like thisss." He pushed Aziraphale's hand away, gently, and caught his breath.
"Is something wrong?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley grinned down at him and kissed him very thoroughly. Aziraphale moaned as Crowley squeezed the erection he'd been trying to ignore. "Angel," Crowley said, his voice rough and breathy, "as good as that felt I've been wanting to get you into bed since they invented beds, and also I'm starting to regret these shoes. Let's get to the bed."
"Well. When you put it like that," said Aziraphale. His mind swam as he found himself wondering when they'd invented beds. How long ago had Crowley looked at him and decided he was worth lusting after?
Crowley took advantage of his distraction, grabbing Aziraphale by the lapels and steering him towards the bed. He made short work of Aziraphale's bowtie and jacket. "I didn't know you wanted --" Aziraphale interrupted him with another kiss. Crowley fumbled with his shirt buttons. Aziraphale tried to help, but Crowley pulled away from the kiss. "Let me, I want to," he said. Aziraphale found he wasn't sure he liked not kissing Crowley, at this point, because then he had time to think about all the reasons this was a bad idea. But now Crowley was talking again. "Is this all right?" he asked. "This body, I mean? And this, er, effort? Is it all right, do you want something different? I could do something different." He sounded so frantic and earnest, one could almost believe that he hadn't seduced Aziraphale on purpose, except that Aziraphale found it terribly endearing, so probably it was just another demonstration of how good Crowley was at this.
Aziraphale decided what he wanted was for Crowley to be making more of those wonderful incoherent noises right away. "You look lovely tonight, my dear," he said, carefully taking Crowley's serpentine tiara off. Then he kissed Crowley's jaw. "But however you look, it's always lovely." His neck. "Don't change a thing." His collarbone. "Except, get out of these clothes, please, so I can see the rest of you."
"Flatterer," said Crowley, and in a moment they were both naked.
Aziraphale hadn't been entirely prepared for that, but he certainly didn't mind. He pushed Crowley down onto the bed and bent over him, situating himself between Crowley's long, lovely legs. Then he picked up where he'd left off, sliding his fingers back into Crowley's wet cunt and kissing his collarbone. He made his way down Crowley's chest as Crowley arched up into his fingers. He stopped to suck one nipple (Crowley made a pleasing little gasp) and then the other (for symmetry, and another gasp), kissed down his stomach, nosed through the patch of wiry red hair, and began to circle Crowley's clit with his tongue.
It was very rewarding; Crowley had started with some half-gasped instructions, but once Aziraphale worked out what he wanted it was all "Fuck!" and "Angel!" and a lot of half-moaned syllables that didn't mean anything in any language Aziraphale knew. Crowley was shaking now, and Aziraphale knew he couldn't be very far off. He resisted, forcefully, the urge to touch himself -- he knew exactly how he wanted Crowley to handle that -- and worked at Crowley with his tongue and fingers until Crowley's little exclamations of delight reached their zenith. After a few moments, Aziraphale felt him relax. "Angel," he said, hoarsely. "That was. Mngh."
Aziraphale looked up, then, and surveyed his work. Crowley was a sight. His hair was wild now, his makeup smudged, and his face shone with a lazy, sated smile. Aziraphale helped him sit up.
"I couldn't tell if you were really interested," said Crowley, looking at Aziraphale so tenderly, almost as if he was in love. Then he glanced down at Aziraphale's cock, and his expression was replaced by a much more familiar smirk. "Well. Obviously you are." He licked his lips. "Can I return the favor?"
"Please, I, yes," said Aziraphale, who had spent in his own hand imagining Crowley's mouth on his cock more times than he wanted to admit. He scrambled further up on the bed as Crowley slid sinuously down. (Aziraphale was getting a very nice view of his arse this way too. He was definitely filing that image away for future use.) Crowley began to stroke him with one hand, looking down at Aziraphale's cock like it was a delightful new toy. He glanced at Aziraphale. "It's bigger than the one you had in the baths in Rome."
Aziraphale hadn't realized he'd been looking. "Fashions changed," he said, only just managing to keep his voice steady. "It's not -- too much?"
Crowley grinned at him. "You could go bigger if you like." He licked the head of Aziraphale's cock, teasingly. "Not like I've got a gag reflex." His tongue darted out again, and it forked and lengthened as Aziraphale watched. Aziraphale moaned as Crowley licked from base to head, and again as he twisted his tongue around Aziraphale's dick briefly.
"Showoff," Aziraphale gasped.
Crowley laughed. "You love it, angel." He slid his mouth over the tip of Aziraphale's cock, working at the head with his tongue, and eased his way down until Aziraphale was inside him entirely.
Aziraphale clung to the bed, momentarily overcome by the heat of Crowley's mouth. "Oh, my dear, that feels -- so good." He felt Crowley smile, and then he began to move up and down, and suck, and his tongue was doing things Aziraphale had never imagined were possible. "Crowley, my love, oh my goodness, oh my G--" He clapped a hand over his own mouth. The last thing they needed was the wrong sort of attention. "I've wanted -- for so long -- nh, how are you even -- Crowley!" he gasped, as Crowley's tongue did something particularly clever. Aziraphale forced himself to open his eyes and take in the sight of Crowley bent over him, the yellow of his eyes just visible through his lashes as his head bobbed up and down. "Oh, you're so beautiful, you look like -- like --" Aziraphale grasped for some point of comparison that captured the lovely concentration, the devotion to the task, the grace of him. "-- like a saint."
This was, Aziraphale knew, as soon as the word had come out of his mouth, probably not the right word. The suspicion was confirmed when his dick came out of Crowley's mouth with an obscene slurp. "A what?" Crowley asked, looking at him in very unsaintly disbelief.
"Crowley!" said Aziraphale, mostly because it was the only word he trusted himself to say. He tried to recollect his thoughts, but most of them were along the lines of no, put it back!
"Really, a saint?" Crowley asked. To Aziraphale's relief he looked more amused than annoyed. "Didn't know that was how your lot chose them."
"I don't know, it just came out!" said Aziraphale, desperately, but Crowley only laughed at that. "You were just, you were very--" Crowley teasingly ran one fingertip so, so lightly along the length of him, and he gasped. "Crowley," he whined.
"Is there a patron saint of sucking dick, d'you think?" Crowley asked. "Must be, there's a patron saint of everything else."
"Crowley!" said Aziraphale. "I'm sorry, I -- you were very good --"
"Not saintly good, though," said Crowley. He stroked Aziraphale's cock with agonizing, deliberate slowness, and Aziraphale whimpered. "How would you even get to be a patron saint of that? Martyred from choking, I guess. But what a way to go."
"Could you please just take the compliment, Crowley? You were making it very difficult to think," said Aziraphale.
"Aw, angel, you know I'm just playing with you," said Crowley, grinning. "You're so much fun like this." He pressed a line of little, frustratingly chaste kisses down Aziraphale's cock, then licked his way back up and took him in again. "Mmm."
"Yes, thank you, finally," said Aziraphale, closing his eyes and losing himself in the sensation. "Could you -- faster -- yes, oh my dear, yes, like that -- you're so good at this. I'm very -- very close I think," he gasped, expecting Crowley to finish him off with his hand. Instead, Aziraphale felt him wrap his tongue around the base of his dick. "Crowley," he moaned, and he had gone over the edge and Crowley was sucking every drop of him down, and oh, that tongue was wicked.
As he caught his breath, Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw Crowley watching him intently. He smiled as Crowley pulled away and sat up. "My dear, you were..." Aziraphale was determined not to accidentally insult him this time around, but he was still having trouble putting words together.
"I know," said Crowley, smugly. He wiped his mouth off, and crawled up the bed to sit next to Aziraphale.
As the bliss ebbed away slowly, Aziraphale found himself harboring such unwelcome thoughts as We shouldn't have done that! and What if somebody finds out? He pushed them all away frantically.
"Thing is," Crowley whispered in his ear, "doing that got me all worked up again."
"Oh?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yeah," said Crowley, nuzzling his neck. "Very inconvenient. I could take care of it myself, but...."
Nobody would find out, Aziraphale told himself. He kissed Crowley, tasting himself in Crowley's mouth. "It'd be wrong to make you do that without any help," he said. "Especially since it's sort of my fault."
"Mmm, yeah. Very unethical," said Crowley. "Wouldn't want that."
Aziraphale supposed a little miracle might go unnoticed, and just like that, he was ready to ignore inconvenient things like refractory periods. "I'd better see to it, then."
"Yeah, you'd better," said Crowley, pushing him down onto the bed.
Neither of them needed to sleep, so that night neither of them did.
The party lasted three days. Aziraphale had been vaguely aware of this, but he'd assumed -- because Crowley had said so -- that they wouldn't be staying the whole time. Mr. Capone would understand. Lilith Cambion and her late husband's solicitor were older than Capone and most of his friends, and, though not exactly dull middle-aged people, they would surely not have the energy to drink and dance for three whole days.
But the next afternoon, when they'd left the hotel room -- Two-Bullet had forgot to unlock it, apparently, so Crowley'd just miracled it open -- it didn't really seem all that urgent to leave the party. Aziraphale ordered some excellent pecan waffles at the restaurant while Crowley went to check in on Mr. Waller the pianist before joining him at the table. The waffles had been good, but it had been even nicer when Crowley slid into the chair across from him with a couple of mimosas and shot him a broad smile Aziraphale knew reached his eyes, even if he couldn't see them at the moment.
They chatted about nothing for a while, carefully avoiding discussing the events of the night before, and then, as Aziraphale was finishing up his last waffle, Crowley said, "By the way, I got us an actual hotel room, with our own keys and everything. So we can sleep."
Crowley's smile got wider.
Aziraphale had never flagged a waiter down faster.
That evening they did sleep a bit -- well, Crowley slept. He'd miracled himself up some comfortable-looking black silk sleeping pajamas and slid under the covers while Aziraphale took a shower. (Aziraphale didn't need to bathe, but it felt nice. He also liked to keep all the little hotel soaps. It wasn't really stealing if they expected you to take them.) "Stay with me, angel?" he asked, when Aziraphale came out of the bathroom, already miraculously dry. He smiled and got into the bed next to Crowley.
"I"ll be reading," Aziraphale warned him. "Is that all right?"
"Mm, yeah, 'course," said Crowley, laying his head on Aziraphale's shoulder.
Aziraphale brought the book he'd been reading out of unseen dimensions. The people in it were still horrid, but they were interestingly horrid.
"What're you reading, anyway?" Crowley asked, muzzily.
Aziraphale showed him the book. "I took it from your house, I hope you don't mind." He'd picked it because, at a glance, it was the most worn-looking on the shelf, as though someone had lingered over the pages and carried it with them on buses and trains. There were coffee stains on some pages. Aziraphale would have disapproved had it been an old book, but the publication date was just last year and it wasn't as though this edition would ever be valuable. Surely there would be plenty of reprints. "Have you read it?"
He felt Crowley tense up beside him. "No, no, don't read books, you know me. Just, just have the bookshelf for show, that's all."
There was a scene like that, in the book. Aziraphale remembered being viscerally angry at the idea of an entire library of books not so much as having been opened. He considered pointing out that nobody had recently-published but incredibly worn-looking books in their houses just for show.
He considered, also, the main character of the novel, who had been trying to woo a woman he'd known as a poor man by throwing wild, expensive parties and hoping she'd just show up one day and see how terribly fashionable and impressive he was. Considered how Crowley had barely acknowledged the other guests at his own party in favor of getting drunk with Aziraphale. How proud Crowley'd been of that ridiculous house, when he'd showed it to Aziraphale in the very first hours of the year.
His heart broke, just a little. "No, of course you don't," he said, lightly. He felt Crowley relax again. "I'm enjoying it, anyway. Are you going to sleep?"
"Mmm, think so," said Crowley. He grinned, looking up at Aziraphale with eyes the color of sunsets. "You've been wearing me out, angel."
"Well, then, I'd better let you get some rest," said Aziraphale. He leaned down and kissed Crowley's forehead, then turned all the lights out with a snap, save the lamp on the bedside table..
Crowley settled in against him and was soon breathing slowly and deeply. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if he was wrong about Crowley, if maybe Crowley did love him. But he would sense it, wouldn't he? Aziraphale worried at a tear in the dust jacket of the book with his thumb.
It didn't matter, really. Crowley was a demon. When he was an angel again, maybe it could be like this all the time. In the meantime, though, Aziraphale knew he would miss this when it ended.
Chapter 5: you can't call anonymous souls to the lord
Notes:
Content notes for this chapter: mild and confused xenophobia, homophobia, and a threat of torture (specifically harm to fingers).
A song for this chapter: "Mack the Knife" by Louis Armstrong.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rest of the party went by all too quickly. They spent a leisurely morning in bed, then came down and helped the other guests finish up the last of the champagne that afternoon. Aziraphale thought he might be imagining it, but he didn't think he'd ever seen Crowley looking so delighted, or so relaxed, as he had these past few days. He wished that didn't make him feel guilty.
That evening Crowley convinced him to dance, where "dance" meant "hug and sway a little bit." Mr. Waller was in fine form despite having apparently slept at the piano for the past two nights, and played them something slow and melodic that Aziraphale quite liked. There weren't a lot of people left at the party, compared to that first evening, so after the song was over, Aziraphale wasn't terribly surprised when Crowley kissed him on the cheek and said, "I think we'd better get going now."
He squeezed Crowley's hand. "I'll get our coats, my dear," he said. Crowley gave him the sort of smile that made him think, briefly, Oh, I can feel his love!, but after a moment he realized he was only fooling himself. He was probably doing the best a demon could, though, Aziraphale decided. Crowley must sincerely like him quite a lot.
He came back to Crowley and found Mr. Capone speaking to him. "...even though we didn't see much of you," Capone said wryly.
Crowley went scarlet. "I, well, I, we were --"
Capone laughed. "I'll pass your thanks on to Two-Bullet Jimmy. Was nice meeting you, Mr. Fell."
"Ah. Yes. Thank you," said Aziraphale, looking at Crowley for guidance. Crowley was no help at all -- he only donned his fur coat with a flourish and shot Aziraphale a shy-looking smile. "What a lovely party it was. Happy birthday!"
"Could you go outside and see if there's a car waiting for us, angel?" Crowley asked. "Al's called one for us, but then he decided to make fun of me instead of talking about some deliveries, and I have a few questions."
"Ah! Yes, of course, my dear," said Aziraphale. "I'll see you outside." He headed outside, the night air shockingly cold after three days in the warm hotel, and was immediately met by a stringy-looking fellow in a suit standing in front of a cream-colored car with black accents.
"You coming from Capone's party?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, thank you," said Aziraphale, walking towards the car. "We're going to -- well, I'm not sure of the address, my friend will be out soon..." He trailed off as a big brute of a man came out of the car as well, and loomed behind the stringy fellow. A car only needed one driver; who were these men?
"Found him in one try," said the stringy fellow, looking smug.
The big fellow frowned at Aziraphale. "He don't look like his picture. Are you Mr. Humphreys?"
"I'm afraid I have no idea who that is," said Aziraphale. "There's clearly been some sort of misunderstanding, I'll just --" He began to turn, but in a moment he felt something pressing into his shoulder. The business end of a gun, he supposed. He froze up, thinking of all the dreadful paperwork he'd had to do last time somebody had fatally injured his corporation. That time, at least, they had been able to refurbish it and make it habitable again. He did not want to know how bad things would be if he had to requisition a new one.
"Come on, Danny, help me out here," said the stringy fellow. "What kind of a shotgun are you if you can't even get your gun out?"
"The kind who doesn't wanna bring Mr. Weiss the wrong guy," said, presumably, Danny. "He already hates me. And the guy just said he wasn't --"
"Of course he said that, he's lying. He sounds British, like Humphreys. Who else could he be?"
"He sounds English," said Danny. "Murray Humphreys is a whole other kind of British, I'm pretty sure."
"Irish?" the stringy man asked.
"No! That's not even --" His face did something complicated, and Aziraphale almost wondered if he was going to argue with the other man, but he stopped and just shook his head. "He's definitely not Irish. He's one of the other other kinds of British."
"Oh, you think you know everything," said his partner. "Mr. World Traveler over here."
"I only went to France, and that was--"
"English, Irish, the other other ones... how much difference can there be?"
"Jesus, don't let my uncle hear you say that, he'd shoot you," said Danny.
"Your uncle's a cop, he'd shoot me anyway," said the man with the gun.
"Well, only if you didn't pay him off," said Danny.
"Well it's a good thing we ain't met, I can avoid getting shot for free," he said. The gun dug into Aziraphale's back, suggesting he was unwilling to allow Aziraphale the same bargain. "Come on, Humphreys."
"I'll come along if you like, but there really has been a mistake. If you'd like some payment --"
As he began to reach for a miraculous wallet full of money, the man shoved the gun hard into his back. "Hands up," said the man with the gun. "You gonna get in or do I gotta shoot you, fucker?"
He supposed he had no choice but to go along with them. Perhaps this Weiss fellow would be reasonable and let him go. Didn't Crowley work with him? Well, it would be easier to straighten this out with these fools' supervisor, anyway.
"Jesus Christ, Stan," said Danny. "Whether or not he's Humphreys, Weiss ain't gonna want him all full of holes and shit, dead guys don't know anything useful and they're lousy hostages. Put the gun down and let me handle this."
Aziraphale felt the gun lower, but his relief was short-lived, as a hand closed on his shoulder. Aziraphale allowed himself to be turned around and pushed into the back of the car.
"He just don't seem like the right guy," said Danny, getting into the passenger's seat.
"Yeah, I didn't figure one of Capone's guys would be such a prissy little pansy," said Stan.
Danny gave Aziraphale an odd look over his shoulder, as if he was worried about how Aziraphale might react to this. "Didn't know you were such an expert," he told Stan, sounding annoyed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Stan snapped.
"In Capone's guys, I meant!" Danny said, hastily, and Stan subsided. "But I just don't think he's the right guy," he said.
"Sure, maybe he's not Humphreys," Stan allowed, "but he's at Capone's party, so he's gotta be somebody." The engine roared to life.
"Well, yes," said Aziraphale, who was certainly willing to admit to being somebody, "but I really do think --"
"Aw, shut up, whoever you are," said Stan. "Nobody gives a shit."
Aziraphale sighed, and watched sadly as the party he'd spent several dreamlike days at receded into the night.
Crowley sauntered out of the Hawthorne Hotel having negotiated a nice deal with Capone for several crates of expensive French liqueurs that were a bitch to get this far from the East Coast. He fully expected Aziraphale to be outside waiting for him. He had the evening pretty much planned out, in fact: they would get home, check that their miracled food bowl had kept Hobgoblin fed, and then he would seduce Aziraphale -- a shockingly, wonderfully easy task, these past few days -- and have a nice slow fuck in front of the fireplace. Any fireplace, really. Crowley had a lot of them. They could get around to all of them eventually.
But when he got outside, no angel was in evidence. There was only a small man standing in front of a Checker Cab, looking expectant and a little worried.
"I sent a friend out here to wait for the car," Crowley said to him. "You haven't seen him, have you? Is he in the back?"
The taxi driver pulled a face. "Ma'am, I don't mean to alarm you, but as I was pullin' in, these guys in a Chrysler shoved a guy in the back at gunpoint and pulled out, so --"
Crowley felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him. He ran to the passenger's side door, yanked it open, and clambered in. "Get in, we need to catch them." He looked at the driver, still hesitating on the sidewalk. "Now!" he snapped.
"Ma'am, I can't let you ride shotgun, I --"
Crowley pulled the gun he'd swiped three nights ago from his purse. "I think I have all the qualifications to ride shotgun, get in the fucking car and drive."
The cabbie sighed, rolled his eyes, and walked around to get in on the driver's side. "First off," he said, starting the car, "that's a pistol. Second," he continued as he pulled out of the parking spot, "you really think I'm not armed?" They rounded the corner, and Crowley caught sight of a car in the distance, just across the railroad tracks.
"Was that the car?" Crowley asked.
"Yeah, think so," said the cabbie, sounding unconcerned. There was a loud noise, like a horn or a whistle, and he stopped the car.
"Why are you stopping?" Crowley demanded. Was the cabbie in on this too? How dare he!
"There's a train coming, look, the light's right --" Crowley shoved the car forward, though it whined in protest. "What the fuck?" the cabbie whispered, stomping on the breaks as they rolled forward onto the tracks. "Shit!" He stepped on the gas as the train barreled towards them, the taste of the cabbie's mortal terror sour and sharp to Crowley's senses. "How did you --"
"Keep going," Crowley snapped. This was never how it went in the movies. "I'll pay you extra." The cabbie sighed, and they moved along at a perfectly respectable speed. That wasn't good enough for Crowley. "I'll also shoot you if we lose the fucking car." They weren't losing the Chrysler yet, but they weren't gaining on it either. Crowley didn't even know if it was the right one. He couldn't believe he'd let poor Aziraphale get kidnapped by -- well, who even knew, at this point?
"Ma'am, I've been workin' here behind this wheel for five years, and the Yellow Cab guys haven't managed to shoot me dead yet, and the gangsters haven't killed me, and the cops haven't either, I don't think you're gonna --"
"Al Capone called this cab for me!" Crowley snarled. "He's a personal friend! Drive faster."
The cabbie started laughing. "Oh, yeah, sure --"
"I'm not joking!" said Crowley. The Chrysler made a sharp right and disappeared behind some buildings. Crowley made a strangled noise, like a close-mouthed scream.
"Jesus, lady, I'm sure your friend'll be fine, they probably just wanna ransom him or -- look, I dunno what you think you're gonna do against whoever it is, anyway. Safer just to go home and wait for the call."
"It'd be sssafer for them if they hadn't kidnapped my bessst friend," said Crowley, thinking of all the things he was going to do to these kidnappers. They slowed down to an infuriating degree to make the turn, but thank Satan, the Chrysler was still visible ahead of them. Further ahead, though. Crowley wished he could just scare the living daylights out of the cabbie, but that resulted in crashed cars and the last thing he needed right now was to be discorporated. "Just a little faster," he wheedled. "We need to catch up to the car."
"Ma'am, this is my cab, and I got a duty to me an' the company to keep it in one piece, and if the cops --" The Chrysler turned again, disappearing from view, and something inside Crowley snapped.
The car came to a stop of its own accord. "Oh no," said the driver, pumping the gas. His door popped open, and he jerked away from the steering wheel in startlement. "What the hell?" That made it easier to shove him out of his cab, though, which was fine with Crowley. He scooted over into the driver's seat, pulled the door shut, and slammed a pedal to the floor at random. Presumably it was the gas pedal, since the car peeled away, leaving the driver shouting "Hey! Hey! What the hell, lady?" in the distance. Crowley had never driven a car before, but he supposed there'd never been a better time to learn. Besides, he'd seen humans do it plenty -- how hard could it be?
He made the next turn at breakneck speed and nearly collided with a telephone pole, but that turned out to be easy enough to deal with -- he just moved the pole a bit out of the way temporarily. Relief coursed through him now as he realized he was finally gaining on the Chrysler. It made another jerky turn and Crowley followed. They must know they were being followed now, because they started making all sorts of crazy turns, barreling through narrow alleys and occasionally over lawns. Crowley wished he was closer, because if he could see far enough ahead of the Chrysler he could stop shoving mailboxes out of his own way and start putting them into the Chrysler's path, only he worried if he didn't give the Chrysler enough clearance the obstacles would crash it rather than slow it.
They were going vaguely east now, and somebody in the car must've decided shaking him off was pointless, because they stopped making turns and just sped forward. Crowley urged the car forward, but every time he increased his speed the car in front of him matched it, until, as before, he pushed, deciding very firmly that his car, whatever its model, could go faster than any other blessed car on the road, and it suddenly zoomed forward. He overtook the Chrysler slightly, then dialed his speed back, catching a glimpse of Aziraphale in the back seat looking very worriedly out the window.
Aziraphale's eyes widened when he saw Crowley, so he pulled his sunglasses down and winked. Aziraphale pointed forward, and mouthed Look at the road! Crowley did, and saw that he was about to crash into another car which was trundling along at, presumably, something closer to the legal speed limit.
Not a problem! Crowley sped up and narrowly squeezed through the gap between the Chrysler and the other car. It only took a little miracle.
He decided to show these bastards who they were dealing with and pulled in front of them, then rolled down the driver's side window and used his gun to take potshots at their windshield. Just to scare them; he didn't want to hit the driver, because then the Chrysler might crash with Aziraphale inside.
The absolute fuckers in the other car started shooting back at him, and Crowley ducked back inside the car. The bullets pinged harmlessly off of the metal, because Crowley had decided that was what they ought to do, but Crowley swore anyway.
Then one of the bullets hit a tire.
Crowley immediately regretted his oversight as the wheel started to make a disconcerting flopping noise, but it was fine. He was fine. He could keep driving. It was only a tire; those probably weren't important. If they were, they would've been made of something sturdier, like metal. Still, he was losing speed now, and he watched helplessly as the Chrysler swerved around him and left him behind.
He opened the door, still speeding down the road, and leaned out to look at the tire, but several bullets narrowly missed him and he grudgingly supposed he would have to wait until they were out of shooting distance to fix the tire.
He slowed, letting the Chrysler get away from him, then leaned out and snapped his fingers at the tire, which returned to perfect form immediately. Then he stepped on the gas.
They didn't make any more attempts to dodge him, although they did shoot at him a few more times. He trailed them doggedly through Greektown, over the river, and into the Loop, where they had to slow down because there was still plenty of traffic even this late. Crowley realized, as they made a few unnecessary loops around the Temple Building, that they thought they could lose him this way. He cackled; he had much better night vision than they did, and he could disguise his car with a snap of his fingers. The Chrysler made a sharp turn left down Randolph, and he took the opportunity to clip a Yellow cab; it'd look good to Head Office to exacerbate hostilities between the cab companies, after all. (He was met with a satisfying burst of pure Wrath.) Then he went ahead and turned his car a nondescript dark blue. He trailed them at a less obvious distance, and soon they stopped taking sudden turns.
They flew up State Street, the Chrysler dodging traffic and Crowley nudging it out of his way, past Field's and the Chicago Theatre, and over the river again, up into Tower Town. Crowley had a sinking suspicion he knew who'd taken Aziraphale. The question was, had they specifically been trying to take Aziraphale, or had they been aiming for somebody different? He desperately hoped it was the latter, because if it was the former... well. That could only mean that Hymie Weiss was onto Crowley's multiple identities, and also, somehow, knew Aziraphale was important to him, and until this weekend, Crowley hadn't been entirely sure Aziraphale knew Aziraphale was important to him.
Or maybe, said a very nasty little voice, maybe Somebody's found out about the two of you. But Crowley dismissed that quickly; if Heaven had found out, they wouldn't have thought to take Aziraphale away in a car. And if it was Hell, well, they barely even knew cars existed down there. Crowley's instructions still sometimes referred to carriages.
So it was probably Hymie Weiss, then. Crowley didn't love that idea, but as the Chrysler made a sharp turn just before the old water tower, he became surer and surer, and when they pulled over just across the street from the cathedral, he knew. He watched as they took Aziraphale into Schofield's Flowers at gunpoint. There they would have all kinds of nasty scissors and pliers and knives and skewers to rearrange Aziraphale's face if that was what they wanted.
Crowley quite liked Aziraphale's face, and was happy to burn down the whole block if they tried to alter it. On the other hand, maybe he could gain entry and retrieve Aziraphale by pretending to be... well... himself. He parked in front of a fire hydrant, snapped, and was no longer Lilith Cambion, but once more in the shape and attire of Anthony Crowley, bootlegger to the North Siders.
He hesitated outside the door to the flowershop for a moment, trying to listen for any voices that might tell him what direction this conversation was going in, but he couldn't hear anything from outside this door. So he pushed it open, ignoring the lock and silencing the bell. It was a nice enough shop, if you didn't think about all the murders that had been planned or committed here; the front room was quiet and full of wreathes and bouquets. Crowley had never particularly understood the appeal of being surrounded by slowly dying flowers, but everybody needed a hobby, and flower arranging had been the late Dean O'Banion's passion, which he indulged in during time off from voter intimidation and running his bootlegging empire.
He'd died here, in the middle of clipping some chrysanthemums. Crowley had met him a few times before that, and sometimes wondered which circle of Hell he'd ended up in, his sins were so numerous. Maybe they passed him back and forth. Weiss was still pretty broken up about his death. O'Banion had been pleasant enough, but he'd gone a bit mad in those final years, and had become very difficult to lead around. Crowley had hoped Weiss would be easier to deal with -- more like Capone, perhaps, easygoing and dim-witted -- but so far he was much worse.
Crowley walked silently up to the door to the back room, grabbed an empty vase, and put it to the door as he might use an empty water glass to eavesdrop.
"...really has been a terrible mistake," Aziraphale was saying.
"Come on, you gotta be someone close to Capone! You were at his party!" he overheard someone say, sounding rather desperate. It sounded like it might've been Stan Jasinski, one of Weiss' idiot delivery drivers. Crowley did not like Stan very much, and had occasionally contemplated introducing Stan's wife to the wonders of life insurance policies and rat poison. Clearly he ought to have gone through with that plan.
"I don't wanna say I told you so," said another voice, "but..."
"He's a right guy!" Stan insisted. No, Stan, you definitely kidnapped the wrong guy, Crowley thought. But Aziraphale wouldn't appreciate him reducing Stan to a gibbering wreck permanently. Or shooting him in the face. Crowley decided he would terrorize Stan as the mood took him, and Aziraphale be -- well, saved, actually, not damned at all, but he couldn't complain too much.
(And then home, he thought, to the cat and the fireplace. Or maybe just his nice warm bed, with his nice warm angel, who would of course be terribly grateful for Crowley's suave rescue and impressed by his newfound driving skills.)
So Crowley pushed open the door, and saw Aziraphale, tied up and looking mildly annoyed. "Hey, guys! Mr. Weiss called me up, sent me to retrieve somebody you had, er, inadvertently acquired?" he said, gesturing at Aziraphale. Then he turned to the mooks.
As it turned out, the room contained: one (1) angel, tied up; two (2) mooks (the hated Stan, and a big guy Crowley didn't know); and one (1) Hymie Weiss. Crowley suppressed an irritated sigh. He could have said something earlier!
"I did?" Weiss asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's pretty strange, isn't it? I sure don't remember that." Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Didn't you?" Crowley asked, trying to sound only slightly worried. "I thought it must be important, you calling me up like that. Somebody must be playing at something. I don't like it." He looked at Aziraphale, who looked very irritated with the whole situation, and tried to work out how he was going to get them both out of this safely. "Who is he, anyway?"
Aziraphale sighed heavily. "As I have just been telling these gentlemen, I'm nobody important," he said.
"We don't know," said Weiss, watching him. "Danny and Stan here especially don't know," he said, motioning to the mooks. "He's definitely not Humphreys, or Scalise, or Anselmi, like I asked for, and then these knuckleheads tried to pass him off as Guzik. But he don't look like Guzik or talk like Guzik and he sure don't smell like Guzik."
"Excuse me?" Aziraphale asked.
"Jake Guzik doesn't bathe," Crowley explained.
"I really just think he's some guy," said the big mook with the squashed nose, who was, by process of elimination, probably called Danny.
"Maybe Guzik finally discovered soap?" Stan said hopefully.
Weiss ignored him. "I think I'd like to find out who he is, though," he said. "I think that'd be real interesting." Crowley liked Hymie Weiss even less than he liked Stan Jasinski; he'd learned quickly that Weiss was the kind of human who'd be able to teach Hell new things once he got there. He also carried a rosary, which made Crowley's throat itch and eyes water whenever Weiss touched it in contemplation or devotion, which was far too often for Crowley's tastes.
Weiss had been incredibly dogged in his pursuit of vengeance against Capone over the past year or so, and if he thought Aziraphale was connected to Capone in any useful way, Crowley didn't want to think about what he might do to Aziraphale. Discorporation would be the least of it.
"He doesn't look important," said Crowley, giving Aziraphale what he hoped was a dismissive look. "How do you know he's not some -- some party crasher?"
"Yes, that's it," said Aziraphale, quickly. "That's all I am! I wasn't invited to the party. I should never have been there in the first place!" Crowley wished he could convey, by some unseen and unheard method, that Aziraphale was a terrible liar and should keep his mouth shut.
"Hmm. I guess he could be," said Weiss, frowning at Aziraphale. "You know, it's very interesting you say that, Mr. Crowley. You don't happen to know him, do you?"
"Definitely not. Never seen him before in my life," said Crowley.
"As if I would even want to be seen in the company of such a disreputable miscreant!" said Aziraphale, with a sneer.
"Excuse me," said Crowley, a bit stung, "I'm a very reputable miscreant, I have a fantastic reputation, I've put a lot of work into it."
"Oh, of course, my mistake," said Aziraphale. "'Quite a lot of honor among thieves,' that's how the saying goes, isn't it?"
"I'm not a thief, I'm a bootlegger," said Crowley, who didn't understand how the distinction was so difficult for Aziraphale to grasp.
"Mmm. How many crates of whiskey was it, again?" Aziraphale asked, insufferably smugly.
"Fuck's sake, are you still on that?" Crowley snapped. "I took them from the Purple Gang, nobody likes the Purple Gang, they're incompetent idiots and they probably won't even notice it's missing."
"It's the principle of the thing," said Aziraphale, unmoved.
Crowley rounded on him. "You stole an entire cat!"
"That cat loves you, Crowley!" said Aziraphale, as if this was somehow a defense.
"She does not, she's a cat, she just likes being fed and petted," Crowley said.
Weiss cleared his throat, and Crowley remembered, suddenly, that other people existed.
Weiss not only existed, but he was training a gun on Crowley. "I was gonna say it was real interesting you said he was a party crasher when nobody here ever mentioned any party, but you guys seem to have a lot to get off your chests. Stan, pull up a chair for Mr. Crowley here," said Weiss. "Why don't you tell me all about Capone's birthday party. I wasn't invited." He tsked. "It was very hurtful."
"You're really misreading the situation here," Crowley insisted. "See--" A chair was shoved into the back of his legs and he fell back onto it. Someone (presumably Stan) wound a rope around his chest. It was fine; rope wouldn't exactly do much to keep him down if worst came to worst, but he didn't love this. "See, the thing is," he started again, and then couldn't work out what the thing was.
"Nah," said Weiss. "Shut the hell up, Crowley." He looked between Aziraphale and Crowley, with the sort of expression Crowley thought ants must see on the faces of inquisitive children with magnifying glasses just before being set aflame. "Hey, Danny, you work here, dontcha?"
Danny looked miserable. "Yeah?"
"You think the wirecutters or the floral clippers are better for cutting off fingers?" Weiss asked. "I feel like I used the wirecutters last time, but they're a little small, dontcha think?"
"Really," said Aziraphale, "this has gone quite far enough, I don't see why we can't keep all our fingers."
"Yeah, definitely the floral clippers," said Weiss. "Takes longer but it's more satisfying, you know? Danny, get 'em for me."
Danny hurried off to one of the work tables to find them.
Crowley swallowed. It was a bad situation, but he didn't want these bastards to have Aziraphale, and so he said, "Look, this idiot is -- he's just a friend of mine from home, he doesn't know anything. I got him into this mess, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know if you let him go."
"Crowley!" said Aziraphale, horrified. Crowley tried his best to look stoic, although, of course, he was going to set this place on fire and flee the minute Aziraphale was out the door, and then they could go home and that'd be the end of that.
Weiss seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he gave Crowley a very unpleasant smile. "Nah. Danny, start with the mystery man, start on... hmm. Start on his left hand. You can pick whatever finger you want."
Danny hesitated, looking unhappy at this assignment, and Crowley took the moment to miracle himself out of the rope. He stepped in front of Aziraphale, and did some full-on demonic looming. The lights flickered, and shadows that shouldn't exist danced strangely. "Don't you touch him!" he snarled. Danny dropped the floral clippers to the ground and cowered; behind Crowley, Stan yelped. But Weiss' reaction to fear was violence, so he pulled the trigger of his gun, and Crowley only realized it a moment too late to stop a bullet at this range. He thought, Fuck, there's going to be so much blessed paperwork.
Weiss' gun clicked. Then it crumbled into dust and ran through his fingers. "That's quite enough of that," said Aziraphale, standing from his chair, the ropes falling away. He grabbed Crowley by the arm and pulled him towards the door.
"Shoot them!" shouted Weiss as they fled. Crowley heard gunshots but, miraculously, no one was hit.
He opened the car doors with a snap. "Get in!"
They both scrambled into the car and Crowley drove, faster than he'd done during the chase, faster than he'd ever gone before -- well, except when he'd been an angel, or the dreadful moments just after he'd stopped being an angel, but terminal velocity hardly counted. He made a hard right that slammed him into the side of the car while Aziraphale scrambled for something to hang onto. He had an idea, if Aziraphale would cooperate.
"Crowley, who taught you to drive?" Aziraphale demanded, once they'd straightened out.
"Uhh. The Keystone Kops?" Crowley asked. "I'm a little busy, angel."
"Oh, wonderful," grumbled Aziraphale. "That must be them now, then."
"What?" Crowley asked.
"There are police following us, Crowley," said Aziraphale.
"Where?" Crowley asked, turning to look behind.
"Look at the road!" Aziraphale insisted.
"I'm fine, angel," said Crowley. "Yup, those are cops."
"You're driving us into the water!"
"Actually," said Crowley, grinning at Aziraphale. "I had a thought about that, if you'll cooperate."
He let Aziraphale think about that one for a moment as the lake loomed closer and closer. It was a joy to watch him realize what Crowley meant. "Crowley! No!"
"Oh come on, just the once?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale hesitated. "For me? I can't do it myself, it's one of those holy things."
"Oh, fine," said Aziraphale, and they flew over the beach and onto the surface of the lake.
Crowley was beside himself with absolute glee as he drove on the smooth surface of the water. He was grinning so much that it hurt. He looked over his shoulder, watching the puzzled policemen pile out of the car. Then Weiss' men pulled up next to the police; Weiss himself leapt out of the car and shouted something about Capone, then noticed the police car and leapt back into his own car to flee.
"Crowley, watch the -- the lake!" said Aziraphale.
"Oh, all right," said Crowley, tearing himself away from the sight of the police haring off after Weiss. "S'pose there might be icebergs. Did I tell you about that shipwreck I was in in 1912? Fortunately I don't think anybody's advertised this car as unsinkable." He couldn't stop grinning; he pushed the car just a bit faster as they sped over the water. It was like this was what he'd been made for, except of course, he knew he hadn't been made for anything like this, neither by Her or when he was remade in the Fall. This was all his. "Thanks for ruining Weiss' gun, by the way. Not that I needed the help, of course."
"Of course," said Aziraphale. "Thank you for coming for me, Crowley."
"Always, angel," said Crowley, his heart doing a little flip. He reached out and took Aziraphale's hand.
Aziraphale ran a thumb over his knuckles. "Though I suppose you'll be in trouble with Mr. Weiss now," he said, worriedly. "Maybe it would have been better if --"
"No," said Crowley, immediately. "He's awful, Aziraphale, he could teach my lot a thing or two. Anyway, I'm sure I can come up with a new identity and get in with the North Siders again if I really need to, but I'm all right being persona non grata with them for now."
"As long as you don't think it'll cause you any trouble," said Aziraphale.
"We can worry about that later," said Crowley, remembering his earlier plan. Home, feed cat, take angel up to bed. The night was back on track.
The drive home was swift and smooth and mostly over water, though Crowley didn't slow down much once they were back on land. He left tire tracks in his driveway as he skidded to a halt.
They got out of the car, Crowley still grinning like, he supposed, an ecstatically happy maniac. He looked at Aziraphale, who was beaming despite his initial grumpiness about the great speed of the car. "Well, that was... unnecessarily exhilarating, but we all made it out in one piece," he said to Crowley as they were walking to the front door. "I really am thankful you came for me, my dear."
"Of course I came for you," said Crowley. His heart was still going too fast, and Aziraphale was smiling at him like he'd -- well, like he'd saved Aziraphale's life, although privately Crowley was sure Aziraphale wouldn't have got more than a slap on the wrist from Heaven for miracling himself out, whereas Crowley would be in Hell filling out endless forms if Aziraphale hadn't disintegrated that gun. "Aziraphale, I...." How to put this into words? "This past few days, it's been... better than I ever thought was possible," he said, finally. Aziraphale looked almost surprised, and Crowley decided maybe his words weren't adequate to this. He cupped Aziraphale's face in his hand and kissed him gently, slowly.
Aziraphale leaned into the kiss, putting his hands on Crowley's shoulders and drawing him in, and he was so deliciously warm in this chilly air. Aziraphale deepened the kiss, and Crowley moaned softly as Aziraphale's hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his head, to tangle in his hair.
But then Aziraphale pulled away. "Crowley, we can't just -- can't just do that where anyone could see!" he said, looking absurdly scandalized for just a little kiss, especially since, over the past few days, he'd been very dedicated to finding new and interesting ways of making Crowley scream with pleasure.
Still, Crowley supposed he had a point. "Right, yeah, we should probably get inside, check on Hobgoblin. Got carried away." He grinned. "Oh, I do love you, though."
This didn't have the sort of effect Crowley'd expected. "I wish you wouldn't say that," said Aziraphale, looking very disappointed. "I know you don't."
As he absorbed Aziraphale's words, Crowley felt dizzy and slightly ill. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?" He must have misheard.
"Oh, it's not that I hold it against you, my dear, but I can tell, you know," said Aziraphale. "I expect it's because you're a demon. It's only... you can't just keep seducing me and pretending you love me," he said. "It's hurtful."
As Aziraphale spoke, Crowley felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath him and his insides were being pulled out and used for cat's cradle. He couldn't breathe, and for some reason he felt like he really needed to. "I. What?"
"I know I indulged you for the past few days, because I knew Heaven wouldn't find --"
"You indulged me?" Crowley repeated. "Sorry, I assumed, you know, you were enjoying yourself. It certainly looked like you were. And sounded like. And --"
"Crowley, don't be --"
"No, no, I'm going to be however I like," snapped Crowley. "Do you mean to tell me that you -- that I -- look, I just have serious difficulty believing you let me suck your dick because you were being nice. I mean, it's fine if you don't care about me --"
"Crowley!"
"No, it's fine, really, just -- just..." Crowley realized suddenly that it wasn't fine, actually. He was silent for a moment, searching for some sign in Aziraphale's face that he understood. "But you have to believe me," he said, finally.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," said Aziraphale, looking wounded for a moment before his expression hardened into righteousness. "Look, the point is, Crowley, you're only hurting yourself if you keep trying to seduce me. Don't you see? I'm not going to Fall and you're going to prolong your --"
"You thought I was trying to make you Fall?" Crowley asked. "Why the fuck would I want that? Not everything I do is some fucking infernal plan, Aziraphale, sometimes I just..." He trailed off. "I love you. I just said that, I don't know why I would lie about that, it's kind of a liability in this line of work."
Aziraphale's expression became gentle, and hope leapt up in Crowley like a hare. "Perhaps you think you love me," said Aziraphale, and that same hope fell down dead.
"I do love you, you idiot," snapped Crowley, "but it's times like these I really wish I didn't." His eyes felt hot and overfull, and he decided he couldn't handle being here right now. He darted back to the car.
"Crowley, what are you doing?" Aziraphale demanded. Crowley opened the door. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," Crowley said, getting into the car. "Away. I don't know. Who knows when I'll be back? Maybe I won't!" he said, recklessly. "Maybe you'll never have to see me again. Never risk being seduced by, I don't know, me just existing, apparently." He slammed the car door and turned the car back on.
Aziraphale simply shook his head, and went inside. Crowley had been hoping for a last minute No, wait, I was so wrong! or at the very least a Don't be so hasty, my dear, let's talk this over inside.
Well. Fine. Fuck it. He pulled out of the driveway and sped back into the city.
Crowley drove for an hour or so, trying to see how far he could push the car. He outran the police and dodged between the other cars just to see if he could. He kept forgetting to drive on the right side, but he also didn't care very much because all he could think about was Aziraphale explaining that Crowley didn't love him as if it didn't matter, as if Aziraphale hadn't called him my love and dearest and beloved when...
Well. When they'd been having sex. Aziraphale hadn't actually said those things outside the throes of ecstasy. When he was entirely clothed he pretty much stopped at my dear, and that was something he called nearly anyone he didn't dislike, which was most people, because Aziraphale was a literal angel and he liked everyone, even Crowley.
Even Crowley.
After he'd shaken off the seventh set of cops, Crowley found that speeding through the city wasn't helping much; it was fun, sure, but it wasn't distracting the way he'd wanted it to be. He decided he should probably turn to something more tried-and-true, so when he passed by the Green Mill next, he pulled into the closest parking spot and headed inside.
Notes:
Special thanks to my dad for looking over the car chase scene for me. (While he was busy helping my mom deal with a family emergency, no less.) Hopefully he will never read the rest of this fic, but I appreciated his help here and definitely incorporated some of his ideas. (And might incorporate more in future scenes.)
Chapter 6: the existence of a hunted man
Notes:
I know this is late. I could have done the classic AO3 Author thing and posted it during/just after the family emergency I was dealing with, but I decided, no offense, that I'd rather catch up on sleep and bills and dishes. It is very short, chapterwise -- I am going to try and get another chapter posted this week. But it was going to be short anyway. I hope you enjoy it!
Content notes for implications of domestic violence cut short, some dated language around homosexuality, and some mild demonic gaslighting.
A song for this chapter: "Another One Bites the Dust (Epic Trailer Version)" by Hidden Citizens. (Listen, I tried to find a good period-appropriate cover but this one is simultaneously so funny and so sad I couldn't not. I had never really listened to the lyrics until I stumbled across it.)
Chapter Text
Nicky was having a godawful night. He'd had to break up three fights and sit on his hands for a few more, 'cause they were between people who could really make trouble if they wanted to. He'd finished cleaning up most of the broken glass and blood, and was wiping the bar down when the guy walked in.
Nicky felt there was a special place in Hell for people who showed up right at closing time, but the fact was, he thought he'd locked up, so he didn't immediately tell this guy to go there. Maybe it was somebody who had a key, like Mr. McGurn, who technically owned the place, or Mr. Capone, who actually owned the place.
The tall, knife-thin silhouette in the doorway belonged to neither of these people, and once it ambled into the room and took its hat off, it resolved into a guy with red hair and shades. Nicky had never seen the guy in his life, he was pretty sure. Haven't I, though? said a small confused voice in his brain. He lost the thought almost before he'd had it. Couldn't imagine why he'd thought of Lilith Cambion at a time like this. This guy looked nothing like her -- couldn't even be related to her, for reasons he couldn't explain.
(If he could have put them into words, they would've been in somebody else's voice, in an English accent, and they would have been Becausse I ssaid ssso.)
Nicky was about to tell him to fuck off, but then he realized who it must be. He'd never seen Tony the Snake in person, but really, how many guys in Chicago had bright red hair and wore shades all the time, even at 3 am in midwinter when the sun had sensibly gone to Palm Beach until June.
Isn't there... isn't there a guy who works for Kenna called... The voice was silenced once more. Nope; just Tony the Snake. Even though Tony worked for the North Siders and this was Al Capone's favorite bar. No one else it could be. Not a soul.
And you didn't fuck with Tony the Snake; it was a good way to make your life a lot more interesting or a lot shorter, or maybe both. The lucky guys found their private lives all over the papers; the unlucky ones turned up dead, and in weird ways, too.
Like, Happy Joe had sold Tony booze laced with formaldehyde; rumor was everyone at Tony's party that evening was real sick, but Joe got the worst of it, 'cause his old lady found him the next morning fully embalmed and laid out on his own kitchen table. She hadn't minded much; said it'd saved on funeral expenses, but still. (Nicky had gone to the funeral. Everyone had gone to that funeral. Nobody much liked Happy Joe, but after a story like that, you had to go have a look at him. Whoever'd embalmed him had done a pretty good job.)
And then once Tony was sweet-talking one of Icepick Delaney's girls, Susie, which was highly inadvisable, because Icepick was standing right there. He had thrown several punches at Tony, who'd dodged out of the way of each of them, and that made Icepick mad so he'd started to smack Susie around instead. Before he could get very far with that plan, though, he'd collapsed, and died a short while later at Mercy Hospital. They found bite marks on his hand and venom in his system from some weird African snake, and Mr. McGurn'd had to make a panicky call to the zoo asking as circumspectly as possible if they had lost a resident, and if so, would they mind coming to take it back.
For these and other reasons, Nicky decided not to tell Tony the Snake that he'd just closed up, that he was not welcome at the Green Mill anyway, and that he, Nicky, wanted to go home and sleep 'til noon. He just watched as Tony wandered in and collapsed at the bar, giving the impression of a guy who no longer wanted the responsibility of holding his own self up with his own feet and legs and all that.
Then Tony looked over his sunglasses, and he had yellow eyes.
And then! And then!
He said, "Hey, Nicky. Been a while."
Nicky found himself freezing up, like a rabbit in front of... hypnotized by... about to be eaten by...
Like a deer in the headlights, his brain supplied, reassuringly.
Yeah, that was it, Nicky decided.
"Uh. Hiya," said Nicky. It was weird, though; Tony the Snake looked real familiar. Sounded familiar too, but Nicky lost that thought before it got anywhere interesting, and forgot he'd had it. "Do I know you, Mr., uh...." Nicky trailed off, realizing his last name probably wasn't "the Snake."
"Oh," said Tony the Snake. "No, maybe you don't. Last time I was here I was someone else. Silly me." He flashed Nicky a manic smile that was too sharp. "Don't suppose you have any, any..." He trailed off, and looked off into the middle distance for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. "Apple cider! Just the thing for tonight. Like old times. Upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat, and all that."
"Izzat Shakespeare?" Nicky asked.
"Nah. Older'n that," said Tony the Snake. "If you haven't got any, give me -- give me whatever. Anything you have. The worse the better."
Nicky didn't think they had apple cider, because cider was for rednecks and they had a real sophisticated crowd up here, but he looked and there was a giant, dusty bottle of something labeled 'scrumpy cider,' which Nicky had never seen behind the bar before, and didn't think he wanted to again. He didn't know what a scrumpy was, or if it was anything like an apple, but he poured a tall glass for Tony the Snake.
"Last time I was here," Tony said, "you told me and my friend to go to your sister's restaurant." It sounded like something was caught in his throat. "Very good baklava, my friend said."
"Sure," said Nicky. He pushed the glass over. That sounded like him. He would have told Satan himself to go to Soph's place if he thought the old bastard would tip well and not make trouble, but he did not remember having this conversation with Tony the Snake.
He tilted his head back and drank the entire glass of cider in one swallow. "Last time I was here," he said, "he was still my friend." He sniffed, and then sobbed, and then he took his sunglasses off and just cried like someone'd just killed his wife and kids and then kicked him in the balls.
Well, shit. Maybe someone had.
"You okay?"
"'M fine," sobbed Tony the Snake, through a face full of snot and tears. "Don't wanna talk about it."
That was a relief.
"It's only -- it'ss only -- have you ever been in love with someone who thinks you're the worst person in the world, and you don't even know what you did wrong?"
Fuck. He knew 'Don't wanna talk about it' was too good to be true. "Uh," said Nicky.
"Well, no, that'ss not --" Tony sniffed. "That'ss not really fair, is it. I know what I did wrong. Everybody knowss what I did wrong."
Nicky decided not to ask if he meant the preemptive embalming of Happy Joe or what. He made a noncommittal noise.
"Another. Pleasse," said Tony. His eyes were wide, and earnest, and -- this was impossible not to keep noticing, much as Nicky tried -- very yellow.
There was something else weird about the eyes, but Nicky couldn't say what it was exactly, because that was too frightening to think about. So he refilled the glass, and Tony emptied it again.
"I jussst," said Tony. "I jussst, I don't know what he wantsss me to sssay, I don't -- ssssix thoussssand yearsss, Nicky!" he said. "And he ssstill thinksss I want to drag him down with me?" He was hissing like a bad tire now. "He doesssn't even believe me!"
"Sounds awful," Nicky agreed. Tony motioned for another glass of cider, and Nicky poured. He really hoped Tony was good for it. At the rate he was going, he also really hoped Tony was going to survive this, and that he didn't have to dump Tony's body in the lake after taking his wallet in lieu of voluntary payment. That was always such a hassle.
"Fucking -- fucking bassstard, I don't know why I alwaysss --" He broke down sobbing again.
Maybe he wasn't Tony the Snake, Nicky thought. Maybe he just looked like him. Nobody had said anything about Tony the Snake being a fairy, but really, who would risk spreading that around on the chance Tony would be offended? And Nicky didn't like the idea of being prematurely embalmed, so he decided, better to treat the guy like he was Tony the Snake and feel dumb afterwards if he wasn't.
The bottle of cider seemed like it had a lot more in it than it should, Nicky thought, because Tony drank three more glasses of the stuff and it should've been lighter, but it still felt heavy and it sloshed when he put it down.
Nicky tried to think of what he'd told his sister when she'd caught her asshole boyfriend with another woman. "Hey, you can probably do better, you know?" said Nicky.
"Not possssss--" Tony shook his head. "Not really. 'Sss objective fact. He'sss an angel. Big fluffy white wingsss." He took a long sip of the cider, although to Nicky's relief he'd only half-emptied the glass this time. "Sssoft, sssexy wings," said Tony, contemplatively. "'Sssnot fair."
Nicky wondered if this was a euphemism for something, but he couldn't imagine what, and didn't want to. It was almost a relief, then, when the door slammed open. Except this guy definitely didn't have a key, because it was fucking Hymie the Pole and two guys besides.
Tony turned, and his eyes widened, and he stumbled off the barstool. He fumbled for his sunglasses but they fell to the floor behind the bar.
"Crowley! We found your car," said Hymie.
"I can exssplain," said Tony. "It wasss -- I --"
"Where's your friend?" Hymie asked. He turned to Nicky. "Where's his friend?"
Nicky shrugged as hard as he could. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Stan, see if there's anyone behind the bar," Hymie said, and one of his guys came to look behind the bar. He didn't find anyone but Nicky, of course. Nicky shrugged again.
"No friends here!" Tony said. "That's me, I'm just... not very friendly. Look, I understand how it looks but --"
"I don't think you do," said Hymie, advancing on Tony. "I think you should come with us and answer all our questions, Mr. Crowley." He put his hand in his coat pocket, and Nicky wondered if he was going to pull out a gun.
The lights dimmed all on their own; two of them at the back of the room just plain guttered out. "You'd better leave me alone, if you know what's good for you!" Tony snarled, and there was something very wrong with him, it was more than just his eyes but -- but it was his eyes, wasn't it? They weren't human at all. He didn't move like a person, either. Nicky thought he might have fangs.
Nicky froze out of some deep instinct, in the hopes that he wouldn't be eaten by something terrible. He watched as the guy who'd come to look behind the bar ended up ducking behind it next to him. The other guy made for the door. Nicky would have liked to escape himself, but he had strict instructions not to use the secret passage in view of any customers or cops, and Hymie the Pole was worse than both of those things together.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nicky thought he saw gleaming reptilian scales, but when he looked full-on, it was just Tony's black suit. Tony was still backing away from Hymie, and Hymie, fearless, kept advancing.
He drew his hand out of his pocket then, and took a swing at Tony. He missed, took another punch, and missed again as Tony stepped out of the way with inhuman fluidity. But his third punch landed good, right in the jaw. There was a sizzling noise, and the smell of rotten eggs, and Nicky saw that Tony now had marks on his face, a line of little charred dots.
Tony put a hand to his face. "Shit," he hissed. All the lights came back up.
Hymie held up his fist triumphantly, although it took a moment for Nicky to parse the beads and dangling cross as a rosary. (Nicky wasn't sure how most Catholics felt about punching people with a rosary, but he couldn't imagine his yia-yia being at all happy if he'd used a komboskini to punch a guy. Hymie the Pole feared no grandmothers, clearly.) From his other pocket, he dug out a piece of paper, and then he started talking -- reciting, really: "Princeps gloriosissime caelestis militiae --"
"Oh no," said Tony. "Oh no, you can't be serious. Really?"
While everyone seemed to be distracted, Nicky crouched down behind the bar and wondered if he dared use the trapdoor, rules be damned.
"--sancte Michael Archangele --"
"She's not coming, you know. You really wouldn't want her to," he heard Tony say.
There were the sounds of a brief scuffle; Hymie stopped talking for a sec, and then there was the sound of fist hitting flesh, and a yelp from Tony. Hymie started back up again, presumably where he'd left off. "Defende nos in proelio adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi--"
"Look, if anyone needs defense against Principalities tonight it's me," said Tony. Nicky heard a sort of scrabbling sound, and when he looked up he realized Tony the Snake was climbing onto the bar.
"--adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritalia nequitiae, in caelestibus."
"I guess we're doing this," sighed Tony, from atop the bar. "You're not even a priest, Hymie! I'm not even possessed! You can't just exorcise me. Don't suppose I could convince you to switch to the longer version of this prayer?" As Hymie continued reciting Latin, Tony swung his legs over the bar and looked down at Nicky. "There's a secret passage out of here, isn't there?" he hissed. "I know there is, where is it?"
Nicky boggled at him, wishing Tony the Snake had just left him out of this, and, ideally, never walked into the Green Mill in the first place. "I can't tell anyone that! I'd be dead in a week!" he said.
"Fine, I'll find it myself," said Tony, climbing down and joining him behind the bar. "Gotta be back here, right?"
"Hey!" said one of Hymie's guys, the one who'd ducked behind the bar. Nicky stood, slowly, keeping his hands up, because he didn't love the idea of being shot. The guy ignored him, which was ideal.
"Stan! Buddy! Friend! Pal!" Tony said, giving the guy a winning smile.
"The hell is wrong with your eyes?" Stan demanded. He raised his gun to point it at Tony's face.
"That is exactly what's wrong with my eyes," said Tony. "Tell you what, why don't you shoot your boss and I'll give you anything you want! Anything at all, no matter how crazy it is. You just need to kill him for me."
"You think I'm stupid?" Stan asked.
"No, but Hymie Weiss does, doesn't he? You can tell, I know you can," said Tony in a conspiratorial tone. "You never get the kind of respect you deserve, Stan, nobody in your life thinks much of you. Got fired from the meat packing plant, thought the North Siders would offer more pay and make you a big man to your family, but it turns out it's just getting pushed around like you did at the plant, only this time it's by guys with guns instead of guys with clipboards. Shoot Weiss and I'll make you the top banana, I promise," said Tony. He waited for a response.
Weiss scowled in their direction, and continued chanting. "...ut conterat Satanam sub pedibus nostris..."
"Ugh," said Tony. "Stan, clock's ticking, get back to me soon!" He turned to the big guy, who fumbled with his gun a bit before pointing it at Tony. "You! Danny! You shoot him, you don't even want to be here, you're -- you're --" The guy started trembling, and Nicky worried if he shot at Tony he was gonna miss and hit the back of the bar, which, to be fair, Nicky preferred to seeing a guy get shot in the head, but his boss would be pissed off about the cost of repairs. "Fuck, you can't shoot anyone, can you? Never mind." He turned away from the poor scared son of a bitch, ignoring the gun leveled (mostly) at him. "Stan! Stan, please, you're passing up the opportunity of a lifetime here, I never do this. You could be anyone with my help, you wouldn't even have to stay in this business? Ever wanted to be mayor? Governor? President?"
Stan looked like he was considering the deal, but he wasn't lowering his gun.
"...et apprehendas draconem, serpentem antiquum --" said Hymie.
"'M not that old," muttered Tony. "Stan, my old friend Stan, buddy, think about what you're throwing away!"
Stan cocked his gun.
"-- qui est diabolus et Satanas, et ligatum mittas in abyssum --"
"Come on, if anyone knows shitty bosses it's me, Stan, just shoot the bastard in the head!" said Tony, desperately.
"-- ut non seducat amplius gentes," said Hymie. "Amen."
And suddenly, before Nicky's eyes, Tony the Snake... turned into a snake.
"Huh," said Nicky. At this point, he was really just surprised that he wasn't more surprised. It was a big goddamn snake, too. Black and red, with yellow eyes. It hissed furiously, and wove its way out from under the bar. Stan took a couple shots at it, but none of them hit. Then it struck him in the leg and he screamed and fell to the floor.
"Uh. Not to criticize, but I think I liked him better when he was just a weird skinny guy who yelled at me and turned the lights off with magic," said Danny.
"Shut up and cover the door," said Hymie.
Danny scrambled to do so. "Just, now we gotta fight a snake and I never fought a snake before, couldn't you have made him something else?"
"I didn't -- that wasn't the -- shut up, Danny," snarled Hymie. The snake in question began coiling around him, but he was ready -- he grabbed the snake's neck with one hand and wrestled with it for a moment before slipping the rosary around its neck.
The snake -- Nicky was having trouble holding this thought in his head -- the snake said "Ow, fuck!"
"Get its tail, Danny!" shouted Hymie. He nudged Stan with his foot. "Get up, we're leaving."
"It bit me! What if I die?" said Stan.
"What, you'd rather die on the floor of the Green Mill?" asked Hymie, struggling to contain the snake as it lashed its entire body. "Get the fuck up! Danny! The tail!" Danny grabbed the snake's tail. "Stan, get the fuck up right now, this is a three-person snake."
Stan got to his feet, putting one hand gingerly on the middle of the snake. "But I don't wanna die."
"I read somewhere that big snakes usually don't have venom," said Danny, struggling to keep a hold of the tail. "They just squeeze you to death."
"Oh, really, Danny, you know every goddamn thing, don't you?" said Stan. "What'd you read about demon snakes from Hell?"
And they began bickering amongst themselves. Nicky hoped they were leaving soon. He really, really wanted to close up. Also to have a drink or twelve. But he was definitely going to lock the door first, and maybe stack some chairs in front of it. To his mild horror, Hymie the Pole suddenly addressed him. "Hey! Bar guy! If you tell Capone or anyone else we was here, I'll find out where you live and burn it down."
Nicky nodded. No one would believe him, anyway. "Of course." He watched as the snake tried to bite Hymie's hand, and Hymie jerked its neck back with the rosary.
"And then I'll find out where the rest of your family lives and burn those places down too," said Hymie.
"Sure," said Nicky. "I won't tell anybody." The threat had not been necessary, but it was very motivating.
The snake made another attempt on Hymie's hand, and he grabbed its mouth and clamped it shut. "And you, you fucker, you're gonna stop doing that or else I'll tie you into a goddamn bow." The snake merely hissed. "You got a car?" Hymie asked.
Nicky froze. This wasn't a question he was expecting. After a moment, he said, "Me?"
"No, the snake. Of course you, you idiot," snapped Hymie.
Nicky shook his head.
"Well you got one now, there's an ugly blue thing parked outside. Mr. Crowley," he said, nodding at the snake, "will probably have a hard time driving it without any arms or legs. Might as well keep it."
"Thanks?" said Nicky. He just wanted them to leave. What the fuck had this whole night been?
Hymie nodded, apparently satisfied with an evening of turning bootleggers into giant snakes and making bartenders doubt their sanity. "Come on, boys, let's get to Holy Name. Stan, don't bleed on anything in the car." And they left, Tony the Actual Literal Snake in tow.
After he was sure they were gone, Nicky decided he might as well try the cider. He didn't bother pouring any into a glass. He drank right out of the jug. It wasn't bad, actually.
Chapter 7: severability clause
Notes:
No particular content notes for this specific chapter, but from here on out there will be a lot of psychological torture of Crowley.
Two songs for this chapter, now that Aziraphale and Crowley are separated!
1. "They Can't Take That Away From Me" by Fred Astaire
2. "Stress" by Justice
Chapter Text
Crowley had struggled and bitten and tried very hard to escape, but the rosary burned as it dug into his neck and eventually he had to stop and let them drive him to -- well. Crowley knew where they were going.
He'd hoped, briefly, that they might change their minds and take him back to the flowershop for convenience's sake, but when they parked right in front of the cathedral, he knew, and he knew they'd have some way of keeping him there, if Weiss had gone to the trouble of writing out the entire exorcism prayer to Michael. They hauled him out of the car and he used every muscle in his long, limbless body to try and squirm away, even though Chicago in January was no place for snakes, and in spite of the burning of the rosary every time he moved. He bit all three men several times, but as he'd been forced into this form he hadn't been able to give himself venom. He tried very hard to turn back, but it hurt ten times as much as the rosary had and he'd been forced to give it up for the moment. Satan help him, was he trapped like this? In a church?
Crowley prayed -- well, no, Crowley hoped, to no one in particular -- that the bishop or whatever would tell Weiss to fuck off. They hadn't let Dean O'Banion have his funeral there, even though they'd been happy enough to have him in the choir, and Crowley knew it still rankled Weiss.
They walked into the cathedral and already Crowley felt the uncomfortable, suffocating press of holiness on his scales. It made him itch. It was a beautiful building, he had to admit, and he'd spent several centuries wishing he could go inside of churches, because that was where so much of the best music and art was, but to be carried in now, under these circumstances -- well, it was the highest order of bullshit.
"Shouldn't we maybe... ask someone if we can do this?" Danny asked.
Stan and Weiss didn't answer. Crowley tried to angle his head around to bite Weiss' wrist but Weiss clamped a hand down on his snout.
"I'm just thinking, you know. To prevent any more trouble," said Danny.
"Our supplier turned into a snake, and is maybe a demon? I don't think we can get into any more trouble," Stan said.
"Oh, try me," muttered Crowley. He tried to curse Stan with boils, set him on fire, and turn him green in quick succession. It was no use. He'd tried all sorts of things in the car, but at the moment he seemed to have all the weaknesses of a demon, but with the amazing powers of a perfectly ordinary enormous snake. It was not advantageous.
"Tomorrow morning I'll tell the rector he better keep everyone out of the basement if he knows what's good for him," said Weiss. "Danny, since you're so concerned, you can stay and watch the demon, make sure he don't escape or nothing."
The cathedral's basement was... unimpressive -- this was clearly where they kept all the normal, mundane things that were required to maintain the sublime space upstairs. Crowley had to admit, he was a little disappointed. He felt like cathedrals ought to be kept clean by the grace of God, not mops and buckets. Probably Aziraphale would have something pompous to say about the sacredness of making humans do a little work he personally would have turned his nose up at.
Crowley worked himself into a nice long sulk about Aziraphale, who was a bastard, and he was thus able to bear the humiliation of the next few minutes in uncharacteristically silent dignity. At least until Stan and Weiss tried to tie his body into a knot around a chair. "I don't bend that way, idiotsss!" he hissed.
Weiss shrugged, and used the rosary as a sort of horrible makeshift lead to tie him to the chair. Crowley attempted to slither through it, to no avail, so instead he tried to find a way to comfortably curl up on the chair with his neck leashed to the leg, which was about equally as successful.
"Should be good enough for tonight," said Weiss, and yawned. "You stay here," he said, pointing at Danny. "And you," he said, nodding at Crowley, "you have no choice." He laughed. "I'll be back tomorrow with a contract. Get my lawyer to draft it."
"I don't sssuppossse I could have my lawyer look it over?" Crowley asked. His lawyer was an avowed and ferocious agnostic, and Crowley would have happily paid twice the hourly rate just to see his face upon looking over the contract, but he knew that wasn't going to happen.
And sure enough, Weiss just laughed. "See you in the morning, demon, Danny." And he and Stan left.
Crowley looked at Danny, who was at the far end of the room, shakily training a gun on him. "Well. Anything I could do to convincsse you to let me go?"
Danny shook his head.
"Money? Connectionsss?" Crowley couldn't feel his vices right now, but he'd mostly remembered feeling a raw, cold terror coming off of Danny in the Green Mill. "Sssafety?"
Danny shook his head. "Nope. Not making any kinda deal, sorry."
"You really want to ssspend the whole night here? 'Cos I don't. It'sss ssso cold. Wouldn't you like to go home to a nicsse warm bed?"
The human laughed humorlessly. "Well, my girl and I just broke up, so... it's not as comfy as the couch, but it's a hell of a lot less awkward. Sorry it's so cold, though. You gonna be okay?"
Heartbreak, Crowley reminded himself, was a weakness he could exploit, and not something he and this idiot had in common. He ignored the human's question. "I could -- I could make thisss girl love you again, if you helped me," he suggested. It wasn't his usual approach -- he wasn't some awful incubus who cheated humans out of free will -- but he did not want to be trapped here for Satan knew how long.
"I think that'd be a lousy trick to pull even if it did work," said Danny, "but also, I think if you could do that you could get yourself out of here without my help. No deal."
"Sssuit yourssself," said Crowley.
Aziraphale had assumed Crowley would be home by the next morning and they could talk about this like sensible beings, but that evening he put The Great Gatsby aside and picked a different book off of Crowley's shelf, because he could tell it wasn't headed anywhere happy and he didn't particularly want to reach the ending feeling like this. So he sat up all night reading about some detective and trying very, very hard not to think about where Crowley was.
Did Crowley really think he was in love with Aziraphale, or was he just pulling a very long con? Crowley could be terribly kind, and he usually wasn't intentionally cruel without cause, although he could be very thoughtless. It was entirely possible that Crowley had mistaken their long friendship and sudden sexual chemistry for actual love. Humans made that mistake often enough. And if that was the case, what Aziraphale had said must have been very hurtful.
On the other hand, Crowley was a demon, and a very good liar sometimes, although usually not a very good liar to Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale tried to comfort himself with the idea that he hadn't truly upset Crowley, merely thwarted him. He'd always been able to reframe it that way when Aziraphale had found himself looking at Crowley with lust and resisting the urge to act upon it. But it was one thing to know Crowley was trying to seduce him, and another to consider that Crowley was only pretending to love him.
It didn't really matter whether it was a long con or self-delusion on Crowley's part, in the end. Neither appealed in the least.
Aziraphale finished up the detective novel around daybreak, although if anyone had asked he could not have explained who had killed whom, or why. Hobgoblin was asleep in his lap. Crowley was nowhere.
He didn't come home the next day, either, although that afternoon several people attempted to enter the house without even trying the doorbell. First they rattled the knob, then they started picking the lock. Aziraphale had known they were there, of course; he had set his own protections around the house and knew as soon as someone hostile set foot on the property. He merely looked up from his book, saw the fellows outside trying to come in, and gave Hobgoblin, who was lying in the sunny entranceway, the appearance of a panther. Then he let the door swing open. Hobgoblin gave a hiss that came out as a growl, and the men fled, not even bothering to close the door.
"They'll let all the cold air in," he grumbled to Hobgoblin as he went to shut the door. But the intrusion had reminded him that Crowley had enemies now, and so did he, and he started to worry.
By the third day without Crowley, Hobgoblin was in a foul mood, and Aziraphale was in a dark one. He went digging through Crowley's desk and found the telephone number for Hull House, and called up to see if Miss O'Malley had been there. But he didn't have Crowley's ins with the administration there, so it was several long, worry-filled days waiting by the telephones before Aziraphale got a call back from someone saying that Miss O'Malley hadn't shown up for any of her appointments and did Aziraphale know, was she still able to be the understudy for the heroine in the play they were rehearsing for? Aziraphale said he had no idea, and hung up, and sat back in Crowley's office chair, staring at the four phones in front of him, at the cold fireplace, and then at the even colder lake outside the windows.
The questionable, possibly erotic statue had vanished after the first day Aziraphale had spent here; he assumed Crowley had got rid of it, and Aziraphale stared glumly at the empty space it had occupied. He carefully put everything back into Crowley's desk as it had been before; he didn't want Crowley to think he'd been nosy, after all. Then he wandered down the corridor and found himself in Crowley's bedroom.
Ah. He hadn't got rid of the statue after all. Aziraphale eyed it. It was certainly a very... lively depiction of what might plausibly be a fight. (He tried not to think about Crowley's gentle fingers on his feathers, or the careful scrape of Crowley's teeth on his neck, or Crowley slowly working him open before taking him from behind and whispering delighted half-gibberish in his ear the whole time.)
Aziraphale lay on the bed for a while, thinking. It still smelled like Crowley -- the whole house did, a little bit, but this bed had contained him for hours at a time. He thought about Crowley kissing him, soft and slow, and then about how Crowley had said he loved him, and had smiled so warmly. But Aziraphale hadn't felt anything there, even though, by all rights, anyone smiling like that ought at least to be thrumming with joy, if not love, necessarily. Aziraphale had felt plenty on his own, admittedly -- delight, affection, a terror of being found out, and then suddenly dread and disappointment as he realized how empty that smile had been, how false that kiss.
He tried very hard not to cry, and he almost succeeded.
A stupid voice in the back of his head suggested that perhaps Crowley did love him, somehow, but that certainly didn't bear thinking about, because if Crowley did love him, what in Heaven's name was Aziraphale supposed to do about that?
Aziraphale lay there a while longer, thinking gloomy thoughts and staring up at the ceiling, until Hobgoblin leapt up onto the bed and stood on his chest and stared down at him.
"You aren't helping, my dear," he told her.
"Mrr?" she said, and lay down on top of him
"I don't know where he is either," he said. "Do you think he's safe? I hope he's just sulking somewhere. Probably drunk. Maybe I should be drunk. But I don't want to break into his business supplies, you know. That would be unconscionably rude."
Hobgoblin watched him for a while before closing her eyes.
"What if he doesn't come back?" Aziraphale asked her. "I should look for him, shouldn't I? Tomorrow I'll look for him."
She didn't answer, of course. He scratched her behind the ear for a while, and she purred, and that made him feel slightly better, until he remembered he was trapped under a cat indefinitely and Crowley wasn't even here to make fun of him for it.
He lay there for longer than he particularly wanted to, wishing he was better at sleeping. Around sunset, an envelope miracled itself into existence and fell onto Hobgoblin's head. She startled and fled, and Aziraphale was free again, although since the envelope had Heaven's gold wax seal on it, he knew his freedom came with a price.
Aziraphale slipped the envelope open on his way downstairs, and read it as he filled Hobgoblin's dish and refilled her water dish. He was to go into the city tomorrow, as Heaven had apparently officially approved the re-assignment of Chicago to the Principality Vehuel, at someplace called Saint James Chapel. He wondered which Saint James it was. There'd been an awful lot of them. He suspected there would not be ducks, however, which was his main association with Saints James at this point.
Well. Heaven had moved faster than he'd expected, but maybe he could use this to his advantage. Vehuel wouldn't want a demon causing trouble in her city, after all, and as the expert on the terrible demon Crowley, Aziraphale would surely be indispensable. Two heads were better than one, as long as it was the correct head that found Crowley in the end.
Crowley'd got his powers and his human form back about a day after his unfortunate serpentification at the hands of Hymie Weiss. He'd tried to escape, of course, but by then Weiss had already introduced him to the rector, who he had at gunpoint. The rector had got to work providing Weiss with buckets and buckets of holy water, which were now in a circle around Crowley's chair. Between the constant hotfoot of sanctified ground, the terror of the holy water, and the gun-wielding goons stationed to watch Crowley, he hadn't got very far before they'd bound him to the chair again. He didn't seem to be able to do anything particularly demonic when he was bound with rosaries, either, which was very frustrating.
Weiss brought his stupid contract in a day or two later. Crowley read it over, bound (and burning) at wrists and ankles, while some arsehole employee of Weiss' held it up for him to read. He looked up at Weiss, who was cheerfully holding, Satan help him, an enormous bucket of water. "You want me to sign this?"
"Yeah," said Weiss.
Crowley tried not to stare at the bucket, which was dripping slightly onto the floor, too close to his foot for comfort. "There are a couple reasons this isn't going to work, Weiss," he said.
"Oh yeah?" Weiss asked.
"First of all, you're making me sign it under duress, that's sort of inimical to the whole contract thing, it's all about free will, and --"
Weiss simply laughed at this. "Who's under duress? You're not under duress," he said. "Jake, can you believe this shit?"
The guy who'd held the contract looked like he could believe quite a lot of shit as long as he was being paid well. He shrugged. "I don't see no dress."
Crowley ignored Jake and nodded at the bucket of water.
"What, this? It's just a bucket of perfectly ordinary water," said Weiss. He dipped a finger in it. "Here, you want a splash of it?" He laughed as Crowley struggled against his bonds to get as far as he could from the water. "Okay, guess not. Anyway, you're not under duress. What's the second problem?"
Crowley had to admit to himself that he wasn't sure the duress thing actually applied to demons, who obviously didn't have free will, or at the very least were heavily discouraged from contemplating its applications outside of a damnation context. He settled back in the chair, trying to find the least uncomfortable way to sit while the rosaries burned his skin. "The second problem, you fucking cretin, is that you've still got me tied up! How am I supposed to sign anything tied to this chair?" Maybe with one hand free he could get at his powers again? Probably not, but Crowley was desperate.
"Nah, that's not a problem, we'll put the pen in your mouth," said Weiss. "Then you can sign on Jake's back."
Crowley glared at him. Weiss sloshed the bucket menacingly. Jake frowned down at the contract, lips moving as he read a particularly bizarre clause. Presumably he was still looking for that dress.
"Fine, show me the contract again," said Crowley, and he read through it from start to finish once more.
The contract did not permit Crowley to attempt escape, or to make attempts on any of his captors' lives, or to make any attempts to summon help. It generally assumed Crowley's powers were much greater than they were, and Crowley had hopes that some of the unenforceable stuff might invalidate the whole thing, but unfortunately even if he couldn't deliver on parts of the contract, the rest of it would still be in force, because it had an airtight severability clause at the end. Well, Crowley assumed it was airtight. Weiss had had his lawyer draw it up, but Crowley only had several thousand years' worth of dull break-room small talk with coworkers in Legal, and he hadn't paid as much attention as he perhaps should have to Amy's long, boring stories about soul foreclosures, or Scratch's admonitions never to be an idiot and agree to a jury trial, or Gaap's smug, self-serving tales of courtroom drama, arguing in defense of things even Hell found distasteful.
"You want me to guarantee that your soul will go to Heaven after not more than ten years in Purgatory?" Crowley asked, in amazed disbelief.
"Well, yeah," said Weiss. "I mean, what if I gotta kill someone and then I get killed before confessing?"
Crowley was pretty sure that wasn't how it worked in Catholicism or in real life, and he definitely knew that even if it worked that way anywhere, he didn't have the authority to make promises like that. He also didn't think Weiss would get along very well in Purgatory, which was mostly a place where thoroughly mediocre humans did humdrum office work for Heaven and Hell. Or at least, it had been ever since they'd consolidated with Limbo. "I'm just surprised you allowed ten years there, is all," he said.
"I mean, asking for no time there at all would be pretty fucking unreasonable, wouldn't it?" Weiss said.
Crowley thanked Satan (and also Aziraphale) for the ability to keep a straight face when people said patently idiotic things to him about how they thought the world worked. "True," he said, quietly.
"So, you gonna sign?" Weiss asked.
Crowley sighed. "I don't understand what I get out of this. There's got to be some consideration, or it's not a real contract." Weiss wasn't even offering him the traditional payment of his own soul. And if Weiss had to pay him money, maybe Crowley could drain him of resources until he had to let Crowley go.
Weiss smiled a terrible, cold smile, and turned to his minion. "Jake, turn to the last page."
Jake did so, and Weiss leaned over, bucket sloshing ominously, to read to Crowley. Slowly, sounding out some of the less familiar words, he read, "Demon shall be provided with room and board in structures to be chosen by Employer until such time as Employer chooses to terminate this Contract and all obligations herein." Weiss grinned. In other words, Weiss could hold Crowley hostage wherever he liked. That was all Crowley got out of it -- Weiss wouldn't leave him outside.
They were terrible terms. But they were technically terms, so if Crowley signed the thing he'd be stuck obeying it. And Crowley didn't see what other choice he had -- he didn't want to fizz and melt and die in this church basement. He sighed. "All right, give me the pen," he said. Weiss put the bucket down, to Crowley's immense relief, and held the contract against Jake's back so Crowley could "sign" it.
The pen tasted terrible. He managed to scrawl something almost like a name on the contract, and he felt it take hold of him in his very essence. Now he was well and truly bound.
He spat out the pen. "Right, could you take these blessed rosaries off me now you've got your stupid contract? Or are you still afraid of me?" Crowley asked.
Weiss folded the contract up and handed it to Jake. "Upstairs," he told Jake. Then he laughed at Crowley, picked up the bucket of water, and dumped it over Crowley's head.
Crowley jerked back so fast the chair fell backwards, but it was no use; the water hit him square in the chest as he cracked his head against the floor. Dazed, he supposed that at least it would be quick this way, and he couldn't even feel anything except cold. He could still hear Weiss laughing, though, and it wasn't fair, not that anything ever was, but if he had to die he'd wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, with somebody around to witness it and tell people how impressive and brave he'd been. Instead...
Instead he was tied to a chair on the floor of a church basement, soaked in perfectly ordinary water, with a fucking lunatic mobster cackling and standing over him. "Duress!" said Weiss, and laughed some more. "Your face! I wish I had a picture, it's amazing." Crowley wished so badly that he could do something, anything, to murder this man where he stood, to send him straight to Hell. "Hey, calm down," said Weiss, "it's not like I used one of the other buckets." He knelt to dip a hand in one of the buckets of water that had surrounded him before, and flicked a few drops on Crowley's face. Crowley couldn't help it -- he screamed as they sizzled through his skin. "Huh. Maybe next time I do that I should gag you first," said Weiss.
And then he left, leaving Crowley shivering on the floor. When Crowley was satisfied that he was gone, he made another attempt to untie himself, but all he managed to do was exhaust himself. And it wasn't like he could actually go anywhere if he did get out of them. After all, he'd signed that contract.
"Fuck," he said, quietly. His head hurt, and he was so cold, except for the constant burning sensation on his wrists and ankles, and now also on the side of his head where it touched the floor.
He wondered what the future would look like. He might get lucky; Weiss might die young. He had some sort of health issues he didn't talk much about, and it wasn't like he was in the safest line of work anyway.
But of course, having Crowley would help him with those things -- might even allow him to live longer than humans were supposed to, if Weiss played his cards right and Crowley didn't get found by agents of Hell. Or agents of Heaven.
He had been trying very hard not to think about Aziraphale, but this last thought broke that dam, and all the things he had been avoiding flooded into his mind. Would Aziraphale come looking for him? Surely, Crowley thought, surely he would know Crowley hadn't been serious about never seeing him again. But Aziraphale clearly didn't think much of Crowley, given their last conversation, and -- well. Probably for the best if he didn't come, actually. There was no telling what Weiss would do to him. He hoped Aziraphale had the good sense to leave town immediately, now he thought about it.
Probably Hymie Weiss would die within the decade.
And then he could go to Aziraphale and explain -- no. No, Aziraphale wouldn't believe him. He was a demon, after all, and apparently according to Aziraphale that meant he couldn't even love. Best just to pretend it'd never happened. Everything would go back to the Arrangement as usual. Crowley just had to wait Weiss out.
It would be fine. It would have to be.
Chapter 8: for always our villains have hearts of gold...
Notes:
No content notes, exactly, but a format note: this chapter will contain one footnote, and I'm not totally sure how well that will play with screenreaders, so, fair warning. I'm up for tinkering with it, though, so if it does break something for you (whether it's a screenreader or some other way you're reading it) let me know and I'll see what I can do.
A song for this chapter: "Clock of the World" by Krista Detor
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crowley strained at the bonds again when he heard the door creak open and heavy footsteps clatter down the stairs. "What do you want now, Weiss?" he growled.
There was no answer, and as the footsteps came closer and closer, Crowley tried very hard not to be frightened.
But when the human galumphing down the stairs came into view, it was Danny, Weiss' incongruously skittish goon, who Crowley had failed to tempt twice now. He looked almost worried, and he had good reason; Crowley was beginning to resent him and his so-called honor, or morals, or whatever was preventing him from taking Crowley up on his offers. "Oh jeez, that looks uncomfortable," he said, putting down a heavy, tattered suitcase and hurrying over.
"You think?" said Crowley. He was very surprised when Danny walked around him and righted the chair Crowley was tied to. "Ow." He glowered up at Danny. "What the Heaven are you bastards doing to me now?"
"Mr. Weiss sent me to keep an eye on you again," said Danny, looking unhappy, and now that Crowley was getting a better look at him, he had the beginnings of a black eye forming. He wondered what had happened there. "Trust me, I'd rather be doing the books at Schofield's than babysitting some weird guy in a basement, but apparently nobody appreciates good solid tax fraud anymore. I dunno who's gonna do the books now but they better hurry and find somebody, 'cause it's already the end of January." He rolled his eyes. "At least he let me get some stuff from my old place before Helen threw it all out."
"Great. Wonderful. Sso glad that worked out for you," said Crowley, sourly. He'd wanted some privacy. "You can untie me now, you know," he said. "I can't get away anymore, I signed the contract."
Danny looked him over, skeptically. "Look, Mr. Crowley, I'm not saying I believe you're a demon --"
Crowley sputtered. "Not a demon?"
"-- but I've heard enough stories to know that if you were, I'd be pretty stupid to trust you," Danny continued, unfazed. "I'll get you a towel, though. You look cold. I think maybe they got a space heater somewhere in here too."
He left Crowley without another word, and Crowley stewed for quite a while until Danny returned with a pile of fluffy towels. "What could I possibly be, if not a demon?" he demanded, as soon as he saw Danny.
This got him a shrug, and a towel draped over his shoulders. "Iunno. Just a guy who turns into a snake? Is that a thing?"
"It's definitely a thing," said Crowley. "We're called demons."
"I dunno if I really believe in all that shit," said Danny. He unfolded another towel, and frowned at Crowley. "This would be a lot easier if you weren't tied up."
"If I wasn't tied up I could just miracle myself dry," Crowley grumbled.
"That sounds like a neat trick," said Danny.
"Oh, it is extremely impressive," said Crowley, so much sarcasm dripping from every word that it was all but pooling, with the water, on the floor. "And I could show you if you untied me. I can't go anywhere and I'm not allowed to hurt you, and the floor of this building hurts to walk on, so even if I could you'd probably be able to get away before I caught you."
Danny was unmoved. "Yeah. No. Sorry. Where do you want this towel, though?"
"Anywhere!" said Crowley. "I don't care. Why would it even matter?"
"Well. Mr. Weiss wants me to keep an eye on you," said Danny. "I figure he probably don't want you dead, you know?"
"I'm not going to die of cold, I'm a demon," said Crowley.
"Sure, if you want," said Danny, shrugging. "But if you were a guy, and/or a snake, you might."
Crowley seethed. Danny decided to dump the second towel in his lap. A third went over his head. "Look," said Crowley, wondering if he had come at this problem the wrong way around, "supposing I'm not a demon."
"Okay," said Danny, gamely. "That's what I've been doing." He was methodically rearranging the buckets of holy water so that they were a better circle. Crowley approved of this mostly because it meant a lot of them were farther away from him.
"So if I'm not a demon, what harm could there be in untying me?" he asked.
Danny considered this as he lined up a couple buckets. "I mean, you could try punching me, I guess, but, uh, no offense, I could definitely take you in a fistfight."
"If you're so good in a fight, why have you got a black eye?"
"I can take a punch when I gotta," said Danny, not looking particularly offended. "And you're a skinny guy. I'm way more worried you'd turn into a snake. I never fought a snake before the other night, and, uh, I didn't really enjoy it."
Good, Crowley decided, his thoughts full of the venom he couldn't use on this stupid human. "I'm not going to do either of those things, I can't, I signed the contract," he sighed.
"People break contracts all the time, though," said Danny.
"I actually, physically cannot break it," said Crowley. "I'm a demon, the entire fabric of reality hates me."
"Okay, but like I said, I don't think you are," said Danny. "Demons aren't a real thing."
"Fuck's sake, just let me out of this fucking chair!" Crowley shouted. "I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything, you idiot human."
He'd known it was a mistake as soon as he'd started shouting, because Danny had frozen up completely. He was motionless, but the bucket he'd been holding was not, and Crowley realized Danny's hands must be shaking badly. He watched as Danny carefully put down the bucket and stood up. Crowley couldn't sense human vices or emotions, not all tied up like this, and he could not tell if it was a cold fury in Danny's eyes, or an electric terror, or possibly both, but it was certainly something.
"I'm gonna... I'm gonna go look for that space heater. Don't go anywhere." And he hurried back up the stairs, leaving Crowley alone in the basement again.
St. James Chapel was a much more traditional church than the skyscraper where Aziraphale had met Gabriel earlier. He and Crowley had had lunch nearby a few times, too, so Aziraphale wasn't completely unfamiliar with the neighborhood, although he didn't really know his way around. It was a bit north of the main business district, he thought, and a long but pleasant walk if the weather was good.
The weather was not good. It had been five degrees below zero[1] when Aziraphale had set out. He had looked outside and seen how bright and sunny it was, and foolishly assumed it would be warm. Then, once the weather had cruelly disabused him of this notion, he'd assumed it would warm up eventually, because on a day this sunny, it simply had to.
It was very slightly warmer now, but Aziraphale was relieved to be inside the church and not outside.
Aziraphale sat in the pews and waited, as before. When the others arrived, there were three of them: Gabriel, Haniel -- who all Principalities technically were supposed to report to, but who Aziraphale hadn't seen in quite some time -- and a third angel Aziraphale didn't recognize.
"Aziraphale!" said Haniel, delighted. "How've you been?" She was sturdily-built and fair-haired in this corporation. "It's been three hundred years, hasn't it?"
"Four hundred and thirty, I think," said Aziraphale. "I've been well! And Gabriel, lovely to see you again," he said, nodding politely. Gabriel smiled with faint disapproval at him and Haniel. "And you must be Vehuel," he said, turning to the stranger.
She was tall and dark-skinned, with heavy gold scoring covering almost half of her face. She was also currently completely absorbed in looking at the stained-glass windows above them. She snapped back to face Aziraphale. "Oh. Hi! Yes. Hi," she said. "Sorry! Nice to meet you." The gold on Vehuel's face faded as the glory of Her presence fell away from her. Beneath it there was an enormous scar. Heaven could heal most injuries without a mark, so anything nasty enough to leave a scar like that would be grounds for a voluntary recorporation. Apparently Vehuel had not done this, and Aziraphale wondered why.
She looked back up at the stained-glass windows -- they were rather beautiful, Aziraphale had to admit, if a bit modern for his taste -- and even when Gabriel cleared his throat and began to speak, it took her a few moments to return her eyes to him.
Aziraphale tried to pay attention, he really did, but his mind kept wandering back to Crowley. Where was he? Was he really never going to speak to Aziraphale again? Was he in terrible trouble, or was he safe and sound somewhere far away, having selfishly left Aziraphale to worry and feed the cat.
Did Crowley really love him? Could he?
Wondering about that in the presence of the Archangels Gabriel and Haniel seemed like a very, very bad idea, so Aziraphale forced himself to at least listen to the words coming out of Gabriel's mouth, if not necessarily absorb them.
"...sure Aziraphale will be a great mentor for you, he's been doing his thing since -- well, since the Beginning! So if there's anyone who can help you get back on your feet again, it's him. Right, pal?" Gabriel nodded at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale smiled weakly. "Of course," he said, hoping he hadn't missed anything important.
Vehuel glanced at him. She didn't look terribly impressed, but she didn't look terribly impressed by Gabriel, either, and Gabriel was a sight more impressive. Mostly she seemed interested in the windows, for some reason. Perhaps she was trying to work out which saints were depicted -- the portraits were all rather small. "Thanks. Yeah," she said, distractedly. She looked longingly at the door.
"Don't be nervous!" said Haniel, beaming at her.
Vehuel looked startled. "I'm not --"
"I'm sure you'll do a great job!" Haniel continued. "And just remember you can call on me if anything goes wrong, all right?"
"I'll be fine," said Vehuel, not sounding at all certain of this.
"Great, so, we're all set," said Gabriel. "I'm sure you're excited to get back to work. Come on, Haniel, or we'll be late for that meeting!"
"Take care!" said Haniel, and they were gone.
"Finally," Vehuel whispered under her breath, and marched purposefully to the door. She didn't even look at Aziraphale.
He hurried after her. "Er. It's lovely to be working with you," he said, hoping this would be true.
"Yeah," said Vehuel, sounding distracted and disinterested. "Also glad I'm missing that meeting." Aziraphale was beginning to dislike Vehuel -- he couldn't imagine why she thought he deserved such unfriendliness -- but then she reached the door of the church, and suddenly he felt her glowing joy, and he realized she was not hostile, but perhaps a bit tactless. "And I finally have my city back," she called over her shoulder, grinning.
"It's very cold outside," he warned her.
"Ha! Of course it is!" she said, sounding delighted, and pushed open the door. A great gust of chilly wind shoved its way into the church, making Aziraphale shove his hands deep into his pockets to keep them warm. She pressed onwards, undaunted, and when Aziraphale followed her, he found her outside staring up at the sky, smiling broadly in the chilly sunlight. "It's February, isn't it?"
"Pardon?" He wasted a miracle on rebuttoning his coat instantly, because it was far too cold.
"February!" She turned to him and beamed. "I know this kind of hateful weather, it's February weather!"
Aziraphale pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, fished his gloves out of his pockets, and then put his mittens on over them. "Actually, it's still January," he said.
"Late January, then." Her expression of delight did not fade. "It's gonna be February, it's getting some practice in. Warming up to be really horrible. Well, maybe not warming up."
Aziraphale crammed his hat down further onto his head, now regretting that he hadn't bought one of the warmer, uglier ones Crowley had tried to get him to buy. They're hideous, I know, I know, Crowley had said, but it gets blessed cold, you'll see if you stay in town, it's downright warm this week. Aziraphale had not trusted him, because Aziraphale was a fool.
"It's very cold," he reminded Vehuel. She was not wearing a hat, or even a coat, just a three-piece suit in the light colors Heavenly fashion favored. Here on Earth it looked like a summer suit, albeit one from fifty summers ago. It did not look warm.
He didn't think he'd heard of anybody who was otherwise well discorporating from the cold, and if Vehuel really wanted to hang about here coatless she could certainly do the miracles required to stay comfortable, but Aziraphale really didn't see the point of that when you could be inside, ideally by a fire, maybe sipping cocoa, covered in blankets.
"Yeah! Yeah, it is!" She put a hand to her face, and grimaced. "Ugh, I can't feel my cheeks. Or my fingers. Okay, I don't miss this anymore, it's terrible. I think I need to buy a coat. Probably two. I could miracle one but they're never really warm enough if you do that and I don't want to waste miracles on something useless."
"I think that would be a very good idea," said Aziraphale. He considered that he was wearing several more layers than she was, and none of them seemed to be doing him much good, but maybe he ought to share a little. "You can borrow my mittens if you'd like," he said.
"Oh, thank you," she said, and took them. For a moment he couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic, but as she tugged them on, peering around at the wintry city before her, he could feel her relief. "I don't... I don't think I know this neighborhood anymore. I'm not even sure what neighborhood it is."
"I do, sort of," said Aziraphale. He supposed they should go to that department store Crowley had taken him to. "Come along, I think there's a shop along this way." Aziraphale couldn't remember if they'd taken a streetcar from there to here. If they had, it had only been one or two stops -- hardly worth the effort.
But it was... a bit of a longer walk than Aziraphale realized, and they ended up walking in awkward silence for quite a while. Well, it was awkward for Aziraphale, anyway. Vehuel's face was screwed up in discomfort, but she continued to give off a constant low-level delight. Aziraphale hoped it made the cold a bit more tolerable for her.
Suddenly, Vehuel stopped in her tracks, staring up at a very ugly building made to look like a miniature castle. "Oh! It's the old water tower," she said. Her eyes were wide, and full of tears.
Aziraphale frowned up at the building, which was... well, it was certainly a tower. He vaguely remembered reading that Oscar Wilde had called some dreary American frontier town's water tower a 'castellated monstrosity,' and that they had had the gall to react poorly to this. Either it had been this water tower, or there was a plague of awful water towers across the States. It looked as though the only reason the castellations were not themselves castellated was because some kind soul had got the architect to have a lie down and breathe into a paper bag for a bit before he could get that far.
It was a terrifically ugly building, but it wasn't worth crying over. "Are you quite all right?" he asked Vehuel.
"I do know this neighborhood!" she said, wiping her face. "Oh, they rebuilt everything!" She beamed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "This whole place -- it got burned down except -- there were just a few buildings and this one -- it was ashes and ruins, it was completely flat, you could see -- you could see too far and everything was just gone." She swallowed. "But this!" She gestured at the buildings around them, the bustling city, and Aziraphale sensed from her a fierce and triumphant love for the place. "They rebuilt! They did it!"
People were beginning to stare at her. Aziraphale looked disapprovingly at these spectators, and caused them to immediately remember very urgent appointments elsewhere. Vehuel had clearly been through a lot, and if she wanted to cry about appalling architecture, he certainly wouldn't be joining her, but she should be permitted to do so in peace. He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I know, I know it's ridiculous, half those people would be dead today anyway, I just -- it burned for so long, I worked so hard trying to fight it -- Michael even helped me, can you believe it? Michael! Herself! -- but not even she could keep it from spreading, it jumped the river twice, it destroyed the waterworks, there was nothing that could be done and this survived and they --" She took a long, shuddering breath. "-- they rebuilt everything, it's all new and different and I'm going to have to relearn the neighborhoods, but they did it and I'm so proud of them."
She blew her nose several times. "Ugh, and I forgot how awful most physiological responses are, and everything's freezing up anyway, this is disgusting. I'm sorry, that was very -- you probably think I'm ridiculous --"
"Oh no, my dear, I understand entirely," he said. "When London burned..." Crowley had found him trying desperately to keep his collection of books safe from the flames, and had helped him miracle them far, far away to safety before the fire advanced, and then they had both nearly been discorporated trying to escape the fire. The human misery after had been difficult to watch, and he hadn't even had his books to console him. Aziraphale swallowed, remembering the comfort he had taken in Crowley's presence when all else around him was ash. "I'm so sorry. It must have been dreadful to watch. Was it your first fire?"
She laughed at that, but there was no humor in it. "No. No, it's usually fire." She started walking again, and Aziraphale followed her. "The river is this way, yeah?"
"Yes," said Aziraphale. He suddenly had a lot of questions. "What do you mean, it's usually fire?"
"Well," she said. "Well, I mean. It's reached the point where when a giant wall of water destroys one of my cities I'm honestly surprised." She blew her nose again.
"I would be surprised too!" said Aziraphale. He threw a suspicious glance eastward, where he knew the lake was lurking beyond his vision. "When did that happen?"
"1755," she said, sighing. "They reassigned me the next year, presumably because they wanted to keep Lisbon around for longer than I could manage. Actually, there was a fire then too."
"A fire and a wave?"
"There was an earthquake," said Vehuel, as if this explained it.
"All right, but 'it's usually fire' is --"
"Sometimes it's lava, but I count that as fire," said Vehuel. "Although the real killer there is the pyroclastic surge. Lava's just the icing on the cake. I've learned a lot about volcanoes. Mostly I've learned that I hate geology."
Aziraphale wondered where on Earth she'd been assigned. "But that's no danger here, is it?" he asked. "Volcanoes, I mean. Geology."
"I feel like someone would have noticed a volcano in Illinois. It'd really stick out," said Vehuel. "Did they just forget to add any landscape to this part of the world? I've always wondered."
Finally, something Aziraphale knew about. "Ah, yes, well, I was here for that actually!" And he proceeded to tell her the whole story he'd told Crowley, about being pulled from cephalopod design to run glaciers across the rude glyph some unknown villain had scrawled.
"And you think Phanuel did that?" Vehuel asked.
"Well, he just looked so guilty! You're not the only one who has expressed skepticism about my theory, though," he admitted.
"I just don't think Phanuel is capable of that kind of..." Vehuel frowned.
"Malice?" Aziraphale suggested.
"I just can't see it, I don't know," said Vehuel. "You need a sense of humor, or mischief, or, I don't know, something. I bet he knew who did it, though, he likes to be in the in-crowd and he'd keep a secret if it meant someone important would like him more, I think. I got stuck doing busywork for him for a couple centuries once, and ended up doing a ton of work for Gabriel and Raphael that he took on as favors to them, and then they ended up using him as a go-between, which meant they were using me as a go-between and it was so awkward. Well, until Raphael took pity on me and went to yell at Gabriel in person. Anyway, that's my theory. What was the rude glyph, anyway?"
"It doesn't bear repeating," said Aziraphale. He'd been mortified telling Crowley, he wasn't going to go telling somebody he'd only just met.
Vehuel sighed. "Oh, well. Oh! There's the river! You can't really change a river in fifty years," she said, cheerfully. "You're on solid ground with rivers! Metaphorically speaking." They started across the bridge, and the wind became sharper, the cold somehow worse. Why was this climate even approved for human habitation if it got this cold in the winter?
As Vehuel scanned the southern shore of the river pensively, Aziraphale noticed a fellow struggling to carry far too many things over the bridge. He was a large man, but he'd taken on far too much even so; he was lugging several large bags, and balanced on one shoulder he had a thing that looked like a desk lamp made for giants. A long electrical cord trailed from the lamp, and the poor fellow tripped, sending the lamp over the bar of the bridge and pitching towards the river.
In a moment, Aziraphale was helping the young man gather up his dropped bags. They were full of books, board games, blankets, and a couple of sandwiches, Aziraphale saw. As he was handing them to the man, he took the opportunity to add in some nice hot soup and silverware. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Oh! What happened to your eye?" It looked like a nasty bruise had settled in around one of his eyes, although the man was wrapped up enough that it wasn't immediately obvious.
"Mouthed off the the wrong guy," said the man, shrugging. "Learned my lesson, I guess." Something seemed familiar about him, although Aziraphale couldn't place it. "But I'm fine, don't worry about me, just, I think I dropped my --"
"Here you go," said Vehuel, holding up the enormous lamp. "Caught the cord as it was going over. Looks like it's not broken! Lemme coil this cord up for you so you don't trip. What is this thing, anyway?"
"It's, uh, it's a space heater," said the man. "Me and my friend gotta wait all day in a cold basement, I figured, why be miserable? You're a real lifesaver!"
"It's no problem," she said. "Just be careful with that thing." She handed the lamp back to him carefully.
"You think the bus'll come soon?" said the man, looking south across the river. "I just missed the last one over there."
Aziraphale felt reality shift just slightly to the left as Vehuel said, "One'll be along pretty soon I bet. You and your friend have a nice day!"
"What a nice young fellow," said Aziraphale, as they continued across the bridge. "It's a pity we couldn't heal that bruise without confusing him."
"Yeah," said Vehuel, frowning. "Something jangly in his head, though, did you notice?"
"Oh, really? He seemed very well-intentioned to me," said Aziraphale. He glanced back at the fellow, who was headed towards a bus stop. They really ought to have taken the bus, he thought. The bus was probably at least a little warmer than this.
"Yeah, definitely, just -- seemed a little nervous," said Vehuel. "Hope everything's all right. Maybe he got in a fight with someone he wants to be on good terms with." She shrugged. "Well, only so much you can do, right?"
"Quite," said Aziraphale. He did hope the fellow and his friend liked minestrone soup.
"Man, I missed humans," she said. "How do they heat space, anyway? There's no air up there, and it's a lot colder than it is here."
Aziraphale shrugged. "I'm really not very up on their latest technology, everything moves so quickly these days."
"Yeah, I know I have a lot to get caught up on," she said. "Anyway, I hear there's a demon in town making everything terrible? Although admittedly, I'm not sure how they know this Crowley is here," said Vehuel.
Aziraphale opened his mouth to put forward an explanation, and then realized he didn't particularly have one. How did Heaven know? "Perhaps She told them."
"Nah. Not likely," said Vehuel. "You really haven't been up there in a while, have you? What I meant more was, how did they notice? I mean. Look. I love this city but I'm aware that it's very..." She was silent for a few moments. "Very... well, there are some issues sometimes."
"Ah. Well. Perhaps things have just had a bit more of a demonic tinge to them lately?" Aziraphale suggested.
"Doubt it. See, I think somebody Upstairs has a contact in Hell," said Vehuel. "I think --" She paused, frowning back at Aziraphale, who had frozen. (In place, not in a temperature sense, but that was surely not far off.) "Aziraphale?" she asked.
"Oh! Yes, I'm so sorry, what were you saying?" Aziraphale asked, hurrying forward, although he was mentally going through all the reports he'd sent Up and Crowley's accounts of reports sent Down and oh no, what if there was some heretofore unnoticed inconsistency?
"You all right?" she asked, as he caught up.
"I'm fine! It's just very cold," he said quickly.
"Cheer up, it's only three and a half months until spring," she said. "Anyway, yeah, I think they've got a mole Downstairs, it only makes sense. If we're the right hand, we have to know what the left hand is doing, you know?"
"Right. Yes. Of course," said Aziraphale.
"You've never wondered about this?" Vehuel asked, and Aziraphale fought down another surge of panic because he clearly hadn't done as good a job hiding his startled expression as he thought.
"Well, it's not very -- it's not very angelic, is it?" Aziraphale asked. "Having spies?"
"Neither is writing a rude glyph on the Midwest and making everyone clean up after you," said Vehuel. "Anyway, isn't that what we are? Spying on the humans, doing little covert things to make sure they don't mess up too bad, usually without being found out?"
"I don't really look at it that way. You've a very suspicious mind," said Aziraphale, and though he'd said it disapprovingly, she only laughed.
"I guess they didn't let you see my records," said Vehuel. At his surprise, she added, "Oh, I'm not offended, it's true. At least you don't think I'm an idiot for crying over a building. Or I guess maybe you do, but you're nice enough not to tell me so, which I appreciate a lot, honestly. Tell me about this demon that's supposed to be here, let's see if we can't hunt him down."
"Well," said Aziraphale, steadying himself for this, because his last description of Crowley to another Heavenly operative had gone all... flattering. "Well, he's, er, he's been here since the Beginning, you know. He's very canny, and, er. Quite terrible, really." Aziraphale guided her through a tour of the most wretched things Crowley had taken credit for, and he really did think Crowley would've appreciated her horrified reactions at some of his supposed foul deeds.
She did look rather startled when he'd brought up the Spanish Inquisition, though. Crowley certainly hadn't enjoyed the Inquisition when he'd found out about it, poor thing, but he'd made use of the commendation he'd earned, and Aziraphale didn't think it was fair to Crowley to leave it off of his CV.
And yet Vehuel seemed very skeptical. "Are you sure you have your information right?" she asked.
"Well, of course I am," he said. "Why do you ask?"
She shook her head. "Somewhere I'd gotten the impression that one was our fault. I mean, I'd rather it wasn't, you know, but..."
"Perhaps he was able to subvert some angelic work?" Aziraphale suggested.
"Mmm. I don't know," said Vehuel. "I wasn't in Europe for that one, though, so maybe I'm wrong."
"Maybe," said Aziraphale. He found himself incredibly relieved to see the great bronze clocks on the corner of the department store. "Ah, here we are, we can get you a coat here, they seem to sell everything."
"Field & Letier is still around?" said Vehuel, apparently forgetting her misgivings in the excitement of recognition. "I remember when this place burned to the ground! This is a way nicer building." Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief.
Crowley was moderately surprised when Danny actually came back, lugging about a billion things down the stairs. He came down with the space heater first, and set it up pointed at Crowley. Then, without a word, he ran back up the stairs and brought down a few bags of... well. Crowley couldn't imagine.
He didn't speak as he looked around the room to find an outlet, and when he found one it must've been behind Crowley, because he dragged the space heater there to set it up. He grimaced at the sound of the thing scraping across the floor as Danny adjusted it. "You know this thing almost fell in the river?" Danny asked.
Crowley frowned. "What d'you mean, it almost fell in the river?"
"They didn't have one in the church, I had to go to Field's," said Danny. "And then I missed the goddamn bus back, I even yelled at it, and -- anyway, I got here, is the important thing."
Well, that did explain why he'd been gone for so long, and why he was shivering now. Crowley couldn't imagine it was warm outside considering how fucking freezing it was down here. "You bought a space heater?"
"Yeah," said Danny. "Well. I maybe mouthed off to Mr. Weiss earlier, and he mighta clocked me, and then I maybe borrowed his wallet while he wasn't paying attention," he said, taking a wallet out of his pocket and flipping through it cheerfully. "So you could say he bought it with company funds. Figured it was only fair."
Crowley could almost like Danny, for having the balls to pickpocket Hymie Weiss, although he didn't want to get too attached, because apparently Danny was also dumb enough to pickpocket Hymie Weiss. "You know, I could have just... made this room warmer. If you'd untied me," said Crowley. "Just a thought." When Danny switched the heater on, though, the relief at being somewhere warm was immediate. "You really think you're going to get away with taking his money?"
"I figure he owes me hazard pay, makin' me look after a demon," said Danny, coming around to where Crowley could see him again. "I'll give it back eventually. He never notices. He don't know shit about accounting." Danny pulled a card table into the middle of the room with a loud screech and set it up.
"I thought you didn't believe I was a demon," said Crowley.
"Nah, but Weiss does, so he should pay me," said Danny, sounding awfully brave for someone who'd scampered up the stairs as soon as Crowley had raised his voice. He began to unpack the bags. "Huh."
"What?" Crowley asked.
"I got a sandwich -- well, I got you one too, but --"
"You got me a sandwich?" Crowley asked.
"But I'm sure I didn't get soup," said Danny. "And I know they didn't give me this fancy silverware at Hillman's."
"You know I don't need to eat, right? I'm a demon," Crowley pointed out.
"Everybody needs to eat," Danny said. "And anyway shouldn't demons eat hearts or souls or something?"
Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Eugh. No. Well. Probably some of them. I think Nisroc has a thing for livers. I'd rather not."
"Sure," said Danny. He frowned at the mysterious soup and silverware.
"Anyway, how am I supposed to eat a sandwich with no hands?" Crowley asked. "Much less soup?"
"I never thought of that," said Danny. He looked at the sandwich speculatively, and then back at Crowley. "I could... no. No, that's weird."
Crowley didn't even want the sandwich, but he wanted to be untied. He wondered if it was worth the risk, appealing to Danny's common decency, while he was all but blind like this, unable to sense vices or fears or insecurities. He decided to take the risk, though. "You wouldn't just eat a sandwich in front of me while I starve, would you?"
Danny's stricken expression suggested he'd been wrestling with the same problem. "But you said you don't need to eat."
Having found a crack in Danny's wall of illogic, Crowley was loathe to step away and go looking for another just because he was definitely a demon, and absolutely did not need to eat, and didn't feel like a sandwich right now anyway. "Forget all of that, I don't care about that. Would you let a fellow bei-- er, a fellow man go hungry while you ate a sandwich right in his face?" Crowley tried to pretend like he'd never heard of such decadence. He knew Danny probably walked past five hungry people a day without helping them -- almost anyone in the city did, if they left their homes regularly -- but those were people he could pretend not to see, and he'd been asked specifically to keep an eye on Crowley.
Danny's eyes darted from Crowley to the sandwich and back a few times. Then he sighed and said, "You better not turn into a snake at me or I'll -- I'll shoot you." But he did not say this with any sincerity. He stepped over the circle of buckets of holy water, and carefully removed the rosaries from around his wrists.
"Thank you," said Crowley, flexing his arms and hands just for the sheer novelty of being able to do such a thing. He hissed as feeling returned to his blistered, burned wrists, and tried to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, but no matter what he did, his wrists were just going to hurt a whole lot. Danny had stepped back, and was watching him cautiously, a wave of doubt and worry rolling off of him, and Crowley smiled broadly at that, because it meant his demonic abilities were back, too. He snapped (and winced at the pain of making that kind of hand motion) and he was dry and warm and the towels had become warm blankets.
Wrapping the blankets around himself, he realized, with some irritation, that they were tartan. He glared at them, and they went jet black.
"Don't suppose you could untie my feet?" Crowley said, looking hopefully at Danny. "It's just, the floor's sanctified ground, it's pretty painful."
Danny was staring at the blankets.
"Ah. You believe I'm a demon now, don't you."
"I didn't say that," said Danny, levelly. "Maybe you just know magic or some shit."
"Oh, yes, of course," said Crowley, his pride wrestling with his desire to be free. Danny was still terrified, though he did a good job of hiding it, Crowley had to admit.
Danny watched him silently for a long moment, then stepped over the ring of holy water buckets. "You want the pastrami or the BLT?"
Crowley knew this wasn't the sort of situation where he ought to push, but then, he did a lot of things he knew he ought not do. He snapped again, and Danny found himself in a chair opposite Crowley's; between them was the card table.
Danny was absolutely terrified now, Crowley could tell. But after a moment, he unwrapped the sandwich in front of him, and looked at the filling. "You coulda just said you wanted the pastrami," he told Crowley.
"Seemed faster," said Crowley. He briefly contemplated swallowing the sandwich whole, so as to get the whole eating thing out of the way, but Danny, despite outer appearances, was still radiating fear, and Crowley didn't want to give him a heart attack.
He decided to start with the soup, since the soup was warm and he was still chilly from spending far too much time in a cold church basement. But Crowley paused, looking at the spoons that had apparently come with the soup. "Where'd you get this?"
"Like I said, I didn't. Or at least, I sure didn't at Hillman's," said Danny.
They were fussily-made spoons, with thin handles that had gone out of style more than a century ago. What are you playing at, angel? "Did you run into anyone on your way here?"
Danny blinked at him. "How'd you know?"
And then Crowley realized that if it had been Aziraphale, Danny had better not make the connection between Crowley the non-demon's friend who he'd kidnapped, and -- and whatever it was that had inspired Aziraphale to give him soup and silverware. Probably Aziraphale had walked straight into him or something, and felt guilty about it. "Oh, you know, it's one of those reverse pickpocketing schemes," invented Crowley.
Danny's eyes went wide. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah, they plant something on you that looks expensive and then they accuse you of stealing it," said Crowley. "Then they try and, er. Try and get you to pay them money to keep them from going to the police."
Danny gave him an evaluating look. "How would they find me? They don't know who I am."
"Well -- they'd -- maybe they'd follow you," said Crowley. He hadn't been expecting Danny to think about this.
"So they found out I go to church, so what?" Danny asked. "Anyway, if some guy tries that with me I'd be happy to tell him he's wasting his time. I mean, jeez, there's easier ways to make a dime, why wouldn't you just send fake dry cleaning bills to fancy restaurants like normal people?"
"It's --" Crowley paused. "Wait. People do that?"
"'Course they do," said Danny. "You never heard of that?"
Crowley was suddenly remembering an expensive dry cleaning bill he'd paid, which had purported to belong to someone who'd attended one of his parties. He hadn't recognized the name, but he'd thought, Well, I can afford this, and probably this was that girl who spilled red wine all down her front last week, and that was clearly her fault but she seems the type to bring Daddy's lawyers into this so it's cheaper just to pay, and he'd done so without thinking much more. "Oh, oh yeah, obviously," he told Danny. "Definitely. Of course." He opened the soup container and tried a bit of it. It didn't taste miraculous, but it was warm. There was a lot more parmesan on it than Crowley would've bothered with, and a sudden image came to him, of of Aziraphale dumping half a ton of cheese on his soup at an Italian restaurant the other day. Of course.
"Yeah, okay," said Danny, plainly not believing a word he'd said. "So who were they?"
Crowley looked up from his soup. "What?"
"The people who helped me with the bags," said Danny.
People? Plural? "How should I know? I wasn't there," said Crowley. People? Who was this other person? Were there several other people? Had Aziraphale made friends without him, and if so, were they worth trusting, or had Aziraphale just assumed they were nice because he assumed the best of everybody but Crowley? He struggled to suppress his curiosity (and tried to ignore the queasy envy that settled in his gut) but in the end he had to ask. "What did they look like?"
"Uh." Danny frowned. "Oh wow, they were really weird-looking, actually, now I think about it."
"Yeah?" That wasn't odd; it was easy enough for an angel (or a demon) to throw up a sort of weak 'don't worry, humans, I'm meant to be here' shield as long as they didn't need to draw attention to themselves -- but if they did draw a human's attention, sometimes the humans remembered things they'd initially been cajoled into ignoring. Aziraphale rarely bothered with that sort of thing, though, which was why he'd nearly ended up on the wrong end of a guillotine. (Well. Not that there was really a right end of a guillotine to end up on, at least for Aziraphale. And not that guillotines had ends, as such.)
"Yeah, one of 'em didn't have a coat," said Danny, frowning. "Nice suit, no coat. Doesn't make sense. Dressed for summer. Seemed real nice. He was a vet, I think. Black guy. Wait. Was it a guy?"
Crowley frowned. "A vet? Like, for animals?"
Danny looked at him like he was very slow, which -- well, what did Danny expect? Even man-shaped he was still in some senses a snake, and he'd been confined to a very chilly room for days. "A veteran. Had a big scar," Danny said, gesturing across one side of his face. "Coulda been from shrapnel, maybe." Danny himself had a few scars, and for the first time, Crowley wondered if he'd been wrong to assume they'd been from brawls.
"Must've been a guy, then, right?" Danny asked, interrupting Crowley's train of thought. "If it was a veteran?"
Crowley made a noncommittal noise, racking his brains for anyone who met that description. Uriel hadn't had scars when he'd seen her, and she mostly hung around artists, anyway. Pravuil only rarely came to Earth, and presumably didn't get scars very often; Crowley'd only seen him once, when he'd come to do some sort of audit of Aziraphale and left quickly, evidently satisfied that Aziraphale was acceptably angelic. Barachiel's corporation had been pretty battered when Crowley'd last had the displeasure of running into them in the sixteenth century, but Aziraphale had mentioned they'd been discorporated during the Napoleonic Wars and got a stern reprimand about it from Head Office, so they would probably have an entirely new body by now. Or they were still filling out paperwork, maybe. But then, Crowley wasn't up on who had what corporations in Heaven anymore; for all he knew it could've been Michael herself.
Maybe it was just some human he'd met at Hull House? Yes. That was probably it, Crowley told himself. An up-and-coming writer, maybe, who Aziraphale could cajole into signing books, or perhaps somebody with good restaurant recommendations. The humans were touchy about skin color these days, so it seemed odd that they'd be wandering Tower Town instead of a neighborhood where this dark-skinned human might fit in a bit more, but Danny had seemed so uncertain; perhaps Aziraphale was miraculously shielding him from full perception?
He could wonder about this all day and drive himself mad with worry over who the Heaven Aziraphale was hanging around with now, but he noticed Danny was watching him very shrewdly now, and Crowley didn't like that at all. "And now I think about it... now I think about it, I think the other guy was your friend."
"Don't have friends," said Crowley, quickly. "Like I said at the Green Mill."
"But there was that guy in the flowershop who --"
"Drop it," snarled Crowley. He tried to frighten Danny with darkness and terror, but all he managed was an eyetwitch and a slightly flickering lightbulb. He couldn't get out of this church fast enough.
"Okay, okay," said Danny. "Didn't realize it was a sore spot." But his fear had somehow lessened over the course of the conversation, and the expression on his face looked almost like pity, and Crowley hated it.
So he returned to eating his overly-cheesy minestrone with his absurdly fancy seventeenth century silverware, wrapped in his not-tartan blankets, wondering what coatless idiot Aziraphale could possibly be distributing miraculous soup with. Every time Danny tried to make conversation, he just scowled.
1 A note for readers in the far-flung future of 2025 or beyond, when surely the world will have transitioned to using a sensible centigrade scale: -5 °F is about -20.6 °C. It may sound very cold to people from warmer climates, but it is not painfully cold for those who are used to it, because it is much too cold to feel anything at all!
Notes:
If you would like to know a little more about Vehuel's past assignments, I wrote a fic about her during the Great Chicago Fire. Other fics in that series may be spoilery for this one, but I think all that one spoils is that being a Principality can be rough.
Chapter 9: ...and all our heroes are slightly tainted
Notes:
Sorry. Office politics IRL have been really rough lately, although on the bright side not half as rough as they're going to get for Aziraphale in this fic.
Content notes for this chapter: some light discussion of large-scale disasters and a brief cannibalism mention.
A song for this chapter: Pompeii by Bastille.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bustle of the store had been tiring, and Vehuel's excitement at the store, at the evidence of humans being humans, at getting to pick what she wore again, at simply being back on Earth, was even moreso. Aziraphale was distantly happy for her, and he could tell how much it all meant to her, but it was so exhausting to listen to someone be so joyful right now when he couldn't muster any joy himself, something he was surprised Vehuel hadn't commented on yet. She had mentioned, with mingled irritation and fondness, the Field & Letier employees who'd almost been burnt up in the fire trying to save their building, and this had somehow turned into a rant about dragging Aeneas out of certain death repeatedly when she'd been Principality of Troy, but all in all, she seemed terribly pleased with the store, the city, and its people, and kept peppering him with questions he didn't know how to answer about fondly-remembered things from fifty years ago, and whether such-and-such an idea she'd heard bandied about just after the fire had ever borne fruit.
It all just made Aziraphale sad and exhausted and worried, because whenever he thought of what made London his, all those memories were mingled with Crowley.
She did notice his mood eventually; after she'd bought a plenitude of winter things and he'd got a warm but extremely hideous hat, and they were outside again, she'd said, "Hey, are you okay?" They were on their way to the library, which was across the street, and which Aziraphale had thought would be a good place to talk without freezing. "You don't seem very happy."
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine, just a bit tired," said Aziraphale, distantly. "Where did they reassign you after Troy, anyway?" he asked, hoping to distract her with what must be a happier time in her life than the Trojan War.
In fairness, he did succeed in distracting her. "Oh," said Vehuel, grimacing. "Um. Well, it was. It was Pompeii, actually."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. They crossed the street.
"Yeah," said Vehuel, looking straight ahead.
"Lovely city, though," said Aziraphale. "Went there on holiday a few times."
"Yeah?" She sounded gratified.
"Quite beautiful," said Aziraphale. "Very good wine. A pity about all the, er." It was difficult to know what to say, really.
"Pyroclastic surge?" suggested Vehuel.
Aziraphale still didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he assumed it was volcanic, and also terrible. "Were you able to get out in time, at least?" Sometimes Aziraphale forgot himself and asked questions like this of humans; it was refreshing to know that in this case he wouldn't get any funny looks.
"I could have. I should have, probably," said Vehuel, "but I thought I'd stay and try to get people out. I thought, 'You know what, Vehuel, this isn't your first volcano, and it's nowhere near your first evacuation! You're a fighter! You got this!'"
"And?"
"And I absolutely did not have it," said Vehuel. "At all. I think Heaven cut off my miracle allotment in the middle of everything, actually." For the briefest moment, the shame on her face flickered into anger, and then became a determined sort of calm. "It's fine, I mean, it's. Somebody else probably needed it more. Might've been a busy day for miracles. I know when Akrotiri blew up it was to help with all those plagues in Egypt, and if you're gonna keep slaves you're just asking for some plagues, so maybe it was something like that again and I just never heard about it. I don't mind. It was a long time ago and I got a new body eventually and all those people would be long dead now anyway so it's fine."
Aziraphale knew that tone of voice, although he was usually on Vehuel's end of the conversation, and usually Crowley was all unrighteous indignation on Aziraphale's behalf. And what Crowley said... what Crowley said made him feel better, but of course it was wrong to doubt Heaven, so it wasn't as though he could say those things to Vehuel. "I'm certain there was some good reason," said Aziraphale, finally. He knew it was the correct thing to say, but it didn't feel right.
"Yeah. Gotta be," said Vehuel. They'd arrived at the library by now, and this was apparently another place she recognized, because she perked up and said, "Oh, I always liked this building! Didn't really get a chance to see the library in action much, though. The UK gave us a lot of the books, actually. Oh! Was that you?"
Aziraphale brightened. "I did do some encouragement of donations, yes," he said, proudly. He hadn't actually donated any books himself, of course. He'd liked the idea of it. Had even wandered around the shop, considering volumes that he might be willing to part with. But when it came right down to it, he was a bit worried about sending any of his treasured books to a city that had only just burned down.
And now he felt a bit guilty about that, because he was not sure he'd earned the thankful, slightly tearful smile he received from Vehuel. "Well. Thanks," she said. Inside, the library was rather grand, and Aziraphale grudgingly admitted to himself that the books would probably have been fine here. They found a comfortable corner to sit and chat in, and Vehuel said, "So, tell me about this Crowley."
Once more, Aziraphale tried to work out how to explain Crowley without letting on that he was actually terribly fond of Crowley and missed him keenly. "I have reason to believe he's allied himself with one or more of the criminal organizations that are plaguing your city," said Aziraphale.
"That's not good," said Vehuel. "What's he been doing?" She fished a notebook and pen out of the shopping bag and started to scribble down notes.
"I don't know," said Aziraphale. Technically, this was true. He did not know what Crowley had been up to these past few days. Certainly not talking to Aziraphale. "I think he's been involved in bootlegging."
"Really?" Vehuel looked skeptical. "Just... bootlegging? That's it? Humans do that just fine, it sounds very lucrative. I've been reading the papers ever since I -- well it was a hassle to arrange delivery, it took a few decades -- anyway, it seems like the city's a kind of a mess as usual, but bootlegging seems like the least of it. Do you know who he's working for?"
"Probably everyone, knowing him," said Aziraphale. "He gets very involved in his human identities, I think." Aziraphale caught himself smiling fondly, and quickly schooled his expression into a scowl. "Ridiculous, if you ask me."
"Oh. Yeah. Definitely. Waste of time," agreed Vehuel. "So, when you say everybody -- I think this Capone guy's the biggest fish in the pond, do you think --"
"Oh, almost certainly," said Aziraphale. "And the North Siders." He was momentarily thankful that they had picked such an unimaginative name.
"What about the uh..." Vehuel paused. "There's a few sets of O'Donnells I can never keep straight when I read about them in the newspaper, and --"
"Oh, no, no, definitely not," said Aziraphale. "He'd never pass muster with them, it never seems to occur to him not to pretend to be Irish when the opportunity presents itself, but it's been... well, it's been a long time since he was there. His accent is dreadful. Everyone who hears him do it wishes he wouldn't."
"Okay," said Vehuel. "Bad at being Irish," she muttered to herself as she scribbled in her notebook. "Do you know what his current corporation looks like?"
Aziraphale hoped she did not notice him going scarlet as he considered just what a thorough knowledge of this he had. "He usually keeps the same one, I think. He's, oh, about your height, I suppose, only very thin and, er --" Aziraphale realized, belatedly, that he was sketching out the shape of Crowley's body with his hands in the air, and only Vehuel's studious jotting-down of information had kept her from noticing this. "Er, angular, I suppose. Red hair, pale skin. And, oh, his eyes are --"
"You've gotten close enough to see his eyes?" Vehuel asked. "Gabriel said he didn't even know you were onto him!" She sounded very impressed.
She would probably be a lot less impressed if she knew the context in which Aziraphale had last seen Crowley's eyes. "What I was going to say, actually, is that his eyes are always covered," said Aziraphale. "No idea what they look like, but they must be terribly demonic."
"Yeah, yeah, I know how that is," said Vehuel. "Is Crowley pretty easy to discorporate or is he hard to get at?"
Aziraphale felt as though a bottomless pit had just opened up beneath him. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, I mean -- I mean, he doesn't pull bystanders in, does he? I hate that, it's so cowardly," said Vehuel. "Effective, admittedly. But you said he was pretty subtle, so. Does he talk them into thinking protecting him is their idea? That's the worst."
"I've, er, never actually discorporated him," Aziraphale admitted. He didn't think he could make up a convincing lie about this. Truthfully he had very little idea how Crowley would have fought him, if he did. Probably with snide comments.
Vehuel was frowning at him now. "Well, have you gotten close to it, at least? I mean, you could just sneak up behind him and clobber him, couldn't you?"
Aziraphale blinked. "Clobber him?"
"Oh, that's right, they gave you a sword," said Vehuel. "None of the other Principalities got a sword, you're so lucky! The rest of us got scepters and I don't even know what to do with that, I usually just use human weapons if I have to. You can hit someone with a scepter but it takes a while to deal with a demon that way, and it's kind of gruesome. I'd rather not."
Aziraphale restrained himself from reacting, in full, to the idea of anyone hurting Crowley. He had assumed Vehuel would want to simply drive him out of Chicago, and that Crowley would probably go willingly once Aziraphale found him. Maybe, if Aziraphale could make up with him, they could go to New Orleans; Crowley had said Aziraphale would like it. But to discorporate him.... "I don't think you understand quite the caliber of the demon you have here; he is very wily. I have enough trouble thwarting him, and I'd like to keep him from realizing I'm the one who's been doing the thwarting. And there is that saying about the devil you know. I'd rather they didn't send someone worse up to replace him."
"Eh, I've met plenty of them, they're all about the same, really," said Vehuel. "Mildly sadistic in the most boring way possible, absolutely terrified of Satan, and easy to kill if you let them think they're outsmarting you. Most of them haven't given me much trouble. I'm sure between the two of us we can make him regret coming here." Her grin was warm and cheerful, and it terrified him.
Aziraphale smiled back weakly, but inwardly he found this even more chilling than the weather. He'd let himself like Vehuel. And, in all fairness, she was doing her job here. But if she hurt Crowley....
Well. That would be a problem.
After chatting with Vehuel for a while longer -- she'd switched so easily from friendly discussion of the city and its politics to planning to discorporate Crowley, then back -- she told him that she wanted to have a look around the city on her own for the next few days, to re-familiarize herself with it. "It's pretty cold, though, and you can't exactly play tour guide," she added, "so if you'd rather do something else that's fine with me, I get it."
Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to let her go off on her own. "Promise me you won't go after Crowley without me?" he said. "I really do think you're underestimating him."
She blinked. "You are really worried about him, aren't you?" Oh yes. Terrified. "Sure, I'll be careful, don't worry about me."
"And you won't go after him?" he pressed.
"Promise," she said. And of course, she was an angel, so she'd keep that promise. Aziraphale hoped so, anyway.
They agreed to meet in a few days. He was a bit worried she'd stumble across Crowley on her own -- she seemed rather more inquisitive than the more Heavenly angels Aziraphale was used to, and that could be trouble.
On the other hand, these few days would be enough time to sneak away himself and look for Crowley a little himself. But he had no idea where to start. Perhaps Mr. Weiss had found him again? Or maybe Mr. Capone had learned he was working for Weiss as well. And then there were the police, although Aziraphale was sure Crowley could have bribed his way out of their clutches easily enough. Or maybe he was just sulking. It wouldn't even be a very long sulk, for Crowley. If there was a prize for competitive sulking, Crowley would have won easily, and then flat-out refused to appreciate said win, because he would still be sulking.
And then on the third hand (which Aziraphale generally didn't manifest except in dire emergencies) maybe he ought to use the time to look into some of the things that were were worrying him about Vehuel. If Aziraphale was honest, he was mostly worried about her keenness to discorporate Crowley, which was a perfectly sensible thing for an angel to want to do to a demon. He had also been very worried when she'd suggested that Heaven might have spies in Hell, and her cryptic comment about her records. Could she know about him and Crowley? Had someone in Heaven grown suspicious of Aziraphale? Worse yet, had he and Crowley been spotted together? (And if so, exactly how together had they been at the time?) It had taken a great feat of will to keep himself from panicking about all this, especially while Vehuel asked him all sorts of things about Crowley.
Distantly, he was also mildly concerned about her ability to keep a city from being on fire, but Chicago could burn again for all he cared as long as Crowley was safely out of harm's way.
Aziraphale decided that, rather than asking Vehuel all sorts of nosy questions that had nothing to do with the problems they were ostensibly trying to solve, he might as well just go and see what was in her records. He hadn't been back to Heaven for centuries, and he wasn't especially looking forward to it now. But needs must.
Still, at least he was going to see Haniel. She was friendly, in a way that almost nobody in Heaven was. She was earnest. She was kind. There'd been some administrative reshuffling a couple thousand years ago and he'd been reassigned to Gabriel's supervision for reasons nobody had really adequately explained to Aziraphale, and he wished he'd been able to stick with her.
Haniel did not have her own office; there were archangels and there were archangels, and Haniel wasn't very high in the pecking order. So she had a desk right next to Barachiel's and behind Selaphiel's. When Aziraphale arrived, both Selaphiel and Haniel appeared to be on break, but Barachiel was sitting amid stacks of paperwork as high as his head, working furiously on something.
"Excuse me, will Haniel be back soon?" Aziraphale asked Barachiel.
"Yes, yes, now leave me alone," said Barachiel, waving him away.
So Aziraphale went to stand by Haniel's desk. It was cluttered -- not as bad as Barachiel's desk at least, but certainly not the sort of tidiness on Gabriel's or Michael's desks -- but a not-insignificant portion of the clutter was framed photographs. Here was Moses smiling uncertainly, and there was St. Guinefort the greyhound playing tug-o-war with a seraph Aziraphale didn't recognize. Tucked behind a small winged teddy bear holding a harp was a photo of Queen Esther looking radiant on her wedding day, and behind a small stack of files he spotted a frame containing Cerviel grinning behind the counter of his delicatessen. There was even a striking portrait of Raphael looking irritated. (Raphael never looked any other way, so it was a good portrait, too.)
Soon enough, Haniel returned, carrying a steaming mugful of hot manna decorated with the words Think Happy Be Happy. When she saw him, a cloud passed over her face. "Aziraphale! Is something wrong with Vehuel? Poor thing, I wasn't sure she was ready yet. I did want to hug her goodbye, but I don't think she likes that kind of thing. She's a little awkward."
"Oh, no, everything's fine," said Aziraphale. "She seems very pleased to be back on Earth and eager to get to work." He wanted to be clear on this with Haniel, since Gabriel had gone on and on about how lazy Vehuel was, but Haniel nodded along, apparently unsurprised. "I just thought, you know, it might ease the transition a little bit if I knew what she was coming from. Do you happen to have any records on her previous assignments?"
"Oh! Oh, of course," said Haniel, putting her mug down and sitting down. She pulled a file drawer open. "Of course, I don't have her pre-Genesis records, though, you'll have to see Michael for those," she said. Aziraphale didn't know if he dared, but he made a small sound of assent and waited while Haniel dug out the folder on Vehuel. She handed him a thick folder. "There you go!"
"Of course," said Aziraphale. "I'll return it to you when I'm finished -- I hope you don't mind?"
"Oh, no, go right ahead," said Haniel. She sipped at her mug. "Let me know if you need anything else!"
"I will," he said, smiling. And he retreated to an empty desk to peruse the documents.
They didn't tell him much he didn't already know. Her first assignment had been on the island of Thera -- Akrotiri, the place she'd said had blown up to assist with the Egyptian plagues -- and it looked like she'd used "excessive miraculous force" (whatever that was) to evacuate the entire citizenry in time. After that her miracle allotment had been severely limited, which Aziraphale supposed had led to Pompeii. That didn't seem terribly fair, but surely Heaven wouldn't give her more of a challenge than she was capable of handling. Surely.
The rest of her assignments was a veritable graveyard of metropoli. Aziraphale didn't recognize all the names, but after each place, there was usually a note. Volcanic eruption. Plague. Destruction by enemy forces. Earthquake, resulting in conflagration and tsunami. One of the more worrisome notes was Political instability/food shortage -- possible demonic intervention; Nisroc? Cannibalism??? This was crossed out several times, and in different handwriting, someone else had written No evidence of cannibalism! The first handwriting returned with All the humans are gone though? and second, becoming cramped as it ran out of space, replied with They probably didn't eat each other, they're not guppies.
It wasn't as though Aziraphale expected cities to last forever, but it looked like the longest Vehuel had ever stayed anywhere was Troy. Well. The various Troys. There had been a lot more Troys than Aziraphale was comfortable with if he was going to call it a long-lasting city.
And speaking of more cities than he was comfortable with, more recently she had been somehow double-assigned San Francisco and Chicago. In 1845 she had put in a request for another Principality to be assigned to San Francisco. She'd been recalled to Heaven in 1875, but hadn't actually been removed from San Francisco's Principalityship until 1900, which meant for twenty-five years San Francisco had had a Principality who was not even authorized to go to Earth. (Conflagration was noted, dispassionately, beside San Francisco's name, because of course it'd burned down while Vehuel had had it. Chicago was noted as Conflagration -- possible demonic activity; Peshtigo? Manistee? Aziraphale did not think these were the names of demons, but he didn't know what they were.)
Aziraphale was having trouble squaring the obvious mistake that was double-assignment of two distant cities with the fact that Heaven did not make mistakes, and it was giving him a headache. He found that at the very back of the file there was a thick packet of pages stapled together, and hoped it might enlighten him, or at least distract him from the dilemma, so he took out the packet and read:
Assessment of the safety and necessity of the existence of the combustion reaction, and potential substitute sources of heat, light, and energy.
Abstract: Humanity has developed technologically to a sufficient degree that the process of combustion, colloquially known as "fire," is no longer necessary to their daily life. Yet fire poses a grave danger to human and other biological life, as well as to human settlements and to...
He skimmed further down the page.
...literature shows that plasma is an extraneous state of matter, with little to no cultural recognition on par with solid, liquid, and gas. The issue of the classical elements, however...
His eyes were already beginning to glaze over. He tried again, on the next page.
...original design specifications do not, in fact, include a knowledge of how to create fire, and it is unclear where humans acquired this knowledge. Because of this...
He had a sudden image of Adam brandishing a flaming sword at a lion, and without reading further, he put the paper back into Vehuel's folder, closed it, and set it far aside so that he did not have to look at it. This was not helpful, he decided. What had she meant, about him not having seen her records?
He supposed he was going to have to talk to Michael.
Aziraphale returned the folder to Haniel, and, pushing away his worries, went to knock on Michael's door.
It swung open. "Aziraphale. Come in," said Michael. She smiled. It was not a warm smile.
Her office was spare. There were no pictures, although there was a spear mounted on the wall, and a sword. Easy access, in case of trouble, Aziraphale supposed.
He would endeavor not to be trouble. "Hello. So sorry to bother you, Michael, I'm sure you're -- this is -- very --"
"What are you here for, Aziraphale?" she asked. Her smile was even less smiley now.
"I've been assigned to work with, er, the Principality Vehuel, and I wanted to know if I could see her pre-Earth records. Haniel mentioned you had them?"
"I don't," said Michael. The pretense of a smile was gone now. "I can authorize access to them. They're sealed."
"Oh, can you? That would be very helpful," said Aziraphale.
"I said I could; I didn't say I would," said Michael. "Why do you need them?"
Ah. Of course. The catch. "I'd just like to know who I'm working with, is all," said Aziraphale. "I believe that, er, the city of Chicago is in a very delicate position and --"
"You were sent there to find and neutralize the demon Crowley, is that correct?" she said.
"Yes," said Aziraphale. "It's been difficult, he's a very, er, formidable opponent."
"Yes. So you tell us," she said.
"I'm just -- I'm concerned about Vehuel, she seems a bit...." He was going to feel guilty about saying this, but it wasn't a lie. "A bit unstable?"
Michael looked mildly annoyed at that. "I understand your concern, but let me assure you, Vehuel is very competent. She has been given difficult tasks, and for the most part has performed as well as can be expected."
"But all her cities have been destroyed," Aziraphale pointed out.
"She's one of Heaven's most reliable agents," said Michael. "Sometimes... sometimes the priority is not humanity, Aziraphale."
"Of course, I know that, I mean, obviously," said Aziraphale, although it didn't seem like anybody had told Vehuel that. He certainly didn't want to be the one to do it, though. He couldn't imagine it going at all well, and also, humanity was nice. Well, sometimes, anyway. "I don't mean -- I wasn't doubting her. I just wanted to know a bit more about where she was coming from."
"She's coming from Heaven," said Michael. "That's all you need to know, Aziraphale. Go back to Earth."
Aziraphale suppressed the frustrated noises he wanted to make. "Yes. Of course. Thank you for seeing me, Michael, so sorry to have bothered you." He left Michael's office even more convinced that somehow Vehuel was going to find out everything.
Standing outside Michael's office, he considered his options.
He could go back down to Earth, and glean what he could from Vehuel herself without letting on what he was worried about.
Or he could come up with a better case to plead to Michael.
Or...
Or...
He smiled to himself. Vehuel had handed it to him. Vehuel and Crowley.
(Crowley would've been proud of him, which made him happy. He didn't think that was a good thing, but he couldn't bring himself to care overmuch.)
He walked to Phanuel's office and rapped on the door.
Phaneul did not have a corner office, which was awfully telling in a place that could have as many corner offices as it liked. But he did have an office, and he did a lot of work for Gabriel, so Aziraphale thought he might be useful. Phanuel's office was stacked top to bottom with file boxes. He didn't look terribly happy to be interrupted. He looked up from his typewriter. "Yes?" he asked.
"Hello, Phanuel," said Aziraphale, cheerfully. "I was wondering, could you possibly get me a copy of a Principality's pre-Earth records? Her name's Vehuel, I've been assigned to work with her." He smiled.
Doubt crossed over Phanuel's face. "Oh. I think -- I think she's under Michael's juris--"
"Michael was too busy to see me now," said Aziraphale, "and it is a bit urgent, I was hoping I could just pop in and see them now without waiting for her to be done with -- well, must be very important work."
Phanuel frowned at him. "I'm sorry, I can't get them for you."
"Oh, I know you can," said Aziraphale, "but if you won't, I understand. Don't want to get in trouble. We have procedures for a reason."
"Yes, we do," said Phanuel. He turned back to his typewriter.
"Funny thing, though," said Aziraphale. "See, I've been asked to look in on Chicago? It's a town in the American Middle-West -- well, really it's a bit east I think, but -- no accounting for human naming conventions! Silly things. And I couldn't help but thinking... I don't know if you remember working with me, Phanuel? It was during that incident where somebody wrote something terribly obscene about Gabriel's divine essence on part of North America and we had to scrub it down with all those glaciers. He was very annoyed about it, I remember."
"Ah," said Phanuel. "Yes. Yes, strange times."
"What was the landscape supposed to be, again? Lovely rolling hills? Or was it plateaus?" said Aziraphale.
"I don't really know," said Phanuel, looking worried. He hazarded a few keystrokes on the typewriter.
"There were just so many glaciers!" said Aziraphale. "Such a lot of work for such a little thing, and it's never looked right since. Very flat place. Absurdly enormous lakes."
"I've. I've heard the flatness lends it a certain rustic charm," said Phanuel. "Makes walking very easy. And so on."
"It was odd how nobody ever found out who put the glyph there, though, don't you think?" said Aziraphale.
"Really, I don't know why you're going on about this -- this prehistory," said Phanuel. "It's not as if I put the glyph on there." He made a great show of peering at what he'd just typed.
"Oh no, of course not, I'm sure you would never dream of such a thing," said Aziraphale, reassuringly. Phanuel nodded. "It's just that, I've been thinking. If it became evident that somebody knew who'd done it, and they never came forward, people would be very upset."
Phanuel took his hands away from the typewriter. They were shaking slightly.
"If they'd come forward immediately it would've been fine, but waiting six thousand years... that's a long time, Phanuel," said Aziraphale.
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Phanuel, with enough force that Aziraphale could tell he'd hit a nerve.
"And just imagine how betrayed Gabriel would be, one of his direct reports having concealed something so heinous from him all this time." Aziraphale smiled placidly at Phanuel, whose eyes were so wide by now that he had ended up opening several more eyes on his face and arms just to be properly wide-eyed.
"Fine," said Phanuel. "Fine, I'll get you -- I'll get what I can of the records. But don't go telling anyone!"
In barely any time at all, Aziraphale had a thick binder in his hand, which he was perusing in the records room. It was not, strictly speaking, Vehuel's record, so much as a record of all the angels who had been working under a particular archangel during Creation. There should be more detailed records about her, but Phanuel had said, very apologetically, that those records weren't available to him and that he'd have to speak to Michael about them after all.
Aziraphale still didn't know why an apparently insignificant Principality's records should be so top secret, but the first page went a long way towards an explanation.
He had expected it to be a record of Michael and the angels who had labored under her during Creation, coming up with the basic rules of reality. Vehuel did a lot of work for Michael, it seemed, so it would make sense that she'd been working on physics with Michael.
But it wasn't Michael's record. It was Lucifer's.
Aziraphale stared at the first page. Lucifer's name had been stricken from the books, like all the rest of the fallen angels, but it was obvious this stricken name had been his, because the first page said Records of Creation; Archangel FALLEN1.
Aziraphale turned the page with utmost care, and found another answer he'd been looking for, because -- of course, it all fit -- Lucifer had been in charge of the astronomical team. Crowley's team. That must be why he was so sensitive about it, Aziraphale realized. Surely he'd been beguiled to Fall while working for Lucifer.
He wondered if Vehuel had known Crowley, and now he worried even more that he'd said too much. If she recognized Crowley as a former coworker, she might notice if Aziraphale lied about him. On the other hand, Aziraphale couldn't imagine anybody working with Crowley and not coming out liking him, just a little. On that pesky third hand, Crowley had told him often enough about other demons who had worked with Crowley for thousands of years and still tried to stab him every time they saw him.
He skimmed Lucifer's records. Almost all of his direct reports had fallen, and so had most of their direct reports, so the whole thing was a mess of stricken names with unmemorable subscripts. It made it very easy to pick Vehuel out. She'd been low-level at first, apparently got some recognition for her work, and then things got interesting. Lots of meetings between FALLEN1 and a small group of angels -- all Fallen, except Vehuel.
Vehuel seemed to file a lot of paperwork on Lucifer's behalf, too -- little things that an archangel might be too busy to deal with but that had to be done nonetheless. There were a handful of others, including a fallen angel who'd cosigned a lot of their reports on Lucifer's behalf, and most of these seemed to be accepted without incident.
And there was a line noting an accident report filed by Vehuel to the Archangel Gabriel. Gabriel had issued a reprimand, because Vehuel ought to be submitting these things to Lucifer, although it also seemed as though the accident report might concern Lucifer. After this, there was a note of two incident reports filed to Uriel followed, both rejected because Employee appears to have written her own form??? Aziraphale wished he had Vehuel's file, which presumably had all her reports, down to the homemade form, but he could only speculate on what they'd contained. These reports seemed to be getting very frequent, though it was difficult to tell, since Creation had taken millions or even billions of years depending on which department you were working in, but had only been divided into six days.
After the cluster of incident reports, there'd been a bug report filed to Michael -- something about light waves behaving like particles sometimes. (Aziraphale didn't know why they were called bug reports; Ba'al Zebul had only just invented bugs at the time.) The report was noted as Unresolved.
He kept reading.
Angel Vehuel issued Weapon.
Angel Vehuel ordered to return to Gaia-Enceladus galaxy.
And then it looked like things had been business as usual for a while, at least. He turned the page.
There were no shadows in Heaven, of course, so no shadow fell dramatically across the page in cinematographic fashion in these moments. If anything, the room became noticeably brighter. Aziraphale looked up from the binder, and --
"I do hate to stop you just when you're getting to the good part," said the Archangel Michael.
Aziraphale startled so badly he almost fell out of the chair. "Michael! I! Hello! How are, what is, this is -- is -- is not what it looks like," he said, shutting the binder quickly. "At all, don't know how this got here, I mean, really." He gave the binder a glare, as if it'd sidled up to him and asked if he'd wanted some top secret information and he had of course told it where to go, which was back on its shelf, there's a good fellow, only it hadn't listened.
"I told you the records were sealed," she said, taking the binder off the table and tucking it under her arm. "What did you tell Phanuel to get at them?"
Aziraphale tried to look extremely innocent, which he knew he was usually so good at -- Crowley teased him about it all the time. Now, however, he was apparently not very convincing. "Don't know what you mean," he said.
"I mean it, Aziraphale, what did you tell him?" Michael asked.
Surely it would be wrong to turn Phanuel in, after Phanuel had helped him. "We had a nice conversation about my assignment," he said, which was true enough. "He seemed to think seeing the records would help me. I don't think he was wrong," he added.
Michael gave him an evaluating look. "Aziraphale," she said, "do you enjoy working with Gabriel?"
Aziraphale had been expecting more cross-examination, and he didn't really know how this question fit into it. "Oh, no complaints," he said, mildly.
"Because the promotion that was offered in 1800 is still available," said Michael. "It was determined that we needed you on Earth to thwart the demon Crowley, but once Vehuel is back in fighting shape --"
"No!" said Aziraphale, who certainly didn't want to see Vehuel in 'fighting shape,' at least if the person she was fighting was Crowley. "No, I think I'd rather keep my current post, thank you very much. Anyway, he'll probably return to London eventually, even if he's discorporated, and I should be there when he does." To apologize for getting him discorporated, he thought. Among other things.
"Oh, there's a good chance he might not," said Michael. "Last century, Vehuel managed to kill the demon Nisroc by tricking him into drinking holy water. I'm certain if I requested that she deal with Crowley permanently she'd come up with something."
Aziraphale was smiling politely, because he had to, because that was the only option he had, but he felt very, very ill, and sort of like he was going to discorporate on the spot, which should be impossible in Heaven. "A kind offer, but I would prefer to deal with the demon Crowley on my own. I know I've complained about how terrible he is, but to be honest I'd much prefer to thwart him instead of having to learn an entirely new demon's, er, wiles."
"Is that so?" said Michael. Aziraphale nodded. "Well. If you change your mind, do let me know."
"Right. Yes. Thank you. I should -- I should probably be getting back to Earth now," said Aziraphale. "So sorry to have bothered you, but -- yes. Back to Earth." He made a concentrated effort to walk at a normal, unrushed pace as he left Heaven.
Aziraphale had to keep moving, or he would think about what Michael had said. He would imagine Vehuel cheerfully dumping holy water all over Crowley before he could stop her. Or maybe Vehuel would find out about him and Crowley before she found Crowley, and turn him over to Heaven, and he would never find out what happened to Crowley at all. Or he would end up in Hell only to find that Crowley was --
Yes. He had to keep moving.
He decided the next thing he had to do was to clear Crowley's house of anything that might connect him to Crowley, and see if he couldn't find any leads on Crowley's location before Vehuel found the house. He miraculously secured a suite of rooms at a hotel downtown which had three very good restaurants, convinced them to be lenient about bringing a cat in, and hurried north to the house, which was dark and a bit chilly.
He worked his way through the house methodically, vanishing anything that he'd miraculously conjured -- a few blankets, some glassware, and food. Then he went upstairs and made his own bedroom vanish, leaving Crowley's untouched. He did consider doing something about the statue -- he did not want Vehuel to see it and get, perhaps, the wrong idea? -- the right idea? -- ideas, generally -- and anyway, he couldn't imagine Crowley would want Vehuel to see it either. But it belonged to Crowley, and Aziraphale didn't want to just destroy it without asking. Finally he decided to shove it into the back of Crowley's walk-in closet and drape a sheet over it. Hopefully that would be enough.
Since she knew Crowley was a bootlegger, she would expect to see the liquor that Crowley was storing in the upstairs rooms, so he left that, even though he was sorely tempted to take some of the better champagne for himself. He had to keep his head clear, anyway; no use drinking himself stupid.
He spent the better part of the afternoon and evening methodically cataloging the contents of Crowley's office, trying to memorize addresses and telephone numbers on business cards and other documents. He found a deed to a house in Cicero, in the name of Lilith Cambion, and supposed he was going to have to poke around there too, but at least it wasn't likely to have much in the way of personal effects. There was also an attorney's business card; Aziraphale felt he'd heard the name before.
There were also quite a lot of little slips of paper and bar napkins with telephone numbers written on them crammed haphazardly into drawers, in... assorted handwritings, usually accompanied by a first name. These made Aziraphale's chest tight when he realized what they were. He decided he would be doing everyone whose telephone numbers they were a world of good by disposing of them discreetly, so he threw them into the fireplace. The thought occurred to him, after doing so, that maybe Crowley had gone to one of these humans for comfort after their argument, and that hurt even more to think of, although of course what Crowley did on his own was certainly none of Aziraphale's affair and he was free to do whatever he liked with humans. (Later, Aziraphale decided it was probably for the best that they'd been destroyed, or he would have gone frantically calling every one of them demanding to know if any one of four entirely separate people were there.)
After Aziraphale had put everything back where it'd been (except the bar napkins) and put out the fire, he considered what he ought to take from here.
First: Both the da Vincis Crowley owned; the portrait of Crowley, which hung in his office, and the cartoon of the Mona Lisa. Crowley treasured everything he had of da Vinci's, and more to the point, the portrait was too fine a representation of Crowley to let Vehuel see it. After hearing what she had done to Nisroc, Aziraphale hoped desperately that she would never find out what Crowley looked like. He would get a safety deposit box at a bank and secret them away.
Second: Crowley's books. Aziraphale wasn't sure Crowley treasured these, exactly, but Aziraphale wanted to have them near him. There weren't very many, anyway, and these at least he could keep with him; he didn't think any of them were particularly demonic, so if Vehuel noticed his haphazard collection of novels and poetry, she'd probably just judge his literary taste. And that was if she even cared; Gabriel still struggled to understand the concept of books.
Third: Hobgoblin and all her accouterments. She would be a comfort, and the neighbors really didn't deserve her, and Crowley did. Aziraphale miracled up a picnic basket lined with warm blankets, and tempted her into it with a bit of salmon, leaving the lid open for her to look out. "We're going somewhere else, Hobgoblin. Until I can find Crowley again. You understand." She didn't, obviously, but he felt better explaining it. "We'll stay in a nice hotel. I don't think they allow cats as a matter of course, but you're the exception." He scratched her under the ear. "And then I'll find Crowley and I'll keep Vehuel away from him and everything -- everything will be fine. I hope."
He packed everything that wasn't Hobgoblin up into his miraculously small suitcase, along with the things he'd brought from London, and then he called for a car.
He had to keep moving.
Notes:
By all rights, especially after an unexpected hiatus this long, a chapter posted on St. Patrick's Day ought to have Danny and Crowley in it, but Crowley is bad at being Irish and so am I.
Chapter 10: do you know whether he walked on his tail or not?
Notes:
I want to say "nothing really terrible happened to me in the interim between posting the last chapter and posting this one," but if I'm honest with myself... my job kinda sucks sometimes, and the stuff that makes me good at it makes me so, so, so bad at office politics, and the fallout from the thing that happened to interfere with last chapter meant I didn't even want to look at the Dysfunctional Angel Coworkers stuff I'd written for a while.
Content note: There's some casual racism and misogyny in the second scene, both mentioned and on-page.
A song for this chapter: "God and the FBI" by Janis Ian.
Chapter Text
Crowley had talked Danny into untying his feet, eventually, and also into dragging a box over to serve as a footstool. He liked to think it was his silver-tongued charm that had got him that much, but he somewhat suspected it was because he'd lost every single game of chess they'd played yesterday and Danny felt bad for him.
Anyway, his poor chess record aside, Crowley was feeling as good about the day as he could, given that he was still imprisoned in a cathedral. He was trouncing Danny at the Landlord's Game, and he wasn't even cheating. Danny had just landed on Lake Shore Drive, which Crowley owned and had built three improvements on, which meant he was about to demand $400 in rent from Danny, bankrupting him.
And then Weiss came down the stairs. It just figured.
"The hell is all this?" Weiss demanded. "You untied him?"
"He can't go anywhere, he's allergic to the floor," said Danny.
"Ah. Sanctified ground. Makes sense," said Weiss, who apparently thought himself a regular demonologist at this rate. "Why the hell are you playing board games with him though?"
"I was bored," said Danny.
"I pay you to be bored, it's all you're good for, you big fat mope. You can't even shoot without pissing yourself, and you're shit at collections," snapped Weiss.
"I'm great at collections, you're just shit at accounting," Danny said. His burst of rage surprised Crowley, because he'd seemed much meeker than that, but then, Crowley'd only just got his demonic senses back.
Weiss seemed surprised too. His hand shot out and grabbed Danny's necktie, dragging him down to Weiss' eye level. "Are you calling me stupid?"
"N-no," said Danny, trembling. Weiss missed how Danny's fists were clenched, but Crowley didn't. Danny's fear was genuine -- panic, really -- but there was fury, too, and wounded ego.
Weiss backhanded him, and the panic sharpened, drowning out the rage. "You be careful you don't find out what happened to Stan," he told Danny, and released him.
Danny swept the pieces off the board and into the box. "Sorry, sorry, I'll tie him up again if you want," he said, quickly, cringing into himself.
Crowley suspected he already knew what had happened to Stan, but what on Earth had happened to Danny? He seemed to be a regular psychological drama all on his own.
"Nah, if he hasn't killed you yet he probably can't," said Weiss, casting a wary eye at Crowley. He frowned at the space heater. "Toasty in here."
"The church let me borrow it," said Danny. He was a good liar, at least.
"What are you here for, Weiss?" Crowley demanded. He wanted to get this over with.
Weiss turned to Crowley. "You. I wanna know things about you."
He sighed. "Name's Crowley, I'm a demon, I'm five thousand nine hundred and twenty-nine, give or take however you count all that stuff that happened before the beginning of time, and occasionally, I am a snake. What more do you need to know?"
"Can you raise the dead?" Weiss asked.
He'd been expecting that question. Weiss had been so loudly furious about Dean O'Banion's death that Crowley had assumed this would be the first task set before him. But O'Banion had been dead for over a year, and his body would be nothing but a soulless wreck if Crowley revived it.
Crowley could handle that, especially if it caused Weiss pain. "I can," he said, schooling himself to appear serious and maybe even a little sympathetic. "You want Dean O'Banion back, I'm guessing?"
Weiss blinked, like he hadn't thought of that, and then he considered it for a long moment. Crowley waited respectfully, inwardly anticipating the renewed grief and fear and self-loathing that Weiss would be going through, having to choose between caring for the shambling corpse of his dead best friend or having to ask Crowley to kill it again.
But then Weiss said "Ehh. Nah, I don't think so."
Crowley almost blinked. "You... don't?"
"Nah," said Weiss, shrugging. "He died, but we all knew Deanie wasn't quite right there at the end. Not like I don't miss the guy but look, I've been mad about it for a year and working on getting back at Capone for it this whole time, and I figure, why waste the year? But I mean, you know, if someone dies and I need 'em back before I can get angry about it -- that'd be useful."
Humans. Humans were fucking absurd. Crowley would never understand. He considered pushing it, but maybe Weiss would come back to it on his own. "Well. All right then. Next question?"
"Can you just straight up kill Al Capone for me?" Weiss looked much more interested in this answer than in the previous one.
"No," said Crowley. "I mean, yeah, I can -- I can shoot him. With a gun. But I'd have to find him in person and --"
"So no," said Weiss. He sighed. "Eh. I want him to know who did it, anyway. And I want him to fear."
Crowley didn't like the way he smiled at this. It was more familiar than he liked. "Well. We can work on that. I'm good at fear."
"Good, good," said Weiss. "Am I -- am I damning myself working with you?" He sounded a little bit nervous.
Crowley threw back his head and laughed. "Henry Earl Wojciechowski, I don't know when you were damned but I have a feeling it was long, long ago."
"I don't believe you," said Weiss, looking offended.
"Signed the contract, didn't I? I can't tell you lies. I remember that was in there." Weiss scowled. "I would say I'm sorry to disappoint, but that would be a lie," said Crowley. "Oh, I'm delighted to disappoint."
"Danny!" Weiss snapped. "Tie the fucker's legs up again." Crowley stopped laughing. "Yeah, didn't think you'd like that. You keep talking like that and I'll start playing with the holy water again. Danny! Come on!"
Danny, cringing, hurried to tie Crowley up again, and, per the contract, Crowley had to just let him instead of kicking him in the face. After so long free of the constant sting of holiness, it hurt, and he let out an involuntary hiss of pain.
"What about money?" Weiss asked. "Can you just, I dunno, make me rich like that?" He snapped his fingers demonstratively.
"You're not hurting for money," said Crowley.
"Always nice to have a little more cash on hand," said Weiss.
Crowley sighed, rolled his eyes, and snapped his fingers. "Like that?" The Landlord's Game money had been replaced with hundred-dollar bills. "Yeah."
Weiss inspected the bills. (While he was doing this, Danny slipped his wallet carefully back into his coat pocket.) "These don't have serial numbers," he said, glaring at Crowley.
"Aw, come on, no one will notice," Crowley said. But he knew if Weiss was actually looking at the bills, eventually he would notice the motto, which was Hymie Weiss is Going to Hell. (Crowley could make excellent counterfeit money, but he refused to say he trusted in God.) Crowley decided he'd better not push his luck or he'd get the holy water again. "Look, I'll fix it." He snapped, and the bills were play money again, but an equally large stack of real hundreds was sitting on the table next to the board game. "Don't spend it all in one place."
Weiss examined the new cash. "Much better." He grabbed a handful of cash and pocketed it. "Now. Tell me, who's your friend?"
Crowley knew he meant Aziraphale.
Crowley concentrated very hard on remembering Aziraphale's face when he'd rejected Crowley. "I told you. I haven't got any friends," he said. If he believed it, it wasn't a lie.
"The guy you sprung from the flowershop," pressed Weiss. "Who was he?"
"He's a London bookseller," said Crowley, quickly. That was a little hard to say. He supposed it was because Aziraphale hadn't actually sold many books.
Weiss wasn't fooled. "And? Is he another demon?"
Crowley shook his head.
"A victim, then? You were gonna take his soul?"
"No," said Crowley.
Weiss rolled his eyes. "Look, I just wanna know if he's gonna be any trouble, this guy must be valuable if you ran in to get him and you two were fucking weird. What is he?"
The contract wouldn't let him stay silent. "He's an angel," Crowley said, miserably.
"He's -- he's an angel? Like, with wings?" Weiss asked.
"With wings," sighed Crowley. He had to tell the truth but he certainly didn't have to elaborate.
"So, what, was he your prisoner? What was with the cat stuff -- was that... code?"
"No," said Crowley. "He -- he stole the neighbors' cat, that's all."
Weiss frowned. "So that wasn't code for some kinda --"
"She's just a cat," snapped Crowley.
"And you saved him because..." Weiss trailed off. "What, does the angel owe you money?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Crowley, seizing on this opportunity. "Yeah, he owes me." Crowley was pretty sure he'd bought a few more lunches than Aziraphale had. He'd had no intention of considering it a debt, but at some point Aziraphale would use the excuse of paying him back as an opportunity to go back to a favorite restaurant.
"Is that all?" Weiss asked.
Shit. "No," said Crowley.
"Well, what else is there?"
Crowley racked his brain for something to say, anything to say other than I love him. "I have -- information about him." So much information. Information like I love making him laugh and he's so kind but he's hilariously petty and it's adorable when he tries to be cunning, and the first thing he did when he got here was to look for me in all the speakeasies, and the second thing he did was to get drunk enough to let himself kiss me, and I love him, and I can't help it, and I wouldn't change it if I could. "Heaven wouldn't like it."
"Ah, you're blackmailing him," said Weiss, grinning. "What do you have on him?"
"He's been seeing someone," said Crowley. This was somewhat understating it. "Not. Not someone Heaven would approve of."
"And you wanted to protect your investment," said Weiss, nodding. "You know, I can respect that? You got something that valuable, you keep it. Why'd you bring him here, though?"
"I didn't," sighed Crowley. "Well. I didn't mean to. He's here to save the city."
"From what?" Weiss asked, looking worried at this.
Crowley shrugged. "Theoretically, me. Technically, mostly from itself."
Weiss cocked his head. "What's that mean?"
"Humans are so much worse than I can manage on my own," said Crowley. "Sometimes the worst I can do is just to stay out of the way while people like you you go to work."
Weiss frowned at this, as if it didn't make any sense to him. Well, it probably didn't; he didn't have a very nuanced worldview, Crowley supposed.
"The angel got a name?" Weiss asked.
"Yup."
Weiss got impatient. "What's his name, asshole? You know what I was asking."
"Aziraphale."
Weiss frowned. "Aza -- Aziph --"
"Your real last name is Wojciechowski, you don't have a leg to stand on," said Crowley.
"Yeah, but maybe if he changed it like I did, I'd have heard of him," said Weiss. "Like one of the regular angels. Michael or Gabriel or someone."
"Michael and Gabriel are both wankers," said Crowley. "Tell you what, if I see him again I'll let him know you're very concerned about his personal brand."
Weiss rolled his eyes. "This angel. Is he... useful?"
"I don't know, do you need any obnoxious commentary on your dress sense?" Crowley asked. "Although, really, I could provide that. It's tacky, by the way."
"But you have information on him and his girl," said Weiss, making several incredible logical leaps that Crowley was not going to disabuse him of. "Couldn't I use that?"
"Not unless you can talk to Heaven," said Crowley.
"Sure, I can --"
"No, I don't mean praying, I mean having an actual back-and-forth between you and one of those awful fucking angels he reports to. If you called one of them down you'd never survive it. Go ahead and try, though, if you like. Just try not to do it here, I'd like some time to get the hell out of here before Michael runs me through with her sword."
"Michael's a lady?" Weiss asked, in disbelief.
"Michael's an angel," said Crowley. And Satan's tits he did not want to get any more elaborate than that with Weiss, because he didn't want Weiss to know he could look female. There were a lot of things a person like Weiss might do to a demon that looked like an attractive woman that he'd never think of doing to a demon that looked like an attractive man. (Crowley wasn't sure whether he'd do them to an actual human woman. He didn't want to think about it too much.)
Thankfully, Weiss did not pursue these avenues of inquiry. "She cute?" he asked.
"Michael? She's not really my type," said Crowley. "Too smitey."
"Aw, well. Too bad," said Weiss, and Crowley really had to wonder what he was thinking. "So where is he now? This other angel?"
Crowley continued to loathe this line of questioning. "I don't know," he said, honestly.
"Where'd you see him last?" Weiss asked.
Crowley managed not to wince. "At my house."
"Your house?" Weiss asked. "What was he doing there?"
"He was staying with me," sighed Crowley. Please don't ask why.
"So he could still be there, yeah?" Weiss pressed.
"Not if he has any sense," said Crowley.
"Does he? Have any sense, I mean," Weiss asked.
"No, he really doesn't," Crowley said, miserably.
Weiss laughed. "Well. Could be useful to me somehow." He considered his next question for a moment or two before asking it. "How long have you been working for Capone?"
"Not quite as long as I've been working for you," said Crowley. He forgot exactly when he'd started in working for Capone; he'd known he wanted to, but it had taken him a bit to work out who Lilith Cambion was. Crowley was perfectly happy being Anthony Crowley, but he had genuinely liked being Lilith Cambion now and then. He'd put a lot of work into making her up, and he was going to miss her.
"So he didn't put you up to spying on us?" Weiss asked.
Crowley shook his head. "He doesn't know I work for you. I use another name."
Weiss frowned. "Wouldn't he notice you're the same guy?"
"I can alter my appearance a little," said Crowley, "and it's easy enough to, ah, demonically persuade people to ignore any similarities to my other identities."
Happily, Weiss seemed satisfied with this and didn't press him as to his other identities. "So if I sent you in to kill him, he'd trust you?"
"Mm. I don't know," said Crowley. This had not occurred to him, and he rather wished it hadn't occurred to Weiss either. It wasn't as though he liked Capone any more than he liked Weiss, really, although -- well, yes, actually, it was largely that. Crowley had no illusions that either one of them was a good person, but Capone had a better sense of humor, certainly. Besides which, Crowley would be discorporated as soon as he succeeded in shooting Capone. "But he wouldn't know it was you who'd done it, and you said you wanted him to be afraid," he reminded Weiss. "I don't think he'd be very afraid of me, even once I pulled the gun. So I don't know that you really want me to do that. You're better off keeping me as a secret weapon."
"Secret weapon doing what?" Weiss asked.
"I can... I can guarantee greater safety, if you think you're going to get shot at," said Crowley. "I can help things along if you're trying to kill someone -- can't guarantee a hit unless I'm there, but I can make the odds better. That sort of thing." He could do plenty more -- burn down buildings from a safe distance, unlock any door or phase through a wall -- but the contract did not require him to be exhaustive. "But you'd have to keep me safe doing those things, if you just sent me in by myself I wouldn't necessarily be able to protect myself from everything. Bullets travel almost as fast as miracles and I can't pay attention to everything." And he couldn't try and escape, per the contract, so being sent out alone to do something didn't mean he could get away from Weiss that way, so he'd rather save his own skin even if it meant being cooped up in a church.
Weiss had a few more inane questions after that, about limits to his miracles, but eventually his questions petered out, and after taking most of the rest of the stolen hundred dollar bills, he left Danny to watch him again. (He threw several hundred dollars at Danny, for his troubles.)
After the door closed, Danny counted to five, then untied his legs without Crowley even having to ask. "Do you want to play another round?" he asked, nodding at the board game.
"Eh. Sure," said Crowley.
Danny took the play money and distributed the starting cash. Then he paused. "If these bills have real serial numbers, should I -- should I be spending them?" he asked, pulling out the money Weiss had given him. "Won't someone notice they're stolen?"
"Maybe change them for smaller bills soon?" said Crowley. "I don't know where I pulled them from. Could be from a bank, could be from someone's pocket."
"Oh yeah, I'm always walking around Tower Town with five hundred dollars in my pocket," said Danny, sarcastically.
Crowley snorted. "Well, probably a bank, then."
"Okay," said Danny. "Thanks. I'm sorry I have to keep you here. For a weird snake guy, you seem pretty okay."
"All deception," Crowley assured him.
Danny frowned down at the board. "Can you really bring back the dead?" he asked.
"I thought you didn't believe I was a demon," Crowley pointed out.
"Yeah, but. You can turn into a snake and steal money without leaving the church basement," said Danny. "Stands to reason you can do other stuff." His manner was mild, but Crowley realized there was a yawning pit of temptation within Danny that Crowley had not intended to create. He realized now that he knew just the levers to pull to make this foolish human fall.
Only he didn't want to pull them. It wasn't that Danny had been kind to him, of course, he didn't pity Danny. It was just... there was no strategic advantage. "Don't ask me to bring someone back, Danny, you really don't want that," said Crowley.
"Why not?" Danny asked. The look in his eyes frightened Crowley a little bit.
"They won't come back right. I mean, I can do -- I can do recent deaths, maybe a couple of days' dead at the most, but otherwise they're not... really back, you know?" He thought of all the election night necromancy he'd done over the last few years. He'd learned not to do it with the very recent dead, no matter how much pressure there was to get voters. The very recent dead were as opinionated as the living, and sometimes wandered away from the crowd, found their very surprised families, and cheerfully reintegrated themselves into society, which was much too happy an outcome for a demon to be comfortable with. The other ones, though.... they all voted correctly and went back into their graves without a fuss, but they were even less fit for society than live voters. "They're pretty disgusting, and they don't say much. If you were fond of them before it'd probably be upsetting to see."
Danny thought about this, and the temptation Crowley had sensed within him vanished abruptly, only to be replaced with curiosity. "You didn't tell Mr. Weiss any of that."
"Hymie Weiss is an absolute shithead," said Crowley.
"That's very true," said Danny. "Just. Why'd you tell me and not him?"
"Oh, you don't deserve that," said Crowley. "Whoever you want back, you don't deserve to see them like that."
"You don't know me that well," said Danny. He frowned at the game board. "You wanna be red again?"
"Please," said Crowley, holding his hand out for the red piece. He put it on the first square. "Who is it?"
"Huh?" Danny asked.
"Who is it that you'd want me to bring back?" Crowley asked.
"Nobody. Not if it's like you said it was," said Danny. And he was telling the truth, even. Remarkably sensible, for a human. He put the blue piece on the first square. "I get to go first this time."
"What? You went first last time," said Crowley.
"Yeah, but I'm the youngest, it's the rules." Danny grabbed the dice.
"That is nowhere in the rulebook," said Crowley, although he picked up the rulebook and flipped through it just to be certain.
"It's in the rules of life," said Danny. "Everyone knows the youngest goes first."
"That's the opposite of the rules of life, actually," said Crowley. "The eldest always goes first and get all the advantages and the youngest gets the leftovers. And how do I know you're younger?" he asked, just to be obnoxious.
Danny looked at him like he was stupid. "You just said you were five thousand and something, and I'm only twenty seven."
"How could I possibly be five thousand and something, if I'm not a de--"
"You definitely look older than twenty seven, anyway," Danny said, ignoring his protests. He rolled the dice and moved five spaces, then slid $25 into the bank and took the deed to Jaytown. "And didn't you say you were older than the world? The world's a lot older than five thousand and something, pretty sure. I read somewhere it's in the millions? I think."
Crowley cackled as he rolled the dice. "Oh, I had such a fight with my lawyer about that, let me tell you."
Aziraphale still hadn't had time to go looking for Crowley, really, but he had at least been able to go through Crowley's other house -- or rather, Lilith Cambion's house. This one was a good deal smaller, surprisingly -- a little bungalow that didn't seem anything like Crowley's typical housing. There wasn't anything useful there; all he found were several half-furnished rooms and a hidden trapdoor into a basement full of spiders and bootleg liquor. He decided it would make a good false lead for Vehuel to investigate if she did go hunting for Crowley there, and left it untouched. Maybe he could suggest they split up, and let her waste her time south of the city while Aziraphale pursued more fruitful avenues on his own.
As long as she hadn't managed to find Crowley on her own, he thought.
But when Vehuel greeted him back at the public library, she looked very frustrated, and it was terribly reassuring. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"Somebody changed my river while I was out of town! It goes the wrong way now!" said Vehuel.
"I... don't think rivers do that," said Aziraphale. Mostly they just got paved over, in his experience.
"Humans do that," said Vehuel darkly. "Ugh. No wonder St. Louis was mad at me. I mean, I never liked the guy, but --"
"The, er. The former king of France?" Aziraphale was having some trouble following her line of thought. "Why?"
"Because he's a jerk!" said Vehuel. "Kings usually are, though, in my --"
"I mean, why is he angry with you?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well, I'd be angry too if someone diverted gallons and gallons of raw sewage to my city before we could file an injunction against it," said Vehuel. "But I don't know what he expected me to do. He's been human, he knows what they're like when they get some stupid idea into their skulls. Kings are 90% dumb ideas anyway." She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, I'm ranting. I promise I didn't spend the whole time being mad about a river," she said brightly. "I found an address for Crowley! Well, I think it's him, anyway. It matched your description and the guy sounds... well." She sighed. "He doesn't sound that demonic, everyone basically said he was fun but harmless. But that fits the profile if he's more into tempting than torment."
Aziraphale smiled, and it was in earnest now, partly because Crowley's house was safe enough for her to look at, and partly because he could only imagine how angry Crowley would be that his human acquaintances had described him so well. "Oh, wonderful, where is it?"
She made a face. "It's in the suburbs. I hate the suburbs and the suburbs hate me, so I'll just have to go unnoticeable while we're out there. It's lucky I figured it out, though, there are a lot more Crowleys in the phone book than I realized, but obviously he's not in the Chicago phone book, so..." On the way over, she talked for a while about the other avenues she'd pursued while Aziraphale tried to work out how to ask questions about Nisroc or Lucifer without tipping off that he knew more than he ought. By the time the cab dropped them off at Crowley's house, though, he was no closer to coming up with something he felt safe asking.
"That's a lot of house," said Vehuel, more judgmentally than Aziraphale felt was due, seeing as how she'd cried over that horrible water tower. She glanced at the privacy hedges. "And somebody really doesn't want the neighbors seeing him." She walked up to the front door. "D'you think he has it booby trapped?"
"Ah." Aziraphale considered for a moment. Now that he thought about it, he was genuinely surprised Crowley hadn't done that, because it was exactly the sort of nonsense he enjoyed. Perhaps he had done it once and then found that navigating a home full of traps was more interesting than it needed to be. "I doubt it," he said, finally. "Hasn't done that sort of thing before, in my experience."
"Well, let's be careful anyway. You think he's home?"
Aziraphale very nearly said no, before remembering he had no reason to assume that. "Might be. I admit I've no idea what hours bootleggers keep." Neither did Crowley, of course; Crowley hadn't even had a vehicle with which he could bootleg liquor, as far as Aziraphale was aware. "Probably nocturnal. I mean, he is a demon."
"Yeah," said Vehuel. "Well. Might as well go on in." She turned the doorknob quietly and eased it open slowly. Then she walked carefully and silently into the entryway. It was a practiced sneak, Aziraphale thought, and probably impressive, but if they both did that the whole time it was going to take forever getting through the house, so Aziraphale just miracled his shoes not to make any noise and followed her in.
They crept (well, she crept, Aziraphale walked) silently through the first floor of the house before going upstairs and making relatively quick work of investigating the rooms that weren't protected by the secret door. Aziraphale had barely seen these outside fo when he'd been cleaning out the house; there was a room with a bar and a billiards table, a music room with an upright piano, a cello, and some brass instruments Aziraphale hoped Crowley wasn't learning to play, a study with an empty desk, and a room that ought to have been a library but appeared to be simply an extraneous and bookless sitting room with empty shelves.
"This isn't it, though," said Vehuel, scowling at the billiards table, which she'd returned to so she could check all the table's pockets. "This is a big house! This can't be it!" She grabbed a billiard ball and rolled it around the table moodily. "There aren't even bedrooms. I mean, a demon wouldn't need bedrooms -- assuming he's not an incubus, and you'd have mentioned if he was -- but human architects don't know that."
"Perhaps he miracled it into existence?" Aziraphale suggested.
"No, no, definitely not. It's good construction," said Vehuel. "Decent design, too. I actually... don't hate it? I mean, I hate it, but I don't hate it. Trust me, he had humans design this, and probably build it too. And there'd be bedrooms," she insisted, making such a sweeping gesture with the billiard ball that he worried she was going to throw it at something by accident. "I mean! I mean, this is a big stupid mansion for people who have big stupid parties! When they all pass out, where do they even go?"
"The floor?" suggested Aziraphale, who knew this from observation.
"No, no, no. There have to be bedrooms. Somewhere." She rolled the billiard ball between her hands. "There's a secret passage or something. Has to be." She deposited the ball into a corner pocket and grabbed a cue, brandishing it like a spear. Then she marched purposefully into the corridor.
"Who's to say he even had parties?" Aziraphale asked, following her. He was the one to say that, but he certainly wasn't going to.
"Lots of people, apparently," said Vehuel, walking slowly. The carved wood paneling on the wall must have caught her eye, because she was looking at it now with interest. "I lucked out at a jazz club and ran into a group of people who'd come to parties here. Most of them didn't remember the address, but they pointed me to a sax player who'd been there, and he remembered. I'll give him this -- Crowley may have made the awful choice to live in the suburbs, but he's got good taste in music. For a demon, anyway. Pays pretty well too, apparently. Hey, did you see this?" she asked, motioning at the carvings. "You think there's a secret passage or something?"
"What makes you say that?" Aziraphale asked, because he didn't trust himself to actually answer her question convincingly either way.
"Well, there's all these animals and plants carved into the wall. There's gotta be a button or something, right? You press down on the goose or whatever and there's a door, something like that."
"The goose?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yeah, I mean... look at this! This is the kind of decor you basically only have if you're royalty, or if you're hiding buttons to open a secret passage. Ugh, he probably thinks he's so smart, too, the button's probably a reference to his big demonic achievement. They all have one, and they're all stupid about it. Can't wait to tell you about it when you're fighting them. 'Oh, I used to be worshiped as a god!' Big deal, so did half of Hell, you're not special."
Aziraphale bit back a defense of Crowley's ridiculous secret door -- it was silly, yes, but surely it hadn't earned the sort of vitriol Vehuel seemed to have for the concept. And anyway, his demonic achievements were nothing to sniff at; Aziraphale didn't have to defend them at all. "He was the serpent in the Garden of Eden," he supplied.
Vehuel frowned. "I thought that was Satan? No wonder there's all these animals and trees, though." If she was impressed, she did not show it.
"Oh, no, it was definitely Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Satan might have... taken credit for it?"
"Hm. Typical," grumbled Vehuel. She was frowning at the carvings, squinting at them.
"What makes you say that?" Aziraphale asked, hoping this was the opening he needed to ask her about Lucifer.
"Just seems like a Satan-y thing to do," said Vehuel, shrugging. "Now. Where's the snake? Where... is... the... hold this for me," she said, handing Aziraphale the pool cue?"
"What did you pick it up for?" He'd been a little afraid to ask when she'd grabbed it, but now he was holding it for her, he felt he had a right to know.
"In case he's still here somewhere and we have to fight him. I don't have a sword, I have to make do," said Vehuel, bending to squint at the carvings. "Snake, gotta be here somewhere..."
Aziraphale wondered how disappointed she would be when she found the snake -- if there even was one. The button was an apple, after all.
But Vehuel was a few steps ahead of him now, running her fingers along the paneling, muttering, "Snake, snake, snake" to herself. She paused. "Hey, uh, quick question, he didn't have legs before the whole apple incident, did he?"
"Er. Well, I assume, before he Fell --"
"I mean the serpent form, that didn't have legs, did it? There's that whole... belly crawling passage?"
"Ah. No, no legs," said Aziraphale. As far as he was aware, anyway. But he had really paid more attention to Crowley's legs in human form.
"Okay, then that's probably just a lizard," said Vehuel, moving on. "I wonder if -- aha! Found it. It's not even subtle, it's really worn, the gaps are obvious if you're looking."
"Really?" Aziraphale asked, very surprised. The secret door was out on the landing, and he knew the button was -- Aziraphale remembered this, very clearly -- an apple. Was there a second secret door Crowley hadn't showed him? He was worried he'd missed something now.
"Yup, it's --" She pressed down on the carved serpent. There was a click, and the top part of the panel swung out, hitting her in the face hard enough to send her flying into the other side of the corridor. Something slammed down in front of them, blocking the way to the landing.
She staggered to her feet, clutching her face. "Goddamnit," she muttered. Then she froze, looking terrified, and Aziraphale briefly wondered what had her so spooked until he realized what she'd said. "I didn't -- I didn't mean that, I only meant -- it wasn't --"
"Quite understandable!" said Aziraphale, who was now more concerned about the fact that Vehuel seemed to have been injured than he was over a little mild blasphemy. "You're, er. You're bleeding. Are you all right?"
"Little dizzy," she said, and healed the cut and the bruising with a pass of her hand. "I've had worse, I'll be fine." She turned to examine the new -- wall? Door? That had descended from the ceiling, cutting them off from the rest of the house, and to Aziraphale's surprise, he felt a flash of absolute delight from her. "What's this? It has sigils," she said. She paused, and looked guiltily back at Aziraphale, her eyes gleaming. "Sorry, sorry, I know this must be really stressful for you, I know you warned me this Crowley was wily and all that, but -- look, most demons are so dumb. So, so dumb. I wasn't expecting a challenge."
Aziraphale was proud that Crowley'd managed to trick her even without being here, but also, of course Crowley would do something like this, and of course it would end up backfiring on Aziraphale, and also, if it was all the same to her, Aziraphale would have much preferred it if Vehuel hated a challenge and gave up as soon as she encountered one. Except for the matter of... "Are we trapped? I do hope we're not trapped." He didn't have time to be trapped.
"I don't think so? It looks like it's only warded against demons, which is very weird," said Vehuel. "Obviously most demons hate each other, but he wasn't worried about angels poking around at all?" She swung the panel that'd hit her back into the wall, and pressed it in until it clicked, then turned the handle of the warded door and walked right through. "Why go to all the trouble to hire a human magician to do this, and not ward yourself against your mortal enemies?"
"Do you think there's another snake button?" Aziraphale asked, following her.
"Nah," she said, "the snake was a red herring, obviously." She paused. "Well, it was a snake, not a fish, but it was -- it was a false --"
"I'm familiar with the phrase," said Aziraphale. He'd forgot how exhausting it was to have to explain things in Heaven.
"Oh, good," she said. "Anyway. I'm looking for apples." He knew it was safe for her to get into the rest of Crowley's house, but as he watched her find the apple tree with the button, he wished she wasn't quite so clever. "Can I have the pool cue back?" She reached out a hand, and Aziraphale passed it to her. He knew she didn't need it, but he let her stand well away anyway. She pressed the button from a safe distance, and grinned as the door swung open. "Aha! Careful, looks like there's a step up," she said as she stepped through. "Aaand another door with sigils. Hmm."
Aziraphale joined her, and saw that the way to Crowley's office had indeed been blocked by a new door, which must've come down when the other one had, neatly setting up a little puzzle for her that would doubtless make her more interested in tracking Crowley down. Crowley really was his own worst enemy sometimes -- Vehuel seemed absolutely thrilled to have an interesting demon to pursue.
"We'll deal with that later," she said, with a flare of anticipation. "You check these rooms up here, I'll look down there," she said, pointing down the corridor to the bedroom.
Aziraphale made a show of looking in the first "bedroom," one of several rooms full of dusty crates of liquor, until he was sure Vehuel had gone, but he'd seen everything here already and he was curious about the new door. He felt a surge of terrible fondness for Crowley and his silly secret doors, and briefly he wished that Vehuel's enjoyment of a puzzle to solve might be translated into liking Crowley and not wanting to harm him.
From the sigils carved into this door, it looked to be protected against angels and demons both. He tried the doorknob, using the same miracle he always did to unlock doors, but it clicked and wouldn't budge. Perhaps they wouldn't be able to look at Crowley's office at all, then; perhaps Vehuel would have to find another way in. Or maybe she'd give up and come back another time.
"Hey, Aziraphale?" came Vehuel's voice from down the corridor. She sounded hesitant.
"Yes?" he called back, uncertainly. He stepped away from the door and started looking in the next storage room.
"Crowley was never... weird about you, was he?"
Aziraphale wasn't sure what that meant. "Sorry?"
"Weird. Is he weird?" Vehuel called back. "Is he... creepy?"
Aziraphale had no idea how to answer this. "Well, he is a demon," he called back, because that seemed to be a good, pat answer for a lot of these awkward questions. "They're meant to be very frightening to humans, so I imagine they find him 'creepy' sometimes. Why do you ask?"
"It's probably nothing!" she said, and Aziraphale heard the sound of footsteps approaching. "Find anything interesting?"
"Lots of liquor," said Aziraphale. "Some ammunition. No guns, though." There had been one in Crowley's desk drawer, but Aziraphale had thrown it in the lake. "You?" He glanced over at her.
Her face was difficult to read. "There was. A statue? I don't know if -- I don't know if you really want to -- I mean -- look, no, nothing interesting," she said.
Ah. "A statue of what?" he asked, because, well, he would have asked if he didn't already know.
"You know, I couldn't tell you? Let's deal with this door," said Vehuel, quickly.
Aziraphale shouldn't, he really shouldn't, but. "Very modern, was it?"
"Uh," said Vehuel. "More, uh, classical themes. So! The door!"
"I looked at it," said Aziraphale. "I don't think we can get through it, though."
"Yeah. It's interesting, isn't it?" Vehuel asked, clearly relieved not to be talking about That Statue. "He clearly didn't forget angels might want to hurt him, because his panic room's warded against us, but he didn't want to trap us?"
Aziraphale suspected he knew what Crowley had been thinking -- that Aziraphale might conceivably be here someday, and might press the wrong button, and that he wanted a way to contain any demonic coworkers who might pop by, but didn't want to trap Aziraphale. He desperately wished Crowley was here with him now, or at least that he knew Crowley was all right. "Perhaps he hoped any angels might just go away on their own," he suggested.
"Well, he hoped wrong," said Vehuel. She tried the lock; it did not work for her, as it hadn't worked for Aziraphale. She stooped down to peer at the lock. "Hmm."
"Perhaps we'll need to call a locksmith?" Aziraphale suggested. "Oh, but he'll probably want to be certain this is our house, and --"
"No, no, don't worry, I got this," said Vehuel, pulling a small metal box out of the ether.
Isn't that what you said about Pompeii? Aziraphale thought, very uncharitably, and immediately felt guilty. "Oh?"
She opened the box up; it looked to be a small briefcase. "Hang on, wait, I swear it's in here somewhere..." He watched as she pulled several things from the briefcase -- a sack of Spanish pieces of eight clinked onto the floor, partially spilling out, followed by assorted tools Aziraphale couldn't make heads or tails of, and then, suddenly, she produced a strange bronze box with Greek writing scrawled all over the two dials. "Sorry, could you hang onto this for a sec?" she said, handing the box to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale grabbed it before she went rummaging around in the briefcase -- it seemed to be a calendar of some sort. "What is this?"
"Eclipse predictor. Had it commissioned a while ago but it got lost in shipping -- I was home the day it was supposed to come, but I'm sure they didn't knock -- so I had to make my -- aha! Found it." Aziraphale looked up from the needlessly elaborate clockwork calendar down, and saw that she was trying something in the lock. "No, not that one. Hmm."
"Are those lockpicks?" Aziraphale asked, frowning at the small leather case she was holding.
"Yup," she said. "Picked 'em up yesterday."
"Where?" This was not really the main question in Aziraphale's mind -- the main question was Why? Had she known about this extra security feature or, or whatever it was, of Crowley's house? Had she been here without him?
"Let's just say they don't sell them at Field's," she said. "It took some time convincing them to let me have my safety deposit box from 50 years ago, but --" The lock clicked. "Ah, there we go."
"But why do you have lockpicks?" Aziraphale asked, as Vehuel swung the door open.
"To... uh. To pick... locks?" said Vehuel.
"You don't need to pick locks, you're an angel," Aziraphale pointed out. "Did you -- did you come here on your own? I told you, Crowley's very dangerous and --"
"What? No," said Vehuel, stopping and staring at him like he was an idiot. "Why would -- look, I might not have a great record with cities but I'm not completely stupid," she said.
"Yes, but I can tell you're very keen on finding him and, and --"
"Are you saying you think I would go to commit a felony, in the suburbs, without bringing anyone along to watch my back? Do you think I want to be discorporated?"
It was Aziraphale's turn to sputter. "Why would you be discorpor--"
"Because the cops would shoot me if they caught me breaking into a house!" said Vehuel. She glared at him, then picked up the grandfather clock as if he might take it away from her, and lowered it carefully into the briefcase. "They won't shoot you, you look like you belong here, they'll think this is your house and you just lost your keys or something," she said, picking up all the pieces of eight and dropping the sack back into the briefcase. "And they won't shoot me if they don't notice me, or if they think I'm the help, but I can't concentrate on blending in all the time, so -- so no, in fact, I did not come here like a complete idiot," she snapped, putting her tools carefully back into the lid of the briefcase. "I had them stashed away, I don't have a base of operations right now, so I brought them with, and I didn't know you'd be so bent out of shape about it." She latched the briefcase closed, picked it up, and walked through the door without waiting for him.
"But why would you even have lockpicks?" Aziraphale demanded, because he could think of maybe three times he'd ever had to unlock a door the human way.
"Because -- just in case, I don't know," said Vehuel.
Aziraphale was not at all convinced. "Just in case of secret doors with occult protections?"
She stopped, and turned around, and said, "Because I like them, all right? I just like them! They're fun! What exactly is your problem here? Do you think I've been using them to break into human's houses or something? Because... okay, for one thing, why? And for another, why would I do it mechanically when I could just walk through walls like a normal person?"
Aziraphale realized that he was an idiot. "Ah. I --"
"And! And! I know it's a stupid thing, okay, I know, I know it's weird and dumb and human, but it's my weird dumb human thing and I like it, and I'm good at it. Was I planning on getting my locksmithing license back before I used them? Yeah, obviously, but they were really useful today, so I don't know what your problem is; technically, did I break the law? Yeah, but we're both breaking into someone's house, and he's a demon, so --"
By this point, Aziraphale realized he'd had the wrong end of the stick, and he tried to explain himself. "I only worried because, well, Crowley's a very dangerous demon, and if you were to come here on your own...."
This did not pacify her. "Of the two of us it sounds like I'm way better at handling demons, so maybe quit acting like I couldn't possibly survive an encounter with the great and terrible Crowley when you've never even tried to discorporate him, okay? I'm sure whatever Gabriel told you about me made me sound like the least competent angel in all Creation, but I'm really really not." A halo of light flared around her, and Aziraphale realized she must be quite upset to have done that by accident; most people didn't bring out their halos unless they were trying to intimidate a human, because to other angels it just looked a bit silly.
"I am... I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. He didn't know what else he could say, really. He had clearly blundered into a sensitive subject in his panic, and her anger was fading rapidly into something more vulnerable.
Was it fear? Worry? "I'm... I'm gonna go look around outside," she said. "I'll just -- yeah." She eeled past him and was down the corridor before he could stop her.
Aziraphale supposed he should go after her. The kind thing to do would be to apologize again and also to thank her for having got them through the door, and probably also to assure her that he didn't think it was odd to find human things interesting or fun.
But... he'd just been handed the opportunity to claim he'd done a thorough search of Crowley's office. He'd left things largely as they were, to avoid any suspicion that the office had been searched already, but if Vehuel wasn't even going to participate in the search -- well, he had a lot more leeway to pick and choose what he "found" there when she returned.
The windows in Crowley's office had a view out onto the lake, and to the area out back with the steps down to the water, and when Aziraphale decided to go into the office instead of out to Vehuel, he glanced outside. She was standing there, at the top of the steps, and as he watched, she wrapped her coat up around herself a bit more, and then walked down to the shore.
She took a rock from the shore, threw it out onto the frozen lake, and then recalled it and threw it harder, so that it broke a huge patch of ice when it landed. Then she appeared to be wiping her face, and Aziraphale felt even more guilty than he already did. She took a few breaths that clouded the chilly air, pulled something out of her pocket, did something with it, and -- ah -- she'd lit a cigarette.
Well. She would be fine out there for the time being. Aziraphale turned to Crowley's desk, and pulled the top drawer out, to empty it as untidily as he could. He'd just poured it out onto the floor when one of Crowley's telephones rang.
It was the one labeled Lilith. Aziraphale grabbed it. "Hello?"
"Who the hell is this?" said the voice at the other end. "Where's Lil with the whiskey I ordered? Tell her she'd better --"
"Excuse me, who's speaking?" said Aziraphale, ready to be very offended on Crowley's behalf.
"Alphonse fucking Capone, you may have heard of me," snapped the voice.
"Oh! Mr. Capone," said Aziraphale. "We met at your birthday party." And if he didn't know where Crowley was, maybe he could at least be of use in finding him.
"Oh, you're, uh, Lil's gentleman friend, right?"
"Her solicitor," said Aziraphale, patiently.
"Yeah, that. Where is she? She's real behind on some orders I had. Real behind. I've been trying to find her but --"
"I don't know where she is," said Aziraphale, and it was such a relief to just tell somebody else that. "I don't -- she's been missing for --"
"Missing?" Capone asked.
"For a few weeks. We had -- it was my fault -- we had a quarrel, and I thought she needed time to, to, to cool down, but this is -- this is getting to be a very long time, and she takes her obligations extremely seriously and I can't imagine she'd just leave you, er, high and dry, as it were."
"Shit," said Capone. "She's -- what'd you fight about?"
"Oh," said Aziraphale, "er. Well. It was very stupid, it was just --"
"Eh, women. What can you do?" Capone asked.
Aziraphale frowned at this. "It was my fault," he said, very clearly. "But I would prefer not to go into it."
"And she's just gone?" Capone asked.
"I'm worried somebody took her," Aziraphale said. He stood, briefly, and looked out the window to see if Vehuel was still there, and reassuringly, she appeared to still be working on her cigarette. Her halo was no longer gleaming quite so much against the snow, though, which meant she was calming down. "Also, the police have been by," he invented. It was close enough, although he didn't think Vehuel would appreciate being called that. "I, ah. I haven't mentioned my... my non-professional involvement with her, and I'd appreciate if you didn't either. Would be bad for everyone involved, I think."
"Sure, sure. But don't worry so much about the cops, they're easy enough to deal with, I know a couple guys on the force who could get 'em to lay off," said Capone.
"Well, the thing is, I don't think they're actually police," said Aziraphale, quickly. He did not want any of Capone's guys to tell him no investigation was happening. Or to decide such an investigation might be warranted.
"That's very shady, sending guys dressed as cops," said Capone. Aziraphale supposed he would know. "But I kinda like it. I mean -- I mean I don't like it happening here, just. Smart idea," he said.
"Right, yes, glad to have been of assistance," said Aziraphale, irritably, "but have you any idea where Lilith has gone? Or who might have taken her, if someone has?"
"Hmm. Not so much," said Capone. "I mean, she's a helluva smuggler, but I don't know of anyone she's pissed off enough all on her own. And no matter how mad they were they probably wouldn't wanna risk pissing me off, so... If you got any ideas you tell me, 'cause if I find out some bastard tried to hurt one of my bootleggers he's gonna be trying on cement shoes pretty soon."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. He didn't know what cement shoes were, and decided he'd prefer not to ask. He considered, briefly, whether to mention the incident with Hymie Weiss. After all, Crowley had been Crowley then, not Lilith, and the Crowley version of Crowley (this was all very confusing) worked for Weiss. "Well. I'll let you know. Is there -- is there any possibility the North Siders might have taken her?" he ventured, testing the waters.
There was a long silence on the other end.
"Mr. Capone?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm here, I'm... it's just... You better pray Weiss didn't get her, he's a goddamn lunatic. Didn't think he'd stoop so low as to kidnap a lady, but if he did..."
For all his talk, Capone seemed genuinely afraid of Weiss. "Can't you -- haven't you got cement shoes to fit him?"
"Look, mister, I won't deny I'm a big man in this town but I'm not a fuckin' miracle worker, okay? You give me a way to get rid of Weiss, I will, believe me, but that guy's fucking nuts! He's been trying to kill me for over a year now, and over practically nothing, so if it was that easy to get rid of him, he'd'a been in the lake since it thawed last spring."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. "Forgive me; I'm rather new in town, I don't know all this history."
"Nah, I get it, you're worried about your lady," said Capone. "Look, I'll see what I can find out on my end, okay? And you lemme know what the cops -- or, uh, whoever they are -- lemme know what they do, and who they are if you find out. Maybe we can help each other here."
"Yes, of course," said Aziraphale. Oh, he did hope this wouldn't backfire on him. "I'll -- I'll keep you updated. Oh! But don't call back here, I only happened to be here because I'd hoped -- well, I'd hoped she'd be here." He assumed Capone thought this number was for the house under Lilith's name in Cicero. "I'm staying at the Palmer House downtown; ask for Mr. Fell."
"I'll do that. Good luck, Mr. Fell."
"Thank you. Take care," said Aziraphale. He put the phone down, then craned his neck to see if Vehuel was outside still.
She was nowhere in sight. Panicking slightly, Aziraphale did a quick miracle to make all the drawers fly open, so that it looked as though Aziraphale had been hard at work searching Crowley's office.
He was just in time; he heard Vehuel coming up the stairs, and began pulling out the things he wanted her to see first.
She stood in the doorway of the office, and Aziraphale decided he'd rather let her speak first and see how she was feeling, so he kept working and didn't look up.
"Huh. It's just an office," she said. It was so cold outside she'd somehow brought it inside with her; he could feel a chill coming off of her that had nothing to do with the mood of the room.
He looked up at her now. She seemed uncertain, and also a bit disappointed. "Yes," he said.
"Did you check for secret doors?" she asked.
He hadn't this time around, but he thought he'd have found one earlier, if it had existed. He'd spent a lot of time in this room earlier. "No secret doors, I don't think," he said.
"Ah, well. Three's probably plenty for most people," said Vehuel. She hadn't moved from the doorway, and was staring out the window instead of looking him in the eye.
"About earlier," said Aziraphale, and she tensed, visibly. "I think I have given you exactly the wrong impression about -- about hobbies, and that's my fault. After this, what do you say to discussing it over a plate of pierogis?" He waited, hoping he'd read her right and that she wasn't about to be horrified by the idea of food.
Vehuel blinked. "Pierogis, you say?" She did not quite smile. "Well. I know a bribe when I'm offered one, but dumplings are always valid currency with me."
"Lovely," said Aziraphale, relieved that this had worked. "I did find some -- well, items of interest, perhaps?" He showed her a thick sheaf of coded notes Crowley had written. They were in a cipher he and Aziraphale had used for several centuries, so he knew they were just notes on blackmail material for local politicians, but Vehuel would have to take some time to decode them.
"Ooh," she said, taking the pages, and as she looked at them her not-quite-smile became a grin. "Yeah, this definitely looks interesting. I can figure this out."
"And I found a handful of photographs," said Aziraphale, "although I haven't had a chance to go through them." He had, and had weeded out all the ones Crowley was in, of course. "Ah, and I think these are reports to Hell." They were wildly inaccurate, of course, because they were Crowley's.
"Damn, I've never actually read one of those," said Vehuel, looking like Head Office had told her she'd have Christmas and Easter off for the next hundred years. "What else is there?"
Aziraphale handed her a stack of business cards and other minimally-informative ephemera, and a few pages of notes on local musicians. Aziraphale suspected they were just people Crowley'd wanted to hire for parties. "I think he might be working on tempting musicians?"
"Very susceptible, apparently," said Vehuel, sighing. "I think I might've run into some of these guys. I missed so much up there, and -- and music in Heaven is -- don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with it, but..."
But it's not interesting, was the unspoken conclusion. "Yes, I know what you mean," said Aziraphale.
They went through the rest of the contents of Crowley's office; every now and then Aziraphale quietly put something he'd decided at the last minute was too useful into the stack with all of Crowley's tax documents. (Vehuel had taken one look at the thick sheaf proclaiming itself to be Crowley's 1924 federal tax return, said, "Ugh!" and not looked any further at that stack. Aziraphale suspected that was what the tax drawer was for, because he couldn't imagine Crowley actually paying tax, and he'd found the encrypted notes on politicians at the back of it.) Eventually they ran out of papers, and crammed their collection of probably-not-that-useful documents into a large folder.
As they were headed to the entryway to leave, they heard someone trying the doorknob downstairs. Vehuel froze up for a moment, and waited, as whoever-it-was failed to walk miraculously through the locked door. "What do you think, burglars or nosy neighbors?" she asked Aziraphale.
"One hopes neighbors would knock," said Aziraphale.
"One hopes a lot of things," said Vehuel. "But yeah, probably." She went to open the door; Aziraphale hung back, worried they might be some of Weiss' men who'd seen him. He heard the door swing open. "Hey, are you nosy neighbors or burglars?" Vehuel asked brightly.
There was a moment of discombobulated silence, and then a man asked, "You Mr. Crowley's maid?"
Vehuel sighed heavily. "No. I'm also gonna guess you're not nosy neighbors. What do you want?"
"We're looking for, uh, for a guy named --" And Aziraphale thought oh no. "-- Azipul? No. Azinpaul -- fuck, this is terrible handwriting."
"I'm gonna tell him you said he had bad handwriting!" said a second unfamiliar voice.
"Shut up, Sid. We're looking for Az-raffa-lay," said the first voice, with the amazing confidence that only the profoundly incorrect ever seemed to possess. Oh no, Aziraphale thought again, only this time it was accompanied by a hideous sort of glee.
"Nobody here by that name, pretty sure," said Vehuel. "What is that, French?"
"Look, lady, if you're not Mr. Crowley's maid, what are you doing in his house?"
"Since you were trying to break in, I could ask the same thing of you," said Vehuel.
Aziraphale couldn't really think of an excuse to hide for this long, so he went to the front door and stood beside Vehuel. The men she was giving a hard time didn't look familiar, so he supposed he was probably safe. One of them caught sight of him and brightened immediately. "This girl's giving us a lot of lip, maybe you could help us out."
Vehuel, like most angels, presented as an adult, roughly middle-aged human; Aziraphale had to assume the man was being intentionally disrespectful. "Oh, I don't think I will," he said coldly. "Why are you here?"
"Well, we were looking for Mr. Crowley's friend Azraffalay," said the man, who continued to be very confident in his wrongness.
"Don't believe I know him," said Aziraphale. "May I ask who sent you?"
The two men looked at each other. "Mr. Crowley sent us," said Confidently Wrong. Aziraphale knew he couldn't possibly be telling the truth, much as he wished to believe Crowley was somewhere nice, of his own free will, and wanted Aziraphale to join him.
"Aha! Then maybe you can help us," said Vehuel. "Where's Mr. Crowley?"
"Hey, who's asking the questions here?" said Confidently Wrong.
"Me, I am," said Vehuel, her voice full of hostile, jagged cheer. "Where's Mr. Crowley?"
Confidently Wrong glared at Aziraphale. "Who the hell is in charge here, you or her?"
"I think my associate has things well in hand," said Aziraphale, nodding at Vehuel. He doubted they knew where Crowley was, but maybe Vehuel could get something useful out of them.
"Right, thank you," said Vehuel. "Now, where's Mr. Crowley?"
"You know what? No. I'm in charge now, and I don't like your tone," said Confidently Wrong. He drew a gun -- and dropped it with a yelp almost immediately. "The hell?"
"I don't like your tone either," said Vehuel. "Nice gun, though." She picked it up; Aziraphale could see it had a layer of white frost on it. She blew on the gun, and the frost melted off. "Again: where's Mr. Crowley?" she asked. She did not point the gun at him, merely held it at her side. Confidently Wrong's eyes flicked down to it, then back at Vehuel.
He must have decided she was more trouble than she was worth. "Come on, Sid, we don't need to deal with this bitch," said Confidently Wrong, and he began to walk back to the car.
"Oh, no, no, no," said Vehuel, making a circling motion with her finger, and he walked right back to the front door, staring down at his feet as though they'd gone rogue and he didn't know what they would do next. Which was likely true. "I didn't say you could go."
"What -- what the fuck did you do?" said Confidently Wrong.
"Oh, don't be afraid," said Vehuel, in a casual tone that managed to be more menacing than anything with actual menace in it. She beamed at them. "I just want to talk."
Aziraphale looked at the plainly terrified faces of the humans. "Do try not to break them," he reminded her.
"Please, I know what I'm doing, I won't break them," said Vehuel. "Maybe just bend them a little; their morals are clearly very flexible. Besides, they won't remember any of this, it's fine. And anyway, if they'd just been rude and racist I'd have left them alone. But they really shouldn't have tried to shoot me."
Confidently Wrong and Sid seemed to be doing everything they could to flee, except for actually picking their feet up and going. "I suppose you have a point," said Aziraphale. He couldn't really say he felt sorry for them.
"Come on, guys, pay attention," said Vehuel, and they did. When she spoke again, her voice had fire and stars in it. "Where is Mr. Crowley?"
"I -- I don't know! I don't know where he is," said Confidently Wrong. He looked anxiously back at his car. "Can we go now?"
"Sid, do you have anything to add?" Vehuel asked.
Sid shook his head emphatically.
"And what did he want with this -- uh, what was the guy's name --" She looked at Aziraphale.
"I believe the gentleman was called 'Azraffalay,'" said Aziraphale, helpfully.
"Yeah, that," said Vehuel. "What did he want with Azraffalay?"
"Iunno what they were gonna do with him," said Confidently Wrong. "They just said he might be here and we had to take him."
Vehuel looked at Sid.
"I figure maybe we were gonna ransom him," Sid volunteered.
"What? You think?" said Confidently Wrong.
"I bet," said Sid. "Fancy name like that, guy's gotta be loaded."
"Ah, yes, that's exactly how it works," said Vehuel wryly. "And why did he think Azraffalay -- honestly, how did you get there from -- I'm -- never mind. Why did he think this person might be here?"
"Said he was a guest here," said Confidently Wrong.
Vehuel looked at Aziraphale, who tried to look as appalled as possible. "Oh, really, the very idea -- I have rooms at the Palmer House!"
"Yeah, obviously you weren't -- yeah." She turned to the men. "And who's your employer, exactly?"
"Uh," said Confidently Wrong. Vehuel turned the full force of her glare on him, and he cringed back from her. "We. We don't really..." He looked at Sid.
"He gets kinda tongue-tied when he's nervous," Sid told Vehuel. "Anyway, we work for some people who don't want us to know who they are. In case someone gets us and tortures us, you know how it is. We got various third parties who line up work for us, and this guy, we don't know his name, so, uh... sorry?"
"Mm. Freelance kidnappers. I wish I was more surprised," said Vehuel. She turned to Aziraphale. "I don't think they really know anything, do you? I mean, in general, but also specifically about this."
"I think you're right. Well, it was worth a try, at least." He was, as horrible as it was to admit, very relieved the threat of torture had made whoever-it-was use freelancers, because otherwise Vehuel would know who had Crowley, even if she didn't know Crowley wasn't working for them willingly. Besides, if Mr. Capone didn't know where he was, that left the North Siders, the smaller criminal factions, and perhaps some politicians, and politicians probably did less kidnapping on average than criminals, even here.
She sighed. "Yeah, it was. Okay, boys," she said, turning to Sid and Confidently Wrong, "I'm giving you a choice. On the way back into the city, you're going to either decide that you want a complete career change -- ideally a legal one, but look, I know I can't be picky, just don't go around kidnapping people, or hurting or killing them, all right? -- or you're going to leave the state as soon as you possibly can, and never come back. Is that very, very clear?"
Sid and Confidently Wrong nodded.
"Great!" said Vehuel. "Now, as for what happened here, let's just say -- you came to the house, no one was here, you found nothing interesting, and once you tell your boss that, you'll be on your way to your new lives, whatever those may be." They nodded again, and she dismissed them with a gesture. "Go on, get out of here!" Dazed, the two walked back to their car and got inside. Vehuel shut the door, and they waited inside for the cab to arrive. "Do you think I should get a car?" she asked, watching them drive away. "I really wish we could follow them, wherever they're going someone there must know where he's hiding out."
Aziraphale had been thinking about how sick he was of taking cabs into and out of the suburbs, but he suddenly decided cabs were fine, for now. "Oh, I don't think you'll need one in the city, there are streetcars and things."
"Mm. Maybe. Might depend on the neighborhood, though, it usually does around here," she said, frowning. "That was interesting, at least. How do you think he knew you'd be here? And -- why would he send two complete morons to kidnap an angel? Wouldn't he just come himself? And he didn't just tell them your name? Also, I feel like his handwriting's not that bad?" she added, indicating the folder with all of Crowley's papers inside.
Aziraphale wasn't sure what his hypothetical foe Truly Diabolical Crowley would do, but he absolutely knew his friend and idiot Crowley Who Resurrected A Cat And Claimed It As An Evil Deed would not have sent these men. "I don't know," he said. "It does seem he must know someone's after him, though, doesn't it? I was a bit worried he'd come back to the house while we were here," he added. He had been only a bit worried about that; he'd been a bit hopeful, too.
"Didn't you say Crowley'd never realized you were onto him, though?" Vehuel asked.
Oh. He'd forgot about that. "Oh dear. Perhaps I was overconfident in saying that."
"Look, I -- I really don't want to worry you," said Vehuel, "and maybe I'm overreacting, but that statue I mentioned --"
"Ah, the cab's here," said Aziraphale, opening the front door, much preferring the chilly air to however that sentence was going to end. "Come along! We can discuss it over those pierogis." He had no idea how he was going to keep from discorporating out of sheer embarrassment during whatever she wanted to tell him about That Statue, but he had a feeling being in a dimly-lit restaurant would make it a bit harder to tell how embarrassed he actually was.
Chapter 11: attorney for the damned
Notes:
Going to try and catch up a little while I have the energy. Like I said, the whole thing is written, it's just not edited to my complete satisfaction. Sorry if this overwhelms any subscribers -- the fic will still be here when you have time!
Content note: If you're at work or on your phone in public, absolutely do not look up the goat statue they discuss. Do not. Maybe don't look it up at all?
A song for this chapter: "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter" by Fats Waller
Chapter Text
The restaurant was small and a bit cramped, but it was warm and full of delicious savory smells. Aziraphale ordered awkwardly in English, mangling every pronunciation, and then watched with mild surprise as Vehuel ordered for herself in Polish, chatted with the waitress a bit, and then asked Aziraphale if he wanted anything to drink. Apparently the owner brewed his own beer. Vehuel mentioned the beer cautiously, but her relief was obvious when Aziraphale expressed interest, and Aziraphale was relieved too; he had not realized how much strain it had been to try and present himself as, well, a perfect angel, to his coworker, and she probably felt the same way.
When the waitress was gone, Vehuel said, by way of explanation, "I got Upstairs to miraculously grant me Polish back in the 1860s, it seemed like it'd be a useful language given how the demographics were shifting at the time. Hopefully I can learn it for real though now that I'm back; I guess I sound like I'm from Warsaw? Which isn't always bad but I'd rather sound like I was from Chicago."
"Wouldn't you speak English if you..."
"No, no, there's a local dialect, I can tell," said Vehuel. "Right now I sound like I just got into town, which I did, but I'd rather blend linguistically. Especially if I already have to pretend to be white."
"I suppose that makes sense," said Aziraphale. The waitress brought two generous glasses of beer.
Vehuel took a sip. "Huh, this is pretty good! Let me tell you, the local bars have terrible beer compared to what we used to get, it's embarrassing. I asked around and apparently the only good stuff around is homemade these days."
"I tried some of the cocktails, those were quite good," said Aziraphale. "Although the liquor itself is... hmm."
"Yeah, I've heard it's pretty dire," said Vehuel. She made a face.
"This is embarrassing to admit," said Aziraphale, "but I had terrible trouble sobering up afterwards. I had to sleep it off like a human."
"That bad, huh? Well, thanks for the warning," said Vehuel. She looked up and her eyes widened, and -- presumably -- thanked the waitress in Polish, as she put their food down. Aziraphale's stomach growled -- how long had it been since he'd eaten? Days -- weeks, maybe. He'd been terribly preoccupied.
He should probably get to the difficult part of the meal before he got too invested in this mushroom soup, though. "I did want to apologize for how I must've come across earlier, about the lockpicks, and also, ah, about looking for Crowley," he said. "I certainly wasn't doubting your competence! In fact, actually, I'm afraid I have only my own lack of competence to blame for it. You see, I've been... I've been terrified of what might happen when you and I find Crowley."
It was true, so he wasn't especially surprised that Vehuel appeared to find it convincing. "What's so scary about him, anyway?" She started in on her stuffed cabbage.
"Well, it's not him so much, he's never actually... we've never actually -- I've never faced him down, of course," said Aziraphale. "The thing is. I." He hesitated before telling her this truth, but he thought it made the most sense. "I haven't got that sword anymore."
Vehuel paused, a bit of stuffed cabbage halfway to her mouth. To his relief, she appeared sympathetic. "Oh. Oh, yeah, that's -- that's a problem. But human weapons --"
"Are well and good, but I'm afraid I haven't really kept up with the technology since swords fell out of favor," said Aziraphale. "I'm decent with a sword; these guns, though... I don't know."
"Guns are easier, honestly, you can miracle the bullets in the right places," said Vehuel. "Like bows and arrows, but faster. I'm not really a big fan, though, that feels like cheating. But if you don't have the sword, why don't you let me handle him on my own?"
"I don't want them to find out I've lost it," said Aziraphale, nodding upwards. "And they might ask questions if I can't handle my own demon --"
"Well, he's not really your demon, is he?" said Vehuel. "Since he's in my city."
Aziraphale tried not to bristle at this, and he thought, mostly succeeded. He took an experimental spoonful of his mushroom soup, more to distract himself than anything, and it was delicious. "Oh, this is delightful."
Vehuel grinned. "Yeah, a cabbie told me about this place! Anyway, so you want to be there when I deal with him, because you're worried they'll ask questions about why you weren't there --"
"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Also -- and again, I don't mean to doubt your competence here, I only -- I worried about what would happen if you were discorporated. That would be terrible for both of us -- I'd look a fool and you'd have to do all that nasty paperwork."
"Eh, Raphael likes me, he usually speeds up the process a little," said Vehuel.
"Really?" Aziraphale asked.
"I'm in there a lot, I think he feels bad for me." She rolled her eyes. "But I mean, it's just the job, right?"
Aziraphale hadn't been discorporated very often, although as far as he was aware Raphael did not like anyone, so he was surprised to hear this was one of the perks of enduring frequent discorporation. Possibly the only one, really. "I suppose it is part of the job, yes. But my point was, I was anxious and not thinking particularly clearly. As for the lockpicks -- well." She looked tense, and ready to be defensive again, and he really did feel bad about having given her such a wrong impression. "I know you wouldn't be using them for anything bad, but also, it would be terribly hypocritical of me to criticize a hobby. I mean, you might as well enjoy yourself while you're down here. I, ah, I was sort of avoiding mentioning any of mine, because I was worried you wouldn't approve."
"You were?" Vehuel asked, blinking. "Me?"
Aziraphale scowled. "You know, every single time Gabriel comes and finds me and I'm eating lunch, or, or drinking tea even, he asks me to explain the appeal of food. Every single time. And don't even get me started on the books. I don't even think he's read the Bible, and he's in that one!"
"Hmm." Vehuel had another bit of stuffed cabbage. "So you think he's, what, trying to imply that you actually just shouldn't like food because he doesn't?"
"Well. Yes," said Aziraphale. "Either that or he's stupid, and..."
Vehuel shrugged.
"I mean he can't be stupid," Aziraphale said. It was not that the possibility hadn't occurred to him, but that he didn't want it to get out that he'd implied Gabriel was stupid. "He's the Archangel Gabriel!"
"Gabriel can be a lot of things because he's the Archangel Gabriel," said Vehuel. "Not," she added, "that I would ever say he was stupid, of course." But the implication was clear. She pulled a pierogi over to the front of her plate and cut it in half. "So, uh, before I forget, I did want to talk about -- uh, about the statue I found? And maybe it's nothing, I could be reading into things, but with the kidnappers showing up for you... better safe than sorry, you know?"
Oh dear. "I suppose so?" he said.
"Right, yeah," said Vehuel. "So, the statue is, it's. It's." Then she paused and made a few uncertain noises, as though she was hoping one of them would turn out to be a real word. It reminded him very strongly of Crowley, and he wondered once more if they'd ever worked together before the Fall. "It's... suggestive?"
"Ah," said Aziraphale. He decided to concentrate, for a few moments, on getting as much mushroom soup out of the mostly-empty bowl as possible, partly because it was very good mushroom soup, but mostly so he didn't have to meet Vehuel's eyes.
"And I mean, it's -- I've seen worse statues, I've -- you were assigned to Rome for a while, right? And you came to Pompeii, you mentioned, so you must have seen -- there's -- humanity has depicted some pretty wild things, um, in the general area of, of. Well, anyway. So it wasn't like that, it wasn't -- " She paused, took a large gulp of beer as if to give herself courage, and then ventured bravely onward. "There were no flying dicks, is what I'm saying. Or, or, or goats." The way she said goats, Aziraphale knew exactly what she meant, and wished he hadn't.
"I did visit that household," he admitted. "Very nice people. Wonderful collection of papyri. And it was a beautiful garden, except for the, er, the. Goat. What on earth were they thinking?"
"You know, I never asked," said Vehuel, who did not appear to regret that decision. "I mean, technically that one wasn't in Pompeii, it was in Herculaneum, so I didn't have to look at it all that often."
"Oh, I suppose it was," said Aziraphale. "They all sort of blended together in my head, I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, it's an easy mistake if you're not from there," said Vehuel, "but Herculaneum was basically the Naperville of Pompeii, you know?"
The only thing Aziraphale knew about Naperville was what Crowley had said about it the day after he'd arrived. "Nothing ever happened there?"
"Exactly!" said Vehuel, pleased. "So! Anyway! So this statue -- I admit, it could plausibly be two winged... people... wrestling, or something."
Aziraphale nodded, hoping Vehuel's own embarrassment over this would mean that she didn't particularly question his own.
"But. I feel like. Given how demons are, and also, the fact that this isn't Pompeii so a very risque statue would raise a few more eyebrows, and also -- weirdest thing -- it was in a closet, under a sheet? -- and then there were those kidnappers... I thought I should ask if it was possible that maybe you were saying Crowley hadn't realized you were on to him because... because maybe the way he did choose to interact with you was... embarrassing to you." There were a few moments of silence, wherein she very deliberately turned her attention to cutting up a pierogi while she waited for him to speak.
Aziraphale could feel his face heating up. "I -- I don't know what you mean," he said.
Vehuel sighed. "The thing is, it's not that uncommon? I mean, I think the official line from Heaven is that demons can't feel that kind of stuff -- I mean, not real love, anyway..."
"Right, yes," said Aziraphale, trying very hard not to think about that.
"But just going off of my experiences and some of the stuff I've heard gossip about... I think sometimes they get lonely, you know? And then some of them get kind of... weird. And on some level I understand that, you know?" she asked, gesturing with a chunk of pierogi at the end of her fork. "Because it's their job to ruin the lives of pretty much everyone they meet! And it's probably hard to make friends and if you're out on that kind of assignment for a very long time, even if you enjoy ruining everyone's lives... I don't know. But I've definitely had a few demons decide to follow me around and sort of... hmm. Try to menace me but be, you know, weirdly romantic about it?"
"I." He was momentarily at a loss for words. "Crowley has definitely never done that," Aziraphale said, and oh, he was so very glad for the low light in this place. Because Crowley hadn't done that, and had in fact gone out of his way to keep Aziraphale from being discorporated on multiple occasions. And whenever they were both drunk, and Aziraphale had foolishly let himself say things he shouldn't, or lean in closer to Crowley than was entirely proper, Crowley had been nothing but a gentleman. But it didn't mean Aziraphale hadn't thought about how appealing it might be, for Crowley to go to that sort of trouble over him, and how thrilling it could have been if Crowley had ever pressed his advantage for once.
"I mean, I guess it's kind of a good thing he sent those idiots instead of coming to kidnap you himself," said Vehuel, happily oblivious to the depths of Aziraphale's shame, "because it means he's probably not all that serious about it." She peered at his plate. "You should have those before they get cold. Did you get the potato ones, or --"
"Oh! No, I got the meat ones," said Aziraphale, looking down at his untouched pierogis. He must be very distracted if he'd forgot half his food. "What do you mean, not serious about it?" he asked, making a start on the neglected plate.
"So I had this one demon who had... kind of a thing for me? I don't know. It was a revenge thing, but it was still a thing. And it was all grotesquely over-engineered and stupidly complicated plans where I had to confront her in her evil fortress of doom, and it was just -- just a big stupid mess. I guess it was a little flattering, but also, please stop telling me we are not that different, because we definitely are and I will happily cut your head off for the third time this century, with this sword you literally just handed me so we could fight, and also how are you getting new bodies so fast?"
"Oh my," said Aziraphale. That did sound very awkward. And terribly embarrassing for everyone involved. He was very glad Crowley hadn't taken that route, on second thought.
"Anyway, I wouldn't be too worried about the whole evil fortress scenario, but I just wanted to mention it as a possibility," said Vehuel.
"Right, yes, I -- I understand," said Aziraphale. "I very much doubt that Crowley would do that sort of thing, though. He's always struck me as -- as, you know. All business."
"All business, except for the secret doors?" asked Vehuel. She paused for a moment. "Okay, I'll admit I kind of like the secret doors. He gets points for being interesting on that front. But anyway, look, if -- if he does have a weird thing for you, it's okay, it's not your fault, that's just demons," she said. "Or, or if he's just straight-up a creepy weirdo who likes torture -- well, I've met my fair share of those too. Discorporated most of 'em. Those ones especially tend not to be very bright."
"What I mean is he's always struck me as more focused on corrupting as many human souls as possible than anything else, and certainly not, er, not on anything to do with me!" said Aziraphale, who was painfully aware of what a liar he was at this moment. "If he is that sort of demon, well, I haven't particularly seen it. No, no, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick."
He didn't like how Vehuel was frowning at him. "Why are you so frightened of him, then?" she asked.
This was... a very good question, he had to admit, especially because Aziraphale had never actually found Crowley threatening, and was having trouble imagining anything Crowley could do that might frighten Aziraphale, aside from suddenly going missing, or asking for holy water, or that sort of thing. "Well, I'm not frightened, exactly, just. Bad experiences."
"Yeah, that's kind of a given with demons," said Vehuel. "But if he's not -- if he's not making himself directly unpleasant and you haven't seen him being particularly cruel to humans --"
"Well! If you must know!" said Aziraphale, interrupting her before he quite knew what to say. He'd almost been about to fall upon his sword and just pretend to be a terrible coward, and then he remembered he didn't have a sword to fall on, or otherwise, and that actually helped rather a lot. "If you must know, he's the one who got me demoted."
"Demoted?" Vehuel asked.
"Well. I did say he was the serpent who tempted Eve, didn't I?" Aziraphale allowed himself the guilty expression he'd been suppressing for most of this conversation. "I was stationed at the Eastern Gate, and I certainly wasn't supposed to let him in."
"But that's -- but you -- oh," said Vehuel. Aziraphale watched her process this. He'd certainly never told Crowley about his demotion; for all Crowley knew, he'd been a Principality from, literally, day one. "Oh, man, that's. That's a lot of demotions for one mistake. That's a choir and a half."
"Quite," said Aziraphale. He didn't actually mind being a Principality; Cherubim had an awful lot more responsibilities and, in particular, attended a lot more meetings. Whereas allowing himself to stay demoted meant he got to hang around on Earth with Crowley watching humans do fascinatingly incomprehensible things. But he certainly didn't want to get demoted any further.
"I wondered why you got a sword," said Vehuel. "Did you -- when you lost the sword, was it because, did he..." Aziraphale had considered framing Crowley for the loss of the sword, although he had not been entirely sure this was believable. But if Vehuel was interested in believing it, he wouldn't stand in her way. "No wonder you don't want to fight him," said Vehuel, picturing a demon canny enough to steal a holy sword from a Cherub, or perhaps a Cherub dim enough to let that happen. "Okay. That makes more sense." She sipped at her beer again. "I'm sorry, that sounds absolutely awful."
Aziraphale shrugged. "I do like Earth, so I don't really mind now," he said.
"That's fair," she said. "I was promoted up from, you know, just an angel, so I was really excited to get the job."
"Oh, really?" Aziraphale asked, hoping she'd elaborate.
"Yeah," she said. "Did some stuff in the War." Her tone was carefully light, and she finished off her beer instead of going into any detail. "Anyway, we should figure out what our next move is." She brought out the folder of Crowley's papers, and drew out the business cards. "I figure tonight I can start working on decoding stuff but today while it's business hours we might as well see if we can bother any of these people, see if they remember Crowley, you know?"
Aziraphale nodded, although now he wanted to know what she'd done in the War. (There was no question in his mind which war she'd meant; there was the War, and the ever-distant War to come, and there were all other wars, petty and human and certainly nothing that could get an angel promoted up to Principality.) "I don't know if those are necessarily going to be helpful, but I thought we could try the accountant, or the attorney."
"Hmm. Yeah. I'd like to talk to this music store guy though, since it looks like probably Crowley was working on damning some musicians. But he's on the other side of town, and probably open on weekends, so -- here's the accountant... and the lawyer -- oh man. This guy really does have a flair for the dramatic, doesn't he?"
"What tipped you off -- the secret door, the secret door, or the secret door?" Aziraphale asked.
"No, I mean, obviously Crowley does," said Vehuel. "But his lawyer. Is this his lawyer? Really? On the one hand, I can see it for sheer obnoxiousness points, but on the other hand -- I dunno, I expected some kind of small-time grifter who hasn't been disbarred only because all his clients are bigger crooks than he is. Although I think he might've bribed a jury once? So that's pretty on point."
"Do you... do you know him?" Aziraphale had felt like he'd vaguely recognized the name.
Vehuel just looked at him. "Okay, I don't mean to be rude, but you really need to start picking up a newspaper every now and then. I was stuck in Heaven for so long I didn't know what month it was and even I know who he is. Let's finish up here, and then we can go talk to Mr. Darrow."
Before they went to see Mr. Darrow, Vehuel had concocted a Plan, and changed out her fashionable suit for conservative feminine attire to better play her Role. She was so enthusiastic about both Plan and Role that Aziraphale couldn't imagine getting in her way. With luck, she would become so wrapped up in them that she'd forget about Crowley entirely. Peering at her own reflection in a shop window, though, she frowned. "It's missing something. I need to distract from my eyes."
"What's wrong with your eyes?" Aziraphale asked.
"If the light hits them wrong, they tend to startle humans," she said. "I usually just try not to let them notice what I look like, but that's exhausting. And things have progressed enough that I can play this role and look like myself, more or less. Except for the eyes. Can't change them out now, though, these are the ones God gave me."
"Ah. Well, have you considered, er." Aziraphale hesitated briefly, but he'd already started to say it, and he didn't have other suggestions. "You could wear dark glasses?"
She turned to look at him, appalled. "You want me to wear sunglasses? Indoors?"
"Well..." Aziraphale floundered. "Well, I don't think it's any sort of fashion faux pas," he said, because if it was, Crowley surely wouldn't wear them everywhere.
"I mean, they' fine in the summer, I guess, or outside on days like this," she said, "but come on, not inside, I'm definitely not cool enough for that."
"I've seen all sorts of people do that," said Aziraphale, although he could only recall one, really, but Crowley had passed himself off as all sorts of people through the ages. "I think it's very fashionable."
"Inside, though?" she asked. "And what about at night?"
"I don't see why n--"
"I mean, nobody's that cool," she said, with authority Aziraphale did not feel she had. She went back to frowning at her reflection again. "But. Actually." She gave herself a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with clear glass lenses. "There. If anything looks weird it's just the lenses and a trick of the light."
"That seems reasonable enough, at least for humans," said Aziraphale, relieved she hadn't taken him up on his suggestion in the end. Dark glasses would have reminded him too painfully of Crowley.
Mr. Darrow's office was in the middle floors of a small building with a narrow atrium at the center. Brittle winter sunlight shone through the skylight above, and vines draped down from the top floor down through the atrium.
They'd knocked on the door, but it was a few moments before it creaked open. A young woman in professional dress peered out at them.
Vehuel smiled politely. "We're here to speak to Mr. Darrow, if he's in."
"Oh, I'm sorry, he's only in town for a few days more and he's very busy right now, could you leave your names and --"
"Who is it?" shouted a man from the other room.
"I'm finding that out," the woman called back, not quite openly annoyed.
"My name's Victoria Hewell, and I'd like to speak with Mr. Darrow about a client of his," said Vehuel. "I'm with the Defender."
"Well, he's very busy and --"
"Someone with the Defender?" shouted the man, who was, Aziraphale supposed, Mr. Darrow. "Let them in, let them in!"
The woman sighed, gave them a fixed smile, and stepped aside. "Come in, and watch your step." She frowned at Aziraphale, as if there was something that didn't make sense about him, and then directed them into a side office with another "Watch your step!"
Mr. Darrow looked up from a desk stacked high with papers, and greeted them with a smile. "You'll want an interview on my preparation for this next Sweet trial, I assume," he said, leaning forward eagerly.
"No, although of course we at the Defender wish you luck there," said Vehuel.
Darrow nodded. "Thank you. I won't need luck, though, just a jury with fewer fools on it. The facts of the case are very straightforward, I think." He looked at Aziraphale, curiously. "You're not with the Defender."
"I am not," confirmed Aziraphale. He was given to understand that the Defender was a local newspaper, and Vehuel had suggested he pretend to be some relation of Crowley's instead. He didn't know how Darrow could tell he wasn't local just by looking at him, but he was glad he hadn't insisted on joining in with the reporter ruse.
"I'm looking into a much lower-stakes story, actually, about a different client of yours," said Vehuel. "A Mr. Crowley?"
Darrow looked mildly disappointed, but also very curious. "I'm afraid I don't see the Defender's interest in Crowley. And he's not exactly a public figure."
"He's a patron of the arts, so he's known to quite a few people in the community," said Vehuel. "The piece I was originally working on wasn't about him at all, I was just trying to find him to ask a few questions, only he seems to be missing. Mr. Fell here is family, and he's also looking for him, so we're working together." This had been Aziraphale's suggestion. Vehuel had pointed out, quite sensibly, that they didn't know if Crowley was actually hiding away from his usual haunts, or if he was only very good at avoiding them. Aziraphale pointed out that his attorney probably wouldn't know that, unless Crowley made a habit of running up legal fees just to chat.
"Now that you mention it, he hasn't called me to have a weird argument since -- oh, since before Christmas, I think," said Darrow, frowning. "And I haven't seen him around, either." He looked at Aziraphale. "Mr. Fell, you said? I think he mentioned you."
"Oh," said Aziraphale, uncomfortably aware of the sharp look Vehuel was giving him. He hadn't expected that. To his relief, Darrow did not elaborate. "Well, he appears to have gone missing, as, er, as Miss Hewell says, so if you've any idea where I -- where we could find him...?"
Darrow sighed. "I'm afraid I can't help you -- even if I did know where he was, how am I to know he'd rather not be found?"
"Please, Mr. Darrow," said Vehuel, "I'm not asking you about any kinds of privileged information about any matters you might have represented him on, I just --"
Darrow held up a hand to stop her. "Now, I didn't say anything about attorney-client privilege, did I? And unless you bring a subpoena in here, I won't. But barring that, I certainly don't have to tell you anything at all."
"But aren't you worried about him?" Vehuel asked.
"Everything I know about Mr. Crowley suggests to me that he's pretty good at taking care of himself," said Darrow. "I'm sorry to disappoint, Miss Hewell, but I like Mr. Crowley. He's very... eccentric, but so are all the people most worth knowing. Also he's willing and able to pay an hourly fee to argue about bizarre things, and I like that in a client. I'd be a piss-poor friend and a terrible lawyer if I just started blabbing everything I knew to the newspapers -- unless I thought he'd like that, or, well, if I thought it'd be to his advantage in a case. You, though," he said, looking to Aziraphale. "I'd like to talk to you. I have instructions about you."
Vehuel cast a disbelieving and very worried look at Aziraphale, who did not know at all how to keep this from looking terrible. "Ah. Well, I --"
"Without her," said Darrow, giving Vehuel a significant look. "Crowley was very clear about that; I was to speak with you alone if you came looking for him."
"Ah," said Aziraphale, again.
"And do watch your step leaving," said Darrow, pointedly, "there's a little step down."
Vehuel looked less worried now, and more annoyed. "Right. Yeah. I'll just..." She gritted her teeth and left Darrow's office.
"If you would close the door, Mr. Fell?" Darrow said.
Aziraphale gave Vehuel what he hoped was an apologetic look. "I'll tell you all about it, if I think it'll help your article," he said, and closed the door. He also did a small miracle to keep Vehuel from overhearing anything more than muffled conversation through it, although with Darrow's secretary out there he didn't think Vehuel would press her ear to the door and listen.
"You're related to him?" Darrow asked, not seeming to believe this in the slightest. He walked to the closet opposite his desk, and Aziraphale watched as he pushed aside several heavy files full of paper before lugging one out. "If you'll pardon my saying so, you don't look a thing alike."
Aziraphale watched Darrow carry the file back to his desk. "We're related by marriage," he said.
Darrow seemed surprised by this, and Aziraphale supposed he had every right to, since it would surely have come as a surprise to Crowley as well. "I see. I have -- well, I have a few questions for you." He was still going through the file. "They're unusual questions. The first one seems very specifically designed to annoy me and vex you."
"That does sound like him," said Aziraphale.
Darrow laughed. "Very much so. Anyway, you have been warned. And you know, I have to admit, the last time I asked this question I got a very unsatisfactory answer, so we'll see what you have to say. Hang on, here it is," he said, sliding a single piece of paper out of the file. He cleared his throat. "So, first question is, Where did Cain get his wife?"
"Oh!" said Aziraphale, very relieved; he had been worried he would be answering difficult questions. "Well, you see, they didn't want to just make more humans willy-nilly, oh no, that would never do -- so they made the whole family fill out a form to requisition another one. Which I suppose must've seemed like a good idea to Gabriel at the time, but let me tell you, filling out a form when he'd no knowledge of writing or indeed implements with which to do so was very frustrating. In the end, the poor things had me fill it out for them." He sighed. "Such a pity what happened, afterward. He seemed like a nice young fellow; I'll never understand why he did it. To be honest I don't really think he meant to kill Abel, only he was angry, and he'd never seen anybody die before, and..." Aziraphale noticed that Mr. Darrow was staring. "And, well, I suppose that's not what you asked."
Darrow glanced down at the paper in front of him. "Well. You and Mr. Crowley agree on the, uh, the right answer, although his provided answer was not -- not really as detailed." He frowned. "I can't decide if I wish I'd had you on the stand at the monkey trial instead of that smug son of a bitch Bryan, or whether I'm very relieved I didn't."
"They put a monkey on trial?" Aziraphale asked.
Mr. Darrow's face did something very complicated, as if he wanted to ask six questions all at once but none of them were on the piece of paper in front of him. "You know what, let's -- let's get to the next question. Which is, very mysteriously, What happened to the sword?"
"Oh for -- I thought he was done making fun of me for that!" said Aziraphale. Darrow looked at him expectantly. "Fine, very well, I admit it, I gave it away," he said, irritably.
Darrow nodded. "Right. Good. I still don't know what that means but I'm glad you do. Last question is What color are Crowley's eyes?"
"Oh," said Aziraphale, and it kept hitting him, this horrible feeling of being all alone. Every time he was surprised by it, and that didn't seem fair. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm only worried about --" He took a deep breath. "They're yellow, Mr. Darrow."
Darrow nodded again. "Well. A highly eccentric procedure for a highly eccentric client, but you passed the test." He slid the paper back into the file, and pulled from it a thick manila envelope. He handed it to Aziraphale. "And this is your prize! I don't know what's in it -- I suspect a will, and a key. What the key's for I have no idea. And I didn't draft the will if it is there, he probably got someone else to do that."
"He left this for me?" Aziraphale asked. He felt the lump at the bottom of the envelope -- it did indeed feel like a key.
"In case he vanished for more than a year, I was supposed to contact you in London," said Darrow. "And if you came looking for him before then, I was supposed to -- well, to do what I just did."
Aziraphale slipped open the top of the envelope, and slid out the top of the thick sheaf of papers. The first page appeared to be a letter:
Angel,
If you're reading this, I've probably been discorporated. I realize it's absurd to come to you for help, given how our last conversation went, but you're all I have. I've missed you immensely during these past decades, which feels easier to write here than it would be to tell you, for some reason. Probably because you're unlikely to ever read this.
Aziraphale began tearing up at Angel and it only got worse at the implication that he wouldn't be willing to help Crowley, and he knew he couldn't read this right now. He slid the papers back into the envelope and closed it again. He looked at Mr. Darrow. "I'm -- I'm so sorry, I -- we were very close friends."
Darrow nodded. "So I gathered from Crowley. Might have siblings, I guess, but he's never mentioned them, and I very much doubt he has a wife." He looked significantly at the door. "I'm not one to judge, but I felt like you might want to keep the exact nature of your relationship out of the papers, maybe. What kind of relative does she think you are? Just so I can keep the story straight if she keeps asking questions."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. He was used to being misread this way, but... it wasn't exactly misreading after all that'd happened, was it? And he had not at all expected to be read so clearly, especially not by a human. Well actually, she thinks we're mortal enemies, said a small, insane voice in the back of his head. "She thinks he's married to my sister," he finally decided. With a weak smile, he added, "Who doesn't exist, of course, but I don't think she'd believe I was married to anybody's sister."
"Well, tell your 'sister' I'm very sorry, and I hope you find him," said Darrow. "I imagine you already know -- or if you don't, the package there will probably tell you -- but he had some dealings with some dangerous people. Watch out for yourself while you look for him, Mr. Fell."
Aziraphale nodded. "And if you would... don't mention the package? I'd like a chance to look through it first." Oh, what was he going to tell Vehuel?
"Of course," said Darrow. "I really, genuinely don't think I know anything that could help you find him, but if you have any legal questions... ask somebody else; I'll be in Detroit for the foreseeable future."
"Ah. Well. Thank you for the --" Aziraphale motioned to the envelope. As he opened the door, he miracled it away so that Vehuel couldn't see it.
Vehuel was not listening at the door, of course; the secretary was speaking animatedly with her about... trains? But when she saw Aziraphale, she looked concerned, and he was glad he'd had the opportunity to compose himself a bit. She didn't look suspicious of him, though, only worried, and he wondered if maybe his best bet would be to tell Vehuel that she'd been right about That Statue all along.
It was almost true, even, given Crowley's actions. It was just that Aziraphale had... indulged him, that was the problem.
He tried to banish thoughts of that from his mind, and gave Vehuel what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
Darrow cleared his throat. "Miss Hewell, if you would like an interview about the Sweet case --"
"Oh," said Vehuel. She looked torn; Aziraphale suspected she wanted to be true to her pretense of being a journalist, but she also very much wanted to keep hunting down Crowley. "Well, I. Sure, of course, yeah." She brought out her notebook, and Aziraphale wondered if she was actually going to write anything down in it while she tried to pass as a real journalist.
"Watch your step!" the secretary called after her. "You can sit down if you want," she told Aziraphale.
"Ah, yes. Thank you," said Aziraphale. The secretary looked uncertainly at him, and then at Vehuel in Darrow's office, and then returned to her desk.
Vehuel began asking Darrow questions, but Aziraphale really wasn't paying attention except inasmuch as he wanted to see that she wasn't paying much attention to him. He didn't think she could see him at this angle without opening eyes in places humans weren't supposed to have eyes, and she seemed very occupied with her interview, so he brought out Crowley's envelope again and slid the letter out.
Angel,
If you're reading this, I've probably been discorporated. I realize it's absurd to come to you for help, given how our last conversation went, but you're all I have. I've missed you immensely during these past decades, which feels easier to write here than it would be to tell you, for some reason. Probably because you're unlikely to ever read this.
Be careful in Chicago. It's as full of dangerous people as London, only they have a lot more power here, and I have dealings with the worst of them. The good thing is you can probably bribe your way out of any police trouble you might get into and you feel obligated not to just make them let you go -- and don't give this letter that look I know you're giving it, it's just a suggestion, and if you're reading this I won't be around to help you out of whatever nonsensical situations you find yourself in. $20 should be fine for most things; maybe $100 if you end up framed for murder or something. If that doesn't work, either bribe the judge or hire Mr. Darrow. You won't like his methods but he gets results.
There's a small chance I'm still here. That's what the key is for. I have a special protected room at one of my houses [see enclosed map and floorplan], and if I'm lucky I've been sitting there for a year, bored out of my skull, waiting for you to unlock the door because I have stupidly misplaced my own key and been locked inside. So feel free to make endless fun of me for that, because I deserve it.
To get me out, and claim your reward of mocking me for all eternity, go to the second floor. There's a carving of the Garden on the landing; press the apple and a hidden door will open. In the corridor behind that, you'll find the door this key goes to. If I've been trapped inside it's probably because someone else has been looking for me, though, so be careful who you trust.
If you don't find me there, please help yourself to any of the liquor in the spare rooms and make yourself at home. I have likely been discorporated by one of my many business partners, and you'll need to dispose of the estates of my various identities. I've left it all to you, of course; there are several wills enclosed. Below is a small list of the items and assets I'd like you to keep safe for me while I'm in Hell:
There followed a list of things Crowley wanted Aziraphale to keep for him; this included a bank account he had back in London, the two da Vincis, and several items of jewelry Aziraphale thought he might've worn to Capone's party. Aziraphale supposed he'd have to go back to get those.
The rest of it, sell or keep as you see fit. I will meet you in London, at the bookshop if you still have it. If you're no longer in the book business (as if you were ever in it) I'm sure I'll be able to find you somewhere. I always do.
Don't attend any funeral someone else has organized on my behalf because whoever shot me is likely to be there. (It would be an incredible social faux pas for them to kill me and then not attend. In fact, traditionally, the one responsible for the hit sends the biggest, showiest flowers to the funeral. But no one in town knows you, and you should try and keep it that way.)
There's a chance -- admittedly a small chance, but still a chance -- that I've actually been killed. At our last meeting I think you got the wrong impression; please know that if I'm dead this was absolutely not intentional on my part. I'm very fond of existing. So if I'm dead, actually dead, it wasn't my own doing, and you need to leave the country immediately and have no further contact with Darrow or anyone else you've met who's connected to me.
Since I'm being morbid, I might as well be maudlin, I guess, and on the off chance I have died, I'll never get a chance to say this, so here it is: I love you. I've loved you for ages, I don't know how long, and more than I can even begin to say in ink on paper, not that I haven't tried. Sometimes I think maybe you return my feelings and sometimes I think the idea of that is ridiculous. If that horrifies you, well, do us both a favor and pretend I didn't say anything if I come wandering back to the bookshop in a few decades with a new body. I'll understand.
And if you do feel the same way, and I'm really dead, I'm so sorry I never said anything. There have been times our friendship felt so fragile one wrong word would break it. Forgive my cowardice, and remember me making trouble and being my generally obnoxious self.
Yours whether you like it or not,
Crowley
By the end of the letter, Aziraphale was in tears. In the distance, he could hear Vehuel arguing with Darrow about something; it definitely did not sound like an interview, unless interviews tended to involve the interviewer defending the entire concept of free will. But here, away from all that noise and nonsense, Aziraphale was having trouble breathing, having trouble thinking. He could see Crowley typing this in his office, probably with a glass of wine, probably thinking Aziraphale would never see it.
There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and Aziraphale startled. But it was just the secretary, offering a box of white tissues. "You okay?"
"No," said Aziraphale, taking one of the tissues. "Thank you."
"He seemed nice," said the secretary. "I hope you find him."
Aziraphale smiled weakly at her, dabbing at his tears. "Thank you. So do I."
"Have you talked to his niece? She hasn't been at Hull House stuff, I used to see her every now and then. And... you know, other places." The secretary looked momentarily guilty. "You know. Not Hull House approved kinds of places."
"Ah. No, she's -- she's out of town," invented Aziraphale. He'd quite forgot about Crowley being Merit O'Malley; maybe he ought to pay another visit to Miss Addams.
"That's probably a good thing," said the secretary. "She'd want to go looking for him if she knew he was missing, and then she'd probably get shot. Merit thinks she's some kind of adventurer out of the pulps."
"I did get that impression, yes," said Aziraphale. He frowned at the door to Darrow's office; they appeared to have moved on to arguing about the recent war. "What in Heaven's name is she doing in there? I thought it was meant to be an interview."
"He likes arguing," said the secretary. "He probably picked the fight himself. He'll be quoting poetry in a minute, you'll see."
And indeed, Darrow did start reciting something. Aziraphale could usually only sense positive emotions and, occasionally, righteous anger, but he could have sworn he caught the feeling of eyerolling from Vehuel's silence.
"Juries love it, but it gets pretty old when you're just having an argument about who had the file last and the hearing's in twenty minutes," said the secretary, and Aziraphale couldn't help laughing at that.
Darrow clearly enjoyed arguing -- it was no wonder he'd become an actual devil's advocate -- and Vehuel apparently couldn't stop herself from arguing back. It was a good thing, though, because it gave Aziraphale quite a while to calm himself and to think about what he might tell Vehuel when she asked about Crowley's instructions.
Once she'd wrapped up her "interview" and Aziraphale had hidden the envelope away again, they left Darrow's office (to a chorus of "Watch your step!") and contemplated the atrium, with its green-painted railings and its green dangling vines, and the sunlight streaming through the glass floors of the balconies.
"This is probably terrible if you're afraid of heights," said Vehuel, lighting a cigarette. She took a deep drag of it, and then breathed out a long line of smoke. "Ugh. I guess I was kind of asking for that, coming in with my knockoff Ida B. Wells impersonation."
"Did you actually take any interview notes?" Aziraphale asked.
Vehuel opened her notebook and handed it to him. In neat handwriting, she had written:
- don't know what to ask so I'm pretending to take notes
- this guy sure talks a lot about everything other than what I need to know
- oh no I only read 6 articles about this case
- and 2 of them were in the Tribune so they were useless
- he denied the existence of God, do I have to argue about that?
- sure let's just pour out the whole can of worms
- no can should hold this much worm
- this was a terrible plan + I will never be a reporter again
- I'm definitely keeping the glasses though
- okay he does have a good point there even if it's wrong
- suddenly, poetry!
- why poetry???
- oh no, it's bad poetry
- I'm agreeing with him but he's still arguing?
- why is he still arguing?
- I actually do agree, I wasn't even lying, why is he STILL ARGUING?
It went on like that for a page and a half. "Well, you did find out quite a lot," said Aziraphale. "About Mr. Darrow, if nothing else."
She sighed. "At least I found out some stuff about Crowley from the secretary, though. I think she had a little crush on him, but she said he was 'you know, like that,' which I take to mean she assumed he wasn't interested in women. I... may have encouraged her to share more than she normally would have about a client," she added, sounding guilty, and Aziraphale took this to mean that Vehuel's encouragement had been miraculous rather than verbal. "She mentioned what I assume were a couple of his other personas -- he came in here either woman-shaped or in drag a couple times, but used the same name, and she says she knows his 'niece' socially but hasn't seen her around lately either. So maybe he is missing." She frowned into the atrium, watching two office workers chat on a balcony below. What about you? What did he... what did he tell Darrow to tell you?"
Aziraphale sighed. He was thankful for how argumentative Darrow had been, and for how willing Vehuel had been to take the bait, because he'd used the time to come up with something properly fiendish for Terrible Evil Crowley to have told him. "He had Mr. Darrow read from a long, overwrought letter about how sorry he was for all of his crimes, and how terribly he wanted to redeem himself."
Aziraphale looked at Vehuel, expecting sharp skepticism. But she looked like she was seriously considering this. "Oh! Well, but... he tried to kidnap you, how sincere could that be?"
"The end of the letter suggested that I come see him at his house, and press the serpent button -- the one that smacked you in the face, I mean -- and I would find him there, hiding from his Infernal enemies," Aziraphale said.
"Oh. Oh, of course," said Vehuel, disgustedly. "Of course he'd want to -- what a jerk! I mean. I mean obviously, but." She shook her head. "Well. At least we know he's a lying bastard. Can't believe he got his lawyer to do all that, though. I wonder if there's any other little traps around town for you."
"I suppose we should keep an eye out," said Aziraphale, feeling bad. He'd got the impression Vehuel was willing to believe in Crowley's penitence, which was interesting -- and if he believed Crowley to be at all penitent, he might've just come clean about the Arrangement. But if Crowley was to be redeemed, Aziraphale would have to do most of the work himself. He frowned down at the five floors of offices beneath them, and followed the dangling vines up to the floor above. "Do you think a demon could be redeemed? I mean, not Crowley, of course, just in general -- do you think they would ever take a demon back? If one of them was ever actually worthy of it?"
"No," said Vehuel, instantly. "No, they never would. Which is not to say -- I have to think She might, if anyone could reach Her, and if that ever happened. But the rest of them? Nope. There's not a form for that." That raised questions Aziraphale did not trust either himself or Vehuel enough to ask. Vehuel puffed on her cigarette for a moment, and vanished the fragments of ash that fell off it as they drifted down. "Do you think that's possible, though? A demon being worthy of that?" Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that. "I mean. Have you ever heard of one wanting that?"
"No," said Aziraphale. "But if one did -- I would consider it, you know. I would see if they meant it."
Vehuel blinked at him, and she seemed about to say something, only the door to Darrow's office swung open just then, and he leaned out. "I did just think of something! Your Mr. Crowley, he must be a churchgoer, considering."
Vehuel and Aziraphale exchanged an astonished look. "Oh! Must he?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well, he -- I wouldn't call him a Biblical literalist, there are a lot of very particular details he apparently objects to -- but after the monkey trial, you know, we had a lot of discussions, a lot of frankly very weird discussions -- and -- look, I'm as surprised as anyone, a smart fellow like him thinking the earth is only six thousand years old -- but I never met someone who believed all that nonsense and didn't go to church."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to correct him on the exact figure, but Vehuel spoke first, with a smile that pretended she hadn't written a page and a half of complaints about him while she argued with him. "Right, yes, obviously. We'll see if we can't find out where Crowley went to church. Thank you so much, Mr. Darrow. You've been as helpful as possible given the circumstances." As the office door shut behind him, she shot an amused glance at Aziraphale. "His church."
"He was trying to be helpful," Aziraphale said. "He can't have known."
"I know, I know," said Vehuel. "Ugh. He's gonna be real disappointed when the Defender doesn't run anything about him."
"You could forward your notes to the paper," said Aziraphale. "They look ever so helpful."
"Yeah," said Vehuel. "I'll do that on the tenth of Never, after we find a demon hiding in a church."
Chapter 12: here comes that Tuesday night lineup again
Notes:
Content notes: There's some mention of period-accurate racism and dated language around race. Also a little cosmic horror and some ignorant ideas about Canada. Also it's a little short.
A song for this chapter: "Glittering Cloud (Locusts)" by Imogen Heap.
Chapter Text
Nicky could tell the two guys at the end of the bar would be weird from the start. The professor-looking one with the bow tie and the old-fashioned suit was British, which was weird enough, and had started off the evening being very disappointed in the Green Mill's lack of wine selection. On the other hand, the tall guy with the scar and the glasses struck him immediately as someone well-acquainted with trouble, given how he'd looked around the room as soon as he came in, and Nicky guessed he was muscle for one of the smaller local rackets. And yet he'd gone and ordered beer, and then been upset when it tasted like horse piss. Nicky wondered if maybe he was down from Canada or something, where he could reap the rewards of bootlegging and still get real beer, but his accent was pure Chicago, so it didn't make a whole lot of sense.
(Or was it pure Chicago? It sounded... Southern, somehow? Which obviously was the opposite of Canadian. But there was something local about how he spoke, and it was more than just splitting the difference between Atlanta and Winnipeg. Whenever Nicky thought too hard about it his brain skittered away; if he'd been able to put the feeling into words, they would've been in a very different voice than his own, and they would have been Mind your business, I belong here.)
And then the professor one had turned to his friend with the confusing accent and said, "Did they really put a monkey on trial?"
You had to listen to whatever came after that question, there was no ignoring that, and so Nicky listened in as the other guy -- an amazing storyteller -- wove a thrilling tale of a monkey who'd escaped the zoo, hopped the Sheridan bus, made some trouble on State Street, and robbed a couple banks. The monkey had been defended by Clarence Darrow, who had argued that the monkey couldn't help being a monkey, because something something the Great War. The professor guy listened with rapt fascination, and even Nicky wondered if maybe this had happened, only it would've been the talk of the town for months if it had, and every other guy would've claimed he knew the monkey, or he'd fought the monkey, or the monkey was his nephew, or something.
"My goodness," said the professor guy. "So what happened?"
"Oh, the jury acquitted the monkey, but they all got mysteriously rich after that, so there were rumors Darrow and the monkey bribed the jury with the money from the bank robberies," said the liar.
"Goodness!"
"You should... you should really read the papers more, though. Just saying."
"I read the Observer every Sunday!"
"Yeah, I meant -- you know, more local stuff? The Observer's only good for the crosswords, unless you're Up There or you're going back soon." Maybe they were both Canadian. Maybe Canadians actually had more variety in accents than Nicky realized, beyond Almost Minnesotan and French Only Worse. Maybe Canadians even had a South. It wasn't like he'd ever been there himself. "If you're gonna be here, you should probably know things," he said. Which, Nicky agreed with, in general, but maybe had some specific exceptions to. Knowing too much was an extremely bad idea in a lot of situations.
(For some reason, these people were reminding him of a situation he had tried very hard to forget. He didn't appreciate it, but there was something so undefinably weird about them -- beyond possibly being Canadian -- that he couldn't not listen. And the Monkey of State Street had been a pretty good story.)
The liar finished off his disappointing beer, and said "Gonna go hang around the pool table and look like easy prey, if that's okay with you."
"Have fun," said the professor guy, and that was extra weird, because if the guy knew his friend was a pool hustler why'd he believe all that, well, monkey business? Nicky wondered how the guy would fare against Cueball Cal or Little Billy if they wandered in tonight, and they were in a lot on Fridays, taking advantage of dumb tourists who wanted to see Al Capone's favorite bar.
But it wasn't Nicky's problem if some scammer went and got himself scammed.
The professor guy waved at him a few minutes later, and asked him for a gin fizz. As Nicky was making it, he watched the guy glance at his pal, who seemed to be playing a round of pool with a tourist, and then pull out a large manila envelope from... somewhere? As he pored over the papers inside it, he looked like he was maybe gonna cry.
The bar filled up over the next half-hour or so as rush hour turned into after-hours. He brought the guy another gin fizz, and the pool hustler lost against the tourist, as hustlers often did when money wasn't on the line yet. But then Little Billy walked in, and watched him lose a second game, and Nicky knew he'd been fooled. The stranger's eyes flashed -- literally, it almost seemed to him, although that must've been the guy's glasses -- when Little Billy approached him for a game. This might get interesting.
Professor guy cried into his gin fizzes for a while, and Nicky guessed he'd been served with divorce papers. The strange poolshark played Little Billy a couple times, neither of them playing to their full potential. Little Billy was pretending to have a few drinks in him; the stranger actually had had a few cocktails by now, but he didn't seem all that impaired.
And then the stranger won $50 off of Little Billy, pocketing his last three balls easily before sinking the eight ball.
Little Billy looked kinda mad, but he pretended to laugh it off and challenged him to another game. Now people were beginning to watch the proceedings, casually, like they didn't care much what happened.
"Excuse me," said the professor guy, the only person oblivious to the ongoing pool drama on the other side of the room.
Suppressing his irritation, Nicky went over and took his empty glass. "Another gin fizz, mister?"
"Yes, I think so," he said, sadly. Nicky heard the sound of the break, and glanced over. Little Billy was standing over the table contemplating his next move. He sighed, and brought the professor guy another gin fizz. He'd probably had enough for a normal Friday night, but maybe not a Friday night spent with divorce papers and a pool hustler friend who wasn't even friend enough to help him drink through the pain.
Nicky turned back to watch the hustler and Little Billy duke it out on the pool table; the hustler beat Little Billy once more, although it was a close thing. This time Little Billy handed over $100, looking furious as he counted out the twenties. Little Billy was a sore loser, and he accused the hustler of cheating; the hustler smiled apologetically and tried to give the $100 back, but Little Billy's pride was too much for that.
Instead, he challenged the hustler to another game, for $200, and the hustler's smile didn't have any apology in it any more; if Nicky saw someone smiling like that he would've backed out of any bet, ever, even if he was betting that the sun would rise tomorrow. That was a smile that said This poor sucker doesn't know the sun's on vacation! Little Billy, however, was not used to losing, and he was the particular kind of dumb a guy got when he'd lost $150 on something he thought was a sure thing, so he racked the balls, and the hustler broke them, pocketing the one and the seven on the break.
Then he pocketed the two. Then he pocketed the five and the six. In fact, as the crowd watched, this stranger cheerfully pocketed every single solid ball, and neatly pocketed the eight ball, without Little Billy getting any shots in at all.
The stranger held out a hand for his winnings. Little Billy pulled a gun.
The stranger just smiled. "Don't know what you're so cranky about, Billy, it's just physics," he said. "Can't win them all, can you?"
"Excuse me!" called the professor guy, from the other end of the bar. Nicky turned away, sure he was about to hear a murder being committed, but it wasn't like he could do anything about that; possibly-Canadian strangers should know better than to out-shark Little Billy and that wasn't his problem.
"Another gin fizz?" he asked professor guy.
"No, I'm afraid not," he said, looking far too sharp-eyed for someone who'd had that many gin fizzes. "What are those, behind you?"
"The bottles?" Nicky asked.
"No," said the guy. "Those." He pointed, past Nicky, to the sunglasses sitting on the middle shelf, in front of a bottle of rum.
"Oh. Well, uh, some guy dropped 'em here and, uh. Figured I'd keep 'em here if he showed back up." Nicky was aware this wasn't quite the truth of the matter, but there was that niggling feeling again, like these two weird guys might be weird in the same way as, as, as.
"Some guy, was it?" asked the professorial guy, and Nicky didn't really see why he should suddenly be afraid of a drunk in a bow-tie who'd never seen a pair of shades before, but something about him was all wrong. "Tell me more about this guy."
"Uh. Well."
"Did he have red hair, by any chance? Tall and thin? Yellow eyes?"
"Well, I --"
"Who took him? Where did he go? How did he leave?"
"Mister, I don't know that you're making a lot of sense --"
"Where did Crowley go?" he demanded, and Nicky became horribly aware that he wasn't a guy at all, he wasn't even human, he was -- he was....
A terrible thing, a vast and awful creature with too many wings and too many faces and too many eyes for the faces. A thing that, when it spoke, pressed down on him like fifteen thousand tons of water, cold and heavy and full of sea salt and slimy things. It stared at him with uncountable eyes, and as it wrapped an appendage around his neck its question split into several parts, like a terrible harmony of meaning. Where is the wily serpent who gave the gift of knowledge and caused the Fall of Man?, it asked, and underneath that he could also hear Where is the cruel fiend who watches as you destroy yourselves and claims the rewards in Hell? and yet, there was a bright counterpoint of Where is my beloved, whose absence pains me, whose absence I caused, whose absence I can no longer tolerate?, and beneath it all was the rumbling, barely-audible suggestion that something unimaginably horrifying would happen to Nicky if he didn't answer. It didn't want to do anything bad to him -- it even loved him, in a distant, curious sort of way-- but it loved what it was looking for much, much more, and it would destroy Nicky if necessary, and that was almost worse than malice.
And even the toughest guy in the world couldn't withstand fifteen thousand tons of seawater darker and crueler than the lake could ever be, and Nicky hadn't been holding out, only, he hadn't remembered, had worked so hard in the cider-filled hours afterward to forget Tony the Snake begging him to let him escape, and the terrible dark creature Tony had been when Nicky looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and the snake, the actual literal snake, and now that he knew, now that this thing had ripped the scab off his memories, he blurted out, "Weiss, it was Hymie Weiss, he took him, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me."
"You mustn't tell anyone," said the thing, and this time it was ten thousand tons of ice scraping his brain clean, flattening it out, making it --
"Hey!" shouted a voice, and it was the pool hustler, only he wasn't a person either, but another thing, like the first one but not. This one was a much smaller thing, that only gave Nicky the impression of taking up the whole building. It had only two wings, and slightly fewer eyes, and no face at all. Which, if you thought about it a certain way, brought down the average number of faces in the room significantly, so it made things a little more normal.
Nicky did not want to think about it a certain way, or ever, at all.
"I am so sorry about him, he's being so unprofessional," said the new thing, its eyes rolling around like pool balls as it talked. "Oh no, you're seeing things as they are, aren't you? That's -- Aziraphale, what the Hell? His brain's practically leaking out of his ears!" This thing did not love him coldly; this thing wanted to keep him safe from everything, forever, only it was not itself safe to be around, Nicky could tell, because it was vast plumes of fire and dust spinning in an endless unbreathable nothing. "Um, um, be not afraid?" it said uncertainly, and Nicky smelled burning flesh, heard shouts of pain, saw people reduced to holes in the ground and made into impressions of their agonies in death. "Argh, that never works for me, you can't lie to them when they're like this. Aziraphale, are you drunk?"
"I -- I -- might be, I -- I just thought he might know where Crowley went!" said the many-winged thing, which was an Aziraphale, apparently.
"Why would a random bartender know that?" said the faceless thing, flaring in annoyance.
"He's got his spectacles behind the bar!" The many-winged thing gestured with a wavering tentacle.
"Huh," said the faceless thing. "Didn't see those." And then it turned its full attention to him. "Hey, buddy, d'you know where Mr. Crowley is?" and its voice made him feel almost weightless. The question echoed in a thousand variations; Where is the cancerous cell? The worm in the apple? The monkey on State Street? and the descant was it's fine, it's fine, I won't let anyone hurt you, only tell me tell me tell me, and it was so soothing, like a lullaby, and oh, he didn't have to say anything, but he wanted to, he wanted so badly to do whatever that voice asked, because it was Good and Right and True.
"Taken," said Nicky, and then he was choking on seawater and he couldn't breathe. "Don't know -- don't know where," he managed.
"Who took him?"
"Dunno," said Nicky, and he could no longer tell if he was lying or telling the truth. He didn't know anything anymore, and he wished he knew even less. He collapsed onto the bar.
"Jesus H. Christ," muttered the faceless thing. "Okay. Okay, Nicky, you have to breathe. I promise there's air in this room. And close your eyes." Nicky had entirely forgotten that this was an option, and he almost sobbed in relief when he did close them and was left only with the vague sensation of two terrible presences in front of him, and not the visual evidence of them. "I'm gonna come around the bar -- no, no, don't hide, you can't hide from me anyway -- I'm gonna come around and --"
"Would you like some help?" said the Aziraphale.
"Oh, I think you've helped plenty. Go outside and sober up." Nicky felt the thing shine the light and heat of its attention upon him again. "We're just gonna talk, okay?" Its voice was less like fire and endless void, now, and more like a warm stove at a reasonable distance. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. No one's going to hurt you tonight."
"But -- the bodies -- the people buried in ash --"
"That was a long, long time ago and there's no volcanoes in Illinois, okay?"
"Promise?" Nicky asked.
"I promise that to the best of my knowledge, which is not always very good, there are no volcanoes in Illinois," said the voice. "Now, I'm gonna take your hands --"
Nicky panicked. "No! I need my hands!"
"I'm gonna hold your hands, in my hands, which are very extremely normal hands, with the right amount of fingers..." Two hands found his; they were warm and slightly chapped from being out in the cold. There were a couple ragged nails, as if things from beyond the stars sometimes bit their nails. "See? And now you are going to think about your life, which is very normal, you are going to think about your mom, and your sister --"
"How do you know about them?" Nicky demanded.
"Please just go along with it," sighed the voice. "So Tuesday you're gonna see your family and your sister's gonna bring home her new boyfriend, and you already don't like him, yeah?"
"I met him two years ago before they were dating, and he was real rude," said Nicky, who tried not to think about how this thing knew any of this.
"And maybe he is, but you and I both know, sometimes first impressions aren't right, and sometimes people are just having a bad day, or they're drunk and stupid for inexplicable reasons they haven't told their coworkers about but really, really should."
Nicky was not really sure what it meant about coworkers, but he agreed broadly. "Yeah, he was pretty drunk. Threw up on my shoes." He was settling into annoyance now, which was a better emotion to be having than whatever he'd been feeling just a minute ago.
"Okay, you know what, he probably does owe you a pair of shoes for that," said the voice. "But you'll give him a second chance, right?"
"Yeah, I guess. Soph really likes him," Nicky said, grudgingly.
"Yes. Good. You're doing great, Nicky. Now, when you open your eyes things are going to still be a little weird, I will admit. That's my fault. But they're not going to hurt your head so much. Can you handle that?"
"Um." Nicky wasn't sure he had a choice.
"No, you really don't," said the voice. "Sorry. Open your eyes."
And he did. The person holding his hands had a face, which was a relief. He recognized it immediately as the face of the bespectacled pool hustler, which was also pretty normal. Somehow, though, he had managed to overlook that the hustler was a Negro lady, which was actually a couple pretty big things to miss, particularly on account of Mr. Capone's policy was that Negroes were fine performers but not good customers. There were plenty of other places they could go for a drink, and Nicky was meant to strongly discourage them from staying, lest the Green Mill develop a reputation for being filled with the wrong kind of wrong kind of people, instead of the right kind of wrong kind of people.
Nicky decided he was not going to mention this to the lady. He suspected she already knew, and anyway, Mr. Capone had never said anything about keeping giant balls of fire and dust out of the Green Mill. Many-eyed celestial entities could probably go wherever the hell they wanted, and even Mr. Capone would have a hard time stopping them. Nicky sure wasn't gonna try.
She let go of his hands. "Are you feeling more or less okay?" she asked, watching him carefully.
She did have an extra eye, still. It was a little disconcerting, especially since it was gold and not a normal kind of color at all. He decided not to look too hard at her other two eyes. "Uh. You got a, a, something on your cheek?"
The extraneous eye blinked shut and vanished. "Sorry about that," she said.
Nicky looked around the Green Mill. Absolutely no one was watching, because the entire scene with Little Billy and the onlookers was frozen in place; everyone was stuck watching a pool hustler who wasn't there anymore.
"I'm going to ask you just a few more questions," she said, "and then you'll probably forget all of this, unless for some reason your worldview was really unstable to begin with, or has room for things like this happening. All right?"
"I'm gonna forget?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want to remember?"
He didn't. But... that wasn't really the whole of it. "I don't like being surprised every time," he said. "The first time, with Tony the Snake, it was --"
"Wait, wait, wait," she said. "Who is Tony the Snake?"
Nicky blinked. "Your -- the guy you were lookin' for? I guess his name's Crowley?"
"Tony the Snake," she repeated, looking severely unimpressed. "Seriously?"
"Well, it makes sense, on account of him being a snake, but also, it wasn't a fun surprise, just, just having him be a snake suddenly," said Nicky. "And then with your, uh, your, your --" His mind skittered away from any accurate description of what had just happened, because it was all too much. "That was also, uh, very bad, and, and so, if you think this is gonna become a regular occurrence, like, if there's gonna be, uh, giant snakes and crazy ocean aliens and and whatever in here all the time, I wanna remember so I don't have to panic every goddamn time."
"Oh, no, we're not aliens," she said, grimacing. "It turned out so incredibly badly last time someone thought I was an alien. I mean! There might be aliens, but if there are they weren't in the specs anyone gave me."
Nicky ignored this, because it was nonsense. "I think the snake one mighta been a demon, but it's real fuzzy," he admitted.
"I just wanted to be clear on the not aliens thing," she said. "Although I kind of do hope there's aliens I didn't know about, that would be so exciting. You'd think I would know if anyone would, but they never told me anything. Anyway, I'll be back after I try and get an explanation out of my colleague, and you can decide whether you want to remember this after I ask a couple more questions about -- I'm sorry, this is so hard to say with a straight face -- Tony the Snake, seriously, who even -- anyway. Hang on, I'll be back." She went back to where she'd been standing before time stopped and snapped.
Little Billy tried to threaten her with his gun for another moment, then slumped to the ground. Nicky watched as she made a big deal out of checking to make sure he was alive, counting out his $100 and tucking it back into his pocket. "Obviously not feeling well," she said. "Poor guy." There was a general murmur of disagreement as to whether Little Billy met the requirements of deserving any sympathy whatsoever, but she was unrelenting. "Wouldn't be right to take his money if he's sick," she said. She looked sharply at a patron who was casually attempting to slip his hand into the front pocket of Little Billy's jacket, in order to get the money away from him. "That means you."
She walked over to the bar, slid over the remaining $50 of her winnings, and said, more quietly, "He'll come to around 1 am. Probably won't remember much. I was gonna do a whole life-changing speech or something but I don't think I have it in me right now, and I didn't want him to mug anyone trying to get his money back. Think about whether you really want to remember, and I can help you out either way after I'm done with the questions. Okay?"
Nicky nodded silently. There wasn't much else he could do. At least he got $50 out of the whole thing. Minus all those gin fizzes.
She turned to snap "Hey! Don't you dare!" at a second guy trying to relieve Little Billy of his returned $100, like she had eyes in the back of her head or something.
Well. Probably she did.
She gave Nicky a tired wave before leaving, and everything in the bar suddenly seemed so unnervingly, disquietingly normal. He wasn't really sure what to do with that anymore, so he just watched, utterly unsurprised, as several patrons divided up Little Billy's returned $100.
Chapter 13: every moth barreling towards a flame
Notes:
Content notes: Brief mention of cannibalism.
A song for this chapter: "Give the Devil Back His Heart" by the Barr Brothers.
Chapter Text
The door of the Green Mill swung open, and Vehuel walked out. Aziraphale had been slightly dreading this, because it meant he'd need to come up with some sort of reasonable explanation for what he'd done that didn't involve him being entirely lost without Crowley.
He'd settled instead on finding something suitably distracting as a conversational gambit. "Did you -- in there, did you stop time?"
She wasn't having any of it. "You almost vegetableized one of my humans, Aziraphale, we'll talk about time another time."
"I don't actually think 'vegetableized' is a word," said Aziraphale.
She looked incredulous. "I don't actually think I care!"
He couldn't afford to get bogged down in feeling bad about this, even if he should have been more careful. There were more important things to worry about. "You're making a scene," he said, which always worked Crowley up into such a lather that he forgot to be angry with Aziraphale about whatever he'd been angry about initially, and ranted instead about how he was entitled to make a five-act play if he so desired.
It did not work that way on Vehuel, unfortunately. "Don't try to distract me, this is Uptown on a Friday night, and unless London has no nightlife you know damn well no one cares," said Vehuel. "Explain yourself."
"I got a bit carried away is all, I'd had a few two many, I noticed the dark glasses, and I thought he would know something," said Aziraphale. "You're overreacting terribly --"
"I am not overreacting," she said. "Look. I know there's something you're not telling me, I'm not an idiot, no matter what Gabriel probably said, but I am absolutely not okay with you harming humans to find Crowley -- I mean, yeah, okay, if they're shooting at you, fine, whatever, but this guy was just behind a bar, there's less harmful ways of getting information out of humans than just suddenly overwhelming them with angelic presence, and when you do get it the information is far more coherent."
Aziraphale tried again. "I'm so very sorry; I was... perhaps more inebriated than I realized. Didn't quite realize what I was doing to the poor fellow until after," he said. This was mostly a lie; he hadn't exactly been sober when he'd started in on the bartender, but he certainly hadn't been drunk enough to forget what he was doing. But the thought that Crowley had been there, and then the realization that Crowley had left his glasses, something he would never have done intentionally, had made it impossible for him not to act.
Vehuel sighed. "Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Well. Don't do that again, all right? Not to my humans, not unless it's a life-or-death situation. Because if you do I will do everything in my power to keep you from working on this planet ever again."
"Ah. Yes. Yes, that's -- that's 's understandable," he said, hoping he looked appropriately embarrassed. Normally he would be mortified by having caused such a spectacle, of course, but just now all he could think about was finding Crowley. "I'm truly sorry," he added.
"You should be," she said, glaring. "And I think you'd better take some time to cool down before we keep working; why don't we meet up tomorrow to figure out how we're gonna get in good with Al Capone?"
"Al Capone?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well. Yeah," said Vehuel. "He said someone took Crowley, it's a Capone-owned bar, and I think based on some of the stuff in the house his Crowley persona was doing business with the North Siders; I could see Capone taking one of their bootleggers just to rile them up. I assumed it was obvious."
"Ah. Yes, of course," said Aziraphale, with great relief, because it hadn't even occurred to him that she might hare off in entirely the wrong direction. "That makes sense; thank goodness you're here."
"Yeah, thank goodness," she said, flatly unappeased. "You must have been pretty drunk to miss that. You sure you sobered up?"
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine now, I think," said Aziraphale, happy to play the part of an idiot if it got Vehuel to leave him alone so he could find Crowley. "But you're right, I should see that it's all out of my system before we keep going. And I do have to be back to the hotel soon, to feed the cat, so -- if we could meet back up in the morning?"
"Sure, yeah," said Vehuel, still unsmiling, but at least not actively unfriendly. "You have a cat?"
"Well, I don't really have a cat," said Aziraphale. "Technically I found her wandering outside, and it was very cold, and so..."
"And so you have a cat," said Vehuel. She did smile at this. "Never had a cat before. Had a parrot once, but they only live about ninety years, even with miracles, so." She shrugged. "Anyway, I'm headed to the library to see if I can crack that code in his papers. You said you were at the Palmer House, right?" Aziraphale nodded. "I heard that one's supposed to be fireproof," said Vehuel, as if that was the most important aspect of any accommodation. "Anyway, I'll see you around," she said.
"We could share a cab," he suggested, not because he wanted to but because it was the polite thing to do.
"Nah, I'm fine. Plus the library's closed; I don't want the cabbie asking weird questions about why I'm going there at night," she said. She took a cigarette out of her jacket and lit it, without the aid of a lighter. "Gonna have a smoke first and then I'll walk. It's not so windy tonight, it'll be nice."
It was terribly cold, and horribly windy, but then, Vehuel often commented on small changes in weather that was, to Aziraphale's senses, uniformly cold and miserable. He could never tell if they actually made a difference to her, or if she was just trying to be optimistic about weather that didn't deserve it. "Very well; I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, happy to have shaken her off with minimal effort.
He hailed the next cab that drove by, preoccupied with thoughts of finding Crowley. And so he did not think to look back as she watched the car pull away, breathed out a plume of smoke and steam, and headed right back into the bar.
Aziraphale did in fact go back to the hotel to feed Hobgoblin, or, technically, to ensure that the miraculous food and water bowls were still keeping Hobgoblin happy, and tell her about the day's events while she tried to hunt and kill his bootlaces for the crime of moving near the ground.
"So if it was Weiss," he told her, sitting on the couch and putting Crowley's envelope down on the end table beside it, "do you think he's at that horrid flowershop they took me to?" Hobgoblin redoubled her attack on his bootlace, and Aziraphale tsked and picked her up to put her on his lap.
She slid back off him immediately, as if she was some sort of very furry liquid, and untied his shoe with a claw. "No, no, he'd be able to miracle himself out of that."
"Mrr?" said Hobgoblin.
"Yes, of course he would." He sighed. "If you were a very bad human -- which you never would be, I know," he said, addressing her affronted look as he retied his shoe, "but if you were -- and if you'd captured a demon, you'd put him in some sort of place of worship. Wouldn't you? And now that I think about it, there was a rather large church across the road. Oh, I should've been paying more attention to where we were and not to how horribly Crowley was driving."
Hobgoblin hopped up into his lap, as if she hadn't just escaped from there, and then climbed onto his shoulder.
"Oh, but I can't just go to every flowershop in Chicago and see if there's a church across the way. Or every church, and see if there's a flowershop. And all I remember of the drive home was Crowley deciding to drive across the lake."
Hobgoblin hopped onto the end table and pawed at the side of Aziraphale's head, in an obvious bid for attention.
"Yes, I know," he told her. "I'm just thinking." He sighed, and stroked her; she leaned into his hand happily. "There must be a thousand churches in the city, Hobgoblin, and I'm still stuck with Vehuel, who's got to realize eventually that Capone doesn't have him. And when she works out who does it's going to be terribly obvious, assuming I'm right. Oh, Crowley." Maybe it was wishful thinking, but after rereading Crowley's letter so many times at the bar, he couldn't keep telling himself Crowley didn't love him; Crowley wouldn't write it into his worst-case-scenario plans if it was some sort of elaborate trick. And Crowley was so kind sometimes, when he thought no one was looking. And Aziraphale felt his absence so terribly, even if he hadn't felt his love in the usual way.
He tried to drag Crowley's envelope out from under Hobgoblin, but she decided it was something to pounce on, and her claws dug into the paper. Aziraphale had to stop and pry each claw individually out of the paper while she tried to bite him. "Stop that," he scolded, and then, well. There was nothing for it. He sighed. "Let there be light," he said, and sent the little spark of light skittering along the floor for Hobgoblin to chase. "I suppose it's my fault leaving you all alone with nothing to do all day," he said, watching her pursue the Light of God underneath the dresser and then back out into the room.
He reread Crowley's letter, for what must be the twentieth time, at least. But this time, he paused when he read Crowley's description of the funerary customs of the Chicago underworld. Because he'd said traditionally, the one responsible for the hit sends the biggest, showiest flowers to the funeral.
It would be an excellent side business, funeral flowers, if your regular businesses were murder and alcohol smuggling. Greed and vice caused violence, which often caused funerals, and death often made mourning humans retreat into vice. It was a tidy little triangle of cruelty and terrible gin.
Aziraphale picked up the telephone, and called down to the front desk. "Hello, yes, I've got a bit of an odd question, but it's a strange situation... where would you suggest I go to get flowers for, well." He swallowed. "For a dear friend's funeral. I want something... well, to be perfectly frank, the deceased had very... showy taste? I'd like something that's quite a lot. He would've wanted it that way." The thing was, when Aziraphale had attended Crowley's previous funerals, Crowley had always been there with him pretending to be a shockingly heartless relative and it had actually been sort of fun, but under these circumstances, it was all too easy for Aziraphale to be convincingly upset.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, sir," said the girl at the front desk. "Let me see..." There was the sound of pages turning. "There's a few florists in the Loop that'd do smaller arrangements for you, but if you're willing to go a little further away, I think Schofield's is the only shop we could send you to that'd be up to something big on short notice. They're closed now, but I can have the morning girl call them and order you something tomorrow when they open, if you want."
"No, no, I think I'd rather go myself," said Aziraphale. "Is there -- this is going to sound silly but -- is there a church near this Schofield's? I think I should like somewhere quiet to -- to think about things, before I order the flowers."
"What denomination?" the operator asked.
Ah. That was tricky. Aziraphale had only seen it from outside, and he couldn't tell from the architecture alone. And human places of worship had a feel to them, but any difference in that feeling had more to do with the humans who thought of it as holy than the name they used for their particular religious tribe. "It's more about the quiet, really, I don't need it to be the sort of place I'd go for services."
"Let me see... there's Holy Name Cathedral across the street, but that's Catholic, if you'd rather --"
"That will be fine, thank you. What's the address?"
"736 North State Street," said the girl.
"Thank you very much," said Aziraphale, writing it down, and after he hung up, he arranged things so that she'd get a very nice raise within the week. Then he put his coat back on, bade Hobgoblin goodbye, and went back out.
It was still terribly cold, and windy as well, and Aziraphale didn't think it would be a very nice walk, but he didn't like the idea of taking a cab this late at night to a place that would be closed for hours to all legitimate business. And if anyone was there for illegitimate purposes, he certainly didn't want them to see him. And State Street was just on the other side of the block, so it would be difficult for him to get lost on the way.
So he made himself invisible to human eyes, and walked due north along State Street, occasionally closing his eyes against the bitter cold and relying on the emptiness of the streets to avoid bumping into anything. He passed Field's and the Chicago Theater with its glittering sign, walked quickly over the river with his hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold, and hurried past several more hotels. In the end, it was so cold that the last four blocks he walked with his wings wrapped around him, shivering still, numb on his face and from the knees down. But when he saw the steeple of the church in front of him, he felt just a bit warmer.
He stopped for a moment to look into the darkened window of the flowershop across the way. Yes, this was the place, he was certain of it.
Inside the cathedral, he felt a tinge of evil seeping up from below. He found the door to the basement of the church easily enough, and as he descended the stairs, he could feel the room getting very warm indeed. He'd almost expected hellfire, in fact, although what he found was a darkened room with a space heater in it. With an apology to Hobgoblin, whose fun would be ruined, he recalled the Light of God and brought it here, to shine upon --
"Crowley!" he said. He was here, and alive, and making a face as the light interrupted his sleep.
"Danny, fuck off with that torch," he muttered. "'M trying to sleep."
"Crowley, it's me," whispered Aziraphale, suddenly aware there was another presence in this room -- a human one, slumped in a chair against the wall. He ensured that the human wouldn't awaken, and approached Crowley, who appeared to be tied to a chair.
Crowley opened one yellow eye. "Angel?" The other eye opened. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraphale, and all the tears of the past few weeks were back. He hurried down the stairs the rest of the way. "I thought you'd left and then I didn't know where you were and then --"
"Hang on, stay back, they've got me surrounded with buckets of holy water, don't trip," said Crowley.
"Oh," said Aziraphale, stopping immediately. "Oh, that's horrible, that's -- that's awful." He wiped tears from his face. "Where's the light switch?"
"You'll wake Danny up," said Crowley, "and then he'll want to know who you are, and then he won't believe you're an angel, and it'll be a whole thing." He sounded disgusted at the idea of a whole thing. Aziraphale found the light switch anyway, and indeed, when the lights came on Crowley was surrounded by buckets and buckets of holy water. It was all rather nightmarish. Not that it looked particularly terrible, but Aziraphale knew he would have had nightmares about the scenario, if he slept much. With a wave of his hand, Aziraphale shifted the buckets to the far side of the room, where they couldn't hurt Crowley.
"Angel, what are you doing here?" Crowley asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Aziraphale asked, hurrying up to Crowley's chair. "Oh, my dear, I'm so -- I'm so sorry about everything." He reached out a hand to Crowley's face, seeing that he'd been burnt several times. The imprint of a rosary was on one of his cheeks, and, Aziraphale thought, someone had sprinkled holy water on his face, because there were little burns like tear stains down his cheeks and forehead. Crowley was glaring, but he could do that all he liked now that Aziraphale had found him again. "Oh! Oh, they've hurt you. Well, they won't anymore."
He snapped his fingers, and the rosaries binding Crowley's wrists and ankles fell away. Crowley immediately slid his feet onto a box nearby, and Aziraphale realized that just being in this place must hurt him so very much. He began to get very angry at everything. But that wouldn't do; he was here for Crowley, and he mustn't think of revenge at a time like this.
"You really shouldn't be here, angel," said Crowley, in tones that made Aziraphale determined to prove him wrong.
"Well, neither should you!" said Aziraphale. "Oh, Crowley, I've missed you, can you forgive me? We'll have to get you out of town --"
"I can't," said Crowley.
"Yes you can, you can go to New Orleans and I can handle the rest of it from here -- actually, no, better get back to London, yes -- or maybe somewhere else, for a while, while things settle down --"
"Angel," said Crowley, sharply. "I cannot leave. I signed a contract."
Aziraphale blinked. "What?"
"I signed a contract with Weiss, he made me, I didn't -- I didn't want to, I'm not an idiot," he added. "But I can't escape. I'm stuck here. Until he dies. It's the rules. And unlike all the others, they're not rules I'm physically capable of breaking." His voice broke. "He threatened me, I didn't want to, I never --"
Aziraphale knelt to put his arms around Crowley. "Shh, it's all right, we'll find a --"
But Crowley shoved him away, nearly unbalancing in the chair. "Don't," he said. "Don't -- don't come here and pretend you're -- you said I didn't love you," he said, and he sounded so lost, and it was all Aziraphale's fault, and he felt like his heart was in a vise. There were tears in Crowley's eyes now. "And it's, it'sss fine if you don't love me but you don't get to tell me how I feel, you don't get to tell me I'm wrong about that. You ssaid, you ssaid you thought I wass trying to make you Fall, and -- you don't think I can love you, do you? You think I'm jusssst -- jusst --"
"Crowley, I'm so sorry, I'm --" It was hard to look Crowley in the eyes, but he had to. "I'm sorry, I'm an idiot."
"Right. Yeah. Knew that," said Crowley. He did not look mollified.
"Oh, don't make me say it, I can't -- I can't say it, Crowley, if I do I don't know how I'll keep telling Heaven the right things and then who knows what they'd do to you and -- don't make me say it, Crowley. I mustn't." Crowley's gaze had softened, just a bit. Aziraphale wiped tears from his eyes. "Anyway, that's -- that's not what's important now, what's important is I've found you and I'm going to get you out of here whether you like it or not." Then he scooped Crowley up in his arms.
"Aziraphale!" he shouted, wrapping one arm around Aziraphale's shoulder to keep from falling. "What are you --"
"Well, if you can't leave, I'm going to have to steal you," said Aziraphale.
"Don't think that's how it works," muttered Crowley, but he shifted form anyway, his serpent's body coiling around Aziraphale easily. He buried his head in the space between Aziraphale's neck and the collar of his coat, and Aziraphale wondered if it was for warmth or some other sort of comfort.
Aziraphale walked back up the stairs carefully; he didn't want Crowley to slip off him and fall to the consecrated ground. He walked purposefully towards the door, opening it with a miracle. A wall of cold air hit them, and Crowley coiled closer around him.
But when they got to the doorway, Aziraphale couldn't move forward. "Hmm."
"It's the contract, it won't let me essscape. Probably being carried out countsss," Crowley hissed into the back of his neck. His tongue tickled a bit.
"Hmph." Aziraphale turned around, and found he could get either foot out the door, but the rest of his body stayed within the church. "Well." Aziraphale dug his heels in, leaned backwards to an extent that surely would have had him falling to the ground normally -- no luck. "Oh, for Heaven's sake," he muttered, and got his wings out, flapping against the door, although it was quite awkward maneuvering them around the clinging serpent.
"Ssstop, ssstop, thisss isssn't working!" said Crowley, plainly terrified.
"Well, I can't just leave you!" said Aziraphale. He had to lurch forward to regain his balance, and Crowley hissed and shifted tighter around him.
"Look, jussst -- put me down on a pew or sssomething, would you? We can't talk like thisss," said Crowley. Aziraphale had to admit he had a point, and sat at one of the pews, allowing Crowley to slither off. When he transformed, he put his feet up on the seat in front of him and leaned back on the pew as if he was relaxing on a beach somewhere. It made him look as though he was here on purpose to be disrespectful, and not trapped in a building that hurt him physically, and Aziraphale knew that probably shouldn't have made his heart do whatever inappropriately lurchy thing it was doing now, but he much preferred to see Crowley looking relaxed and disrespectful than trapped in a basement.
"So. You signed a contract," said Aziraphale, hoping they could think their way out of this.
"He made me, it wassn't my idea, I'm not sstupid," said Crowley, who hadn't quite lost his hiss, apparently.
"Of course you aren't, my dear," said Aziraphale. "I never said that."
"Don't call me that," snapped Crowley. "Don't pretend you care."
Aziraphale wanted to seize him by the shoulders and say of course he cared and why else would he have come here, but that might lead to saying other things that he knew he couldn't manage. He swallowed. Crowley was staring straight ahead, at the altar. "I got your letter. From Mr. Darrow."
"Oh," said Crowley. He looked stricken at this thought. "Shit," he said.
"I believe you," said Aziraphale, quietly. "And I --" He was getting choked up again just thinking about all of this. "Oh, Crowley, what are we going to do?"
"You're going to go back to London," said Crowley, "and I'm going to wait him out. He can't live forever. Probably."
"I can't just leave you here," said Aziraphale. "They're hurting you! Was that Mr. Weiss, or --"
"Yeah," said Crowley, looking at his knees. "He, ah. He threatened me with holy water 'til I signed the contract."
"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraphale, again, because he didn't know what else to say. He wished Crowley would look at him, but apparently Crowley was still furious. "I've been so terribly frightened," he said, hoping Crowley would come around. "I'm not leaving you here, Crowley, I promise I'll find a way to get you out of here."
"It's safer for both of us if you just leave me," Crowley said, finally looking at him. "He asked where you were, I know he'd use you if he could -- you're not still staying at my house, are you?"
"Oh, no, don't worry about that," said Aziraphale. "I went through it and took a lot of things out of it. Your da Vincis are safely tucked away."
"Fuck the da Vincis, listen to me and get out of here," said Crowley.
"Oh, no, but I can't, Crowley," said Aziraphale, feeling awful. "Even if I was perfectly happy to leave you here, if you stay -- oh, this is all my fault. I told Heaven they ought to assign somebody to Chicago on a permanent basis. But I assumed they wouldn't get to it for another decade or so! Instead, they recalled the assigned Principality, who'd been away on mental health leave, and now she's looking for you, and I'm afraid I made a fool of myself in a bar tonight so she got very suspicious. I was able to throw her off, I think, but -- well. She's very concerned about you."
"Concerned," said Crowley, looking at him skeptically. "She thinks it's my fault the city's like this?"
"Oh, goodness, no, she's well aware what humans can get up to on their own. But she thinks that -- well." Aziraphale could feel his face going very hot. "She thinks you're, er. Well. I believe she thinks you're foisting unwanted attentions upon me."
"Oh? Am I not doing that?" Crowley asked, and there was something venomous in his words, for all that Crowley claimed to be a constrictor.
"Crowley, you wouldn't, and you aren't, and you never have," said Aziraphale. "Don't be ridiculous. It's really the statue that's the issue, anyway; she found it, in, er, your bedroom." He decided not to mention that he'd moved it to the closet and put the sheet over it, which he realized now had been a terrible idea. "I. I didn't know what to do with it, really."
Crowley went scarlet himself, which was gratifying, and then made an odd noise in the back of his throat that started out as a whine and ended up more of a grumble. "That fucking statue," he said, despairingly.
"Yes, that's the one," said Aziraphale.
"I didn't -- it's not -- look, I just thought it was funny!" said Crowley.
"Is that why you moved it after I arrived?" Aziraphale asked, knowing it was not.
"Sometimes you have no sense of humor," Crowley said, not meeting his eyes. "Tell me she didn't see the letter, at least?"
"No, she didn't, she was too busy having an argument with your attorney," said Aziraphale. "Spent quite a while at it, too. I don't think Vehuel's ever met an argument she didn't--"
Crowley gripped his arm suddenly, startling him. "Vehuel? You're working with Vehuel?"
"Well -- not as such," said Aziraphale. "I'm pretending to work with her. I had wondered if you knew --"
"Oh yeah, we've met," said Crowley, an expression of rage briefly replacing the terror on his face. "Fuck. Aziraphale, you have to get away from her. Make your excuses and go somewhere far away, somewhere that's not on any rail lines -- go back home if you can -- and let her deal with me herself. Actually, no, you know what? No, this is easy to fix, just lean into whatever she thinks is going on. Tell her she's right, tell her you were too embarrassed to explain earlier, tell her I'm very obnoxious, and then lead her here so she can deal with me. I'll play along, I'll be the big bad scary demon who's menacing you and it'll be fine."
"Crowley! I'm not going to tell her where you are," said Aziraphale, horrified. "Besides, you know how bad I am at lying to -- well, to humans, but really to anyone who knows I can lie." He did not add that Crowley wasn't in any position to intimidate, and there was all that holy water downstairs. Vehuel couldn't be permitted to find him here.
"Well, you're going to have to make it work," said Crowley, as if Aziraphale had not been trying to do that since Vehuel had arrived. "Anyway, I don't care if she discorporates me, I'll be back in a few decades, it'll be fine. But if she finds out about the Arrangement you are so fucked --"
"Do calm down, Crowley, I'm not a complete idiot," said Aziraphale. "She's not going to find out about that." He sighed. "I suppose you must've worked together, before? What did she do? Every now and then she says something that makes me think you two might have got on if it wasn't for the whole, er...."
"Oh, we did get on," said Crowley. "She was the first person I met after I was created, and she..." He sighed. "The astronomical team was full of stupid politicking -- on my part too, I mean, it made it hard to keep friends -- but she didn't care about that and she always took my side on anything serious. So I thought we were friends. And then she fucking sssold all of us out to bloody Michael. So yeah, I'm not keen on watching all that happen to you. Learn from my misstake; that way only one of us has to be the idiot who trusted Vehuel."
Aziraphale paused to repeat that all once more in his head. "Oh. Oh, dear. That does make more sense than I'd like it to," he said. "But I think I've managed to convince her I'm just frightened of you and also very stupid, so --"
"Angel, no, don't -- don't make things complicated for yourself, not with her around," said Crowley. "She's a much better liar than you, for one thing."
Aziraphale supposed she'd lied to Darrow, a bit, but he couldn't recall much else she had done. "Well, I haven't exactly been lying, mostly, I've just been... leaving things out," said Aziraphale, "and I really do think she might be sympathetic -- today she asked me if I'd ever heard of a demon wanting t--"
"No!" said Crowley. "No, no, no, that's terrible, that means she knows something's off about how you're acting! You cannot trust her, Aziraphale."
"Well, but I think if she just understands you're not particularly hurting anybody -- she cares more about humans than orders, I think," said Aziraphale.
"Yeah. I bet," said Crowley. "We thought she cared more about stars than orders, too. Always a bit of a stickler for getting things done the right way, even if it wasn't quite to spec, and that was sort of tiresome, but I could always trust her to get comet orbits right if I was busy adjusting the concentration of hydrogen in a star or whatever, and she stood up for the both of us when she thought our supervisors pushed us too hard, and I smoothed things over for her whenever she was too... loud." His jaw got tight. "She had a lot of shouting matches with Lucifer, actually. I should've let him do his worst, but he liked me, and...."
Aziraphale did not like when Crowley talked about Satan like this; there was something distant and fearful in his eyes, even when he was bragging about being Satan's favorite. And this wasn't bragging. It was far too honest for that.
"Anyway, I thought -- well, I knew that she saw the problems with management, she knew it was shit, there were all these weird physics glitches getting in our way and she was so frustrated that she couldn't get her job done right. I watched her do everything she could within the rules to fix things and come back more disappointed and angry every time because no one would help, and finally she came around and said that for all his faults, Lucifer was right. And it was so convincing, Aziraphale. She just seemed so sympathetic to the cause, she apologized for having held out, and she committed herself fully to -- well. Anyway. It was a really good fucking show."
"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. He could see Vehuel doing some of this, and he thought of the brief fury on her face as she'd talked about her miracles being taken away in Pompeii, and then the shaky, halfhearted justifications she'd made on Heaven's behalf a moment later, and the times she'd blasphemed, and the casual way she'd not-quite insulted Gabriel, and her delight in hustling the pool hustler. "Well. Perhaps she really did think that? The Vehuel I know hasn't been particularly --"
"Angel, you aren't lissstening," said Crowley, starting to hiss a bit in his agitation. "She was working with Michael for -- well -- for God knows how long, because Lucifer certainly didn't. Vehuel told us, she sssaid, everybody'd be in meetings, she'd scouted it out for us and checked the schedules, and she knew Heaven would be there for the taking, and I, I wass sso ssstupid, I thought, glad she's on our sside, she thinkss about these little details. Always has my back, Vehuel," he said, bitterly sarcastic. "Sssuch a good friend. But Michael knew and we lossst and we Fell."
"Perhaps --" A terrible thought occurred to him. "Perhaps she just made a mistake, and she should've Fallen with the rest of you?"
"Oh, no, angel, it was an ambush. She lied to all of us. And I should've known because it wasn't even the firsst time, she'd talked me into lying to Lucifer before to ssave both our sstupid sskinss. But I thought she'd never lie to me, and..." He looked so hurt, so lost. "And, and, and look, nobody knew the risskss, angel, nobody knew about Falling, nobody even had weaponss, none of us even knew what they were for! And if she'd jusst told me, if she'd just ssaid ssomething, about how much trouble we were really in, I'd have sstopped. But insstead she sstabbed me in the back jussst before the fighting began. She had ssomething pointy hidden away -- musst've had it the whole time -- and it almossst killed me."
"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Oh. Oh no. Oh, oh, that's terrible," he said. He knew he should be feeling only admiration for an angel who'd done such a brave and clever thing, tricking the enemy so thoroughly and sacrificing her own happiness for the greater good -- but she'd hurt Crowley, and done so by deception, and he'd trusted her. "Well, I'm definitely not leaving you here, in that case --"
"What?" Crowley snapped. "No! She'll do the ssame to you if you let her, Aziraphale, she's a fucking sssnitch. What about that sstory makess you think, 'Ah, clearly a sssafe person to hang around with, I'll jussst ssstay here and --"
"She killed Nisroc," said Aziraphale. "Michael told me. And I can't let her do the same to you, especially since..."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Big deal, Nisroc's strong but he loves all that big showy Very Evil Demon bullshit, it's pretty embarrassing, I'm not surprised he got disc--"
"Crowley. I didn't say 'discorporated,'" said Aziraphale.
"Oh. Oh, you mean, she actually, she. She." Crowley paused entirely for a moment, and didn't even make non-word noises. Eventually he started up again. "Well, fuck."
"Quite," said Aziraphale.
"Didn't think she'd do that." Crowley, for all his earlier anger at Vehuel, seemed to be having trouble reconciling this new horror. "Fuck. Well. Guess I know why he hasn't been around much lately. Nisroc, though? I mean, Nisroc almost discorporated you, I thought. That time she tried to feed us to her son? She ate two of your fingers! Took you days to grow them back."
"I did win, you know," Aziraphale reminded him.
"'Course you did. But she did give you a run for your money," said Crowley. "Anyway, my point is if you had a hard time taking Nisroc in a fair fight I don't see how Vehuel could. I know she's ruthless but she's not powerful. Didn't even have the courage to face me head-on, after all, and I'm only me. And wasn't Nisroc a seraph before Earth?"
"Yes, he volunteered to be sent down, I think," said Aziraphale. Something about looking after the humans and feeling responsible for the existence of scurvy, he vaguely recalled from a drunken afternoon in Ur. Of course, that had all gone out the window when Nisroc had decided that pretending to be a god wasn't enough and that she was going to reproduce with humans. "But Michael said Vehuel tricked him into drinking holy water. It doesn't seem she's much for fair fights."
Crowley looked a bit stricken. "I knew she was two-faced but that's -- you don't do that lightly. Well. I know you'd never, I just mean...." He swallowed. "Hang on, Michael told you this?"
"I ah, I made a trip to Heaven to look at Vehuel's records. She doesn't have a particularly good reputation there, I don't think," said Aziraphale. "She's lost a lot of cities. Michael seems... protective of her, though. That's probably why she's still a Principality."
"That would follow. Probably still willing to do Michael's dirty work," said Crowley. "I mean, her killing Nisroc is pretty good evidence of that, don't you think? After all, Michael and Nisroc..."
"I'd forgot about that," said Aziraphale. "Well. At least nobody's telling her to go after you? I mean, you haven't got a history with any archangels, have you?"
"Aside from Lucifer? Absolutely not," said Crowley. "Although it's possible Vehuel just got sick of Nisroc on her own initiative."
Aziraphale sighed. "Not to speak ill of the dead --"
"But let's do it anyway!" said Crowley.
"-- but Nisroc was singularly obnoxious, vapid, histrionic, disgusting, and tacky," said Aziraphale. "Also she tried to eat us that one time."
"She did eat me once in Mexico," said Crowley. "Swooped down and caught me in the middle of a bloody lake. Made it onto the flag."
"Appalling behavior," said Aziraphale.
"The other thing I know," said Crowley, "is that there's a tidy little prize for anyone who can completely obliterate one of Vehuel's cities, because Satan still absolutely hates her. I think Hastur was the last one to make a serious attempt. Nisroc kept trying for a while but I always thought it was just an excuse to get away from Hell, and really, I can respect that. But maybe he got closer than we realized?" Crowley shuddered. "I know she tried to kill me and all, but I can't believe she melted someone."
Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about what that meant for Crowley if Vehuel found him here, vulnerable, surrounded by buckets and buckets of holy water. "Did anyone ever manage to wipe out her cities?" he asked. "I know we did Akrotiri, because it made the Plagues in Egypt easier, but your lot didn't do Pompeii, did they?"
"Nah, we liked Pompeii," said Crowley. "I don't think anyone ever claimed that prize. Cities are really hard to completely obliterate, except sometimes with enough lava -- and I mean, look at Santorini and Naples. Have Akrotiri and Pompeii really been obliterated? They're still there in spirit. And only Satan has the amount of power necessary to make a volcano erupt. I think Nisroc was pretty good at redirecting earthquakes, but that's a slightly different skillset. I remember she was in Pompeii for a bit -- I, ah, got stuck there briefly, I got... a bit attacked --"
"A bit attacked?" Aziraphale asked. "By who?"
Crowley looked embarrassed. "Just Michael."
"It was just Michael?" Aziraphale asked. "Oh, of course, it was just the general of the holy armies who defeated Lucifer in single combat."
"I don't think she even saw who I was, took her all of five seconds to knock me out," said Crowley. "Didn't even see her coming."
"What was Michael doing going around beating demons up?" he demanded.
Crowley shrugged. "Bored, probably? Anyway, this human mistook me for the spirit of Vesuvius and tried to treat my wounds with holy oil, and Nisroc had to come and rescue me, it was a whole thing -- but, credit where it's due, she was at least smart enough not to pretend she'd destroyed Pompeii or she'd have got internal stoats or the lake of fire. Later she made up for it by getting discorporated three or four times in a row making attempts on... I dunno, somewhere less explodey, I'd guess."
"Oh? That's very interesting," said Aziraphale, remembering one of the stories Vehuel had told him. It was not comforting, though, to think that the demon Vehuel had killed (murdered, he tried not to think) was the one whose attentions she'd found more amusing than upsetting. "Hand out a lot of swords, did she?" He'd had to steal one when he fought Nisroc, but apparently Vehuel got preferential treatment. In other circumstances, Aziraphale would've been miffed. But all that business with evil fortresses absolutely sounded like Nisroc, now that he thought about it.
Crowley frowned at him. "We weren't exactly close, me and Nisroc, I don't know what she was up to. Back then I think she was starting a lot of cults, and more recently he had a thing for... serial killers? Personally, I just want to know what they told Beelzebub to keep getting their recorporation requests fast-tracked." He was silent for a moment, looking genuinely distraught over a coworker he clearly disliked, and Aziraphale felt bad to have broken this news. "Shit. I mean, I didn't like Nisroc but I can't believe he's... and -- and, you know, I thought maybe, in the heat of the moment Vehuel stabbing me was just a -- just -- but tricking somebody into drinking holy water, that's cold." He gave Aziraphale a desperate, terrified look. "You need to leave, Aziraphale, you can't -- I can't just sit here while something like that happens to you."
"Oh, my dear, I'm in the least danger here, I think," said Aziraphale. "I mean, really, I know I could get in trouble with Heaven, but --"
"Angel," said Crowley, in tones of exhausted protest.
Aziraphale ignored him. "But you've got all that -- all that holy water down there and -- and what if she finds you and, and...."
"Aziraphale," said Crowley. He put a hand over Aziraphale's, and now he was trying to comfort Aziraphale even though he was in this horrible situation and -- "Aziraphale, calm down," said Crowley, with infinite gentleness. "Please. I don't want you to Fall, you'd be a terrible demon --"
"I would not!" said Aziraphale, mildly insulted. "I've done temptations and curses for you!"
"Yeah, but they always come with a little silver lining, don't they?" Crowley said, with a little smile. "You just can't resist, can you?" And having sufficiently distracted Aziraphale, apparently, he let his hand drop. "Anyway, it's true I'm vulnerable here, and I hate it, but look, if she discorporates me I'll be out of the contract, right? And --"
"But the holy water, Crowley --"
"Yes, yes, I was getting to that," he said. "I was wondering if you might, ah. Pour it out and refill the buckets with, with, with... secular water."
"I think it's called tap water," Aziraphale said.
"Right, yeah, that," said Crowley, distracted. "So that way, for one thing, I don't have, you know, the constant terrifying presence of an existential threat surrounding me -- always a good thing -- and for another, she may have fucked me over completely before, but I still know what buttons to push. And I bet if I got her angry enough, she'd try pouring holy water over me, only to find it was just tap water. She does stupid things when she's angry, she'd probably just run me through with her sword or whatever instead of blessing the water --"
"Hasn't got a sword," said Aziraphale.
"Right, whatever," said Crowley. "But then I'd be safely discorporated and away from that threat, and I'd be back in a matter of decades."
Aziraphale sighed. "I will get rid of the holy water, if you don't think it'll cause you more trouble with Weiss when he realizes --"
"Oh, he's an idiot, he'll think it just went stale or something," said Crowley.
"-- but Crowley, I'm not going to leave you to her. I can't. It's too risky."
Crowley sighed. "Fine, fine. But look, you can't trust her, angel. Do not make that mistake, please."
"I won't," promised Aziraphale, who was more worried about pretending not to be utterly furious with her tomorrow. Crowley still looked frustrated that he wouldn't just leave to save himself, and it reminded Aziraphale rather painfully of how he'd rejected Crowley's declaration of love. He didn't know why he couldn't feel it, but -- even if he'd still doubted when he'd come here tonight, there was no other explanation. "Crowley," he said, gently. "About your letter."
Crowley's face all but shuttered up, and he folded in on himself to make himself small, and that wasn't what Aziraphale had wanted at all. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Crowley, please look at me," said Aziraphale. "I -- I read the whole thing, and I'm -- I'm certainly not going to pretend that I didn't." He swallowed.
Crowley did look at him then, with hope Aziraphale knew he'd have to shatter. "I mean. You don't have to -- you can just -- you can forget about it, it's fine if you do," he said.
"I could never forget, but -- we can't, Crowley," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, I wish -- it's not that I don't -- oh, my dearest, I'm so terribly sorry. You've no idea how much I wish things were different. Maybe someday they can be, but -- well."
"Right. Yeah," said Crowley, looking as forlorn as Aziraphale had feared he would. "We were so, so stupid at that party, weren't we?"
"Probably," said Aziraphale. "I was very stupid, mostly."
"Now be fair, it requires two people at least to engage in the sort of utter idiocy we did," said Crowley.
Aziraphale went pink. "That wasn't -- I was talking about -- I thought I could just indulge my, my, my feelings, my interest, and..." He looked away. "And that because you didn't care about me like that, everything would go back to the way it was. But." He swallowed. "But you do, clearly."
"Oh, now you believe me?" Crowley asked.
"Of course I do," said Aziraphale, "you wouldn't have -- you've done so much for me, and... and the letter you wrote..." He was getting choked up now. He made himself look at Crowley, which did not help at all. "I didn't sense it, but I should've known, I should've -- oh, Crowley, can you forgive me?"
Whatever Crowley had been expecting, it was not this. "Angel," he said, his own voice rough with emotion, "you don't have to -- it's fine if you don't feel the same --"
"That's the most terrible part of all of this," said Aziraphale, shakily. He reached up a hand to cup Crowley's cheek. "My dearest. I wish... I wish we could just..." He struggled to find the right word. "Just be."
Crowley was speechless for a moment. "Oh," he said, finally. "Oh, well. I mean. I thought, maybe. I."
Aziraphale drew him into a kiss, slow and soft. There were tears; at least some of them were his. Crowley clung to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other tangled in his hair.
When their lips parted, neither of them made any move to separate further.
"I don't mean to be... unromantic, but. Probably not a good idea, us being... like this... in a church." He looked significantly at Christ on the cross in front of them.
"Oh, it looks like he has enough of his own problems, don't you think?" said Aziraphale, which got a delighted, scandalized laugh out of Crowley, even as he wiped tears out of his eyes.
Aziraphale gave him a clean handkerchief. "Oh, my dear, my darling. We'll find a way out of this somehow. Maybe not tonight, but eventually."
"I missed you, angel," said Crowley. "You should probably get out of town, though. I mean it." He leaned his head against Aziraphale's shoulder. "I mean, stay in this church however long you like, but..."
Aziraphale slid his arm around Crowley, and stroked his hair, which got Crowley to make a pleased sort of sound. "I'll stay here for a while more, and I'm certainly not leaving you with that horrid man, Vehuel or no Vehuel. I'm not letting her get to you either."
"Angel," started Crowley, but whatever he was saying got lost on the way to his mouth when Aziraphale leaned down to kiss his cheek.
"We'll have to agree to disagree, won't we?" said Aziraphale. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Mngh," said Crowley, sounding dissatisfied but too comfortable to do anything about it. It was the only further objection he made for the rest of the night, and as an argument it was not particularly robust.
They stayed that way for a while, sometimes talking just to hear the other. Eventually it seemed clear to Aziraphale that Crowley was drifting off to sleep. He didn't want to move Crowley, but he knew they couldn't stay like this forever, and there was one more thing he wanted to try. After all, a sleeping person couldn't properly be said to be escaping, could they?
So, carefully, he picked Crowley up once more, and tried to take him out of the church. It didn't work. Aziraphale bit back a cry of frustration, and, regretfully, took Crowley back downstairs.
Crowley moaned. "Nh. Angel?" he asked, his eyes opening.
"I'm so sorry. I can't get you out tonight," said Aziraphale. "I'm sorry I have to leave you for now."
Crowley shrugged. "Can't really go anywhere else. Least you know where to find me. Leave the rosaries off? Danny'll probably put them back on when he wakes up, so he doesn't get in trouble, but for now -- ugh. I'd really like to have a little break from them."
"Of course," said Aziraphale. He waved the buckets of holy water empty, dried them off miraculously, then found a utility sink further into the basement and carefully refilled them by hand to ensure no holiness could leech into them. He set them carefully back around Crowley, who appeared to be dozing again. "I will get you out of here," he whispered, before ascending the stairs again.
Chapter 14: no friends closer than the ones we've lost
Notes:
Content notes: Nightmare gore, brief cannibalism mention, and discussion of the death of a child.
A song for this chapter: "Dangerous" by Two Steps From Hell.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale was there in his arms, kissing him, and his lips were soft and warm and his hands were in Crowley's hair.
And then he collapsed and Crowley did not catch him, Crowley could not even move, Crowley was bound and helpless.
Aziraphale lay bleeding on the ground, all the strange pink tubes humans kept in their torsos poking raggedly from a gash in his side that was somehow lightyears across. He struggled, trying to stand, trying to speak, but a foot landed on his head and crushed his skull.
A familiar storm of shining stars and golden eyes and dark wings leaned forward to examine her handiwork, then cleaned the blood off of her blade of light.
"Long time no see," she said, a smile in her voice, but at the whirling heart of her there was only the terrible hungry thing in the center of the galaxy, the thing that nothing could escape, not even light could escape it, not even angels, and especially not demons.
She raised the blade and brought it down on him. Suddenly, he was falling, and --
Crowley jolted awake, then spent several terrifying seconds steadying the chair he was on so that he didn't land in any of the buckets of hopefully-no-longer-holy water surrounding it. He knew Aziraphale had been careful, but he didn't want to take his chances.
The dream was ridiculous, obviously. Vehuel didn't have feet in her true form, and she wouldn't go and discorporate Aziraphale, she'd let Michael make him Fall or whatever it was Heaven did these days with substandard angels.
"You okay?" Danny asked, sounding like he had just woken up himself, but was not about to admit to that fact.
Crowley tried to say he was fine, only he couldn't lie so what came out of his mouth was a cheerfully brittle "Nope!"
Danny clambered to his feet, and Crowley actually felt guilty, at least until Danny looked him over and said, "How did you get loose?"
At which point he felt like an idiot. "Someone untied me," he said, because he couldn't fucking lie.
Danny blinked. "What? I was here the whole time! I was... awake?"
Crowley laughed. "You were not."
"Okay, fine, I wasn't, but you can't tell Mr. Weiss I let somebody in here, or he'll, he'll --" Danny was shaking. "He already killed Stan, I don't wanna die --"
"Danny. I cannot lie to him. Anyway, the most you could've done to my visitor is argued theology at him. The rosaries are on the floor, I'll -- I'll just sit here tied up again, ugh." He didn't want Danny to die either, because then they'd get somebody less interesting and crueler to watch him, probably. "Why'd he kill Stan anyway?"
"'Cause you almost got him to shoot Mr. Weiss, and for some crazy reason he didn't like almost getting shot," said Danny.
"Is that all? I could get practically anyone to shoot Mr. Weiss if I was in top form," said Crowley. "Especially people who know him. Not you, you have a -- a block." He frowned at Danny, who was still pale and shaking, and was clearly not up for lying right now, to save his skin or anyone else's. "You need to calm down or he's going to take one look at you and decide you've done something wrong whatever you say. He didn't seriously expect you to stay awake all night, did he?"
Danny shrugged. "I don't know, I try not to ask too many questions. They still get mad at me for asking too many questions, though, so I guess it ain't working too good." He sighed. "I wish I just worked at the flowershop like before. Mr. O'Banion was real nice before he went crazy. Didn't make me do any of this stuff, neither. We had a understanding."
"An understanding?" Crowley asked. Maybe if he could keep Danny talking about subjects other than Mr. Weiss, or Aziraphale's visit, Danny would calm down, and also hopefully not ask inconvenient questions about who had been visiting Crowley last night.
"Yeah, that I'm uh. That I don't. I don't do guns and loud noises and people yelling at me and, and..." He trailed off.
"Danny, you are the absolute worst criminal I've ever met if you can't do any of those things," said Crowley. "He really hired you under those conditions?"
"To do the accounting, yeah, and sometimes to put together little bouquets and mist the plants and stuff," insisted Danny. "It's quiet. It's nice! I'd go back if they let me. I had a cousin who worked for Mr. O'Banion who was willing to get me a job, and I had an uncle who was a cop who was willing to do the same, only my uncle is a shithead who's always yelling at everyone and my cousin, he always has lots of extra cash to throw around, and he said they had jobs you didn't have to kill people in, so, uh. Seemed like the better option."
"From what I understand there are a lot of jobs that aren't literally cops and robbers," said Crowley.
"Lay off, okay?" he snapped. "It didn't feel like I had a lot of options and I was in a tight spot so I picked the one that sounded least bad." He seemed almost angry now, and that was fine; an angry Danny was better than a terrified one, especially since Crowley was relatively sure Danny wasn't the sort to take his anger out on Crowley. Except then he asked, "Who untied you, anyway?"
Bless it. "Aziraphale," he said, hoping that would be uninformative.
"Ohh. That's the guy you told Mr. Weiss you were blackmailing," said Danny, and Crowley resisted the urge to wince; he'd forgot Danny had been listening when Weiss had interrogated him. Danny frowned at him. "Only if you're blackmailing him, I don't see why he'd untie you."
Crowley braced himself for another question, one that would force some terrible truth out of his mouth.
But instead, Danny said, "I'm not gonna be like Mr. Weiss about this, don't worry. I just -- I was curious. If Mr. Weiss asks about why you're untied I can just lie to him before he asks you specifically, okay?"
"I appreciate that," he said.
"It's fine, I mostly just don't wanna die," said Danny. "Although I guess if Mr. Weiss believes all that angel bullshit maybe it'd be fine anyway. You wanna play a game or something, or should I leave you alone? I still have stuff to read."
Crowley considered this. He wasn't especially interested in board games, but he didn't want to be left alone with his thoughts at all. "Why don't you beat me at chess a few times?" he said.
Danny set up the board. "I think Mr. Weiss said he was gonna be bringing some people by to see you today," he said.
"Some people," said Crowley, doubtfully. "Which people?"
Danny shrugged. "Not like he tells me more than what he thinks I should know. White or black?" he asked.
Crowley didn't know why he still asked. "Black," he said.
Danny shoved a pile of black pieces at Crowley and set the white ones up. "I assume it's Mr. Moran and Mr. Drucci he's bringing."
"Ah. The rest of the triumverate," said Crowley. "I'd wondered why I hadn't seen them here yet."
"Yeah, I, uh, I don't think Mr. Weiss likes Mr. Drucci very much?" said Danny. "So that's probably why." He moved one of his pawns forward.
"You don't say," said Crowley. He frowned at the board, and remembered once more how much he hated the first few moves of a chess match. Crowley played chess intuitively, and without regard for strategy, which was another way of saying he was very bad at it. "Do you think he'll wear that stupid priest outfit?"
"To church? I wouldn't," said Danny.
"I'm going to guess you wouldn't do most things Drucci does," said Crowley, deciding to make what he thought was a very bold move with his queen. It was, in fact, too bold, because he lost his queen immediately.
Danny frowned at him. "Are you letting me win?"
"No," said Crowley. "I'm genuinely completely shit at chess. You know when these people are coming?"
Danny shrugged again. "Late morning, I guess?" He took one of Crowley's knights. "Look. Uh. About your friend --"
"I didn't say he was my friend," said Crowley, quickly. It was a statement of fact, after all.
Danny ignored this, and watched patiently as Crowley made what was probably another spectacularly shitty move. "I'm not asking, but I am real curious. And I won't tell Mr. Weiss about it. I was just wondering about the, uh, the angel and demon stuff."
"Oh, so you believe I'm a demon now?" Crowley asked.
"Nah, but obviously you do so I'll humor you for the sake of discussion," Danny said. "Also I feel bad for you, because, um... checkmate?"
Crowley frowned down at the board. He picked up his king. "But what if I --"
"Nah, my bishop'll get it," said Danny.
"Or --"
"Knight's right there," said Danny.
Crowley scowled. "I'm not telling you anything unless we switch games," he said.
"Will you tell me anything if we switch games, though?" Danny asked.
"Maybe," said Crowley. After having been reminded of the way he'd stupidly trusted Vehuel, he was feeling apprehensive about trusting pretty much anyone but Aziraphale, who had proven time and time again he was an awful liar. Danny was making a point of not asking anything sensitive directly, but what was to stop him from turning around and telling Weiss everything?
"Well, maybe's good enough, then, I guess," said Danny, sweeping the chess pieces off the board so he could put them away. "'Specially since every chess game's a foregone conclusion with you." He pulled the Landlord's Game out of the cabinet and started setting it up. "Mostly I guess what I'm wondering -- I'm gonna be the banker this time, by the way, I know you cheat -- what I'm wondering is, what would --" He paused, and Crowley supposed he was trying to work out how to rephrase his question into a non-question. "I can't imagine what a demon would have nightmares about, is all," he said, finally.
Crowley watched him set up the game , and thought about the dream he'd had. "I didn't say I'd had a nightmare."
"I think you did, though," said Danny, pushing over the starting cash. "You wanna be red again?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Crowley, holding out his hand for the red piece. Danny gave it to him, and fished out the green piece.
Crowley considered the dream he'd had, and decided he definitely wasn't telling Danny about the part with Aziraphale, which was all of it that he remembered, really. But he missed telling outlandish stories that were true in parts, and he wanted to stay on Danny's good side, so he decided to tell Danny something. Although it required some complicated context. "How much do you know about gravity?"
Danny shrugged. "How much does anyone know about gravity, really?"
"So, nothing, then," said Crowley.
"I mean, I know the basic stuff," said Danny, and Crowley was about to repeat himself, until Danny said, "When I was a kid I used to read all the stuff I could find about science, and I read a few articles about relativity in magazines and stuff. I won't pretend I understand it, but it's neat."
"Oh! Well. You're doing better than the last bastard I tried to explain this to, then," said Crowley.
"What happened?" asked Danny.
"Had to resort to throwing apples at him to distract him from his Bible interpretation nonsense, because I could tell he was going to start summoning angels pretty soon and we'd already been through all that with John Dee once before and I just wasn't in the mood to deal with another go 'round," said Crowley. "So anyway. I er. I used to be an angel -- I know, I know you don't believe me, just -- humor me, I'm bad at chess, all right?"
"Sure, yeah," said Danny. "But I still get to go first," he said. Crowley rolled his eyes, and Danny rolled the dice. "Aw, come on, really?" he demanded, as he immediately had to pay $10 in property taxes.
"Oh, bad luck," Crowley said, grinning; he wasn't even cheating. He rolled snake eyes (of course) and bought the cheap property he landed on.
"You're goin' the slumlord route this time, I see," said Danny.
"That's right. Never going to fix anything," said Crowley. "No heat all winter, no water all summer. So, anyway, when I was an angel, I was on the astronomical team. We built most of the stuff that's not on Earth, and --"
"Why?" Danny asked, rolling the dice.
Crowley paused. He wasn't being compelled to say anything, probably because he wasn't sure what Danny was asking about, particularly. "Why what?"
"Why make stuff other than Earth and the sun and the moon?" Danny asked. He moved his counter. "Also why is my luck terrible?" he added, as he landed on yet another tax space.
"Well, I'm not cheating," said Crowley. He could, but being in a church made everything more of a headache, so he wasn't going to bother on a board game. "As for the other question, I... don't know, actually?" He had certainly asked a lot of inconvenient questions, but Why is this job even here? wasn't one of them. He'd liked the stars and the planets and the comets and even the lonely little lifeless rocks that were left floating around a solar system after it had been made, like celestial sawdust on the workshop floor. "I s'pose -- for decoration? She was never clear on why we did most of what we did, really, which was part of the problem."
"She?" Danny asked.
Crowley nodded upward. "You know. God. All Her orders were just opaque as fuck and some of the specs were -- well, I'll get to that." Crowley half-expected Danny to scoff or argue about the whole God thing, but he didn't, so Crowley continued. "So anyway. I was up there putting stuff in the vacuum of space. We worked out pretty fast that making each individual star by hand was going to be incredibly tedious, so mostly we made nebulas and sort of... sped them through star formation. Which, by the way, that was my idea? So you're welcome for that." He rolled the dice, and bought up another cheap property.
Danny did not look nearly as impressed as he ought to be, Crowley felt. "Sure, whatever you say," he said. He seemed much more interested in the game than in this story, probably because he didn't believe any of it.
Crowley sighed. He missed telling outlandish stories to easily-impressed humans; it was a mark of what he'd been reduced to that he was telling completely true stories to humans who didn't even believe them. "Right, so, anyway, I had this friend, we used to work together on most things. She was good at the little detail work and I was good at the bigger picture stuff, you know? And Lucifer -- he was our supervisor -- he always liked our work. So we got a few nice promotions. We did four special-order star systems, and managed to iron out some of the design flaws in the specs without too much alteration -- and then! We got the big assignment. They asked us to sculpt the galaxy Earth would be part of."
Danny did look up at that. "You get paid extra for that?"
"We didn't actually get paid," Crowley admitted, feeling like a bit of an idiot now that he thought about it. Pay hadn't even been a concept, really; they'd worked for social approval, mostly. He'd worked for approval, at least. Still did, to some extent, but it was more that Satan's approval would get Hell off his back; he no longer really wanted that sort of attention.
Sometimes he got it anyway, and wished he didn't.
"Wow, really? That's such a lousy job it's not even a real job," said Danny. "Why'd you..." He trailed off, seeing Crowley's face. "Never mind, that's -- I don't need an answer to that, I guess. Hey, you think I should buy the Loop?" he asked.
"What?" Crowley asked.
"In the game," said Danny, and Crowley saw he'd landed on a real estate office, which meant he could buy anything on the board. Crowley could tell he was tempted; he could sense Danny's greed. But he also knew a generous subject change when he heard one. "It'd be half my money, but --"
"No, you shouldn't," said Crowley. "It's more than half your money, you've already landed on two tax squares. Save for the middle-of-the-road stuff."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot you had to answer dumb questions too," said Danny, looking guilty.
Crowley shrugged. "It's just a game."
Danny frowned at the board, and then slid some money from his own hand into the bank. Then, looking guilty and a little bit smug, he went through the real estate pile until he found the card he was looking for.
"What'd you get?" Danny silently slid the card over so Crowley could see. Hell's Half-Acre. Crowley made an indignant noise.
"I dunno, it just jumped out at me," said Danny, cheerfully. "Why, did you want that one for some reason?"
"Yes," said Crowley, involuntarily, because it was technically a question and he still couldn't lie. "How could you do this to me, Danny?"
Danny shrugged. "Nothin' against the rules in it. Anyway, tell the rest of your story?"
"Right, yeah..." Crowley sighed. "So the specs for the galaxy were... terrible. We did our best, but there were just too many stars in the middle of it and we sort of -- we broke gravity? Or we discovered that gravity was broken. I don't really know how to explain it. There was -- there was this thing so heavy and so tiny in the middle of everything that light couldn't even get out. I don't think you lot have a word for that, yet. So obviously we stopped time --"
"Oh, yeah, sure, obviously," said Danny.
"-- and she tried to reverse it, but she said she couldn't, and, and, it turns out spacetime was all bollocksed up in that region so we had a fucking awful time getting time started again and I didn't dare send it forward to see how long it would take to eat the entire fucking galaxy, but we knew it wasn't exactly going to be well-behaved," said Crowley.
"I dunno, that sounds made up," said Danny.
"Yeah, well, we wished it was. Anyway, we were both standing -- floating, we were both floating around thinking, shit, everyone's going to be so angry, because I mean -- it could have been redone, probably, but the paperwork to create or destroy matter is just... horrific, and I think half the archangels would've chewed us out and Lucifer..." He didn't want to think about that overmuch. "Well. He always had a bit of a temper."
"Why'd you stick with him, then?" Danny asked.
"Because he made me feel like I was somebody important," he said. He'd known, obviously, but he hadn't ever exactly put it into words for himself, and hearing it all laid out so simply made him ill. It sounded so pathetic.
"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean..." Danny looked worried.
Crowley wanted to say it was fine and move on, but it wasn't fine, and he hated all these little reminders that honesty was a terrible policy. Still, he'd take Hell over being subjected to all the sanctimonious mindgames Heaven put Aziraphale through. If he had to be tortured, it might as well be by people who openly hated your guts. "I don't regret it. Heaven's full of shitheads who don't even know they're shitheads."
"Okay, but... I kinda wanna know how you fixed the star-eating thing," said Danny.
"Oh, we didn't, it's still there," said Crowley.
"Didn't you get in trouble?" Danny asked.
"Vehuel -- that was my friend's name, Vehuel -- eventually after we tried everything we could think of, she turned to me and said, 'Why don't we just tell Lucifer we meant to do that?' and -- and we'd never heard of lying, neither of us, it wasn't a thing, really, except I suppose it must've been -- so it took her a while to explain what she meant, but. We just... told him it was a bold new design choice."
"And that worked?" Danny asked.
"Oh, he loved it," said Crowley. "Took credit for it! It became standard for all spiral galaxies to have one of those things in the middle, which I have to assume means God saw it and thought, 'oh, that's all right, then,' which really says a lot about the quality of the upper management of the universe, I think."
Danny seemed to think about this for a long time. Crowley wondered if he could get away with rolling the dice and taking another turn, and then realized that it actually was his turn and he could do that without cheating, only he was a bit worried now.
"Danny?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm just -- just thinking about some stuff," said Danny.
Crowley rolled the dice, and landed on a nice mid-tier property, which he bought, pushing the cash over to Danny, who banked it without saying anything. Maybe he could trade it with Danny for Hell's Half-Acre and... something else. Presumably Danny would have something else, down the line. He pushed the dice over to Danny, who did not take them. "It's your turn," he said, eventually.
"Yeah," said Danny, distantly.
"You're not worried about the star-eating thing, are you?" Crowley asked. "If it's any comfort you'll be dead before it affects anything, I think."
"Nah, I still think that sounds made up," said Danny. "But, y'know, it was real comforting to think that there wasn't a God, you know? 'Cause bad shit keeps happening to me and people I like and I don't think that's fair and I used to be real angry thinking about all those people who say shit about how God don't ever give you more than you can handle, 'cause that's obviously bullshit if you look at all the people who God expected to handle -- fuckin' slugs of lead whizzing at 'em, or mustard gas, or, or, shit, a real bad case of the flu or something! How the hell am I supposed to handle that? Only, you talk about God like some guy with a rubber stamp in a nice safe office somewhere and you're out bein' almost eaten by star-eating things but it's fine as long as you fill out all your forms, he sees 'em and he thinks, 'Ah, they handled that thing, my old pal Lucifer who would never lie says everything's fine and they meant to make a star-eating monster thing, that's just great! Gonna give 'em more shitty work!' and I think uh. I think that makes more sense than I wanted it to, given the state of the world an' all, which is very depressing and I don't know what to think now."
And now Crowley needed a moment to take this all in. "Well. Considering my current employer I'd actually really prefer, if it's all the same to you, that you didn't believe in God, because for some reason they think that'll make you be a worse person, and --"
"Well I'm not gonna be going to church, if that's what you're worried about," said Danny.
"I mean." Crowley glanced around. "You wouldn't have to go very far."
"I guess not. I do kinda like the music," Danny admitted. "Still." He frowned down at the board. "Oh! Shit, it's my turn, isn't it?"
"Yup," said Crowley, pushing the dice at him again.
"Right, yeah." He rolled the dice and landed on the property Crowley'd just bought.
Crowley held out his hand. "That'll be $75, please," he said, grinning.
"Oh, come on," Danny grumbled.
Aziraphale was having breakfast at the Palmer House the next morning when out of nowhere, Vehuel sat down at his table and said, "I need to apologize."
He stopped buttering his toast and frowned at her. He wasn't feeling especially charitable towards her, considering Crowley's tale of last night, so he had a hard time keeping the chill out of his voice when he said "Oh?" He tried to think about what she thought she'd have to apologize for. "Is this about last night, at the Green Mill?"
"Yes! Yes," said Vehuel, looking relieved. "I really am sorry, I didn't mean to get so carried away, I just wanted you to pick up a damn newspaper."
He frowned. "I'm... sorry?"
"No, no, I'm sorry," she said, again. "I thought it would be a funny joke, I assumed you'd figure it out, um, well before I got to the end of the story," she said, looking fearful, "and then -- and then you let me keep going and it got to be a whole thing, and --"
"Excuse me, ma'am, coffee or tea?" asked a waiter, startling Vehuel into nearly knocking the table over.
"Oh! Um! Coffee," she said, because that was definitely what she needed today, more nervous energy. She waited, silently, as the waiter poured what must have been the most suspenseful cup of coffee he'd ever poured. When he was gone, she started up again. "-- and look I didn't expect you to believe me, or to pretend to believe me, I'm sure you didn't believe me, I just --"
"Vehuel," said Aziraphale, putting his toast aside for the moment, because this clearly required his full attention. "What on Earth are you talking about?"
"The monkey trial," she said, miserably. "You mean -- you mean you don't know? Oh, now I feel worse," she said.
Aziraphale frowned at her. If this was some sort of master manipulation in the vein of whatever she'd done to Lucifer, it either wasn't working, or it was working marvelously to what end Aziraphale could not fathom. "The monkey trial? Oh, yes, the monkey Mr. Darrow represented, who bribed the --"
"No! No, no, there was no monkey, I lied," said Vehuel. "I lied about the monkey. I know it would make more sense than not, but, absolutely no monkeys in the monkey trial. I'm sorry," she added, again.
His frown deepened. "Then why was it called..."
She sighed. "You know that big plagiarism scandal where Gabriel accused Raphael of copying his work on humans over to apes? The humans came up with an explanation for --"
"Yes, thank you, I am familiar with Mr. Darwin's theories, I'm not a complete idiot," said Aziraphale.
Aziraphale thought that for the merest moment, something in Vehuel's face said You sure? but maybe it was just surprise. "Right, okay, so you know -- so there's laws against teaching it in... I wanna say Tennessee, and there was a schoolteacher who taught it and it was a whole big thing. It was on the radio, actually. Ugh, I wish I'd been back on Earth by then, you don't want to know how many forms there were to fill out to get a radio into Heaven, and it's not like there was anywhere private to listen to it. Not for me, anyway. But I told Raphael about it and he had me come up and do recorporation filing for him while it was going on so we could both hear it. Anyway, look, I'm sorry. I've been feeling bad about it all night."
"Well. Thank you for your... belated honesty," said Aziraphale. He didn't know what to make of this at all.
"I'm still mad at you about that poor bartender, though," she said.
Aziraphale picked his toast back up; he couldn't regret his actions of the previous night, because, after all, he'd finally found Crowley. "As if you've never manifested unwisely and accidentally terrified a human," he said, before taking a bite.
"Not like that!" said Vehuel. "I mean. I mean I have, just -- it wasn't -- it was, it was, uh. Providence. And he completely deserved it. Anyway --"
"Providence?" Aziraphale demanded. "That's certainly one way to put it. I can't believe you'd get so ridiculously upset with me over that and then turn around and claim your mistake was divine providence."
"I didn't say that," she said.
"You did, you just said --"
Vehuel mumbled something into her coffee before draining it.
Aziraphale frowned at her. "Sorry?"
She swallowed. "It was the one in Rhode Island, okay?" she snapped. "But it wasn't a random innocent bartender, that guy absolutely had it coming, and besides it wasn't like he reacted any better to my human form, which --" She stopped herself. "Look. Whatever. I have certainly made mistakes in the past, but I won't put up with you hurting my humans. Control yourself."
Aziraphale tried to remind himself that he ought to be grateful she wasn't reporting him Upstairs, not furious that she'd betrayed his dearest friend thousands of years ago. "Yes. Well. I didn't mean to, and I'm certain you were able to undo the damage," he said, attempting to smile.
"More or less," she said, clearly unmoved.
"Although I do still want to know how you stopped time," said Aziraphale. "I've only ever seen archangels do that." And Crowley, of course, went unsaid. It was a good subject change, he thought, and he was gratified when she looked, well, uncomfortable. And perhaps a bit guilty?
"Before Earth, I was on the astronomical team, it was a standard issue thing there," she said. "I can turn back time a little too -- nothing like I could before, the human corporation makes it trickier. I don't think I'm really supposed to be able to do it still. It's why I thought I could get everyone out of Pompeii, but then they cut me off and...."
"Ah," said Aziraphale. He didn't think Crowley could do that, actually. Although he'd never really asked. "The astronomical team, though? That sounds fascinating."
"Yeah, it was... well. I liked it." She smiled, a bit sadly. "Don't know that I was very good at it, but it was pretty soothing work, tweaking all the orbits just right, getting everything to spin like it was supposed to. My partner and I invented comets our first time out, actually. They had us working in pairs because I don't think they trusted any one low-ranking angel with full control over time, which, probably a good call, actually, considering, um. What happened."
"What do you mean? What happened?" Aziraphale asked, trying very hard to sound like he didn't already know.
She grimaced. "Our supervisor was Lucifer. So that could've gone better."
"Ah," said Aziraphale, trying to look sympathetic and surprised at the same time. He was terribly grateful that Vehuel appeared to be looking for a waiter instead of paying attention to him. "I'd heard he was very, er. Charismatic." It seemed like a safe thing to say; it was basically all he knew about Lucifer outside of what Crowley had told him.
"Yeah, everyone says that?" said Vehuel. "Did not see it myself. Hey, could I have more coffee?" she asked the waiter she'd finally drawn the attention of. "Thanks." She turned back to Aziraphale. "Mostly I thought he was a jerk. He... he played people against each other and got them to argue so they wouldn't realize he was telling them all different things. And he took... personal liberties with some of us. Not me," she added, quickly, seeing Aziraphale's completely genuine look of horror. "People I knew, though. People who wouldn't have made that up," she added, as if that was something she expected him to suggest. "It was kind of a mark of honor, or he tried to pretend it was, anyway." She made a face. "And when he didn't get what he wanted he was scary."
"I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. He thought of Crowley, and all the times he'd said something along the lines of how pleased Satan had been with his work, and he found himself very angry. "Was there -- were you able to do anything about it?"
"I tried, but no one was interested," said Vehuel. "The astronomical team had kind of a reputation for being... badly-behaved, I guess, and a few people offered to transfer me to another team, but I couldn't get anyone to listen to me about Lucifer. I told him to -- well I tried to tell him to stop being such a -- there's not really a good English equivalent that captures the connotations of what I was gonna call him, but I didn't manage to say it, anyway. Too worried about him chucking me into the nearest solar system, and I'd worked really hard on it, and also it had a lot of, um, jagged rocks, and... yeah." She curled in on herself, trying to make herself smaller than the body she inhabited would permit, and took another sip of coffee.
Aziraphale had expected her to go on and talk about what she'd done during the war, but she seemed too lost in thought for that. "What, er... what were you going to call him?"
"Well." She looked a bit worried. "I feel like half the insults we used pretty much translated to... um... to, well, to 'meteoroidfucker,' actually." She looked sheepish, and then relieved when Aziraphale wasn't shocked and appalled. "Which is a pretty clunky word itself, but also... there's a huge difference between the one that means 'someone who enters into celestial communion with a fast-moving chunk of rock so as to get out of doing actual work for the day,' and 'someone who enters into celestial communion with a hunk of rock because they're not bright enough to realize it's not another angel, and still doesn't realize their mistake afterwards.' For Lucifer, I was gonna use the one that meant, um, 'person who manifests reproductive organs and actually --"
"Ah, yes, you needn't go on, I understand perfectly," said Aziraphale.
"We might have deserved that bad reputation," she admitted. "But nobody deserves.... anyway, most people really liked him, enough to give him whatever he wanted. I used to figure maybe there was something wrong with me for not seeing it."
"Good thing we won the war, I suppose," said Aziraphale. "He sounds -- well. I suppose 'terrible' would be an understatement to describe the Devil, but."
"Yeah," she said, looking glumly at her coffee. "But he's still Down There. I don't know. I'm sure he still does all that stuff, but it's to demons, so nobody cares."
Aziraphale was touched by her sympathy towards the poor demons who had to deal with Satan, and then he wondered if that was exactly what she'd hoped for, so that he might say something overly revealing about Crowley. "Well. They did all pick his side, after all," he settled on. "Perhaps... perhaps they don't mind it so much?"
"I don't believe that, and I don't think you do either," she said, more frankly than he was comfortable with. "But the prevailing sentiment is definitely that they deserve whatever they get."
This conversation was getting more and more dangerous, and Aziraphale forced himself to pick up his knife and fork and get to work on the eggs and bacon he'd ordered, which had looked much more appealing when Vehuel hadn't been here trying to force him to admit he had sympathy for demons. "I couldn't possibly comment on the prevailing sentiment," he said. "I haven't been to Heaven for quite a while."
Vehuel sighed, and finished her coffee. "So, here's the awkward thing, and look, I feel pretty bad asking this, because you seem nice, but -- I know you were just up in Heaven, actually. Michael told me." A terrible shock ran through his entire body. "Apparently you'd blackmailed Phanuel to get at some of my records? And look, I tried to give you openings to mention it, but you haven't, and just now you pretended you didn't know at all. Care to explain?"
"I." Aziraphale looked at her expression of utmost patience and mild disappointment and tried to channel his racing mind into finding something appropriate and convincing to say. "Well. I was a bit nervous, you see, given your, er. Your, er."
He assumed she'd fill in the blank. She didn't, only leaned forward, her chin resting on one hand, in a gesture so painfully reminiscent of Crowley, but accompanied by such unwelcome scrutiny that he didn't think he had an appetite anymore.
"Well, you'd made a comment, about how I must not have seen your files, and between that and all the things Gabriel said about you... er..."
Aziraphale realized he did not want to repeat any of what Gabriel had said about her, so he was almost grateful when she said, "What, that I'm lazy, or that I'm nuts?"
"Gabriel's standards are very... exacting," said Aziraphale.
"Gabriel's standards are that you should drop everything and do what he thinks you should do, even if God just told you otherwise," said Vehuel.
Aziraphale could not argue with this. "Well. I. Between all of those things... I was curious. And then I was... a bit embarrassed, and..."
Her expression softened, a bit, but the disappointment seemed sharper for it. "Well. I would prefer to work with someone who was willing to be honest," she said.
And that made him angry, because she clearly hadn't been honest with Crowley, and she certainly hadn't mentioned her role in the war to Aziraphale, either. "Well, I stand by my earlier statement; you do have a suspicious mind. And I would prefer to work with someone who didn't set these little conversational traps for me, but here you are interrupting my breakfast with extremely rude questions."
She laughed at that, and Aziraphale couldn't tell if she was offended or not. "They're definitely rude questions, but hey, I had to ask. But I mean, come on, you must've known Michael would tell me, I mean, if I did the same thing Gabriel would --" She paused, and her expression almost seemed sympathetic. "No, no, he wouldn't, would he?"
"I rather doubt it," said Aziraphale.
"Somehow I always forget that he could be outsmarted by two handfuls of gravel," said Vehuel, more to herself than to him.
"Well." Aziraphale didn't know how to defend Gabriel, and he didn't particularly want to, and he was still reeling from having to defend himself. He felt knocked entirely off-course by this whole conversation.
That was surely what it had been meant to do, though; Aziraphale imagined he was supposed to be thinking, What else does she know, and how bad will it be for me if I don't tell her?
And the idea of being manipulated so plainly made him angry, so he decided to tell her just one more thing, given how insistent she was about honesty. "I do think it's a bit silly, though, you talking about what you don't think demons deserve, given what happened to Nisroc."
He had assumed she would stop trying to get him to admit some sympathy towards demons, once he mentioned this. He had not been expecting her to react the way she did now, though, for she went rigid, as if she'd been stabbed, and that smug, insufferable expression she'd been wearing was wiped clean, replaced with -- fear? Despair? He could not tell precisely where she was emotionally, only that she looked very lost indeed.
Whatever had happened with Nisroc, Aziraphale was willing to bet his Buggre Alle This Bible that it hadn't been as straightforward as Michael had made it sound. "Michael mentioned that little coup of yours," he added, warming to the subject as he watched her deliberately bring her expression back to something neutral, and nowhere near as cheerful as it had been before. "You must be very proud of yourself," he added.
Vehuel tried to take a sip of coffee, and realized her cup was empty. "Fuck," she said, under her breath, and looked wildly around for a waiter to refill it. "Um."
"He's behind you," said Aziraphale.
"What?" Vehuel looked over her shoulder. "Oh! Oh, thanks." She waved at the waiter, and turned back to him. "So, um. So you... I guess you probably knew Nisroc, before."
"Before you killed him?" Aziraphale suggested, brightly.
Guilt was plain on her face. "Before she Fell," she clarified.
"Ah. Yes. We'd worked together," said Aziraphale. It was interesting that she was willing to fill in these little conversational blanks now. This was no longer an interrogation. It was, he thought, probably a justification.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking down at her hands. "I, um. I had a lot of dealings with Nisroc. He didn't side with Lucifer, in the beginning, and. Look. I think what he did was wrong, I don't think he should've leaned into it like he did, but it -- it actually used to be really hard not to be mistaken for a god in a lot of places? Did that ever happen to you?"
"Certainly not!" said Aziraphale. "That sounds horrid."
"It really was," said Vehuel. "I think I was mistaken for a whole pantheon and then some during the Trojan War and the aftermath. I don't recommend it. But I can absolutely see why Nisroc stopped trying to correct people, is the thing? I don't really know if that should be a Falling offense."
And now Aziraphale was recalling the very well-outfitted temple in Ur that he had met Nisroc in; the attractive and revealingly-dressed priests and priestesses, and the altar piled high with delicious-looking fruits and all the best cuts of meat. "Well, as you say... he probably shouldn't have leaned into it quite so much," he said.
"Yeah, but... I don't know. Hard to stop people, sometimes. I don't know, I never met her 'til after. But, you know, then she had that kid, and obviously that's a Falling offense," said Vehuel, "but -- ah, thank you," she said, looking up at the waiter with the carafe of coffee as if he was refilling her cup with manna from Heaven, albeit much more flavorful manna than usual. "But I think it was pretty terrible what happened to Grendel, he was only a kid, and it hit her pretty hard. I don't care what they say about demons, she really loved that kid."
"He did eat people," Aziraphale pointed out. "Unless the story I'm familiar with is all wrong." He had also met Grendel briefly, of course, but he was happy to leave these details out. Maybe Vehuel would trip up and mention something obviously false.
Vehuel actually looked angry for a moment, and Aziraphale felt a sudden, startling flash of pain from her -- misaimed compassion, he thought, although it had been so startling he hadn't been able to examine it properly. "Grendel was a child," she said. "It wasn't his fault Nisroc lied to him about what was on the menu. That was all her."
"I only meant to point out --"
"He didn't know any better," she insisted. "Isn't that the whole point of good and evil, that people actually know what they're choosing? He never got to choose."
"I suppose so," he said, and it did sound rather like she had met Grendel herself. And not done anything about him, apparently. He would have been reassured for Crowley's sake if he hadn't heard Crowley's story about the war. "I'm sorry; please go on."
"Glad I have your permission," she muttered. "Anyway, after Grendel was murdered, Nisroc was clearly going through some stuff, and it was... a lot. Lots of cults, which, okay, that's -- whatever, typical demon stuff, I'm not shocked. Lots of eating people, which is... less typical, and gross, but -- but stress eating is... a thing, at least?" She sounded about as doubtful as Aziraphale was about this being applicable, to her minor credit. "And for a while she only went after really bad humans. But then... then he sort of slid into watching humans do torturey murdery stuff for kicks? And that was really bad. I don't know how much he caused directly, but..." She shuddered. "Anyway, I think Nisroc was pretty angry at humans, and. And I had to do something about it or it was going to keep happening." Vehuel looked truly distressed now, and Aziraphale almost felt bad for her. Almost.
"I see," said Aziraphale, trying to maintain the chill he'd started in on this topic with. The more she felt she had to justify herself, the less she would question his odd behavior earlier.
"It's just -- I understand if you're furious that I killed your friend, but -- I don't think he was who you knew," she said. "It wasn't just becoming a demon, it was -- he was frightening me. And look, after dealing with Lucifer regularly, I really don't scare easy." She drew in on herself again. "I did my job and solved the problem, because that was all I could do."
He frowned. "Michael didn't put you up to it?" Aziraphale asked, because if he was Vehuel trying to explain this, he would absolutely have blamed Michael whether it was her fault or not.
"Oh, no, Michael's only suggestion when I'm getting hassled by demons is to discorporate them more often," sighed Vehuel. "Easy for her to say, she's so good in a fight." There was a hint of very unprofessional fondness as she said this, but fortunately it faded fast. Still, Aziraphale wondered if Vehuel even knew about Michael and Nisroc at all. "I wish I could get her help with some of them, honestly. Didn't need it for Nisroc, though." She winced. "I did sell her on it as a good deed, which I'm not proud of, but I wanted to push through an actual sewage system so we'd stop having cholera outbreaks here, only Heaven was loading me down with a bunch of dumb little miracles that maybe would've helped three or four people at most. So it got them off my back for a while. Might as well have something good come out of the whole mess."
Aziraphale couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with the story, but something was wrong. Vehuel's emotions seemed genuine, and none of the words contradicted anything he knew to be true, but there was something wrong with how they fitted together, he thought.
Or maybe he was being paranoid because Crowley had told him Vehuel was a liar.
Still, it did him no good to challenge her on it now. "Well. Thank you for that explanation," he said, still cold. "I hadn't seen Nisroc in quite some time, and... while I was aware of his change in allegiance, you must understand it was still something of a shock to find out about... that."
"Yeah. I'm sorry," said Vehuel. She finished her cup of coffee. "Urgh. I feel terrible."
Aziraphale was having trouble mustering sympathy, still, but he supposed he ought to say something understanding about it. "Well, if you did what you had to do --"
"Yeah, but I didn't think talking about it would get to me that badly. I haven't even had breakfast and I wanna throw up," she said, miserably.
"Ah. Well. Perhaps because you've had three cups of coffee on an empty stomach?"
Vehuel looked down at her empty coffee cup and made a glum noise, a cross between a whine and a grumble. "Ugh. You're right." He took pity on her and pushed over the plate with a stack of toast, and she let him actually eat his food without pestering him for a few moments. Then, around a mouthful of toast, she said something that might, charitably, be interpreted as "You said you had a cat?"
Aziraphale knew it was ridiculous to think Oh no, she's suspicious of where I went last night, what if she knows?, but he had that thought anyway. "Yes, she's upstairs in my suite. Would you like to meet her?"
Vehuel swallowed her toast. "After breakfast," she said. "And we have to figure out how we're gonna get in good with Al Capone. Ugh. Don't like him already, he seems smug."
"Have you -- have you met him?" Aziraphale asked, startled.
"Nope. But I read the papers, you know, like a person who wants to stay informed," she said, pointedly. "He's smug. Journalists love him and he loves them. And! He bought a suburban election!" She crunched into half a piece of toast, then swallowed. "Who does that? I mean, for one thing it's a suburb. If you're gonna buy an election you might as well go big or go home, right?"
Aziraphale vaguely recalled Crowley mentioning that Mr. Capone had bought a suburb, but he'd assumed that was in reference to property. "I didn't know he held any sort of elected office. I thought he was just in the, ah, the liquor business."
"No, no, no, that's not what he did, he had guys go around with guns and threaten all the voters to vote for the guy he made a deal with," said Vehuel, gesturing wildly with her toast. "That is a thing he did! And then he shoved the mayor -- who he paid all that money for! -- down the stairs of city hall! This is a man who should not have nice things, because he will absolutely break them. But not before he's broken everything else." She was getting very worked up about all this, and Aziraphale had to admit that did all sound quite appalling. "Anyway, he's into gambling, brothels, guns, drugs, everything -- he's got his fingers in pretty much every illegal pie there is." She frowned, and muttered, "Illegal pie? Is that a thing?" to herself before continuing. "I don't think pie should be illegal. But, regardless of pie, I bet a demon would be really useful to Capone if he was smart about using them."
"Well, maybe they don't know he's a demon?" Aziraphale asked. "Perhaps he's already escaped from Mr. Capone," he suggested, hoping that was a nice story to get her to stop looking.
"No, no, they must have known he was a demon," said Vehuel. "Whoever nabbed him at the Green Mill was successful, which means they probably didn't try and hold him using human means. I've definitely run into demons so stupid that they could be captured by humans without any apotropaics, but anyone sharp enough to run four entirely different personas for as long as it looks like he has according to his papers is not an idiot. Or at least, isn't that kind of idiot. And you said he was smart."
"I said he was wily," Aziraphale said, because he didn't want whatever he'd said about Crowley to be construed as a compliment.
"Right, yeah. That just means smart, but annoying about it. Or at least, that's what people mean when they've said it about me." She finished off another piece of toast. "So anyway, whoever has him -- probably Capone, let's be honest, he's got every other vice market cornered, why not the demon market -- probably still has him. Although actually..." She frowned. "You know, I bet it'd be really profitable to sell a demon's services. I should look into that. Ugh, all my contacts for this stuff are fifty years out of date, I hate this. I should not have let Haniel talk me into going on a break."
"Why did you?" Aziraphale asked, because as nice as it was to know she was barking up entirely the wrong tree when it came to finding Crowley, she was definitely in the right garden, as it were, and distracting her from that seemed useful.
Vehuel looked sheepish, suddenly. "It's really stupid," she said, and then she considered. "Well, you've probably seen it anyway, since you went through my files, apparently." Aziraphale felt a twinge of guilt at her defeated tone. "I um. I was trying to figure out a way to replace fire with something... safer?"
"Ah. I... did see that paper, yes," Aziraphale admitted.
"I was really upset, I don't really think I was thinking straight," she said. "I mean. The research was sound, but the idea was wildly unhinged, so. I. Yeah. I don't think Haniel showed it around. I hope not, anyway."
"I don't think she would," said Aziraphale. "Unless... er. Unless she thought it was well-written," he added.
"Oh, yeah, no chance of that," said Vehuel, relieved. She ate her last piece of toast -- well, really it was Aziraphale's toast -- in glum silence, then brushed the crumbs off her shirt with a miracle and stood, startling Aziraphale. "You have rooms upstairs?" she asked.
"Ah. Yes, I suppose it would be best to discuss other matters in greater privacy," said Aziraphale, getting to his feet as well.
"Also, the cat," said Vehuel hopefully.
"I don't really know what use the cat could possibly be," Aziraphale said, because he was still very annoyed that she thought he'd lied about that, instead of about practically everything else.
"I mean, I've never had a cat but I've met them," said Vehuel. "I know they're not going to be useful." They found their way to the lobby and into the lift. "What's your cat's name?" she asked.
"Oh, she's called Hobgoblin," said Aziraphale, cheerfully, and then realized that was an awfully strange name for an angel's cat to have. Although it was a fine name for a demon's cat.
Vehuel frowned. "What, is she... foolishly consistent, or something?"
Aziraphale's brain vaguely recalled this phrase pertaining to hobgoblins, somehow, from something he'd read somewhere. Probably within the last hundred years. But he read so much that things tended to blur together unless they were particularly exciting to him, so all he could recall was that the author had been American. Which was not helpful at all. "A bit," he said. "Mostly she gets underfoot."
"Ah. Yeah, that's cats for you," said Vehuel.
If the lift moved faster because the two angels in it wanted very much to get away from the awkward silence within, neither of them commented on it. But it was with some relief that Aziraphale opened the door to his suite.
He wondered if it would be very rude to start the fireplace going, given Vehuel's... history... but it was another chilly day, and anyway, she smoked, so he lit it with a snap as Vehuel slumped into one of the sofas in his sitting room and poked through the small pile of books he had taken from Crowley's house. Aziraphale tried not to get too anxious about that. Crowley's literary tastes, questionable as they were, weren't particularly demonic. But while she was distracted examining the book of poems Crowley'd had, Aziraphale remembered that the desk in the bedroom still had Crowley's envelope from the attorney sitting on it, and quickly miracled it even further out of sight, lest Vehuel wander.
"I wouldn't have figured you for liking this kind of stuff," said Vehuel, examining the novels. This seemed a bit unfair; Aziraphale appreciated good literature, but he also just liked books. Still, he knew he couldn't convincingly insist that Crowley's handful of books were the sort of thing he enjoyed, particularly when the covers were so lurid, and he hadn't even made his way through enough of them to defend their contents.
"Oh, those aren't mine," said Aziraphale, quickly. "I think the last person who stayed here left them. But it's nice to have something to read while I'm here, I suppose. Although some of them are a bit... much."
"Maybe those Gideon people are expanding their horizons," said Vehuel. She squinted at the cover of The Private Life of Helen of Troy, which, while it was not demonic, per se, was definitely intended to inspire sin. "Her lust caused the Trojan War," she read aloud. "Bullshit! She didn't look anything like this, either."
Hobgoblin walked cautiously out of the bedroom, peering at Vehuel suspiciously.
"Oh! What a pretty cat," said Vehuel, putting the book down immediately, to Aziraphale's great relief. She bent to put one hand out near the floor, for Hobgoblin to sniff. "I like cats but they don't seem to like me much," she said. "I think maybe I try too hard? Or something. Probably she'll just -- oh!" she said, as Hobgoblin nudged her head into Vehuel's hand.
Aziraphale tried not to feel betrayed on Crowley's behalf as he watched a cat who had been resurrected from death by Crowley's own hand lean into Vehuel's hand, leap onto the sofa, and climb right into her lap, while Vehuel said absolutely inane things like "Oh, what a good sweet baby! Yes you are! Oh, look at you!"
Hobgoblin settled into her lap, emitting contentment and love and trust as though she'd known Vehuel all her life, and Vehuel continued to fuss over her. Aziraphale reminded himself that at least Vehuel wasn't busy hunting Crowley down while she was petting a cat. But that couldn't last forever. "So," she said, finally looking up from the perfidious purring creature, "we need to figure out where Capone is keeping Crowley. Personally, from the information I've gathered, if I was Capone I'd keep my demon at the Four Deuces, which won't open until later. He also has this hotel out in Cicero, which would be my second choice, but I don't wanna go to Cicero." She made a face. "I hate the suburbs."
"I can tell I'm going to regret knowing this already, but what is the Four Deuces?" Aziraphale asked.
Vehuel shrugged. "Gambling den. Brothel. They probably do a little torturing there too. And possibly it's also a furniture store? The guy I talked to was a little unclear on that. Lots going on, anyway."
Aziraphale decided not to inquire further. "Well, I suppose we probably ought to make the trip out to Cicero, just to be thorough, and then we can come back and try this Four Deuces place." He absolutely did not want her thinking of churches, and venturing out to the much-hated suburbs seemed like a good way to keep her occupied.
"Yeah, I guess," she said, unhappily.
As they planned out their strategy, Aziraphale thought about how he was going to keep Vehuel on the wrong path. It was such a pity that, as far as he knew, Mr. Capone didn't have any secrets hidden away that might easily be mistaken for a captive demon.
Then he wondered how difficult it would be to have Capone summon his own demon. That could give Vehuel something to find. And maybe, if he was lucky, Vehuel would assume the other demon was Crowley and discorporate them before they had any time to disprove that assumption.
Chapter 15: with apologies to Hell
Notes:
Content notes: A necrophilia joke, some angry, violent racism/sexism, brief mention of violence against sex workers, and (I'm so sorry) continued cannibalism mentions, Because Nisroc.
(There's also a lot of torture mentions but this fic is literally tagged "Torture" mostly as an advertisement, so I more just feel bad there's no actual torture in this chapter.)
Posting from the liminal space between hotel checkout and going to the airport, so no song for now.
Chapter Text
"Earl, I don't wanna tell you how to do your job," said Vincent Drucci, frowning at Crowley, "but it seems to me like maybe you forgot what smugglers are for. They're useless sitting in church basements, they gotta be outside. Smuggling, ideally. For us, even more ideally. I'm sure we can all agree Danny is a good guy, but playing board games with Danny is not a productive use of anyone's time."
"He's not a smuggler," said Weiss.
"He is, he's Tony the Snake," said Drucci. "You've met him! Don't pretend you don't know him, that's just rude." He turned to Crowley. "How's life, Tony?"
"Not fantastic, I'll admit," said Crowley. He had neither asked for nor enjoyed the nickname Tony the Snake, but as people seemed to find it intimidating, and it wasn't actually incorrect, he had never sought to change it. "Not really much of a churchgoer if I can help it."
"You winning or losing?" Drucci asked, peering at their board game.
"He's winning," said Danny, glumly.
"It really depends on your perspective," said Crowley, who had still not managed to wheedle the deed to Hell's Half-Acre out of Danny's clutches, despite offering all manner of wildly unbalanced trades.
There was the clatter of feet on the stairs, and Bugs Moran appeared from above. He looked at Crowley, and then he looked at Weiss. "That's not a demon, that's, uh, whatsisname, with the glasses. Only without glasses. You said there was a demon!"
"He's Tony the Snake," Drucci supplied.
"Yeah, yeah. Almost didn't recognize him," said Moran. "Hey, where's your glasses?" he asked Crowley.
Crowley shrugged. He couldn't imagine the Green Mill had any sort of lost and found policy beyond "Finders, keepers."
"He is a demon!" Weiss insisted.
"Do you mean... like a metaphor or something?" Moran asked. "'Cause he just looks like a smuggler to me. A smuggler who's doing us no good in a church basement, unless they're gonna give us a great deal on communion wine an' he's just here to sneak it very sneakily across the street. Which I think I could do easy enough in a coat with big pockets on the inside."
"That's what I said!" said Drucci.
"Shut up, both of you," snapped Weiss, and they did, although Drucci shot Moran a look behind Weiss' back. "Crowley! Do your little party trick."
"Which one is that?" Crowley asked, counting out the cash he had on hand still.
"Turn into a snake!" said Weiss.
Crowley sighed, put his money down, and turned into a snake. He coiled himself into a tight knot on the seat of the chair, which wasn't really big enough to hold him comfortably.
"Jesus Christ," said Moran, taking a step back. Drucci, meanwhile, stepped forward and peered at the chair Crowley was curled up on.
"Looking for sssmoke and mirrorsss?" Crowley asked, peering over the back of the chair at Drucci.
He paled, and stepped away again. He turned to Weiss. "What the hell?" he said.
"I told you he was a demon," said Weiss, placidly.
"But that shit's not real," said Drucci. "Or, or, if it is, it's not -- it's not up here."
Crowley rolled his eyes, and turned back to the game. "I think it'sss ssstill your turn," he told Danny, who was still clutching the dice. He'd been about to roll when Weiss had paraded into the basement with Drucci in tow.
Drucci was ranting now. "What the fuck are we gonna do with a demon, Earl? An actual demon! A demon from Hell!"
Danny watched him for a moment. "I think I should let them, uh, figure this out first," he told Crowley.
"Maybe he's not that kind of demon?" Moran suggested.
"What other kinds of demons are there?" Drucci asked.
Moran shrugged. "Iunno! Just... maybe he's a, uh, a freelance demon?"
"You guys gotta look at the bigger picture here," said Weiss. "Imagine what we can do now we have our very own demon! We could eliminate the Outfit, and all the other bastards in our way. Control this city once and for all. Hell, one of us could be mayor, even," said Weiss.
"I call not me for mayor," said Drucci. "All that kissing babies and shaking hands and pallin' around with the cops? No fuckin' thanks."
"Obviously not," said Weiss. "We'd make Bugs do it." Moran did not look particularly happy at the idea of this promotion.
"Thing is, though," said Drucci, "I just don't know if it's real smart to have our very own demon. I mean, aren't you worried about, um... eternal damnation?"
All the enthusiasm drained out of Weiss' face. "That's not a problem for you guys. It's all on me, you don't gotta worry about that."
"What? What's that mean?" Moran asked.
"Apparently... apparently I'm already headed, uh." He pointed downward. "Down."
Drucci and Moran immediately burst into a chorus of performative disbelief. "Aw, no, but you're real churchy, you're an extremely devout guy, how could you be headed there?" said Moran.
"And it's not like you ever did anything real bad," said Drucci. "Like, you ain't ever shot a guy outside of work reasons!"
"Well, there was that one guy," said Moran.
"What guy?" Drucci asked.
"With the annoying laugh?" said Moran.
"Yeah, but he had an annoying laugh," said Drucci. "It was a public service."
"I think," said Weiss, "it's 'cause I haven't done enough to avenge Deanie, probably. And I haven't done my part to build this organization up like it should be, in his memory."
"Poor Deanie," sighed Drucci. "I miss him too."
"You've been trying!" said Moran, encouragingly. "We'll get back at those bastards eventually!"
"Well, obviously I gotta try harder," said Weiss.
"How do you know you're going to Hell though?" Drucci asked.
"He told me," said Weiss, pointing at Crowley.
"Okay, but what if he's lying?" Drucci asked. "I mean. Snakes aren't exactly noted for telling the truth."
"Or talking at all, really," Moran said.
"He can't lie, he's under a contract," said Weiss.
Drucci looked at him skeptically. "Earl, lemme tell ya, I have signed a lot of contracts in my time, and I can say I've probably gone against some little detail of most of 'em and I mean, you know me, you know I'm a man of my word, I'm not trying to do shit like that, it's just, I dunno, isn't it kinda unreasonable to put in there, 'tenant shall not commit crimes while on the premises?' Where the hell else am I gonna go commit my own private crimes? In public, like some kind of savage? Fuck that! But look, if signing a contract's not stoppin' me, a decent upstanding citizen, from doing all that, why would it stop him?"
"This is a demon contract, it's different," said Weiss. "Try it! Ask him something terrible. He's gotta answer."
Drucci turned to him, and Crowley waited, pensively, hating that he would have to tell whatever awful truth Drucci wanted to wrench out of him. He took a breath, and then faltered and looked back to Weiss. "I can't talk to a snake," he said. "Make him turn back."
And after Crowley had finally got himself arranged comfortably on the chair, too. He sighed, and shifted back. "Just get this over with, would you?" he asked.
Drucci looked at Crowley, evidently not much comforted. "Okay, so uh. So, uh. When I was seven, what did --"
"I don't know," said Crowley. "I don't know everything. Why would I know that?" Drucci looked very relieved.
"Ask him something about himself," said Weiss.
"Okay, uh. What are you most ashamed of?" Drucci asked.
"That I got captured by you idiots, of all people," said Crowley, without hesitation. Drucci looked like he was about to ask another question, so Crowley decided to volunteer some information in the hopes of heading him off. "Also, I keep losing to Danny at chess."
"I didn't know you were good at chess," Drucci told Danny, surprised.
"I'm not," Danny said.
"Sure, sure, rub it in," said Crowley, rolling his eyes.
"So what can he do?" Moran asked Weiss.
"Oh, lots of things," said Weiss, enthusiastically. "He says he can make odds better if we attack someone, and he can get us money from nothing, and bring back the dead, and --"
"Hang on, Earl, he can bring back the dead and you didn't just make him get Deanie back for us?" Drucci asked.
"If we got him back, getting revenge on Capone would be pretty ridiculous, wouldn't it?" Weiss asked.
Drucci frowned, considering this. "I mean, I get that, but also, we'd have Deanie back."
"You can get in lots of trouble doing, um, what's it called," said Moran. "It's like, necro-something. Necro... mancy?"
"I don't think that's the right word," said Drucci. "Isn't that makin' it with a dead girl?"
"No?" said Moran. "Nobody does that, Vince, quit making shit up."
"I'm not making shit up!" Drucci insisted. "One time this guy I knew -- you know what, never mind, I don't wanna go into it. Very awkward situation for everyone involved. Well, the dead girl was a little past caring, probably. Anyway -- long as we ain't talking about that -- since when are you afraid of a little trouble, Moran?"
"Since never, but there's a little trouble and there's this," said Moran. "I don't wanna get on Satan's bad side, okay?"
Crowley cleared his throat. "To be fair, he doesn't actually have a good side." Please have me bring O'Banion back, please, it'll be amazing. Weiss might actually cry, he thought. Weiss would probably also discorporate him painfully, but then he'd be unable to fulfill his contractual obligations.
"Okay, okay, but look -- it was a very expensive funeral," said Moran.
"Yeah, I guess it was," sighed Drucci. "And also we'll have to explain to him why we didn't manage to get Capone yet. I don't wanna have that conversation."
Moran nodded. "Better to let sleeping dogs stay dead," he said.
"And after all," said Weiss, solemnly, "he's in a better place now."
"Warmer, certainly," Crowley put in. He immediately found himself on the receiving end of three glares. He grinned.
"So, what are we gonna do with him first?" Drucci asked.
"Well, the way I look at it, we're just seeing a string of real bad luck, right?" said Weiss. "So what I think is we gotta turn that right around. Make things go real smooth for us for the next few months, and demoralize Capone by making sure he can't do anything right. Let him beat himself up trying to do stuff that should come easy. Then we strike him when he's weak." He looked at Crowley. "Whaddaya say, can you do that?"
Crowley made a speculative noise as he contemplated this. Eventually, he said "That's awfully vague."
"You're real creative, figure something out," said Weiss. "People make bad calls, bullets go astray. Make him trust someone he shouldn't trust. Make him find out someone he did trust was cheating him all along! Make him shoot somebody who'll get him in real trouble. Make his wife run into his mistress at the grocery store."
Crowley turned this over in his head. He didn't hate it, actually -- it wasn't that far off of his usual methods, only of course he didn't usually work on driving just one human to Hell, because that was a waste of effort. "I can do plenty to ruin his life, but it'd be most effective if I could actually hang around with him, because then I could see what I was --"
"Oh no, absolutely not," said Weiss. "You're real creative, like I said; if I let you outta here you're gonna find a way to not come back."
"Well, then, I'll -- I'll think of ways to curse him, but they're going to be pretty vague," said Crowley.
"Sure, fine," said Weiss. "You do something rotten to him twice a week and tell me what it is you're cursing him with, and if you slack off I'll know and I'll make you hurt. Didn't like that holy water last time, didja?"
Crowley swallowed. "I did not." He reminded himself that the buckets weren't full of holy water anymore, but it almost didn't matter -- Weiss had access to as much as he wanted. "I'll. I'll do that. I'll make it count," he added, hating himself for being afraid, and hating Weiss more for finding a way to be fearsome to him.
Drucci frowned at Weiss. "You sure you don't wanna, I dunno, ask for money or something? Or a pretty girl?"
"If you can't get your own girls, Vince, that's your problem and I don't wanna hear about it," snapped Weiss. "Don't use the demon like that."
"Nah, you're right," said Drucci, "making a deal with a demon is fine, but God forbid someone ever have a little fun around here!" He turned to Crowley. "I mean, come on, you don't wanna be here to do half-assed little 'oh, make Capone eat a apple with a worm in it, make him get stuck in traffic' bullshit, yeah?"
"I don't actually want to be here at all," Crowley reminded them.
"So what would you do if you were one of us?" Drucci asked. "Knowing what you know, but if you weren't a demon, what would you do?"
Crowley had to think about this. "I would ask for as much money as I'd need to live comfortably for the rest of my life and perfect health, probably. Then I'd flee to a tiny little island in the Pacific and live out the rest of my life in fear of what was going to happen to me once Hell worked out that I had a captive demon."
"Why? What, uh, what happens then?" Drucci asked.
Crowley smiled. The world wasn't fair, and humans squirmed out of their contracts more often than they should have, but not always, and selling your soul was never a good deal in the end. And eventually, someone would notice Crowley hadn't been turning in his reports. He wasn't looking forward to it at all, when Hell found out how badly he'd failed, because either he'd be punished for that failure or... or he wouldn't, because Satan liked him, and that was actually, somehow, worse. But these bastards didn't need to know all of that. "Oh, they always come to collect eventually. There'll be Hell to pay."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Drucci appeared to be reconsidering his request, and Weiss, despite all his piousness, actually looked worried.
Finally Moran said, "You know, I was expecting a much funner answer."
"Blame Weiss, he said I couldn't lie in the contract," said Crowley. "I'll curse Capone, if that's what you want." He turned to Danny. "It's still your turn."
"Oh, right," said Danny. "It okay if we keep playing, or...?"
Weiss rolled his eyes. "I'll be in touch. You better do what I told you to," he snapped at Crowley, one more time, before turning to leave.
"As if I've got any choice," he sighed. As the leadership of the North Side Gang filed out, Crowley turned his mind to concocting yet another strategy to get Danny to sell him Hell's Half-Acre.
The hotel in Cicero, as Aziraphale had hoped, had yielded absolutely nothing of interest to Vehuel, which she'd worked out as soon as they'd walked in. "Definitely a lot of low-grade evil," she'd said, "but I don't sense anything to write home about, do you? Still, I guess we should check."
So they did check, or rather, Vehuel checked the top floors while Aziraphale snuck back down to the front desk and asked them to discreetly pass a message on to Mr. Capone that he would be at the Four Deuces that evening, and that he wished to discuss something sensitive, but that he was not to be approached if in company. He didn't know quite how Vehuel would appear to Mr. Capone, so he didn't mention her specifically.
He did a very cursory search of the public areas of the hotel, so that Vehuel wouldn't write home about him, but of course, all he found were memories of the three days he'd spent here with Crowley, and that just made him melancholy.
On the way back Vehuel talked about some of the papers she'd taken from Crowley's house. "I'm fairly sure he's been going by 'Lilith Cambion' with Capone and then 'Tony the Snake,' which -- I'm still not over that, the Snake, I mean, come on! -- with the North Siders. Oh! Oh, also, I cracked that code -- it's just a Caesar cypher, I don't know why people still use that, it's so easy to break if you know anything about vowel frequencies, I mean, why bother -- anyway so the coded documents are amazing."
"They are?" Aziraphale asked. He'd thought they were innocuous enough.
"Not for catching Crowley," said Vehuel, dismissively, "but! It's dirt on all the local politicians? And a lot of the other big players, like business owners, people who run charitable organizations, stuff like that. It is an amazing resource. I assume he was going to blackmail them," she said.
"What, er. What are you going to use it for, then?" Aziraphale asked.
A mildly guilty look traveled across Vehuel's face. "Well. I mean. Definitely not blackmail."
"Of course not," said Aziraphale.
"That would be wrong," Vehuel added.
"It would," he acknowledged, wondering where this was going.
Vehuel was silent for a long moment. Then she burst out with, "But I mean, if, say, an alderman was going to make a terrible decision about zoning, and I had to approach them and subtly remind him, morally, that he might want to make a good decision to balance out that time he made a different zoning decision solely because his mistress' brother who owns a construction company asked him to, or, or --"
"Isn't that blackmail, though?" Aziraphale asked.
"Well I'm not threatening to tell anybody anything," said Vehuel. "I'm just, you know, sort of reminding them that they did a thing, and it was bad, and maybe they could do something good this time around. It's not blackmail if you're not threatening to reveal the damaging information."
"Yes, but if you go to them with that, they'll read the threat into it," Aziraphale pointed out. "Isn't it basically blackmail?"
Vehuel shrugged. "I don't see how their misinterpretation of my actions is my problem."
It was a decent loophole, Aziraphale had to admit. He wished he had thought of it himself, in fact. He tried to project a sense of disapproval, but he didn't think it was working.
"Anyway, if it's an ongoing problem," said Vehuel, "I could just try telling them to stop."
"That does seem fair," said Aziraphale. "Does it work?"
"Hasn't yet, but there's a first time for everything," she said brightly.
When they'd arrived downtown again, Vehuel showed Aziraphale where the Four Deuces was on a map, and arranged to meet him there around ten pm. She'd annoyed Hobgoblin with a long blue feather for a bit while Aziraphale pretended to read -- he was too tense to actually do more than stare at the page -- and then she was gone, and Aziraphale was alone and able to let his guard down once more.
While he was tidying up Crowley's books, which Vehuel had looked through once more, he thought one of them was missing. What had it been? The luridly-covered Private Life of Helen of Troy was still here, nipples and all, and so was the poetry anthology. Aziraphale had kept The Great Gatsby separate, as he still hadn't finished reading it.
An image came to Aziraphale then -- a pulp magazine with a red cover; a woman -- possibly nude? -- well, she'd at least been wearing a very large snake, coiled around her and frozen in an open-mouthed hiss. In the foreground a man with a sword approached them cautiously. Both the humans on the cover had been blond. Aziraphale remembered finding it when he was clearing out Crowley's house. He'd taken one look at it, a flurry of awkward questions had entered his mind, and he had immediately decided to bury them, along with the magazine, at the very bottom of the pile of books.
He clawed through the stack of books and found nothing resembling his memory of the lurid cover. Had Vehuel taken it? Had he hidden it somewhere and forgot having done so, perhaps because he was losing his mind?
Aziraphale told his heart very firmly to stop beating quite so loudly and so quickly. If Vehuel had the magazine, there was nothing he could do about it now. Letting her get away with book-thievery was maddening, but the alternative would only make him look even more suspicious than he already did.
2222 South Wabash was indeed the site of a used furniture store, apparently, and also, when Aziraphale wandered in, a cafe. But there was an underlying feel of evilness permeating the building. It was both reassuring and worrisome, because it would mask the fact that Crowley wasn't here -- but also, what went on here?
He supposed that was a problem for later, sat down in the cafe, and ordered a pastry, and hoped that Vehuel either knew how to get to the less legal part of the establishment and would arrive soon, so that he could find a way to get away from her and find Mr. Capone, or that Mr. Capone would wander into the cafe and Aziraphale could talk him into summoning a demon before Vehuel arrived.
She found him when he was about halfway through his sfogliatella. "You see anything interesting?" she asked.
"They have tiramisu," he said brightly. To her credit, she did look interested. "But if you meant anything to do with Crowley, no."
"Yeah, I figured probably not." She frowned around at the cafe. "Some really bad stuff happens here, doesn't it? The whole metaphysical feel of this place is disgusting. Are the pastries good, at least?"
"Whatever they do here," said Aziraphale, "it hasn't affected the pastries at all."
"Compartmentalization," she said. "Hmm. Well, come on, let's poke around. With evil this strong it can't just be limited to a little vice."
Aziraphale took his sfogliatella and followed her. "We could ask them, you know, where all the iniquity is," he said.
"Please don't," she said. "Anyway, it's upstairs. That's what I heard anyway." She found a door near the back of the room that might have led to a kitchen, but did not; instead there was a dark, narrow corridor and a beefy-looking fellow scrutinizing them.
They smiled and projected an air of Of Course We're Supposed to Be Here. "Hey, pal," said Vehuel, "anywhere I could get a drink around here?"
"Down the hall and through the door on the right," said the man.
"Cool, cool," she said. "What other kinds of fun you got?"
"Second and third floor there's, uh, pool, slots, craps, roulette, any card game you could imagine an' maybe some you can't."
"Oh, have they got tarocchi?" Aziraphale asked, perking up. The man looked lost.
"I think we may be a little more imaginative than your usual clientele," said Vehuel, "but we'll make do. What's on the fourth floor?"
The man looked between the two of them. "Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't be interested in that, ma'am," he said, quickly.
"Ah, I see," said Vehuel. "Thanks for your help. Let's go upstairs," she told Aziraphale.
"What do you think is on the fourth floor?" he asked, as they climbed the stairs.
"Hopefully just a brothel," she said. "Less optimistically, a small soundproof room that locks from the outside and has easily-mopped floors and suspicious stains. That absolute stench of evil has to be coming from somewhere, after all. Anyway, let's do what we did at the hotel? I'll take the top two floors, you take the bottom two? And if you find an entrance to the basement, or going down a hallway that screams 'murder room,' wait for me? I'll come get you if I find anything worrying."
"That seems a sensible plan," said Aziraphale. He could hang around here and wait for Mr. Capone to find him, hopefully. As they emerged onto the second floor, he could see the place was rather crowded already.
Vehuel frowned at him. "Also maybe ditch the pastry? You look ridiculous. Get a drink or something," she told him.
He did not glare, because he did not wish to stoop to her level of rudeness. "It's very good," he said, and took another forkful.
She sighed. "Right. Whatever. Anyway, I'll meet you downstairs if neither of us finds anything horrible first." And she walked into the crowd. Aziraphale waited until he could no longer see her among the other casino patrons while he finished his sfogliatella, then vanished the plate and fork away to wherever dirty plates went -- the kitchen, probably? -- and set about looking for Mr. Capone. He did keep half an eye out for doors that the general gambling public didn't seem to be meant to notice or go through, but in this way he only encountered a rather dull-looking office. The door had had four locks on it, and Aziraphale assumed that was because of the large safe in the wall, but that was of no interest to him, so he snuck back out and took to wandering through the crowd again.
Aziraphale was standing by a window, which he had opened slightly for a little fresh air, watching a group playing a rather complicated-looking dice game, when he heard a familiar voice. "I got your note, Fell," said Mr. Capone. "You're not bein' followed by cops or anything, are you?"
"Oh, no, certainly not," said Aziraphale. "It's only that -- well. I do have someone tagging along with me helping me look for Lilith. Only she doesn't know of the, ah, the full extent of my relationship with her, and she would be quite scandalized if she did. In fact, I would appreciate it if you did not even mention our appearance at your party at all."
"I see," said Capone. "Who is 'she'?"
"She's a friend of Lilith's," said Aziraphale. He hoped Vehuel and Mr. Capone would not end up meeting each other, but he knew there was a good chance of it happening anyway. And Vehuel even was an old friend of Crowley's, sort of. "She, ah, she also would not appreciate the offer of... hmm. Mutual assistance, I suppose, which I am about to make."
"Mutual assistance?" Capone looked skeptical. "I don't mean to be rude, but it's my understanding you're some kinda lawyer, yeah? I got a guy for that."
"Oh, no, no, I don't mean -- I don't mean that." He took a deep breath. This could go horribly. He might have to make Capone forget the whole thing, which always left him with lingering twinges of guilt. "I -- I suppose she didn't mention it, but Lilith had dealings with... oh, how do I put this?" He decided to cut to the point, and put all his faith in Crowley having been very overdramatic and mysterious in his performance as Lilith Cambion. "Demons," he said. "She had dealings with demons."
Capone laughed. "You know, I been called all kinds of names but that one not so much."
"No, no, I'm entirely serious. Actual demons, I mean," said Aziraphale. "Did you -- did you never wonder how her husband died?"
"Nah," said Capone. "She never said but I figured she shot him, or pushed him off something high, maybe."
"Oh, no. No, no, that would never do," said Aziraphale, hoping to convey that, somehow, actually murdering one's wealthy and despised husband oneself, or even paying another person to do so, was hopelessly gauche, and that Lilith Cambion would never. "What I am saying is -- is that I have access to certain of her things, and I could probably assist you somewhat in, ah. In securing supernatural aid in your fight against your North Side rivals."
Capone seemed to have trouble working out if he was serious or not.
"I can see why you wouldn't want to, but please understand, Mr. Capone, I am --" He sighed. "I'm certain that horrid Weiss fellow he has her, and -- and I'm worried he's been hurting her, and..." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm -- I'm really very useless with this sort of thing, I'm afraid, but --" He blinked back tears as he thought of Weiss forcing Crowley into the contract under threat of holy water. "I need to get her away from him, and I think the only way to do it is... he... he needs to die. And he certainly deserves it and I ought to be able to do it but I don't think I can," he said, finally.
Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief and tried to recollect himself; Capone patted him on the back awkwardly, and looked surprisingly sympathetic. "Well, I guess you got your specialized skills and I got mine. You know where they're keeping her?"
Aziraphale took a shaky breath and forced himself to keep a level head. "No, I -- I think they're moving her around," he said. The last thing Crowley needed was Capone's men finding him while he was trapped in the basement of a cathedral.
Capone frowned. "I'm gonna be frank with you, Mr. Fell. What you told me just now sounds crazy."
"I know," said Aziraphale, feeling stupid for having even thought this would work.
"But you know what? I'll give it a shot," he said, gamely. "Not real fond of that little asshole Weiss myself. Might as well try getting the Devil himself to come take him away."
"Oh, I don't know if you need to go that far," said Aziraphale, quickly. "Satan's probably very busy, you know, torturing the damned, and, and, in meetings and such. Even a minor demon will do. But not a word to Lilith's friend about the demon -- she would highly disapprove."
"Well, you clearly know more about this shit than I do," said Capone. "How would you --"
"There you are," said Vehuel, putting her hand on Aziraphale's shoulder out of absolutely nowhere, startling him immensely. "I need your help. Oh!" she said, and when Aziraphale turned to look at her, she was staring at Capone. "Oh, um. You found, um." And if she was surprised by that, she probably hadn't been lurking there for very long, which was a huge relief.
"This your friend?" Capone asked.
"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I'm so sorry, hang on, just a moment," he told Capone. "What are you doing?" he whispered at Vehuel. He wasn't going to go off and investigate whatever terrible torture chamber Vehuel thought she'd found and burn all his bridges with Mr. Capone after all that.
"Just come with me," she snapped. "Sorry, I, we'll get back to you, kind of busy," she told Capone, who looked a bit cross. Aziraphale did not blame him.
There was, Aziraphale now realized, a commotion in the crowd behind them. A rather large man was pushing his way through, shoving gamblers and dealers alike out of the way. "You!" he said, pointing at Vehuel.
Vehuel sighed heavily. "Guess we're doing this here," she muttered under her breath.
"Bill, what's the problem?" Capone asked.
"This uppity big-mouthed bitch," Bill spat, gesturing at Vehuel, "was upstairs tellin' me how to do my fuckin' job."
"I think you should calm down, sir," said Vehuel. "I only asked you to stop."
"Stop what?" Capone asked.
Bill paled slightly. "Don't listen to her, she's not --"
"I told him to stop threatening the women on the fourth floor to give him half their money," said Vehuel. "He thinks he's very intimidating." He was very intimidating, Aziraphale thought, or at least he must have been to the humans around them. He was rather burly and had an inch or so on Vehuel, who was quite tall herself.
Capone looked stricken for a moment, and then he looked very cross indeed. "Bill, you told me guys hadn't been paying and that's why we've been short for a while. Don't tell me you've been skimming off the profits this whole time."
Bill went pale. "Why would you listen to her, she's --"
"I'm just saying," said Vehuel, "if you'd left her alone instead of following me, you wouldn't be in this trouble now. Take it as a life lesson, maybe?"
"I'll give you a life lesson, girl," snarled Bill, and he pulled a knife on Vehuel.
A lot of things happened in the next moment -- Vehuel sidestepped Bill, grabbed the wrist of the hand with the knife in it, forcing Bill's hand open and swinging him forward and past her, adding to his momentum and sending him flying through the nearest window as the knife clattered to the floor. There was a crash, and then a dull thud as he hit the ground.
Vehuel swore under her breath and rushed to the window; Aziraphale hurried after her.
"What exactly did you need my help for?" he whispered.
"I didn't want to hurt him!" she said.
Bill was flat on his face on the sidewalk outside. Aziraphale could tell that he wasn't actually dead, but he did not appear to be moving. "That turned out well," said Aziraphale.
"Bill was my best bouncer," said Capone, mournfully. "Well, I thought he was, anyway."
"Doesn't bounce very well, does he?" said Vehuel. "I think you're gonna need a new one."
"You got any proof of what you said he did?" Capone asked, skeptically.
"I walked in on him threatening one of your employees, I didn't think to get a signed affidavit," she snapped. "You didn't ask any of those women where their money was going, did you? Or if you did, he was there in the room with you, wasn't he?"
Capone considered this, silently. Then he slid the broken window up so he could poke his head out without slicing his neck open on broken glass. "Bill! Bill, you okay?"
Aziraphale did a quick miracle to heal him, but too late, he realized Vehuel had just done the same. Imbued with miraculous energy, Bill sprang up without a scratch on him. "I'm good!" said Bill. "Actually I feel great. My bad leg doesn't even hurt!"
"That's great to hear," Capone shouted down. "I'd hate to let a guy go after he broke all his bones. Means you'll be up for finding a new job fast."
"What?" Bill asked. Capone slid the window shut as Bill shouted excuses after him.
Capone looked at Vehuel. "I'd like to know who the hell she is," he told Aziraphale.
Vehuel glared down at him. "I'm the person who just found a problem within your organization and threw him out the window free of charge. I don't know what else you need to know."
"Oh for Heaven's sake, calm down, both of you," said Aziraphale. "Mr. Capone is going to help us find Mrs. Cambion," he told Vehuel. He gave Vehuel a look that hopefully conveyed that she needed not to contradict this, but also that she needed to hurry and fill in the blanks Aziraphale had left for her. "Mr. Capone, this is Lilith's friend, who I mentioned. Oh, we've both been sick with worry over her, haven't we?" he asked Vehuel.
Vehuel's expression had gone neatly from belligerence to solemnity. "Forgive me, Mr. Capone, I'm under a lot of stress right now," said Vehuel. She extended her hand. "Victoria Hewell. I was Mrs. Cambion's bodyguard. Not very good at my job, as it turns out," she sighed. It was a remarkably good act, although Aziraphale supposed she wasn't really lying about being inept at protecting people.
"Lil's real nice, and real reliable, which you don't always get in bootleggers," said Capone. "It's terrible she's gone missing. Not great for the bottom line either. I wouldn't beat yourself up about it too bad, though," he said. "Weiss and that fuckin' weasel Drucci have gotten plenty of shit over on me before and I like to think I'm pretty sharp. I sure hope I can help." He frowned at Vehuel, something still giving him cause to be suspicious. "What were you doing on the fourth floor, if you don't mind my asking?"
Vehuel made no attempt to conceal that she did mind him asking. "As I said, I've been under a lot of stress lately. I heard it was relaxing up there."
It took Aziraphale a moment to realize what she was implying -- he supposed she hadn't found the murder room, after all, so it was just a brothel, and -- ah. But it took Capone a moment more to put this together, apparently. "I always wondered how that works," he prompted.
"I hear a sense of wonder is good for you," Vehuel said, flatly. "It's good to hear you'll be helping us, though. Mr. --" Her eyes darted to Aziraphale for a moment, before she recalled the fake name he'd used elsewhere. "Mr. Fell and I have been looking all over the place, but we haven't been getting anywhere."
After several hours of conversation with Mr. Capone, who insisted on buying them drinks, they managed to get away from the Four Deuces.
As they left, they had to be careful not to step on any of the shards of glass on the sidewalk left over from the earlier altercation. "You don't think Heaven's gonna ding us for double-healing that jerk, do you?" Vehuel asked.
"You might have considered how the audits would look before you sent him flying out the window," Aziraphale pointed out.
"Well, you might have helped me find a way to get the bastard fired before he pulled a knife on me," said Vehuel. "Ugh. This whole mess is going to be so embarrassing if it shows up on the audit, too. They're going to ask so many questions -- and they'd be right to! I mean, what is this, Prague?"
"You're right, it would be a terrible thing for Chicago's wonderful reputation to be tarnished with defenestration."
Vehuel glared sharply at him. "I've been out of town for fifty years, what do you want?" They walked in silence for a few moments. "What's a solicitor, anyway?" she asked. "Sounds like a traveling salesman, but --"
"No, no, no, it's -- I am posing as Lilith Cambion's attorney," said Aziraphale. "From what I gathered, Mr. Capone thinks she murdered her husband and fled from the law to the States, so I thought -- well. It would make sense if she had legal troubles."
"Okay, yeah, that makes a lot more sense," said Vehuel. "That's a pretty good backstory, actually!" She was probably trying to be friendly, but Aziraphale mildly resented the note of surprise in her voice. "I'm guessing you didn't find Crowley?"
"I didn't; I spotted Mr. Capone before I had the chance to do much searching, and I thought it might help to introduce myself. As you can tell, he's very concerned about his smuggler going mysteriously missing," said Aziraphale. Vehuel would probably want to come back to the Four Deuces and search it again, and the more time she wasted, the better.
"He really likes her! I'm kind of surprised," said Vehuel. "I mean, sometimes demons can be charming to humans but I think mostly they're too lazy to bother."
"Oh?" Aziraphale asked, curious how other demons operated.
"Yeah, pretty much most of them and use heavy-handed mind control shortcuts that fall apart as soon as the demon's out of the target's general area for any length of time," said Vehuel. "It's smarter to do it the human way if you're going for a long con, though. I've seen a lot of demons make that mistake. It can be pretty funny if they still think their human targets are going to be friendly. I guess he must've had big plans for Capone before Capone nabbed him in his other identity." She scowled. "I'd really like to know what they were. Do you think there's a reason Capone was so quick to blame Cambion's disappearance on the North Siders?"
"Oh, you know how humans are," said Aziraphale. "They love a pat explanation that blames someone they already dislike."
"They really do," said Vehuel.
Aziraphale was relieved that apparently, so did angels. He would have to see that Vehuel's wild goose chase went on as long as possible.
That evening, after examining various specialty bookshop listings in the Chicago telephone book and finding them all wanting, Aziraphale decided there was nothing for it; he was going to have to risk calling Cerviel.
He didn't think Cerviel knew about Vehuel, or he would've mentioned Vehuel when Aziraphale had visited him in New York, en route to Chicago. Vehuel, on the other hand, knew all about Cerviel and had complained loudly about him several times. It was not always clear whether Vehuel was complaining about Cerviel or New York City itself -- the topic of "Cerviel thinks he knows everything!" or "Cerviel brags about being a Power and it's insufferable!" often slid directly into such topics as architecture, the fact that Michael had once told Vehuel that God was fond of Ferris wheels and it had apparently been the greatest day of Vehuel's life, and "We have all the best musicians, anyway," which was also something Crowley liked to tell Aziraphale about Hell. In fact, Aziraphale was much more willing to believe it of Hell than he was of Chicago. Hell and Chicago were shaping up to have a lot in common, though; for one thing, he frequently wished Crowley had never gone to either.
At any rate, Aziraphale was certain Vehuel's pride would not let her call upon Cerviel for help, and since Cerviel had a very good collection of apotropaic items, and some very nice demonology texts, and since Aziraphale's own resources were an ocean further than Cerviel's, he decided it was worth a try.
When the operator in New York finally put him through, the other end rang three times before Aziraphale was greeted with a very doubtful "It's three in the morning, the deli is closed. Is this some kind of sandwich emergency? Or you're out of lox, maybe?"
"Ah, no, sorry to disappoint, it's Aziraphale," he said. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah, it's fine, I don't sleep," said Cerviel. "What's up? Not frozen solid out there, are you?"
"The weather's certainly had a good go of it," said Aziraphale. "But no, my problem is -- well, I'm running into some demonic activity in Chicago that's a bit more complicated than I expected, and I was wondering if I could borrow some books."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"I'll give them back!" Aziraphale insisted. "I just need to have a look at them."
"I mean. It's a long way away, is the thing," said Cerviel, as if the books would have to be transported by sled dogs across long stretches of wilderness. Aziraphale liked Cerviel, mostly, but he was a bit ridiculous about his books, considering that he didn't even have customers to chase away from them. After all, even if Aziraphale never gave them back for some reason, it wasn't as though he wouldn't take good care of them. "Anyway, I thought for sure you could handle Crowley no problem. He's not very powerful, is he?"
"He did discorporate you," Aziraphale reminded him. "After you discorporated me -- not, of course, that I would ever hold that against you, I know it was an accident, only I do think it would be nice if you could work with me on this. Especially since I only blamed Crowley on all the paperwork."
"Hmph. He caught me by surprise, is all," grumbled Cerviel. "And you shouldn't have been in the way! And I don't really think it's fair demons get to go around turning into giant snakes and big nasty sharks and swarms of bugs! We don't get anything like that."
"Well, you can send another letter of complaint to the Almighty for all the good it'll do any of us," said Aziraphale. "But Crowley can be quite a menace, and unfortunately I really do need your assistance with him this time around."
Cerviel sighed. "Fine, fine. What are you looking for?"
"I'd like to know about demonic contracts, if you have anything on that -- I have reason to believe the leader of a major criminal organization has a contract with a demon here. Actually, there might be several demons in play, I don't know," said Aziraphale. He was mildly surprised to find that it was much easier to lie over the telephone; Cerviel couldn't watch as he grimaced at the sound of his own nonsense, or fiddled with the ring on his hand in anxiety.
"Oh, no, you wanna nip that in the bud as soon as possible," said Cerviel. "Had something similar happen to me a couple of times, it was, hmm. It was not a great time. I can't recommend it."
"No, I would imagine not," said Aziraphale. "And since I do think there are several demons about, I'd like a good solid basic demon-summoning text. They must all be coming from somewhere, after all. I think they're being summoned and I want to be certain I know whether I'm looking at a proper summoning circle or not when I run into one. It's been such a long time since I've dealt with that sort of thing at home, you know."
"Right, right," said Cerviel. He paused. "Look, this isn't another stab at getting my Mafte'ah Shlomo, is it? I already told you it's not for sale, and I'm not lending it out either."
"No, no, goodness no!" said Aziraphale. "I mean, if you ever change your mind, I -- but no, I don't think that one would be at all useful. Something more recent, I think, would be better. Something in English, if possible. These mob fellows don't tend to be very educated. Their methods must be fairly simple and relatively modern."
"Okay, okay, I believe you," said Cerviel. "I'll have to, uh, look through my collection, see what looks helpful," he said.
Aziraphale caught the undertone of see what I'm willing to lend out, if anything. "Lovely! Have you got a pen and paper? I'll give you my address here." He was prepared to wage a campaign of obnoxious but very polite long-distance telephone calls asking Cerviel when the books would be on their way, if it meant that he could find a way to get Crowley out of his contract and keep Vehuel distracted long enough to free him.
It was almost March, and Vehuel had come no closer to finding Crowley, who remained more-or-less safely tucked away in the basement of Holy Name Cathedral. Aziraphale visited him when he could, though always at night, and updated him on what had been going on in the outside world. He didn't tell Crowley too much about his plans, because Crowley had to tell the North Siders the truth if they ever asked. So he kept it to things he didn't think the North Siders had any reason to ask about; funny stories about Hobgoblin, and griping about Vehuel's taste in music, and complaints about the weather.
He had also kept up a regular habit of calling Cerviel and asking him about the books he wanted. It had finally paid off, and Cerviel claimed he'd sent the package off about a week ago, so Aziraphale was hoping he'd be able to have the books soon. Mr. Capone was getting anxious to make an attempt at demon-summoning, and Aziraphale was getting anxious that Vehuel might realize Capone didn't have a captive demon.
Fortunately, she had been very occupied of late with trying to work out what she was going to do in the long term. She was lounging around on Aziraphale's couch currently, after a second attempt at the Four Deuces. They'd found the room Vehuel had expected to find after all -- which did not look like much, but the dark red stains on the floor and the lone wooden chair in the center spoke volumes. Crowley wasn't there, of course, but the presence of evil -- and a very active, human sort of evil, much worse than the passive presence of any demon Aziraphale had met -- was so overpowering that Vehuel had to visibly force herself to make a cursory check for hidden doorways around the room, and Aziraphale nearly told her she wouldn't find anything.
Mere minutes after scrambling back up the stairs and collecting themselves only very slightly, Mr. Capone had found them and they'd had to act happy to see him. He'd insisted on buying them dinner, which even Aziraphale had not wanted, and sent them home with an entire case of very good red wine, which they were working their way through now with the sort of single-minded determination that Aziraphale usually reserved for closing up shop in the face of particularly recalcitrant attempted customers. Vehuel, for once, did not want to discuss the problem of finding Crowley, or anything pertaining to Mr. Capone.
"You have -- back in London, you have a bookstore, right?" Vehuel asked, on her third glass of wine.
"Yes, but -- but I couldn't really sell you anything from here," he said, hastily, in case she got ideas. "Why?"
"Think I found a place to rent," said Vehuel, "but I still don't know what to do."
"What did you do before the fire?" Aziraphale asked.
"Repaired clocks and watches, and eventually whatever else people brought," said Vehuel. "Sort of how I got into picking locks -- people got locked out, and they knew I was handy and trustworthy, so..." She shrugged. "I really liked it. Reminded me of solar systems, a little, how everything moved together just right, and it was nice to be useful. But I don't know, what if electricity -- what if they--" She started to gesture, then realized she was going to spill her wine, and put the glass down, which apparently gave her time to work out what she actually wanted to say. "I'm worried about technology. Not worried worried, I like technology, I just don't know about it anymore. And I hope to stick around here for a while longer. Until Chicago gets wiped off the map, I guess."
"Oh, I don't think that will happen, you've already had the fire," said Aziraphale. "Can't have another fire, that wouldn't be fair."
"Ha!" said Vehuel. She refilled her glass.
"And I don't think there are earthquakes --"
"New Madrid fault," said Vehuel. "It's downstate. Could act up. Gave us trouble every now and then when I was stationed down there." She closed her eyes. "That was a beautiful city, though. Totally different architecture, of course. All wood and earthworks," she said.
"When was this?" Aziraphale asked.
"Got transferred over in the eighth or ninth century, I think?" she said. "I spent a while there. I mean, they had different calendars, so in my head the dates don't -- I don't really remember how they line up -- and also, I got discorporated a lot."
"Because of the earthquakes?"
"Nah," she said. "Nisroc. Killed me and took over my city a couple times while I faffed around in Heaven trying to get a new body. When I came back, they'd always done a lot of building, which was great! But also they were usually worshiping Nisroc as a god, or Nisroc was some kind of priest, or, or, this is the worst --" Vehuel leaned forward on the couch, with the same sort of expression somebody might use as the prelude to an eerie and terrifying tale. Her wine sloshed dangerously. "Sometimes she'd brainwashed the city council and made herself chief city planner! And the roads she built were always just -- just -- why would you put it there? Oh right, you're a fucking demon, that's why."
"Goodness," said Aziraphale. He had been assigned precious few roadwork-related miracles after the fall of Rome, and was heartily sick of them by then, so he'd been handing them off to Crowley, who was better at them. He wondered if perhaps he ought to double-check Crowley's work now that Vehuel mentioned it.
"Right? I mean, what's wrong with a grid?" Vehuel said. "Nice. Simple. Straight lines. You know where you are with a grid! So, yeah, that was a lot less great. And also! Also! A lot of the time I'd come back and find out they were sacrificing all their best chunkey players to her, which I still think was calculated specifically to annoy me, because we always had the worst players in the empire. Up 'til the empire collapsed." She frowned. "I, uh, I mean, also, human sacrifice is terrible, of course."
Aziraphale had to admit that if Crowley had ever killed him, taken over London, and installed himself as its new, bloodthirsty and inexplicably sport-loving god, their relationship would be substantially different now. He could probably have forgiven Crowley eventually. But Crowley would never have done that, at least not without good reason. It sounded like too much work, for one thing, and he wasn't particularly interested in sport, for another. "That does sound terrible," he said.
"Yeah, it was always a pain getting back and having to deal with all that bullsh-- nonsense," she said. "I had to lure her out of town and discorporate her, or else if I killed her in public I'd have to leave for a couple generations because I didn't want them thinking I was a god. Or, you know, a murderer. Only good thing about Nisroc being around, really, was that she knew how to keep the earthquakes under control, which, I mean, I sure can't do that myself. So I didn't mind so much as long as she wasn't actively trying to murder me or my humans, you know? But that was... not often." She sighed. "Although. Once this other demon showed up and he would not leave me alone, he was, uh, he was -- he um." She made a face. "There was poetry. By him. About me. It was horrible."
"The poetry?" Aziraphale asked, leaning forward to hear the rest of the story, and also to pour himself more wine.
"No, the situation," said Vehuel. "Well. Also the poetry."
"Oh dear," said Aziraphale.
"But even if it'd been good, I don't like --" She frowned. "It's the attention. I don't like that. Anyway! I talked him into becoming a chunkey player." She giggled. "He was such a showoff and he was so stupid. Anyway he was the best player, obviously, because, you know, because..." She gestured with her free hand, indicating what, Aziraphale did not know. "Hard for humans to compete with a demon," she managed, finally. "And then -- and then -- well! I mean! Somehow he hadn't realized, during his entire very short career, what happened to the people who were really good, and Nisroc -- oh, it was a disaster, but a good disaster! His face when he saw Nisroc was, was." She laughed. "Was amazing."
"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. He almost felt sorry for the demon; he knew what it was like, being menaced by Nisroc. But also, the demon sounded like an idiot.
"He didn't bother me for a while after that," said Vehuel, looking very pleased with herself. She downed the rest of her wineglass, then reached for the bottle to pour another glass. "Probably took him some time to get recorporated. Serves him right. Poetry," she added, with disgust.
Aziraphale had one terrible question in his mind, and the wine he'd had made it much easier to actually ask it. "Did. Did Nisroc -- eat --"
"No, no, no! She -- I mean she ate people sometimes but that wasn't -- ugh, actually I remember tracking her all the way up to -- fuck, what's it called now? Probably somewhere in Wisconsin, anyway, sometimes she ate people but it wasn't -- she didn't eat my people, she'd go hunting somewhere else. Think she liked my humans, actually. But I don't know. I don't know what she was thinking, I just know nothing helped. It was my fault too, though. I shouldn't have..." She trailed off.
He could understand Vehuel being so keen on getting rid of demons in her city if she'd had to deal with that sort of thing for centuries. Crowley was different, of course he was, but she didn't realize and it would be too dangerous to try and explain. "Oh, you mustn't blame yourself, she sounds perfectly dreadful," he said, quickly.
Vehuel looked like she wanted to argue with this, but she held back. "Well. It's all fine now," she said, although she didn't sound very sure of that.
Aziraphale supposed he should help her out of whatever pit she'd found herself in. He tried to remember what they'd been talking about before all this. "So, er, you don't know what you're going to do?"
Vehuel frowned at him for a moment, apparently having to make the mental journey back to the previous subject as well. "Oh! Oh, the, uh, yeah, I don't know. I want to be useful. But I don't even know how to -- how to -- ugh, this made me feel so behind, but a few weeks ago I had to get this kid to show me how to use a telephone," she said. "It was so embarrassing."
"Oh, well, I'm used to that, I seem to fall behind so -- so very often." And Crowley was the one who caught him back up again, more often than not. And then something occurred to him. "Who were you calling?"
"No one," said Vehuel. "I just. For general... you know, Earth life purposes, I thought I should know." Aziraphale was not entirely sure he believed her. Had she been calling Heaven? (Did Heaven even have telephones? Aziraphale didn't think he'd seen any on the desks when he'd gone Upstairs, but sometimes they surprised him.)
"Ah, of course," said Aziraphale, pushing his doubts forcefully out of his mind. "Well -- well if you're looking for a line of business to go into, books don't really change, technolog -- techno --" He shook his head. "It's paper, you know. Been paper for a while. Will be paper for a while yet, I expect, 'til they -- I don't know, beam them into your brains."
"That sounds uncomfortable," said Vehuel. "Hope they don't do that soon."
"Probably not," said Aziraphale.
"On the other hand paper is pretty flammable," she said. "I like books but I don't know, brain beaming might be better -- oh, oh, that reminds me though, I keep forgetting!" she said. And she pulled a book out of nowhere.
No, it wasn't a book -- it was the pulp magazine Aziraphale had noticed was missing. The one with the snake on the cover, and the man with the sword. Aziraphale sobered up quickly, impulsively, and regretted it almost immediately, not only because he'd much preferred being drunk, but also because Vehuel had noticed. She wasn't sober, he thought; if she had been she wouldn't have been giving him that Aha, I caught you! grin. "What, er. What is that?" he asked, hoping he could talk his way out of this. Somehow.
"It's from here, I figured it'd be fine if I borrowed it. Had a lot of -- lot of streetcars and things to wait for, needed something to read, and it's such an interesting cover," she said. "Don't you think?"
"Ah. Yes, whoever had this room before me had some strange tastes," said Aziraphale. Oh no, oh no, what was she thinking? Did she think he'd bought it himself? Had she guessed they were Crowley's books?
"Just a funny coincidence, I guess, about the cover," she said, and it was plain that she didn't believe him.
"Is, er. Is it any good?" Aziraphale asked.
"Some of it's fun, but it's not good," she said. "The story on the cover's kind of like... if the author said to himself, what if I rewrite Dracula but replace all the heroes with Poirot, and Dracula with, just, a really big snake that's also a dead French guy, and get rid of all the interpersonal tension and weird subtext? And the answer is, you don't get a very deep story, but the cover will sell magazines and somebody fights a snake with a sword so it's all good in the end. On the other hand, there's not a cowboy in this version so I don't really know, it doesn't have that cross-market appeal."
Aziraphale had been expecting the answer to this question to lead into another minefield, and he was thrown off entirely by receiving what sounded like an actual plot summary, if a very confused one. "I... I see."
"Also!" said Vehuel. "I wanted to ask! Does Crowley ever squeeze people to death like tubes of toothpaste?" she asked.
"Toothpaste?" he asked. "Oh, yes, quite often, it's terrible," said Aziraphale, hoping this was the right answer. It was, theoretically, something Crowley could do, as a snake, but Aziraphale had never seen him do it or heard him gripe about it, so he was a bit doubtful. And the toothpaste comparison made very little sense, unless -- and then a series of awful, gruesome images occurred to him. "But not like toothpaste, I don't think."
"Yeah, the toothpaste metaphor was a little weird," she said. "I read that and I thought, how many snakes has this man met?"
Aziraphale wondered how many snakes Vehuel had met. In addition to being good at dispatching demons, was she also, by some horrible coincidence, an accomplished killer of snakes? This all seemed so terribly unfair.
"But then I dunno much about them myself other than don't bother them and they won't bother you so really, what do I know?" Vehuel continued. "And demon snakes are different, probably." She finished up the last of the wine in her glass, and went to pour yet another glass, but the bottle was empty. "Could you get a new bottle?"
"Ah. Of course," said Aziraphale. He uncorked the bottle and poured her another glass.
"You're not having more?" she asked, with a smirk that made him uneasy.
"No, I'm -- I think I've had quite enough," he said. He'd let his guard down -- he hadn't imagined Vehuel could still be like this with so much wine in her. "Perhaps one more glass, but after this bottle we'd better call it a night. Save the rest for later."
"Suit yourself," she said, and took another drink.
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