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Chapter Text

The Beast of Rossignol

Chapter One

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“Coup De Foudre”

(Bolt Of Lightning)

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑

A bell rang out in the dead of night.

“It's happened again–!” A voice cried between the peals, “-There's been another attack!”

Panicked villagers flocked towards the town square, where a boy no older than 12 stood atop a brick monument, ringing the embedded bell with all the vigour of a Benedictine monk. And Aziraphale should know, for he was one. Or he had been, at some point. In theory.

Scrubbing a hand over weary eyes, he attempted to gather his thoughts, taking in the scene that had become so unwelcomingly familiar. The gathering crowd of villagers were taking stock, quite literally, calling names and clutching loved ones as they confirmed that ‘The Beast’ hadn't taken one of their own kin.. The young lad speaking frantically from up high, in a language Aziraphale was far too tired to translate.

He drew the cord of his habit, in some feeble attempt to pull himself together. As the ringing began to wane, the young boy stumbled on the stone steps, threatening to add one more casualty to the night's growing list.
Finally startling Aziraphale into some sense of urgency.

"Good lord, be careful!”

The friar rushed forward, crowd parting like the sea as he gathered his robes, ascending the steps two at a time.

“Woah, c'était proche..” the boy mumbled as he regained his footing, and Aziraphale offered a placating smile in lieu of an answer. He was close enough now to properly take in the lad's dishevelled appearance. His hands were painted red, while tar-like stains weighing-down the front of his tunic, soaking the thread-bare sleeves.

The smile fell into a grimace.

“Ah.. Right. Adam, n'est-ce pas?” Aziraphale asked, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Uhm, et uh.. Es-tu blessé..?

The boy nodded, confirming he wasn't in immediate danger of bleeding out right then and there. Assuming Aziraphale had in fact asked what he'd intended too, that was.. He was still a little rusty.

“Je vais bien. You can speak English, you know–” The boy wiped a bloodied hand against the rough linen of his shirt, taking another step down to come level with the friar. “I'm fine. The blood's not mine.”

Aziraphale gave a small sigh of relief, both for the boy's well being, and for the small mercy of not having to continue such an urgent conversation in French.

“Right. Good to hear, and what of the uh.. the..”

The Victim?

He struggled to think of a less emotive word, settling instead on a vague gesture towards the boy's sullied attire.

“Oh.. A kid, Marie.” Adam sniffed, and if he hadn’t sounded so wildly unaffected, Aziraphale would have assumed he was crying. He swiped a sleeve across his nose, leaving it streaked with red. “..She's dead. No head.”

Wincing again, the friar couldn't help but wonder if the boy's blunt manner came about as a result of the language barrier, or due to a genuine disregard for the severity of the situation.

“Oh.. My. Good Lord. Well uh, I suppose we must inform the next of kin.. Did you know the girl well?”

“Know her? I’ll have you know Iraisedher”

“Wh..What?”

The lad gave another indignant sniff, looking equally confused.

Aziraphale's brow slowly unfurrowed as the realisation began to dawn, his languid mind finally waking up enough to recognise who it was he was conversing with, and why his face was so familiar..

“Adam, dear boy, this Marie was–?”

“One of my best.”

“-A goat?”

“Well, yeah. Obviously.”

Yes.. Obviously.

Burying his face in his hands, the friar desperately willed away any evident frustration, before turning to address the crowd, expression schooled into something more appropriately stoic;

“Right. Erm.. Attention everyone, s’il vous plaît, Everything is– I mean, tout va bien,” he paused, mentally flicking through his merger glossary of phrases, searching in vain for the word for 'goat'. “The deceased.. Or uh, la victime est.. Un gamin?”

There was a gasp, and a frantic murmuring rippled through the group, who were making no attempt to disperse. Aziraphale glanced over towards the young goatherd by his side, sensing something may have been lost in translation.

“Adam.. Would you be so kind?” He pleaded, gesturing towards the surrounding audience “I fear they might have gotten the wrong end of the stick, as it were..”

Can't imagine why.

Adam sighed, and stepped forwards to address the crowd.

"Hé ! Il voulait dire "chevreau", il ne parlait pas d'un enfant humain..”

There was a weary chorus of groans in reply, as well as the odd language-barrier-bridging “tssk” of disapproval.

“..Vous savez que son français est merdique.”

Aziraphale nodded firmly, as if he’d understood a single word that had fallen from the boy's mouth. Whatever he'd said, it seemed to have the desired effect, and the crowd began to disperse. The villagers shuffled off, grumbling amongst themselves as they made their way back towards the relative warmth of their homes, and the comforting embrace of their beds..

An excellent idea all round, in fact.

Aziraphale himself stifled another yawn, drawing tears to his eyes. The sun was already painting the sky a soothing blush pink, any hope of another hours worth of sleep fading away with the approaching dawn. The monks would be waking soon.

The friar let out a quiet, rather unholy utterance at the sight of the approaching dawn. So much for slinking back off to bed.

“It was the beast sir, I'm telling you. Nothing else could do something like that..” Adam spoke feverishly to the friar as they descended the monument steps together, far more accustomed to such an early start. “Her head was clean off. Like–”

He slid a hand across his throat, flapping his fingers out to mimic the spurting of blood, garaging grotesquely.

Aziraphale quickly batted the hand down, with a sickened expression.

“Adam, please. I know that must have been quite the shock, but..”

“But nothing, for God's sake! I know what I saw..!” Adam interrupted, and the friar raised a brow in subtle reproach.

The boy had the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Uh, sorry, Father Fell.. But I'm telling the truth! I've never seen anything like it before–”

“Except of course the last time some beast tore up an animal, and caused all manner of panic in the village..?”

Adam frowned.

“Well.. Yeah. But that was a chicken,” he said, as though that answered anything at all. “Goats are a lot bigger. Maybe it's growing sir. Could be working its way up to people next, you know.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to roll his eyes. It wouldn't be very sensible to insult one of the few English speakers in the village, the young goatherd being one of a modest list of villagers he could easily hold a conversation with.

Best to keep the boy on side.

“I shall speak to the Archer.. Later, Adam,” he said, in an attempt to soothe the child's fear, having zero intention of doing anything of the sort.

L’archer Shadwell, of the maréchaussée, was a foul force of a man, who was better suited to slumping in a stoop with a bottle of wine than as a reliable form of local law enforcement. Aziraphale made sure to limit his interactions with the military man to a minimum, vowing only to turn to him in the most dire of emergencies.

And with all due respect to dear Marie..
One dead goat did not quite equate to an emergency, at least not in his eyes.

Though he suspected the resident goatherd might disagree with that assessment. The boy's lips were pursed, looking so terribly disheartened. Aziraphale let a small sigh escape, turning back towards the boy with an air of resignation.

“Would you.. Like me to bless the field?” He asked reluctantly, recalling the last bout of pastoral hysteria that had only just started to subside.

He'd never been so busy as then, during last month's spate of seemingly unprovoked ‘attacks’. Summoned to a demolished chicken coop here, or a splintered fence post there... To any number of supposed crime scenes, wherein animals had been snatched up in the night and (presumably) devoured, gone without a trace.

He had done his best to speak some sense into each situation.. There was hardly anything overtly alarming about a few poached hens. It had probably been a fox.

Or at a push, and in light of poor Marie's beheading, it may have been a wolf.

Regardless, the ‘beast’ was an animal, no more occult or supernatural than the livestock it had preyed upon, and no more malicious than the farmers who raised the creatures for slaughter.Everybody needs to eat, after all.

Despite these sensible reassurances, most wanted little more than for the friar to wave his hands like the Messiah himself, sprinkling holy water around with an air of pious professionalism, and then leave, the Demons dispelled, all manner of malevolent beasts banished into the ether.

Rather a sacrilegious pantomime, if you asked the friar himself, but it had worked to calm the villagers. A necessary evil, as it were.

Unsurprisingly, the offer of a theatrical consecration had also worked for the young goatherd, and he nodded, a discordantly happy expression on his blood-smeared face.

“Right. Then that’s that…” Aziraphale said, cursing his inability to comfort the villagers in a less insincere manner “In the meantime, I think we could both do with a spot of tea, don't you?”

For now, it was the best he could do, aiding the community in whatever small ways he could; Soothing their absurd, superstitious anxieties, all-the-while working to bring them closer to God, to their salvation..

And praying that one day, it would be enough to earn forgiveness.

**

There had been relative peace for the remainder of that week. The man should have known, really, that it was nothing more than the calm before the storm...

There was lightning on the horizon.

Aziraphale had, as promised, attended the scene of poor Marie's demise that following day. Thankfully, the goat herself had been removed by the village butcher before he'd arrived, the suggested threat of some supernatural beast not quite outweighing the allure of fresh chevon. Speaking a few suitably solemn words, Aziraphale had tossed a handful of holy water on the ground as Adam watched, nodding along in approval.

May the Almighty forgive this ridiculous show of utter impiety.

He was just grateful the abbot wasn't there to witness such a foolish act... As if Aziraphale truly believed in such ridiculous notions as a hellhound that roamed the French countryside, beheading goats and terrorising chickens.
It would hardly be the first time they'd heard such ridiculous rumours.

‘The Beast’ had seemingly made its way from Gévaudan, in mouths of travellers, spoken into existence amongst the various settlements across the region..
A terrible fable that had filled less sensible heads with fear. There had been wolves in that village, no doubt, something had killed that unfortunate handful of peasants..

But the dull creatures had morphed in the villagers minds, growing ghostly and grotesque in all the hysteria.
And such an illness was quick to spread.

He’d heard tale on his travels that the attacks had miraculously ceased, not long after the successful hunting of several decidedly common, non-supernatural, grey wolves.

How surprising.

But he supposed now those same delusional townsfolk could attribute their peace to the idea that the Beast had simply moved on, and found itself a new home to haunt. Such was the way with silly, irreverent myths. The facts tended to bend to suit the story, the truth hardly providing any obstacle.

With a sigh, Aziraphale sat back against the steps of the monastery, the sun-warmed stone soothing beneath his palms, eyes closed as if in prayer.

In reality, he was struggling to stay awake.

He listened to the bustle of the town that surrounded him, trying to pick recognisable words from the unintelligible French. The voices of two women cut above the rabble, their distinct, gossipy tone to the conversation drawing the friar in, ears pricked at the mention of ‘mystérieux’ and ‘suspecte’ and finally, most damning of all, ‘la brute’.

Oh.. Bugger.

He opened his eyes, watching the pair as they passed. They were hurrying away from what appeared to be a small crowd gathering in the distance, a buzzing interest starting to swell amongst the cobblestone streets, flocking like flies to faeces.

With another weary sigh, Aziraphale stood, dusting off his habit. More dead goats, no doubt. Or perhaps it would be a sheep this time, surely even accursed animals enjoy a bit of dietary variety.

The friar made his way towards the growing crowd.

“Excusez-moi, sorry uh.. Pardon..” He attempted to edge his way between the villagers, who were all thoroughly distracted by some unseen sight up ahead.

A little too distracted.
Aziraphale began to fear the worst. Of course, he knew there was no manner of mythical monster roaming the lands.. But wolves could kill people too.

However, the longer he looked, the less it seemed the villagers were gathered in fear. Rather, they seemed intrigued, the conversation surrounding him jovial and excited...
And as indecipherably French as ever.

Aziraphale finally managed to break through the mass, to witness the sight they had so fervently gathered around–

A wooden caravan stood proudly in the middle of the square, an odd blend of a Romani Vardo and a merchants' stall.. the sides of the cart equipped with intricate, unfolding shelves, as impressive as they were impractical. The shelves were filled to the brim with opaque glass bottles, clinking together constantly, as if the stationary cart were still in motion.
At the front of the caravan stood a large mule, as dark and glossy as the finest Friesian, heavy head buried in a bag of grain, as the creature ignored the surrounding rabble.

“Father Fell? What's going on–?”

Aziraphale glanced to his side to see Adams familiar coiff of curly hair emerging from the crowd, nose scrunched in confusion. “-A merchant? What are they selling?”

“A fine question, garçon!”

An enunciated, unmistakably British voice answered from the other side of the wagon, projecting as if performing at the late Globe Theatre, rather than addressing a gaggle of provincial French peasants..
The majority of whom, despite the supposed language barrier, seemed to be hanging on his every word.

Do you lot speak English or not, hm?

Aziraphale didn't have time to dwell on the thought, as the apparent owner of the voice appeared, circling the cart with a flourish, like some gangly, tar-slicked peacock, draped almost entirely in black, save for a flash of cream linen at his collar, blending seamlessly into waxen white skin.

Not Romani then.. Aziraphale thought with a shameful twinge of disappointment, as he scanned the strange figure head-to-toe.

He was tall, if nothing else, swamped in a heavy redingote that hung from his long, lithe frame like a cape. In contrast to the oversized overcoat, the man's breeches were much too tight to be practical, and his gleaming footwear would rival the Archers finest riding boots, military-grade despite the man's apparent vagabond existence. It would all have been rather fine attire, in fact, in any colour other than such a morbid, mourning black.

And of course, if it had been more appropriately tailored.

Aziraphale dragged his attention back up, towards the man's face, which was obscured by dark, rounded spectacles and yet another ill-fitting garment.. A large leather-cocked hat, that was plucked from his head as he dropped to a dramatic bow. His hair was an unexpected flash of red, unnaturally bright against those ebony clothes and snow-white skin. Fitting, it seemed, each new detail as mismatched and unsettling as the last.

“What I'm selling, dear boy–” the man continued, slowly rising up from his bow, giving the goatherd his undivided attention, “-Is potential! You see, each of these bottles behind me contains precisely one quart of the finest, refined, locally-sourced snake oil this side of Montagne Maudit!”

He rattled off the pre-prepared line in a single breath, and Aziraphale frowned.

“..Snake oil?” He parroted, brows knitted together “What on– What would something like that even do?”

The merchant turned his attention to him, twisting on his heel rather like a snake himself. Coiled and riled, ready to strike.

“Hmm.. C'est quoi?”

He plopped the hat back on his head and took a swaying side-step, until he and the friar stood face-to-face, tête-à-tête, and Aziraphale immediately wished he hadn't said anything at all. The oversized brim of the hat only accentuated the slow, deliberate once over, as the man's gaze languished over the dull brown habit, the frayed rope belt cutting into the friar's waist, before finally settling far too intensely on Aziraphales rapidly reddening face.

He wouldn't rise to it.
He'd seen that look before, the barely suppressed smirk, the subtle cock of a brow.. Although such blatant judgement felt even more unjust coming from a vagrant, of all people.

“What does it do–?” Aziraphale repeated, holding firm. “-If anything?”

Apparently, something about that question was amusing.. And the merchant cracked a sloping, toothy grin. Reaching up, he slipped the dark glasses from his face, revealing honey-brown eyes that glinted mischievously in the afternoon sun.

And in that moment, Aziraphale became painfully aware of how this strange man had managed to draw such a crowd.
Despite everything, the ill-fitting clothes and the self-satisfied attitude and that unkempt swathe of violently red hair..

He was exceedingly, undeniably attractive.

“..Oh, what doesn't it do, that's the real question.” The merchant finally answered, his voice dropping low, as if he were sharing a terrible secret. The glasses were returned to his nose, low enough that those devilish eyes remained visible, still fully fixated on the friar ahead.

Who, try as he might to hide it, was now rather fixated himself.

“..Who are you?” he asked before he could stop himself, wincing internally at the waver in his voice.

The man let out a single, soft laugh, as if reading the friar's mind.

Good lord. Get it together, old boy.

“My name, mon frére, is A. J. Crowley, Merchant-cum-Miracleworker” He drew out the word, rolling it slowly around his mouth like a boiled sweet. “And I’ve come here today to offer my fine wares to the good people of Rogganrol.. uh.. Rabaisseron..”

“Rossignol.”

“That's the one!”

He snapped his fingers in recognition, and then that same pale hand was extended out. Aziraphale glanced down at the offered hand with poorly disguised suspicion.
It felt like a trap.

“...All men are created equal in the eyes of God, Aziraphale. It is not our place to judge.”

Right. Everyone desires a fair chance. Even snake-like, sharp-toothed, silver-tongued merchants, who’d appeared from the mist like some sort of odious omen, risen up through the dirt from the very bowels of Hell below..

Now you're just being dramatic.

The friar sighed, and against his own better judgement–

“Aziraphale Fell.. Welcome to Rossignol.”

He took the man's hand.

In hindsight, he probably should have trusted his instincts. As, rather than a simple handshake, the merchant instead lifted the captive hand, and pressed his lips firmly to the back of it.

For a moment, Aziraphale was too dumbfounded to even react..

Then, as the amused tittering of the crowd reached his ears, he snatched his hand away, burying it back into the sleeve of his habit, an indignant flush warming his face. The red-haired man grinned again.

Nope, not a man.. A shameless devil. A Demon.

This A.J. Crowley had his chance to avoid judgement, and he'd blown it.

“Enchanté, Friar Fell,” he drawled, looking painfully pleased with himself “I’m sure you–”

A sudden loud *clink* cut him off, drawing their attention back towards the cart. Crowley whipped around just in time to see Adam stretched up on his toes, hands wrapping around the neck of an opaque glass bottle–

“Oi, Kid! Leave off!” He snapped, the refined accent evaporating in an instant.

Adam flinched, and the bottle slipped from his finger, shattering into pieces against the cobbles.

“Gah! Oh.. Uh. Sorry,” the boy muttered, looking down at the growing, golden puddle at his feet “Uhm.. You did make me jump, to be fair.”

“Oh, you little–!” Crowley's teeth were bared, outstretched hands flexing in and out of boney fists as he took a step towards the boy. “-You have any idea how much that stuff costs..?"

Before he knew what he was doing, Aziraphale had rushed forward, placing himself firmly between the two, his eyes darting over the surrounding crowd.Nobody else made a move to help..
In fact, the villagers looked quite spellbound, watching the evolving scene with interest, as if the town square truly were a stage.

Philistines.

“How much?” Aziraphale asked, holding out a steadying hand, keeping the approaching merchant from the boy behind him.

Crowley blinked, looking startled.

“Eh? You're a monk… You don't have money,” he said, face twisted into something between frustration and pity. “Let the kid handle his own prob–”

The out-held hand switched to a single, silencing finger, and Crowley stopped.
With the other hand, Aziraphale reached into the leather pouch tied to his waist, and pulled out a large, dented, silver coin.

At the sight of the coin, the merchant's brows shot up, head tilting quizzically even as he stayed silent.

“Take it,” Aziraphale said, and he pressed the coin into the merchant's hand, turning back to the boy without waiting for a response. “Come along Adam, I think we’ve taken up enough of this man's time..”

Still looking dazed, Crowley wordlessly inspected the coin, and Aziraphale seized his opportunity, as well as Adams arm, leading the boy away by the elbow. The pair struggled against the tide of the crowd, as yet more villagers made their way over to the cart, no doubt drawn in by the rare sound of dispute amongst the cobbles.. Ravenous wolves, smelling blood.

And they'll be deservedly disappointed. Shows over.

“I’m sorry, Father Fell.. I just wanted to have a look and–”

“It’s fine.”

Aziraphale cut the boy off, wincing as the words came out far harsher than he meant them to.. It wasn't really Adam who'd brought out this uncharacteristic irritation, after all.

“I can't believe you gave him so much-” Adam continued, as they finally managed to escape the worst of the crowd. “-I'll pay you back”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

Aziraphale stopped, dropping the lad's arm and schooling his irate expression into something more… Friarly.

“I am to live in virtuous poverty, Adam. Accepting payment of that kind would be against my vows.. Entirely unthinkable.”

Adam frowned in confusion.

“But you.. Where did you get that–?”

“An excessively generous donation, far more than I should ever have accepted,” Aziraphale answered quickly, dusting off his hands, as if they'd been sullied by the single silver coin. “..I won't hear another word about it, understood? Now.. Haven't you got work to be getting on with?”

He raised a brow towards the boy, as if daring him to argue again.. And Adam didn't.

Very wise.

The friar saw the young goatherd off with a final stern warning; Keep as far away from that merchant and his wagon as possible. He might not have had the best track record as a judge of character..
But Aziraphale had seen enough devils to recognise them, even as they tried to shake his hand.

Or.. Do whatever that was.

“I mean it Adam, you'd do well to stay away from that man.”

The boy waved his concerns away, already heading back off towards the fields.

A travelling merchant. Surely the clue was in the name.
He wouldn't be here for long.

Through the shifting sea of the villagers, Aziraphale could still spot the odd blot of black as the man drifted about his stage, arms outstretched like wings, a lilting voice carrying above the mutters of the surrounding townsfolk, like a song thrush among the pigeons.

Through the rabble, Crowley caught his eye, throwing the friar another manic grin before he could look away.

Actually.. More like a loon.

**

“On God's word, I saw it with my own two eyes; One day, pox, oodles of them.. Then, just like that, gone! Like magic!”

“Yes, Maggie, so you've said.. Several times now,”

Aziraphale spoke wearily into his bowl, struggling to keep his tone sincere. It appeared that listening to the incessant tales of ‘Monsieur Crowley's Miraculous Snake Oil’ was today's penance for a serving of soup and a chunk of freshly baked bread. A fair trade, in all honesty.

Marguerite, or Maggie, as she was almost exclusively known, was a fine baker..

And the friar could hardly say no to the generous offer of a wholesome meal… Even if it had been served with a side of inappropriate idolism.

As Maggie waxed lyrical about the merchant, Aziraphale quickly filled his mouth with baguette, attempting to buy time between strained “is-that-so’s”. He only had a finite supply of such polite responses, before he would inevitably start to get cynical..
And the barrel was draining faster than usual, as if it'd sprung a leak.

It appeared that the entire village had been bewitched by the red-headed, tight-trousered, silver-tongued interloper – Further supporting Aziraphale's theory that the man was some kind of demonic incubus. Every one of them had some tale to tell of this wonder elixir, and the life changing effects it had bestowed upon them.

Everyone but him, of course.. Who still firmly believed they had all lost their collective minds.

“..Even young Adam seems to be taken with him now. He was there again this morning, before coming past for the goats..”

“Was he now–?” Aziraphale replied, pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. He should have known his words would go in one ear and right out the other. “Isn't that.. Nice.”

The whole affair should have been a welcome distraction from reports of an infernal monster stalking the land, but at this point Aziraphale wasn't sure which was worse. After all, at least he’d never had to worry about bumping into ‘The Beast’ during midday mass..
Not that Crowley had actually graced the hallowed halls of the church yet either.

Doubt he could even cross the boundary… Would probably burst into flames.

The church had proven to be one small sanctuary away from the devil of a man. As, in the few short days since his arrival, Crowley had become a bit of a household name.. If the townsfolk weren’t busy discussing his wares, they were discussing him. Him and his grandiose stories, his absurd fanciful tales..

The man had seemingly lived a very colourful life before stumbling into Rossignol.

He’d been a masterful cobbler in London you know, before somehow ending up overseas, tending the rose-gardens of Versailles.. And then came his brief stint as a medical man, where he'd aided in the spontaneous birth of no less than three unexpected infants.
(His description of said deliverance displaying, at best, a tenuous understanding of female reproductive anatomy.)

He'd studied astronomy under Halley, and philosophy under Reid.

Oh, and to top it all off, he was a skilled marksman, having slain all manner of foul beast; Bears, wolves, pards, redcombs, nuckelavee, gwyllgi.. The fanciful list went on and on.

In conclusion: A.J. Crowley was either an out-and-out conman, or simply insane.

Aziraphale looked down at his bowl and realised, sadly, that he’d polished off the lot while his mind was wandering. He’d barely tasted it.. And was still hungry.

A penalty for such unrighteous judgement, perhaps.

The blasted man was even managing to ruin supper now. Was nothing sacred?

It was hardly a new feeling, Aziraphale was almost always a little hungry, at least nowadays. Such was the life of a friar, whose only sustenance was to come from the goodwill and charity of others.. A finite resource if there ever was one.

Maggie swiped the bowl from the table to begin filling it up again, ignoring the friars half-hearted protests. As she waved his faux concern away, Aziraphale's gaze fell to her hand, and he noticed something that gave a genuine reason to fret–

“Oh Maggie, do tell me you haven’t lost your ring again?” He asked, catching her arm as it passed his line of sight and inspecting the bare hand. “Really now.. Your Monsieur Lindsay is going to get entirely the wrong impression.”

“Oh no–!” Maggie regarded the hand with a frown, as if only noticing the absence of the engagement band herself “Ooh, this will be the third time! I haven’t the foggiest idea how it keeps coming off!”

A more superstitious man might suggest the constant misplacing of an engagement ring was a bit of a bad omen… But, of course, the friar was not about to entertain such an idea, much less put the thought into poor Maggie's mind.

He was sure the tittering, gossipy girls about town had given her quite enough grief, most not believing for one moment that this mysterious suitor even existed. Some charming singleton she'd met during a constitutional stroll, who'd fallen head over heels in moments, the pair already due to be wed the moment the snow cleared..

“Ah yes, Spring. Lovely time for a wedding, my dear..”

Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure he believed her himself, the mysterious Monsieur only ever appearing in name, and in print, with nothing to show of their imprudent relationship but long-winded letters.

And, of course, the ring.

During the rare moments the girl actually wore it, that was, as the precious band seemed to spend more time misplaced than proudly on display.
One could almost start to think she was hiding something.

“You, my dear, would lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” Aziraphale declared fondly, and Maggie gave his arm a smack, nearly knocking the spoon from his hand.

“Don't make me take back that bowl, Father Fell. Enough about me anyway, we were talking about you.”

“Mhm.. We were?” he replied around a mouthful of soup, having entirely lost the thread of the conversation. Last he could think of, they had been talking about that dreadful merchant.

“Yes. Crowley had been asking about you again, and in his last letter Monsieur Lindsay said even he would like to try some of this incredible oil, he was terribly interested when I mention–”

“Wait–” Aziraphale gulped down the mouthful, feeling a flutter of trepidation rise in his throat. “-He asking about me?”

Maggie looked confused.

“Well, yes. He always asks after you, asks how you are, and how the goats are, and if I've baked anything new lately–”

“Oh, not Monsieur Lindsay..!” Aziraphale interrupted before the girl went off on another tangent. “..Crowley. Why on earth was he asking about me?”

Maggie paused, looking up as if replaying the conversation in her head.

“...Oh! He said something about your robe. How it must be rather uncomfortable and itchy and.. uh..”

She trailed off with a furrowed brow, seemingly only just realising the merchant's comments may have not been in good faith.

“..I forget the rest” she finished, unconvincingly.

Aziraphale sighed, shoving more bread into his mouth before the brewing expletive could escape, chewing on the tough crust with far more force than necessary.

Bastard.

It was hardly surprising that Maggie would mistake that brutes' mockery for genuine concern. Such a kind girl, yet not necessarily the brightest, which only served to make the merchant even more interested in lying to her.

She was, however, bright enough to notice the obvious change in atmosphere. As Aziraphale polished off his meal, Maggie quickly changed the subject– Producing a batch of glossy teacakes from seemingly nowhere and wafting one under the friar's nose. A wonderfully tempting distraction.

“Thank you my dear, but I must decline.. You've provided more than enough sustenance,” Aziraphale said, shooing the sweet away with reluctance. “..I’d be taking advantage of your hospitality.”

“Oh, come off it—!” There was a great deal of tutting as the man made to leave, Maggie notably still clutching a single teacake as she followed along behind him.

“Look, even a clergyman deserves a little treat now and then!” She insisted, bundling a sheet of waxed cloth around the offending bun, and pressing it firmly into his hands. “Now… I won't tell if you won't!”

Clearly, she wasn't about to take no for an answer, and Aziraphale coincided with a grateful smile. It would surely be more rude to say no, by that point.

“Merci, my dear.”

Despite the language barrier, and the villagers propensity for idle gossip and hyperbole. They were, on a whole, a fairly generous community. A little naive, perhaps, but charitable.

The perfect combination for exploitation by some suave, serpentine scam-artist.

The friar had barely left the sanctuary of Maggie's dining room, when that familiar, infuriating voice reached his ears, souring the soup in his stomach.

“Hm.. Speak of the devil.”

“-Now the thing about the hydra is, once you cut off one head, two more grow back in its place. So you can imagine how quickly that can get out of hand–”

Aziraphale struggled to rein in his rolling-eyes at the sound of another tall-tale. He'd been told, on no uncertain terms, that such open displays of judgement were really not befitting of a Benedictine monk.

Or a friar, rather. Whichever.

Love thy neighbour. Love thy enemy. He reminded himself, as he turned a corner, the enemy in question finally coming into view.

Crowley continued to ramble away in English, leaning his elbows against his wagon, a pair of young maidens hanging on his every word. They nodded away agreeably, most likely having only a vague grasp of what the man was saying.

Lucky them.

“And that is the real secret. If you want a steady supply of hydra blood, you need to always be sure to keep two heads alive. One, so the creature survives, you know, needs a head to eat, and all that.. And the reason for the second head–”

The scoff left Aziraphale's mouth before he could stop himself.. Inadvertently drawing the group's attention straight towards him.

“Something to say, Fell?” Crowley asked, smiling, but with a distinct, clipped edge to his voice, “Perhaps you’d like to try the miracle cure yourself, hm? Does wonders for the skin.. I imagine that robe chafes something awful.”

Good grief, it seems the man is obsessed.

The maidens broke out into capricious giggles, their eyes travelling over the friar's starchy brown habit.
Perhaps they did speak English, after all.

Aziraphale held firm, continuing on his path past the wagon without slowing, hands buried deep in his sleeves.

“Salut, mademoiselles,” he said as he passed, offering a curt nod to the women. “..Crowley.”

“Mon frère”

Crowley drew the words out slowly, a toothy, insincere smile stretched across his face, some other barbed comment clearly hovering on his lips.

Thankfully, the man's attention was abruptly pulled back to the young maidens, who were attempting to purchase some oil themselves, a bottle being examined between the pair with a look of holy reverence.. And a hearty heap of unnecessary eyelash-fluttering.

Aziraphale took his opportunity to flee the scene, escaping the square and heading straight towards the sanctuary of the Church. After all, he had an important meeting with a delicious fruited teacake to attend…

After mass, that was.

As the friar strode purposely towards the building, he heard frantic footsteps following behind, and struggled to repress a sigh.
He was being tested, he was sure of it.

Crowley eventually caught up, falling into step by Aziraphale's side. Or trying to, anyway.

“Here–Wait–! Bloody slow down, will you?”

Aziraphale did no such thing, barely turning his head to regard the man who was struggling to keep his effortless pace.

So much for those long legs.

“Where's the fire..?”

“I'm heading to mass, monsieur marchand,” Aziraphale replied as they approached the church steps. “You're free to join us.. But I haven't time to stand about and ideally chat, I'm afraid.”

Crowley made an odd noise, screwing up his face.

“Not really one for Church, me,” he said as they finally came to a stop, scowling up at the magnificent building as if it were carved out of freshly laid manure.

“Why, quelle surprise!” Aziraphale said, turning finally to face the man.. Who was clutching one of those damn bottles in his hand. “Oh for goodness.. If you've come to try and sell me that–”

“Nah. Take it.”

The bottle was thrust towards the friar, held out by the neck.

Aziraphale didn't react.

“I don't have a need,” he replied, hands remaining firm within his sleeves. Then, as an added afterthought; “..Thank you.”

Crowley scoffed, stepping forward.

“Come now, we all have needs, Fell..” he argued, scanning the man up and down in a way that seemed to be almost impulsive, for how often he did it. “Even a sanctimonious monk like yourself.”

“Friar.” Aziraphale corrected, ignoring any coy implications.“Monks live in a monastery, you know, and they—”

“Whatever. Don't care. Just take the damn thing..”

Crowley took another step up towards the church, the bottle held aloft, like a glossy glass olive-branch.

“..I'm trying to be charitable here, Fell. Isn't that what your lot are all about?”

“I'd really rather not, thanks,” Aziraphale replied, and the merchant all but growled in frustration, head rocking back to the heavens.

A bit of a dramatic response, in all honesty.

“God, you're annoying.”

With a slow, agreeable nod, Aziraphale pulled his lips in between his teeth, attempting to flatten out the threatening grin. He hadn't even intended to irritate Crowley, not this time anyway.. But he'd take any small victory he could, against the foul beast of a man–

“I'll drop it.”

The flicker of a smile fell away, and Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

He's bluffing.

”..Leave you with some nice, slippery stone steps, right before midday mass, if that's what you really want..”

“You wouldn't dare.”

Crowley shrugged, and let it go.

Nearly tripping over his own robes, Aziraphale lunged forward, only just managing to snatch the bottle from the air before it shattered on the steps below.

“You–! What is the matter with you?!” He blurted out, clutching the vessel to his chest, as Crowley chuckled away childishly.

For such an infuriating cad, he had an awfully contagious laugh. Aziraphale spoke again quickly, hoping to snuff out the spreading hysterics before the other man noticed.

“What even is this stuff? Truthfully, Crowley. You don't get oil from snakes. Or hydra or basilisks or any of the other fictional creatures you’ve claimed to have slaughtered–”

“Eh. I already I told you.”

Finally composing himself, Crowley shrugged off the question, a seemingly habitual trait that was quickly becoming annoying.

“It's oil. Whether it comes from the scales of a hydra or the seed of a plant… Results the same either way.”

Aziraphale's mouth fell open.

“Wait, you admit it then? It's not from a serpent at all! It's just.. It's just bloody brassica oil–!”

The friar winced as the curse left his mouth, and Crowley's grin widened.

“-You're pulling the wool over the eyes of all these hardworking townsfolk, you.. You fiend. Taking advantage of their generous nature and their.. Their..”

Naivety? Stupidity?

“Gullibility?” Crowley suggested, reading the friars darting eyes like an open book.

“Oh.. That's not even a word!”

“Whatever. Thing is, I haven't heard any complaints from them. I'll have you know they love me ‘round here. I've changed their lives.”

“But you–”

“Look, Fell. If it works, it works. Who cares why it works? Everyone seems happy enough, so where's the harm, huh?”

Crowley crossed his arms, as if he'd said something profound, and for a truly inconceivable third time..

He shrugged.

Love thy enemy…
Love thy loathsome, infernal, exasperating enemy.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep, levelling breath.

“Why are you telling me this, Crowley? You're hoping I will absolve you of your sin, is that it?”

Crowley flinched, and he had the nerve to look shocked, face falling into a startled scowl of indignation.

“Sin?! Ha, what sin? As far as I know your big boss upstairs hasn't actually made ‘selling things’ illegal, Fell. Not yet anyway.”

“Thou shall not deal falsely! You're doing the very definition of the thing!” Aziraphale replied without skipping a beat.

Crowley paused, pursing his lips as he mulled over the other man's words.

“Well.. I didn't know about that one, to be fair. I swear you lot keep adding new rules all the time.”

He took another step up, coming level with the friar. Slipping off his opaque specs, he fixed those bizarre, amber eyes on the man, voice dropping to a low whisper.

“You know what.. If you really want to tell these good people that the ‘miracle cure’ they've been oh so happy to receive is nothing but a scam, then go right ahead.. See where it gets you, mon frére”

It wasn’t so much a confession, as a threat.

Aziraphale fought the urge to look away, holding the man's intense gaze. He wasn't about to be bullied, not in this town, on the steps of the very Church that had taken him in, and treated him like one of their own. He might well have seemed soft.. But Aziraphale wasn't a pushover.

Not anymore, anyway.

“Listen here, marchand, I don't know who you think you are, but–”

“Father Fell! It's happened again! Father Fell...!"

A frantic voice cut Aziraphale off, followed by the sound of shoes slapping the cobbles, as Adam spirited down the steady hill towards the bickering pair.

“It's the Beast, Father Fell! It's come back!”

“Oh for God's sake..” the friar sighed exasperatedly, and Crowley's face darted from him to the approaching boy and back again, looking terribly amused.

As Aziraphale turned to the boy, his wrath was replaced with a carefully crafted look of friarly concern.. And Crowley's insufferable smile reappeared at the sight.

“Oh, Adam dear.. Do slow down,” Aziraphale slipped on a soothing tone, trying hard to ignore the grinning devil as he followed him down the church steps. “What was it this time, my boy? Another goat?”

Adam barely managed to stop himself from careening directly into the friar, doubling over as he tried to regain his breath, hands clasped to his thighs.

“Not.. A goat..!”

He spoke between gulps of air, before straightening up to face the two, Crowley's daft smirk slipping away at the sight of the lad's ashen face.

“...It's Maggie, sir. She's gone.”

**

This doesn't make any sense.

The kitchen was in disarray, a fine layer of flour coating every surface. The clay bowl that Aziraphale had eaten from barely ten minutes before was now scattered about in sharp shards, spreading soup across the floorboards.

And then there was the blood..

“Adam.. Wait outside.” Aziraphale said at the sight of it. A rather pointless demand, as the boy had seemingly been the one to discover the scene. He had come by to return the woman's goats from pasture, only to find the door open, swinging on its hinges. Said goats were now wandering out back, forgotten in all the drama, peering in at the ghastly scene with vacant eyes.

Adam ignored the request, watching wordlessly as the friar lifted his robe and stepped cautiously into the room. He could hardly blame the lad, neither able to look away from the deep red splatters that decorated the table, the surface of which had seemingly gouged by a knife, or raked by some manner of sharp–

“-Claws?”

Aziraphale jumped at Crowley's voice, the merchant unexpectedly appearing directly behind him. He’d stepped forwards to run a finger over the deep, ragged grooves, looking only mildly interested.

“What are you–?” he began to ask why this uninvited interloper had joined them, before thinking better of it. Right now, he really didn't need to be getting into another conversation with someone so contrary...

They didn't have the time.

“Oh, nevermind! Adam, would you please inform Archer Shadwell that a crime has been committed. We’ll need to get a search party together, right away.”

“A crime? You think a human did this?” Crowleys gestured down at the table. “You don’t need some fancy french lawman, you need a gamekeeper. Or a marksman or an– Where are you going?”

Aziraphale was already halfway out the back door, the goats scattering as he approached. Narrowing his eyes against the wind, he scanned the hills behind the village, cloaked in pine trees, knitted close together to form a deep, impenetrable veil over the valley.

There could be any number of eyes staring back at him from the forest, and he wouldn't know it.

A gust of wind rushed past, pushing the friar from the forest's edge, drawing out a shudder. He turned to examine the smallholding surrounding him; There was no sign of any struggle out here. No more claw marks, no blood, not a Marans hen out of place. No way of knowing which way the perpetrator could have gone. Or where, indeed, they might have come from..

Stooping low, Aziraphale studied the ground at his feet. He didn't know if he was looking for footsteps or paw prints.. But neither presented themselves either way.

Whatever struggle had taken place inside that kitchen.. It hadn't continued outside. He supposed by that point, the poor girl might have been unable to struggle. She might well have already been dead.

Aziraphale rose to his feet, scrubbing a sobering hand over his face.

Something seemed.. Off, about the whole thing. Unbelievable, he supposed would be the word. He was half expecting the cheery blonde to emerge from a hidden nook, and reveal the gruesome scene had all been a rather tasteless joke. But in truth, he knew Maggie would never do such a thing, it wasn't in her nature to be so unkind.

“Hey uhm.. Kids back. He’s.. he's gotten himself a bit worked up.” Crowley's voice drifted from the house behind, cutting through the friar's thoughts.

Now you, on the other hand..

Aziraphale turned towards the merchant, frowning in consideration.

“He's gone all French.” Crowley added, as if Aziraphale would have any idea what that meant.

“Was he able to locate Shadwell..?” He asked, stepping back through towards the scene of the crime, guided in unnecessarily by the merchant's hovering hands.

“Yeah.. I think that's kind of the problem? Better come see for yourself.”

Aziraphale noticed, not for the first time, how the man's accent ebbed and waned, in a way that made it impossible to pin-point where he was from with any accuracy.

Everything about him was so.. Inconsistent. Slippery, and shifty.
Entirely untrustworthy.

Crowley led the way out of the house and back out into the street, heading towards the tavern. The young goatherd was hovering near the shuttered entrance, scowling down at something, his arms crossed. Aziraphale followed the boy's line of sight, to the crumpled pile of cloth gathered at the steps below him.

“Another victim?” Crowley asked as they approached, and Aziraphale sighed.

He stuck out a foot, nudging the cloth pile in the side.

“Monsieur Shadwell.. Are you quite well?” He asked, and the pile grunted groggily in reply. “Ah.. Très bien.”

A pale arm appeared, flailing up and out, before finally finding the stone step below and pushing against.

The ragged bundle of cloth morphed into a sour-faced old man, slumped on the steps in a drunken stupor.

“L’Acher.” Aziraphale greeted wearily.

The Archer blinked up at the three in turn, first at Adam, then Aziraphale, before settling his bloodshot eyes on the merchant in the middle.

At the sight of Crowley, the man's slack-jaw tightened into a scowl.

“Heretic!” He stated, surprising observant given his state. “Let not the eye of a red-headed woman rest upon ye…!”

An accusatory finger was pointed towards said red-head, who looked somewhat flattered.

“Oh wow. You can't be serious.. This is L’Archer de Maréchaussée?” Crowley asked, leaning in to speak directly in the friar's ear. “The man's positively pickled, mon frére.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue. Then, when he realised there was absolutely nothing to say in Shadwell's defence, he closed it again.

The Archer struggled to his feet, eyes blazing angirly, and Aziraphale instinctually held out a hand, ready for the man to stumble off the stoop straight into them.

“Youssir– *hic* You're in league with the witch, are you not? An occultist!”

“..You what?” The merchant replied

Shadwell still seemed to be directing his inarticulate rant in Crowley's direction, but it was anyone's guess as to whether or not that was intentional.

“Uh, it seems we may have caught you at a bad time, Archer–” Aziraphale began, trying to keep an air of professionalism amongst the chaos.

“...Show me the beast, wheresit?” The Archer replied, now pointing his grubby finger between his own two eyes, very nearly taking one out in the process. “..I'll shoot it right ‘ere. Straight through the skull, dead in one shot, ‘m telling you..”

The friar reached out and gently lowered the man's arm, before he blinded himself.

“Ooh, great idea.. Let's give him a gun!” Crowley beamed at the suggestion, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, not bothering to correct him. “Dead in one shot, Aziraphale, didn't you hear?”

“Yes, Crowley, I heard. I think we have enough to worry about right now without– Uhm..”

Without somebody getting shot.

He didn't dare finish the statement, but Shadwell scowled regardless, bulging eyes bouncing between the pair of them.

“I see the doubt in yer eye, friar..” he replied, slurring solemnly. “Witchcraft. That's what's done this. The blasted harlot inside has put me under a most wicked spell..”

“Yes. I can see that..” Aziraphale said with a weary voice, stepping back from the drunken Archer. It didn't seem Shadwell was going to be terribly helpful to him after all.

Unsurprisingly.

“Suppose you best uh.. Sleep it off. Thank you for your time–”

Crowley coughed out an incredulous laugh, cutting him off.

“Witchcraft?! Is that what you call this?! Dear God Fell, no wonder you've got maidens getting snatched away in broad daylight, if this is the calibre of the town's law enforcement–”

“Crowley.”

“-This blootered barfly couldn't catch a one-legged chicken. A dead, one legged-chicken, trussed and stuffed and already in the oven… Not if I drew him a map to the kitchen.”

To add insult to injury, he'd picked up a vaguely Scottish slur himself, perfectly mimicking the archers voice as he ranted.

Shadwells eyes narrowed, darting as if rereading the merchants rambled rant in the air before him.

“..You mocking me, boy?” He asked eventually, and Crowley rolled his head back towards him.

“Oh, would you know if I was?” he replied, voice dripping with doubt, a red rag to a bull. Crowley stood firm as the Archer took a wobbly step towards him, another angrily pointed finger swaying wildly, nearly knocking the sunglasses straight off his face.

“Look ‘ere, you wee pillock. I don't know who you think you are–”

Shadwell spat out the very same line Aziraphale had delivered not an hour before, with a touch more drunken ire and unnecessary cursing, his teeth bared as he stared down the stranger.

“But If you think youse'd do a better job hunting down the buhb-beast than me–”

“That's a great idea!” Adam interrupted, his face lighting up.

The other three turned towards the boy, having quite forgotten he was even there.

Shadwell lowered his pointing finger, nodding sagely.

“Yeah, lad! Great ideas.. Me. Uhm.. Whaddid I say again?”

“Crowley can hunt down the beast!”

There was another beat of silence, as Adams hopeful grin fixed on the merchant.

Who, for once in his damn life, had gone rather quiet.

Shadwell and Aziraphale exchanged a look, a rare moment of kinship contained within that brief, knowing glance.

“Uhhm..”

Crowley's trademark smug smile switched to a forced grimace, taking a single large step away from the group as he considered.
Or rather, as he tried to think up some sort of excuse.

“Well, I would.. You know I would, kid, love a good beast slaying, me.”

He was still sounding inexplicably similar to Shadwell, that amorphous accent slipping about all over the place as he faltered.

Aziraphale wasn't so sure it was intentional anymore.

“But uhh.. All I've got with me here is my merchandise and my mule, so I guess–”

“The Archer has a crossbow. I'm sure he'd let you use it,” Adam replied, not deterred in the slightest. “Crowley has slain all kinds of monsters, you see, tell them about the leopards, oh, and the hydra–!”

“Adam.” Aziraphale cut the boy off, looking between the decidedly sheepish merchant and the Archer, who was looking disconcertingly cognisant all of a sudden. “I'm sure Archer Shadwell is not in the habit of simply lending out such a dangerous weapon to just any–”

“Och aye. Go ahead.” Shadwell waved his protests away. “In fact.. Just a tick..”

The man swung precariously on his heel, turning to face the tavern behind them.

“Oi, harlot! Make yerself useful, ‘n bring out Colonel Dalrymle’s Thunderbluss!” He yelled towards the shuttered doors. While the Archer's back was turned, Crowley shot Aziraphale a panicked, pleading look, that the friar decided he hadn't actually seen.

Not sure what you expect me to do about any of this, my dear…

The door to the tavern swung open, and there stood a slim, older woman, whose vibrant copper hair could rival Crowley's.. Her slim arms weighed with an impractically large, wooden crossbow.

“What seems to be the problem, love..?” she asked, one eye closed as she readied the shot, aiming the crossbow directly towards the merchant in the middle. “..Oh dear, not the traveller, surely? Seemed like such a nice lad...”

“Wha- wait–! Don't shoot!”

Both Crowley and Aziraphale blurted out in perfect, panicked unison, hands flying out as if they could somehow catch a flying arrow.
They shot a look towards one another, equal parts surprised and appalled by their synergy.

And Shadwell doubled over at their reaction, cackling until he was choking, near coughing up a lung between the laughter.
Madame Tracy lowered the bow, shaking her head as the man hacked and spluttered, waiting patiently for him to regain some sort of composure.

“Aye.. Behold, laddie, yer fearless beast hunter.. And his saintly wee sidekick!”

The archer wheezed, wiping a single tear from his eye as he finally straightened up, slapping a hand on Adam's shoulder.

“Ahh. We're doomed.”

**

The daylight had all but faded by the time Aziraphale arrived back at the monastery.

As he entered his chamber (one that he was so very fortunate to have been provided) He couldn't light a candle quick enough, desperate to bring some warmth and light into the squalid little room.

Even now, he struggled to think of this foreign pied-à-terre as his home. The monastery itself was beautiful, palatial even, but also cold, grey and gothic. And on nights like this, when the only sound carrying through the stone halls was the low, reverberating chant of holy prayers, and his mind was infested with unhelpful thoughts... It could feel downright eerie.

The friar sat heavily on a wooden stool, dropping his head to his hand. He and the townsfolk had scouted the village and fields for hours, looking for any scrap of clothing, a wad of fur, a set of suspicious footprints..

Anything to give them some sort of clue as to the fate that had befallen poor Maggie.

They'd found nothing untoward, and soon the piercing wind had brought the rain, and the search party had quickly thinned out, the other villagers worryingly pessimistic in their attitude, from what Aziraphale could understand..

Even he knew the French word for ‘dead’.

The friar had searched with a shadow at his heels, blackclad and surprisingly quiet, following behind and offering as little help as Aziraphale had come to expect from the merchant. But Crowley had been there, if nothing else, his presence alone bringing some facsimile of moral support.

Now.. Aziraphale was alone.

The last he'd seen of Crowley, he was being shepherded off to the tavern by Shadwell and his mistress, having evidently been swayed from his earlier hesitation.
Which surely had nothing to do with the mention of a ‘handsome bounty’ on the head of this ridiculous, fictional beast.

Not long after, Aziraphale himself had also conceded, seeking shelter from the rain and brutal winter wind, the dark of night drawing an end to the evening's search.

His stomach gave a low groan, cutting through the silence of the room, the man's appetite shamefully unaffected by the day's solemn affairs. He really was starving..
And Maggie, bless her generous heart, would want him to eat.

In fact…

Reaching into his pouch, Aziraphale retrieved the wax wrapped bundle from within.

Still providing, from even beyond the grave.

Shaking the morbid, and still entirely unproven thought from his mind, Aziraphale smiled down at the offering. He'd almost forgotten about the fruited teacake, given to him so kindly, mere moments before the poor girls disappearance–

With a sudden renewed vigor, he shot from the stool and set about gathering a board, and a knife. He could well tear into the thing as is, but something compelled Aziraphale to give the humble bun some sense of ceremony, of occasion.

He paused as he plucked the knife from its hiding place, running a finger over the serrated edge, lips drawn into his mouth in consideration.

Probably best not to have this in my quarters, given the circumstances..

It was foolish for him to have it in the first place. Paranoid, and irrational.
He'd never have had the heart to use it, anyway.

Aziraphale sighed. He set the teacake on the board, and began to saw it in half, the soft bun caving under the pressure of his hand. As the knife hit the board below, he felt a strange resistance, scraping the side of the blade.
Pulling the two halves apart, he inspected the soft golden crumb, generously studded with glossy dark fruits… And something else, a buried treasure glinting amongst the currents.

With a quick flick of the knife edge, he managed to hook the shining trinket out, and it landed on the table with a soft clink.
He held the candle aloft, bending to inspect the item from a superstitiously safe distance, giving it another nudge with the knife tip. It was a wide, golden band, set with a marquise emerald, no bigger than a grain of rice.

Aziraphale picked it up, gazing into the familiar green stone, a strange, almost nostalgic feeling washed over him..

It was Maggie's engagement ring.

**

Crowley had to leave.

Nothing he wasn't used to, of course, loading up the wagon in the dead of night, setting off to pastures new before daybreak. Such was the life of a travelling trader, free as a bird and all the happier for it. The taller the tales, the better the business, and all the quicker he'd need to get moving again. Safer not to hang around long enough for the oils to start turning, or for his stories to linger too long in more sensible minds, to be slowly picked apart at the seams…

And that damned, meddling friar was nothing if not sensible.

“Had to go and ruin all the fun, didn't you..”

Aziraphale had finally, somewhat, acknowledged him, beyond the usual curt greeting and phony smile. He'd broken through that straight-laced facade just a little, and gotten a glorious glimpse of the bastard hidden beneath. And now, it seemed he'd have to be content with that, and no more.

However naturally curious Crowley may be, he wasn't an idiot. Even he knew better than to stick around a village that was being besieged by some “mysterious beast”. A beast that he, of all people, was now expected to hunt down.

Well.. At least we're armed now.

Shadwells ridiculous crossbow lay across his lap as Crowley drove the carriage out of the town, wincing at each thunk over rocks and divots in the road, the merchandise clicking away in the back, like tiny church bells.

They couldn't be making more noise if they tried.

“Beonet, allez.. Hurry up, you daft sod.”

Crowley jostled the reins as the mule continued her calm trot over the stoney path, having barely reached the outskirts of town in what felt like an hour. Her hooves clacked through the quiet of the night, announcing their slow, steady escape from Rossignol village.

“I’d be quicker walking–!” Crowley hissed, still pointlessly whispering despite the overall racket the pair were making. “I might just leave you here, you know, you useless lug. Let you fatten up that so-called beast.”

Beonet, unperturbed by her master's threats, continued to dawdle along with the urgency of molasses, eventually slowing all the way to a stop.
Long, rabbit-like ears twisted in all directions as the merchant groaned from the wagon seat, desperately begging the animal to please keep moving–

The sound of hooves continued, even as the mule stood stock still, ears flattening back towards the noise.

Awh... Shit.

Crowley prepared for the appearance of the Archer, no doubt here to collect his damn crossbow. Well, he’d have to fight him for it.
There was no way the merchant was heading into those woods without some sort of weapon, not now.

“...I knew it. I knew you'd run away..!”

A smarmy, sophisticated voice called out from the dark, as the horse and rider caught up to the would-be-escapees, and Crowley found himself sitting up that little bit straighter, reflexively smoothing his expression into something less.. Petulant.

Of course, it'd have to be the bloody monk.

Perched atop a sturdy buckskin stallion, Aziraphale wore an insufferably smug look on his face as he drew up alongside the wagon, overtaking Beonet to cut off the narrow path.

The mule hardly seem to mind, greeting the strange horse like an old friend.

“On your way to slay a beast, are we?” Aziraphale asked facetiously, before his eyes fell to the crossbow balanced precariously across the merchant's lap. “Wait.. You aren't really–?”

With some infallible cover story already half formed on his tongue, Crowley took one look at Aziraphale's wide-eyes and furrowed brow, and found himself faltering.

“I'm.. Leaving,” he said instead, dropping the act before it had begun, finding it as difficult as ever to lie to the friar, for reasons he still hadn't quite figured out.

Probably some deep-seated religious trauma, an instinctual reaction to the habit and the cross and that soft, forgiving expression..

Nothing he was interested in examining too closely, really.

“But.. You gave your word! You’re supposed to be helping–”

“I'm a merchant, Fell, not pest control,” Crowley cut him off, wrapping the reins around his fist. “I'm not waiting about to get devoured by some hellhound. If you had any sense.. You'd leave too.”

Aziraphale scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, that undeniably glimmer of a right snarky so-and-so starting to show.

“Oh, come off it, you don't actually believe those rumours, do you? I suppose I should hardly be surprised...”

“Well, what else killed that girl, huh?” Crowley snapped back, the friars' disapproving tone getting his back up. “-You think an ordinary wolf is walking into the middle of a busy village, in broad daylight, and swallowing maidens whole without a trace, is that it?”

For a moment, Aziraphale said nothing, seemingly deep in thought.

“Well I… We don't know for sure that she's really dead, do we?”

Crowley blinked, dumbfounded.

The poor sods in denial.

He sighed, urging the mule back into motion.. But Aziraphale was still blocking the way.

“So.. You're just going to leave?” He said, the buckskin stallion stepping to the side, taking up the majority of the path.

“Yup.” Crowley replied, popping the P, trying to work out the best way around this most irritating of obstacles. “..Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“You sold the villagers those bottles under false pretences. You conned them–” Aziraphale pointed out, his voice cold. “I thought maybe… You were trying to make amends.”

“Nope.”

Crowley made to move forward, but Aziraphale coaxed his horse straight into his line of sight once again.

“I could tell the Archer, you know.” he said, not quite managing to keep up the cool facade, his voice creeping higher. “..Could tell him what you told me. That you’re nothing but a fraud.”

The moment he'd spoken the threat, Aziraphale looked as if he regretted it, wincing at his own words.

Oh dear, your beloved Almighty would hardly approve of blackmail, huh?

Crowley leaned forward in the seat of the wagon, slipping his shades off his face as he fixed his eyes on the friar.

“Go. Ahead.”

He spat out each word, and Aziraphale looked away, lips set in a firm line, eyes darting as he desperately searched for some suitable rebuttal.
Then, with a resigned sigh, he pulled on the reins, moving the horse out of the way.

“Ah. Merci, mon frère.”

With a click, Crowley coaxed Beonet onwards, passing by the friar and the stallion as they shifted aside. And then, inexplicably, fell into step beside them, following the wagon wordlessly along the narrow dirt path.

“So.. Where are you going to go now?” Aziraphale eventually asked, terribly casual, as if he wasn't stalking a stranger in the woods, on a dark winter's night, on a horse he most certainly did not own.

Crowley sighed, glancing over at the odd, unreadable man, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

“..Why do you care?” he replied, but there was no trace of venom in his voice, not anymore.

Aziraphale didn't answer.

They continued on in silence for a while, listening to the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the stoney path, and the low rumble of the wagon's wheels.

“Soo.. You don't believe in the beast then?”

Crowley caved first, breaking the atmosphere, trying not to sound like he was encouraging this little impromptu outing.
He'd much rather be alone, after all. In peace. But if nothing else, at least the friar had seemingly given up on his pointless campaign to get the man to stay.

“Oh, of course not! I've seen this kind of hysteria before” Aziraphale replied, looking relieved that the conversation had moved on from his ill-fated attempt at a threat, and the resounding, awkward silence. “This beast is nothing more than a hungry, common-garden wolf. Or possibly… An opportunistic man.”

“Oh–?” Crowley turned to face the friar, momentarily forgetting to hide his intrigue. “-What do you mean?”

“Those claw marks.. I mean, they could have been made with a bread knife, intended to look like claws. Perhaps somebody thought to use all this superstitious furore to disguise their own crime.”

“But.. Why? I mean, don't get me wrong, I barely knew the girl.. But she didn't exactly strike me as the sort to have a target on her back.”

“Looks can be deceiving–” Aziraphale said, surprisingly calm for the subject matter at hand. “I don't know the motive yet.. I'm still working on that part.”

Crowley mulled over the suggested theory.
It certainly sounded.. Plausible.

“So what.. You're rushing blindly off into the night to find some sort of evidence, is that it?”

“Hm. I suppose so.”

Aziraphale didn't sound like he knew what he was really doing there, anymore than Crowley did. The merchant sighed again, cold breath hanging visibly in the air.

“Could have been me, you know–” the merchant pointed out matter-of-factly, when it became clear Aziraphale wasn’t going to say anything more on the subject. “-I'm the stranger of the village, after all.”

Is that why you wanted me to stick around, Fell? Am I your prime suspect?

Once again, the friar didn't reply.

As they approached the dense pine forest that surrounded the valley, Crowley cast a glance back towards the village, which was little more than a speck in the distance by now.

“You're going to end up getting lost, you know” he pointed out, catching the brief flash of a smile on the other man's face.

“Oh.. I don't think I will.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, and his horse suddenly sped up, overtaking the wagon and mule, rushing ahead towards the edge of the woods. Crowley let out a startled noise, then, after a mere beat of hesitation, he raced after the friar into the forest.

The thick canopy of branches smothered the guiding light of the moon, and the wayward pair were soon swallowed up by the dark.

**

🌑

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

—

“Bon Voyage”

(A Good Journey)

🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌔🌓🌒🌑

Crowley lit a lantern. There wasn't much point being stealthy, not now he'd been caught by that damn friar...
Who was still rushing off ahead on his presumably pilfered steed, the wagon-laden-mule struggling to keep pace behind them.

“You're going to get us both killed!” He called out to Aziraphale, who slowed the horse, turning and waiting for him to catch up. “What the hell are you playing at, Fell? You don't even have a lamp.”

“But you do,” Aziraphale pointed out, matter-of-factly. “So I'm sure we’ll be quite alright.. If we do run into any beasts.”

The breezy, jovial tone to his voice was entirely at odds with their surroundings. You would think the pair were on a pleasant midday stroll through Hyde park, rather than some treacherous ride through a (potentially) wolf-infested forest, in the middle of winter, and the dead of night.
A forest that seemed to be growing ever closer as they travelled, the path growing narrow in the merchant's mind. The dark between the pines was speckled with fleeting glints of eyes, reflecting the lamplight like stars.

Deer. Birds. Nothing more threatening or supernatural than that. And yet…

It's pretty damn spooky out here.

Crowley kept the thought to himself, side-eyeing the friar as he finally fell back into step beside him.
There was no trace of fear in the man's face. Just a strange, stoic reverence.

If Crowley wasn't so irritated, he might well have been impressed. Was this what it would be like, to have such unshakeable faith in a higher power? Did a certain level of devotion unlock some immunity to being mauled?

“You don't have a weapon,” he said, and before Aziraphale could reply he added; “I do, yes, I know.. But how exactly are you planning on getting back to the village, hm? No crossbow. No lantern–”

The friar looked down at the reins in his otherwise empty hands, as if only just realising these facts himself.

“-Not a hope in hell against so much as a wild pig, let alone some feral monster.”

Stopping the horse abruptly, Aziraphale turned, and looked back towards the village. Or towards where the village had been.
They were surrounded on all sides by the encroaching darkness, the glow from Crowley's lantern cocooning the pair in a small sanctuary of light.

“Im beginning to think you haven't thought this through, mon frére.”

The longer they looked out into the dark, the smaller that sanctuary seemed to be, the walls of the woods still closing in all around them, tightening like a noose. Finally, as the reality of his situation began to sink in, the friar's firm expression faltered.

Yup. Good luck getting home from here, you daft-

“Why do you keep the second head alive?”

It was Crowley's turn to pause, trying to catch up with the sudden, incomprehensible switch in conversation, that had cut him off mid-thought.

“Why do I– What?”

“Earlier today.. You were telling those young ladies the story of the hydra. You said you keep two heads alive..” Aziraphale clarified, as if he wasn't blatantly trying to change the subject, again, and making little to no sense while doing so. “..Why the second head?”

The cogs clicked slowly into place, and, in spite of himself, Crowley smiled.

“You don't believe my stories, Fell,” he replied, lifting the lantern to get a better look at the man. Still facing back towards the town, Aziraphale worried his lip between his teeth, any trace of that earlier bravado having evidently abandoned him. He looked younger in the lamplight, as it danced favourably over soft cheeks and that neat swoop of a nose, snowy locks appearing particularly ethereal under the warm glow..

As the word ‘cherub’ fluttered through his mind, Crowley was quick to shoot it down... Though not quite quick enough.

Letting out a resigned groan, he pulled up on the reins, messily manoeuvring the mule and wagon, to face the same direction as the friar– Who was making a poor show of pretending not to have noticed the three-point turn, or the merchant's incoherent cursing under his breath.
As they finally aligned, Crowley gestured towards the path ahead with a firm thrust of the lantern.

“...After you.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, eyes wide, brow furrowed in confusion as he opened his mouth to argue–

“Oh do not give me that look..” Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale's mouth snapped closed. “Tu es manipulateur, mon frére.. Less of the angelic act.”

Of all people, Crowley knew a con when he saw one. The blackmail angle hadn't worked, but that hadn't really been the man's final gambit..

“Why, I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Aziraphale said, still saucer-eyed, but struggling to bite back a smile.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean!” Crowley mimicked his voice, swooning so far he practically fell from the wagon seat. “..You know what you did. You bloody well knew I'd have to walk you back.”

Ignoring both the (accurate) accusation and the (immaculate) impersonation, Aziraphale turned away, clicking his tongue, and the buckskin stallion started off again, heading back towards the village. After a fleeting moment of hesitation, Crowley followed, the pair travelling abreast along the uneven path, sharing the lamplight.
It would have been far too much work to turn the wagon around again, after all.

“..You're quite good at that, you know,” Aziraphale said after a while, and Crowley racked his brains to work out what he was referring to now, each conversation with the man a little exercise in mental gymnastics.

“Oh.. Voices? Yeah, uh.. Comes with telling stories, I guess,” he answered with a shrug, and Aziraphale simply hmmed in response.

The pair rode on in an oddly comfortable silence, until the branches started to thin overhead, the glowing sliver of the moon making a welcome reappearance through the thicket.

“Adam believes your stories, you know–” It was Aziraphale who broke the silence, speaking with the teacherly tone of a man who’d delivered many a sermon.. And Crowley could feel another lecture coming on. “He really believes you're some grand adventurer. He looks up to you.”

And? The kids an awful judge of character, and that's somehow my fault?

“The problem with stories, Crowley, is that people might start to think they mean something. They start to believe in them, and they start to believe in you, until eventually–”

“They get let down?” Crowley finished for him, and Aziraphale nodded slowly in agreement, drawing his lips into his mouth. “Hm. So is that why you're dragging my sorry arse back, huh? To face some kind of retribution?”

There was no response, and Crowley was left to mull the thought over in his mind; It was better than Aziraphale assuming he was a murderer, he supposed.
It still didn't make much sense, marching him back to Rossignol. Aziraphale had made it rather obvious from day one that he couldn't wait to see the back of the merchant.. He'd never bought into what Crowley was selling, either his theatrical persona or his fraudulent goods, not for a second.

What was he even expecting, a confession of Crowley's unscrupulous activity? Some sort of public apology, complete an elaborate, humiliating little dance?

Or, God forbid.. Refunds?

A sigh drew his attention back towards the friar, who seemed to have miraculously aged since exiting the forest. His skin looked paler than it had moments before, etched with fine lines and contemplative furrows. The cool light of the moon brought out the blue in his eyes.. And also under them, a deep bruise-like blotch trailing below each one.

He looked.. Tired.

“People need something to believe in, I guess,” Aziraphale said eventually, and Crowley knew that would be the final word on the matter, as close to an explanation as he could hope to receive. The pair made their way back to the village just as dawn was starting to break overhead, conveniently lighting the way.

**

“And yer gonna need this–!”

There was a loud clang as a shovel was thrown unceremoniously onto the pile, nearly sending the rest of the supplies tumbling off the table.

“Hm.. To dig our own graves?” Crowley suggested casually, hands behind his back as he surveyed the growing mountain of hunting gear.

Aziraphale stifled a laugh.. He shouldn't be finding anything about the situation funny, not in the slightest.

“..Fer a wolf pit, you ninny. Dig a big hole, stick a rabbit down it, cover the thing an’ wait.”

Shadwell mimed the entire explanation, rabbit and all, doing little to help Aziraphale's tentative grasp on his composure.
Crowley caught his eye, raising a brow above those opaque specs.

This was a bad idea.

“You can do the digging..” Crowley leaned close, muttering so only the friar could hear. “Promise not to leave you in the hole.. As bait.”

Aziraphale did his best not to react, ignoring the pickling hairs on the back of his neck, and the feeling of the vile man's breath against his ear.

On second thought.. This was a terrible idea.

At least somebody seemed to be enjoying himself. Crowley was grinning as he walked away, plucking a mallet from the table and giving it a pointless whack into the palm of his hand. Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, what had possibly possessed him to run off into the dark of the night after this strange, untrustworthy figure.. He should have simply let him leave, and had one less thing to worry about.

But Crowley had given Adam his word. And Aziraphale intended to keep him to it.
At very least, it would bring the poor boy some peace of mind. And who knows, maybe they would find some thread of evidence, and begin to unravel the mystery of Maggie's disappearance.

Or maybe they'd both be brutally murdered.
If they didn't kill each other first.

“Got yer crossbow.. Arrows.. Rope.. Ah, and then there's this beauty!”

Shadwell heaved a heavy metal object up onto the table, setting it down with a clatter.

“What the hell is that..?” Crowley loomed over the thing, inspecting it warily from above. It was an odd, iron contraption that had interlocking teeth to rival the merchant's own; Sharp, shiny and unmistakably dangerous.

Crowley reached out a hand towards the device, and Shadwell smacked it away.

“Get tae–! You want to lose a finger? It's a foothold trap, a bloody marvel of modern ingenuity!”

The real marvel was the archer managing to say a word like ingenuity without losing his teeth.. In fact, they'd seemingly caught him on a good day. For once, the man was shockingly coherent. Shadwell motioned towards Madame Tracy, who was lounging near the fireplace, sucking her teeth as she watched the men make an almighty mess of her tavern.

“Here wench, a demonstration, if you please-”

Tracy stood, dusting down her skirt and approaching the table with a coy smile, wafting her hands about like a magicians assistant.

“Excusez-moi, dearie..” she brushed Crowley aside, lifting the iron contraption from the table. She quickly worked some sort of mechanism within, before laying the whole thing on the ground, trailing a thick tether out behind it. It lay in a flat circle, like some ominous, mechanical fairy-ring. Plucking up a nearby broom, Tracy hoovered it over the trap, eyes glinting.. before she dropped it straight down into the waiting jaws below. The metal maw slammed shut in an instant, snapping the broom-handle like a matchstick.

“Good lord!” Aziraphale jumped, shielding his face as splinters flew out in all directions. “Why.. What a horrible device!”

“Oohh, isn't it just!” Crowley agreed excitedly, giving a slow clap as Tracy held the severed broom aloft. “-Whatever will they think of next? An automated spine snapper? Some big, sophisticated, head-chopping-off-machine?”

“Don't go giving her ideas..” Shadwell mumbled, as Tracy handed the sprung trap back over. He was looking at the woman with a mixture of fear and pride, as if she’d invented the torturous device herself.

I supposed she might well have. Wouldn't put it past her.

“Do be ever so careful with it, boys, wouldn't want either of you to lose anything important” Tracy cooed, a finger tracing the iron contraption, as if it were made of silk.

Shadwell held it out towards Aziraphale, who kept his hands firmly hidden within his robes.

“I really don't think–”

Crowley grabbed the accursed snare before he could finish, hauling it up and over his shoulder by the attached rope, throwing in a quick wink for good measure.
Aziraphale sighed, not bothering to argue out loud.

We are not using that thing.. He thought, and Crowley smiled again, as if he'd heard him, sauntering off towards the open tavern entrance.

“Right, well.. I think that's quite enough for us to be getting on with. Thank you for all your assistance, Archer.” Aziraphale said, looking down at the excessive mountain of hunting supplies spread out on the table. “I uh.. Guess we better start loading up the horses.”

**

Horse, singular, would have been more accurate.

The pair were tethered just outside the tavern, Beonet and the nameless stallion, standing practically nose-to-nose. The mule seemed to be smitten.. There'd been no separating the two once she'd been uncoupled from the wagon, despite Crowley's desperate attempts to dissuade the blossoming love affair.
As much as he valued his dumb, darling steed, he really didn't need another mule to be worrying about. A little baby Beonet.

Although. I suppose it might be a little bit faster with two of them..

Crowley shook the thought from his head, and began to load her saddlebags with supplies, handing off the odd object to Aziraphale. The friar blindly accepted whatever he was handed, until Crowley held out that particularly heavy length of rope, watching the realisation dawn on his face.

“..I'm not carrying that.” Aziraphale said, attempting to hand the iron snare back, but Crowley waved his hand away.

“Just take it.. Of course we aren't going to bloody well use it,” he said, pulling the loaded bags shut over the spilling mound of supplies. “..Beonets carrying a ton already, make your damn horse useful.”

“Not my horse.” Aziraphale grumbled, tentatively slotting the snare into his own large, and almost entirely empty, saddlebag. “Friars don't have horses, you know.. No pets of any sort.”

“Yeah well, friars aren't supposed to carry about big silver coins either–” Crowley replied, glancing at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. “-Or go gallivanting off in the middle of the night, chasing after devilishly handsome strangers.”

Said friar pretended not to hear him, busying himself with the ropes, lips drawn in between his teeth.

Touched a nerve, mon frère?

“Whats its name, anyway?” Crowley added, gesturing vaguely towards the horse, while also attempting to wave away the seemingly touchy subject.

“Oh, uh, I'm not sure. I'm not sure it has one..” Aziraphale replied, the relief palpable in his voice. “He belonged to Adam's father”

“Belonged? What, so he's yours now then?”

“Hm? No.. I just said to you, friars don’t have–” Aziraphale shook his head, cutting himself off mid-snark. “Arthur Young passed away before I came to the village, him and his wife. I've heard there was a dreadful accident with a runaway coach.. Adam was kind enough to loan him to me.”

“Ah.”

Explains a lot.

He'd suspected it himself, as the goatherd had shown up at the wagon time and time again, listening to Crowley's stories, asking him endless questions. Never once had he seen a mother, and the only father ever mentioned had been ‘Father Fell’ himself. The lad had talked about Aziraphale quite a lot, in fact.

“Don't tell him I was here, alright? He told me not to talk to you..”

“Wha- Why? Judgy git. Well you should tell him that I said– Or, wait, guess you can't do that huh?”

“You shouldn't swear about a friar, you know.. I don't think God would be happy about that.”

“Look kid, God is not listening to a bloody word I say, trust me..”

“Because you don't go to church?”

“Because they don't like me. We aren't on good terms, me and the big G.”

“Oh. Well.. Maybe Father Fell could help you with that? Suppose he must talk to God all the time.”

“Hate to break it to you Adam, but Fell doesn't exactly like me either.”

“Oh, I know. He thinks you're a Charlotte-ton, whatever that means.”

“A charlatan. Right. Do me a favour and don't go repeating that word about town, m’kay? Actually, don't bloody repeat anything Fell tells you.. What else has that wee bugger been saying about me anyway?

“...”

“Well?”

“Well You– You just told me not to repeat it.”

“Hm.. Fair enough.”

Crowley had always had an inexplicable affinity with orphans. A kinship, as it were.

“You should ask the boy it's name, you know..” he said, watching Aziraphale unteather said horse.“It's an animal, not a wagon.. Should show it a little respect.”

“Well, I was in a bit of a rush at the time–” Aziraphale replied, struggling to secure the saddlebags to the horse, who seemed determined not to make the task easy “Oh, blasted thing.. What?”

He’d caught the knowing grin on Crowley's face before he could turn away, slipping his buckled boot into a stirrup and hoisting himself up onto the mule.

And where exactly were you rushing off to, mon frére, in such a desperate hurry? Do remind me…

The smile didn't last long, the merchant wincing with the effort of hauling himself into the saddle. It had been a while since he'd actually ridden the mule, and his breeches were admittedly far too fitted for such a strenuous manoeuvre.. He was lucky they were still in one piece, in all honesty.

Aziraphale managed to ascend his own horse much easier, despite the gathering folds of his ever-present, sack-like attire. And Crowley found himself, not for the first time, picturing what the man might look like out of that dreadful brown caped habit. In a proper jacket, and tailored breeches, more befitting of his posh tone and luxurious aura.. In a suitable pallet of creams and golds, to best compliment those angelic white curls.. Or maybe a splash of soft, pastel blue, to make those pale eyes pop.

Crowley dragged his own eyes away. It wasn't the time to be mentally dressing the man like some porcelain doll, nor would it ever be. What Aziraphale looked like should be entirely irrelevant to him. The pair faced back out towards the surrounding forest. It looked different in the daylight, though no more welcoming, really.

“You sure you want to do this? Could be dangerous, you know,” Crowley addressed the open air in front of them, as Aziraphale pulled up by his side.

“Quite sure,” The friar shot back, sounding far more confident than Crowley felt.

He was quite the actor, this Aziraphale. Could probably tell some marvelous stories if he put his mind to it, with the expression and believability to make them all the more interesting.

“Alright.. Well, let's get this over with.”

The moment the pair made a move to leave..

“Father Fell! Crowley! Waait!”

A voice called out, and Aziraphale turned his nameless stallion to face the boy, his face twisting into a frown.

“Oh.. Drat. He caught us.”

“Wait for me! I'm coming too!”

Adams' feet slapped the cobbles as the boy rushed forward at full pelt, the only speed he seemed to know. Beonet shook her large head disapprovingly, stepping away from the loud, incoming projectile of a child.

“You’ll be doing no such thing, Adam Young–!” Aziraphale cried back, as the boy came to an abrupt halt in front of them. The stallion didn't even flinch, evidently accustomed to the preteen tornado. “-You're needed with the goats, and the townsfolk. Archer Shadwell is going to need all the help he can get, keeping an eye on things around here–”

Adam opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted by Crowley.

“Oi, what's the horse's name?” He asked, by way of distraction.

And the boy shot him a befuddled look.

“Dads horse? ..It's Antoine,” he answered, and the merchant snorted reflexively.

Aziraphale screwed up his face.

“An-toi-ne?” He asked, pronouncing the name entirely incorrectly, despite having heard how it should sound barely a second before.

Christ.. No wonder you struggle with French.

“Like.. Like Anthony? Really?” he added, looking thoroughly disappointed, and Crowley shot him a look.

“What’s wrong with that?” He asked, and Aziraphale's eyes darted sheepishly down towards the young goatherd.

“It’s uhm.. An unusual name for a horse, that's all,” The friar muttered, clearly not meaning to insult the boy's deceased father, and his unorthodox naming conventions. “..I'll get used to it.”

I hardly think you're the one to be judging names, Aziraphale.

Adam wasn't listening anyway, eyeing up the mounted pair as if trying to work out where he might fit in. Aziraphale turned the horse's head away, pointedly.

“We'll be back shortly, dear boy. And I expect a full report on the status of the town when we arrive back. You'll need to keep your eyes peeled for clues.." He leaned into the word, drawing it out. “Stay near the town square, and make a note of anything suspicious you see going on.” he added, and Adam nodded, seemingly a smidge more content now he had some part to play in their grand scheme. “...The beast might well visit again, you know. Do have your wits about you, my boy.”

For all Aziraphales facetiousness, and silly, placating smile, there was genuine concern in his voice.

“I'll be careful,” the young lad replied, folding his arms. “So long as you're careful, Father.”

“Oh, I'm sure I'll survive. After all, I have the infamous A.J. Crowley alongside to protect me, don't I?” Aziraphale shifted the horse back towards the horizon, catching the mans eye as he turned. “...I should have nothing to worry about at all.”

Adam, somehow missing the sarcasm, gave said infamous merchant a smile. And Crowley had to quickly turn around himself, before the guilt lodged itself too deep.

“Right. Yeah. I'll try keep him in one piece.”

Never would he have clocked the pompous friar as being particularly good with kids.
But there was a holy reverence in Adams' eye as he looked up at Aziraphale, and it had nothing to do with that daft habit.

“Can we get on?” Crowley said, clicking his tongue without waiting for a reply, setting off towards the forest before he could change his mind.

Again.

Aziraphale followed close behind, trotting along on bloody ‘Anthony’ the horse, as the man insisted on continuingly mispronouncing it's far more appropriately French name, each incident causing an internal wince within the merchant.

Well.. That's what I get for asking questions

**

It was a nice day, all things considered. The winter sun was persisting, despite the smell of rain that had followed the horses all morning, and the forest felt far less threatening in the cool, dappled light.
Had the pair not been actively hunting a pack of rabid wolves (That, or a single, deranged man, the true nature of their target being consistently debated between the pair) Then they would have been having rather a lovely time.

Crowley was surprisingly easy to talk to, when he wasn't throwing out childish barbs or stringing together fabricated tales of his own heroism… Which was rare, but increasingly less so, his stories growing steadily more believable as time went on.

Or perhaps Aziraphale was simply getting used to them.

In a few short hours, which had felt shorter even than that, he had learned the man was born in Scotland, to a pair of travelling traders, never once setting down roots as long as he'd been on God's green earth, constantly on the move– His stories painted a halcyon childhood roaming the British countryside, meeting all manner of interesting people, trading goods and telling tales, all while perched between the couple up on the very same wagon the man carted about to this day.

His parents had died unceremoniously, one after the other, shortly after crossing the channel to peddle their wares in pastures new.. That particular detail sparking a debate among the pair as to whether or not the term ‘orphan’ should still be applied to either of them, given their advanced age.
Aziraphale was firmly in camp ‘not’, with no real reasoning behind his stance, other than the fact it directly opposed Crowley's own.

After all, it would hardly be any fun if they agreed on things.

So, the young merchant had been left alone in the world (Or as he had put it, “In peace!”) with nothing more than a wagon and his beautiful black mule, whom his father had won in a convoluted bet involving a viperine snake and a shot of whisky.
Aziraphale was convinced said bet, had it truly happened, might well have been the cause of the man's untimely demise, but he kept that thought to himself.

He'd discovered Crowley had a surprising wealth of knowledge for all things botanical, which he attributed to his muddy-footed, green-thumbed mother.. As well as an inexplicable, passionate dislike of books, that gave the friar pause;

“...But all you ever do is tell stories!” He blurted out, the first interruption he'd made in quite a while. “Surely books would be where you learned half the fables you tell?”

“Fables? Stories? Those are memories, I'll have you know… I learned them because I lived them.” Crowley spoke with that ridiculous, facetious grin on his face, leaning far too far over, risking falling straight out of the saddle. “Thats something you ought to try sometime, mon frère.. Living.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the sudden, somewhat unwelcome, return of the A.J. Crowley he'd come to know before.. He'd almost forgotten how insincere the man could be. And, with a touch of sadness, he realised the merchant had most likely been talking nonsense all day long.

He really didn't know him at all, was no more familiar with the man now than before. And, quite by design, Crowley knew even less about Aziraphale.

“I've lived enough of a life already, my dear” He answered curtly, and Crowley scoffed, recoiling back into a more sensible position. Aziraphale continued, in his most solemn, sermonic voice. “I'm more than happy with my lot… After all, a friar is to live a life free from all temptation and earthly ties. A life dedicated solely to the unburdensome task of spreading the good word of our Almighty God and–”

A loud, theatrical yawn cut the man off mid-spiel. Aziraphale tutted, but didn't bother trying to continue. He hadn't really known where he was going with all that, anyway.

“…Free from all temptation, hm?” Crowley muttered, seemingly sticking on the phrase, much to Aziraphale's displeasure. The very moment he'd said the word, he'd regretted giving Crowley the potential ammunition. One could practically see the cogs turning in the merchant's mind as he carefully crafted his next suggestive remark.

“So.. No treats then? No roast beef dinners.. Or fancy little french pâtisseries?”

Aziraphale frowned. For some reason that wasn't quite the direction he'd expected the man to take.
Although he could still detect a smile in Crowley's voice that told him he might well be missing out on the joke. It hardly seemed characteristic, for the merchant to be worried about him missing out on food, of all things. He glanced down at his habit, which was perhaps a tad tighter than he would have liked, the cord pressing into his soft stomach.

Oh.

“Wh-Well, while moderation and abstinence are pillars of a holy way of life.. I've been very fortunate in the charity I've received from the town.. And..” He stuttered out the well-worn excuse, feeling an indignant flush rise to his cheeks. “They uhm.. It would be unkind to refuse such generous offers, you see–” His voice trailed off lamely, as the rather depressing realisation began to set in. Aziraphale had supposedly spent the better part of a year living in holy temperance and virtuous poverty.. And yet, he'd somehow gotten fat.

Dear God… What would Gabriel think?

Crowley turned back towards the friar with a frown. For a moment, he looked utterly confused, then he followed the man's glum, downward gaze, and made a startled noise.

“Wait, I wasn't.. I didn't mean that–” He stuttered, suddenly uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “That wasn't what I was-”

“Don't” Aziraphale interrupted, his voice coming out as a no-nonsense groan, as he tried to shake off the initial embarrassment. "I know, alright? I'm hardly a waif, unlike some..."

He'd never been a vain man, despite what some might have inferred in his past. And really, what did it matter what bloody Crowley thought of how he looked, of all people? In fact, What did it matter what Crowley thought of him at all?

Aziraphale had endured far harsher words, from far more cutting critics than this daft, mercurial merchant.

“Well. Luckily for me, outward appearances mean very little to a man of the cloth,” he assured, chin tilted up to the sky, a well practised chill in his voice.

“Will you shut it..? You know I didn't mean.. that.” Crowley looked genuinely pained, wincing with every word.. And Aziraphale felt his mood begin to lift as he watched the man squirm.

Aha, renverser les rôles!

“You look nice,” Crowley announced, unexpectedly, the words leaving his mouth seemingly without permission, and his subtle wince grew into a full on, bared-tooth grimace. “Eeughh, Not nice.. I mean you uh.. I don't think you look bad like.. That.” he gestured vaguely, without actually looking anywhere near the man in question. “You’ve got that uh.. Embonpoint, as they say."

“Hm.. I don't know what that means.” Aziraphale lied, struggling to keep up his frosty facade. Flustered Crowley was an intriguing new development.. and one he was keen to explore for just a little longer. “The habit adds weight, you know.. Dreadful thing. Hot and heavy and woefully uncomfortable” he added, eyes soft and sincere.

The eyes of a siren, as he'd once been so disdainfully told, a critique that had lodged in his brain in an entirely different manner than originally intended. The colour of the ocean, never truly settling on either blue or green, the pale colour growing deep and vibrant in the just right lighting..

In say, the dapple sunlight of a shaded pine forest.

Crowley was finally looking at him, his own eyes obscured as ever.. But Aziraphale could feel them locked onto his, staring him down with a new, unreadable expression.

“It really is most unflattering, isn't it?” he added, noting the quick flick of the merchant's tongue across his mouth, as he turned away, clearly considering taking the bait.

“Eh.. Could take it off then, you know. The habit, I mean,” Crowley replied with a shrug, focused pointedly on the path ahead, delivering the very line Aziraphale had been hoping for. “You know, if you'd be more.. Comfortable.”

“Oh my dear boy, I'm afraid I've nothing at all beneath it..” He lied again, smoothly. “..Would hardly be very pious of me, riding Antoine naked in the woods.”

Crowley coughed, choking on thin air. One particularly pointless, but amusing, skill Aziraphale had honed over the years, was his uncanny ability to disarm anybody. Weaponising that wide-eyed, innocent expression, followed by the unexpected addition of some suggestive statement, the more blatant the better. Blasphemous as it may be, the habit had only seemed to make it more tempting, winding people up as they stammered and stuttered and tried to change the subject, convinced the poor, innocent man couldn't possibly know what he was saying.

As Crowley finally regained some manner of composure, whirling right around in the saddle to shoot the friar a bewildered look, he caught the smirk before Aziraphale could hide it.

And his own face broke into a knowing grin.

“You bastard… You're winding me up!” he said, with great approval. He turned back around, still smiling ear to ear. “Huh! Didn't think you knew how to be funny.. Not intentionally, anyway.”

Aziraphale tutted again, and hurried his horse onwards before Crowley could recognise the glowing pride in his face.

Pride was a sin, after all..

Add that one to the ever-growing list, I suppose.

**

The sun began to set entirely without warning, as though time had been sped up. Both men would swear blind they had not been out more than a few hours, when in reality it had been closer to a full day. They'd found little more than birds and deer, the odd russety red squirrel darting past their line of sight, each pointed out more fervently than the last.. A competitive tally mentally drawn up between the pair.

Both had quickly learned the other could not be trusted to keep any sort of score, and called it even.

They were high on a hilltop now, the village sprawling far below. From this distance, the townsfolk were no more than featureless little dots, busying about like ants on a mound.
It would be a dark journey back. Not that the thought should faze either of them.. They'd made it home the night before without incident.

“Looks like rain,” Aziraphale mused, the pleasant purple sunset marred with gathering grey clouds, the atmospheric smell in the air sending a rolling shudder down his spine.

Not just rain… A storm.

“Should head back, I guess,” Crowley stated the obvious, his voice flat, almost sounding disappointed.

They hadn't done much hunting, to be fair.. Had been rather too distracted by all the squirrels. Aziraphale hummed in agreement, and they continued watching the ants below, neither making a move to leave.

“Oi… Is that a farm?”

Aziraphale frowned, and followed Crowley's pointing finger to a small structure in the distance, nestled on a plateau halfway up the neighbouring hill.

It looked like a cottage.

“I'm not sure.. I don't know of any farmer living so far from the village,” he replied, turning Antoine's head to face the stoney speck.

He glanced behind to see Crowley following suit, turning the mule away from the village below, the pair facing the same direction.
For a moment, they stared each other out, and the challenge was wordlessly issued.

"Allez!” Crowley shouted suddenly, smacking the reins and taking off, leaving a startled Aziraphale in his dust. With a scandalised gasp, the friar hurried his own horse forward, and they gave chase, racing flat-out towards the building in the distance.

Beonet was surprisingly fast for a mule, heavy hooves throwing dirt clods in all directions as she ran, but the stallion effortlessly caught up behind her. Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh as they overtook the pair, Crowley's tongue clamped between his teeth in fruitless determination. Despite their stolen headstart, Beonet quickly fell behind, the thundering sound of hooves spurring Antoine on faster than ever.

The rain had started.

They arrived at their destination in no time, the horse skidding to a stop on the soft earth, instinctively circling to watch as Crowley caught up. The man was out of breath, as if he himself had been the one running, and had acquired a few more sparse, muddy freckles, which he inadvertently smeared across his face as he approached.

Aziraphale chuckled at the sight.

“Let you.. Get ahead..” Crowley puffed out, rolling a hand forwards dismissively. “Gah.. Could uh.. Be your murder man's place, this.”

They both looked towards the building, which was barely more than a shack now they saw it up close.. With four windowless stone walls and a thatched roof, pitched in the center to form a basic chimney.

“Looks like a bothy.. Do they have those in France?” Crowley asked, slipping down from his mount. He sauntered forwards on foot, with the distinct walk of a man who had just galloped across uneven ground on the back of a mule, and was trying very hard to look cool about it.

Aziraphale followed suit, against his better judgment, feet hitting the mud below with a wretched squelch.

“Crowley, wait– You could well be right,” he said, reaching out and grabbing the man's wrist as it swung back towards him “..I don't recognise this building at all. Anyone could be inside.”

“Like Maggie?” Crowley asked, glancing back at the friar. Aziraphale tightened his grip at the suggestion, looking hopelessly torn. “Look.. I'll go check it out, you uh, you stay with the horses alright?”

“Right. Yes, jolly good.. I'll keep an eye on them.”

There was a pause.

“..I'm going to need my hand back, in that case,” Crowley added, matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale looked down at his own hand, which was still tightly wrapped around Crowley's wrist. He let go, eyes darting. Mercifully, the merchant didn't comment, stepping towards the solid wooden door with confidence, leaving Aziraphale to fuss with Beonet and Antione.

He gave a sharp rap with his knuckle, and waited.

There was no reply.

“..Anybody home? Des meurtriers?”

Nothing.

“Huh. No bound and gagged maidens? La brute? A big pile of mangled, pustulating dismembered– Ow!?”

Aziraphale smacked him, cutting off whatever awful image was about to be conjured up.

“..Thought you were waiting over there?!” Crowley said, rubbing his upper arm dramatically. The friar was stronger than he looked.

As Crowley turned to face his assailant, he made a startled noise at the sight of what was in Aziraphale's other hand..

“Thought you might need back up..” Aziraphale replied, thrusting the wooden crossbow against the merchant's chest, knocking the wind out of him “You aim. I’ll open the door.”

Crowley nodded, still looking a little stunned. The friar put a hand on the weather-beaten wood, glancing back as Crowley readied the shot, hands shaking.

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath, and shoved the door open.

**

It had all been rather anticlimactic in the end.

Not that Crowley had wanted a reason to shoot the crossbow, of course. He wasn't even entirely sure how to.

But Aziraphale had still screamed all the same.

“Shit! What–-?!” Crowley jumped out of his skin, nearly dropping the bow as he hauled it back up into position.

He was faced with the innocuous interior of some seemingly abandoned outpost... And an inexplicably panicked friar, who stood with a hand to his mouth, pale-faced and frightened..

“What is it?” Crowley barked again, his heart racing, eyes darting around the room for the unseen enemy “..There's nothing bloody well in there!”

Finally, he caught sight of the odd, shifting shape on the floor, barely visible in the dark.

As an enormous red-eyed rat darted for the exit, sending the friar leaping back against the door with a gasp.

Thank. God.

“Fucking hell, Fell! It's a rat, not a bear. Calm down.” Crowley lowered the crossbow, huffing out a sigh of relief as his heart began to slow. He entered the building, which was no more than a single, square room, barely bigger than the two of them combined.. It was too dark to make out much else. “You should be used to them, I imagine the monasteries chock full.. Very religious animals, rats.”

Aziraphale had a hand on his chest, clutching at metaphorical pearls, too shaken to give an entertaining response.

“Awful things–” he finally managed to mutter, and Crowley raised a brow. “-We need a lantern.”

“Really, Fell? Whatever happened to ‘all creatures great and small’?” He said, stepping back out into the rain “..Thought your lot were supposed to love all manner of God's creations, hm?”

“Yes. Well.. Some beasts are more deserving of that love than others,” Aziraphale replied with a huff, watching the man as he reappeared, an already lit lantern held aloft.

“Let there be light,” Crowley declared theatrically, thrusting the thing into the room.

The pair stood together in the doorway, taking in the rather unimpressive scene, their shadows dancing around the room as the lantern shook. There were no more rats, at least none they could see.. No life of any kind.

A hay and cloth mattress had been thrown together against the far wall, beside a table strewn with mismatched crockery and empty tankards. Firewood was piled beneath it, as well as several unmarked sacks, nibbled and holey, spilling grain out onto the dusty floor.

Crowley stepped forwards, circling the firepit in the middle of the room, which was cold and grey, no hint of embers. He made his way over to the table, setting down the lamp and picking up a tankard, running a finger around the rim. It was dry.

“Whatever this place is used for, doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while–” He sat the cup back down, turning back towards the friar with a hand on his hip. “-Would you kill one, then?”

“Would I– What?”

“A rat. If we see another one, here tonight.. Would you kill it? Seems like it would go against your holyschmoly-vows or whatever..”

He could tell Aziraphale was only half listening, having apparently gotten stuck on the words we, here and tonight.

“Crowley, I am not staying in this building,” he said firmly, eyes darting about the dull, cramped, windowless room “Not a moment longer. We should head back, it's getting late and–”

“-And that's exactly why we should set up camp! Come on, it's pissing down out there.. And besides, what better place to stake out a beast, hm?”

“Oh, enough about the bloody beast–”

Despite his protests, Aziraphale traced the same path Crowley had taken, sidling cautiously around the fire pit as if it was aflame. He was still scanning the room for stray rodents, and Crowley watched in silent amusement as the friar wandered inadvertently close, nearly stumbling straight into the other man.
Aziraphale stopped with a start, as if the merchant had appeared out of the blue. He met Crowley's grin with a petulant scowl.

“-There are far more real things to worry about than that.” Aziraphale finished, making no effort to move away.

“Oh, I see..” Slipping the circular specs off his face, Crowley stepped forward, until the pair were standing practically nose-to-nose.

Aziraphale held firm.

“..You’re not scared, are you?” Crowley asked, tilting his head, voice dripping with faux concern, “Scared a wee mouse might come and nibble you in the night, is that it?”

Two can play at this game, mon frére.

The friar continued to stand his ground, meeting Crowley's amber eyes, resisting the very apparent urge to look away.

“I’m not concerned about mice, Crowley, but rather about being devoured by some feral animal–” The friar answered, his voice clipped and curt “-I’m sure neither of us would enjoy that very much.”

“Ha, I didn't think you believed in the beast, Fell!” Crowley answered without skipping a beat “..Unless you were talking about some other feral creature, hm? And besides..”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, as if they might be overheard.

“..Who says I wouldn't enjoy that?”

The line was so stupid, so nonsensical, that he regretted it the moment he said it.
The friar broke first, drawing in his lips as he turned away, just barely managing to keep the startled laugh contained.

Got ya.

Managing to compose himself, Aziraphale looked back, his own eyes now glinting mischievously. Finally playing along.

“Well I– So long as any untoward nibbling is kept to a bare minimum.. I suppose it wouldn't hurt,” he said, with far more breath than was necessary. His eyes were still darting, but more strategically now, roaming a terrible path from mouth to body to back up again.

“..Just for one night, to wait out the rain,” he added, a touch more seriously. “And then we really must head back.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. ‘Course.” Crowley agreed, flicking a tongue across dry lips, revealing as the man's gaze was caught for a moment.
A moment too long, actually. This game was a lot easier on horseback, at a sensible distance.

“Right, well.. Better get sssettled in then.” Crowley cursed the telling stutter, as his mouth betrayed him yet again. He turned away, stepping back out into the cool, sobering air, Aziraphale following close behind.

An infuriating, smug smile was playing on the friar's lips. There was little doubt he'd won that round, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, at the very last second..

Yet again.

The sanctimonious wee so-and-so was turning out to be a surprisingly worthy opponent.

As the two gathered supplies from the saddlebags, and tethered the animals under the shelter of a nearby tree, neither saw need to comment on the fact that the rain had already stopped.

**

“-A man of the cloth would not lie, Crowley.” Aziraphale lied, the words slurring slightly. He gestured with his borrowed tankard, the contents splashing out over the brim. “..Whales.”

Crowley shielded his eyes from the sudden downpour of wine, glasses having been misplaced at some point between the third and fourth bottle. He shifted up on his makeshift seat, slipping down again almost immediately as the contents of the bag rolled beneath him.

“What about whales..?” he asked, having lost the thread of conversation entirely.

He glanced into his own mug with a pout. It was empty.

“Marvelous things.. Whales. Oil. Useful oil not your.. bloody brassica stuff posing as some.. Miracle cure.” Aziraphale wafted a hand about dismissively, propped up against the wall as he sat horizontally across the haybed. “..Now that is an animal that God can be proud of.”

Crowley snorted.

“Not sure it's up to you what God should or should not be proud of, mon frére… Not terribly monkey of you.”

They both frowned, equally confused.

“Monk-ish” Crowley clarified, after some amount of mental backtracking. “You’re blasmephising yet again, Fell.”

“That's not a word.. And I'm not a monk,” Aziraphale took another swig of wine, lucky to still have any left after all his wild gesticulating. “..I'm not the one peddling falsities for a living, my dear. God does not approve of conmen, you know.”

“Oh, don't go getting all holier-than-thou now, angel.. Some of us need to earn a living,” Crowley muttered, fumbling the bottle in the dark, and finding that it too was empty. He let out a little groan at this most unfortunate discovery.

Aziraphale shifted forwards, handing his half-full tankard over to the man, who accepted the offer with a childish grin.

“..What did you just call me?” He asked, as Crowley swigged from his mug.

“Hmph?” he peaked over the brim. “Holier-than-thou.. It means..”

“I know what that means, for heaven's sake.. Before that,” Aziraphale cut him off with an impatient sigh. “Did you.. Did you just call me angel?”

Crowley choked, coughing up a lungful of vin rouge. Aziraphale took the opportunity to look suitably smug, making sure to plaster on a facade of disapproval before Crowley could recover.

“Yeah well.. Look at you. With your little white curls,” Crowley gestured, and Aziraphale's hand floated reflexively up to his hair. “You work for God, right? Some.. Messenger. Spreading the good word and all that crap.. Ain't that the whole deal?”

“Right. Yes. I suppose so,” Aziraphale replied, fingers coiling against his own snowy locks.

It made sense. In some way.

Probably.

“..Don't read too much into it,” Crowley spoke into the tankard, his voice dull and echoey as it bounced about inside.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Throwing his head back, the merchant downed the last of the wine, conveniently blocking his view of Aziraphale's suspicious eyes with the tankard. After a few long, guttural glugs, he lowered the cup with a drawn out ‘Ahh!’ earning himself another disapproving glare.

Each brief moment of sincerity was followed by a swift reminder of exactly who Aziraphale was dealing with. Of course the inexplicable epithet was yet another subtle jibe at his expense. That's really what they were doing here, what they'd been doing all evening, and had been doing since they met..

Trading barbs, disguised as pleasant conversation and camaraderie. It was all a bit of a joust, a game.

That is what we're doing here.. Right?

As if reading the man's mind, Crowley coughed again, looking more sheepish now than shocked

“Hey uh.. Is this alright? This here, us uh..” Crowley gestured between them, and Aziraphale tried to ignore the sudden hammering in his chest. “You allowed to do.. This?”

“Wh-Whatever do you mean–?” Aziraphale replied, shifting even more upright in his seat, hands quickly finding their way back into the sleeves of his robe “-We're not doing anything.”

Not yet, anyway.

“Well, you're drunk, for a start.” Crowley pointed out, slipping further down on the grain sack until he was practically vertical, as if in protest. “Drunk and spending the night with a ssackrile.. Sssacrilig– A bad man.”

Aziraphale laughed aloud before he could stop himself, and the merchant's brows shot up in surprise.

“What, pray tell, is so fffuuunny?” Crowley slurred, holding back the telling expletive, as if genuinely wounded by the reaction. He looked absurd, lying drunkenly on his back, pouting like a child, eyes glazed over and hair all askew.

Not appearing quite as sacrilegious as he seemed to believe, at least not in the moment.

“Are you a bad man, Crowley?” Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah.. I'm really no better than you are, you know. Not in the eyes of God.”

Crowley scoffed, crossing his arms and turning away, gazing up at the ceiling. “You are an angel, remember? Or monk or friar or whatever you want to call it. You couldn't do wrong if I held a damn gun to your head. And I’m–”

He gestured vaguely across himself, trailing off.

Aziraphale didn't reply, watching as the merchant shuffled on his makeshift bed, closing his eyes with a harsh sigh.

“I'm going to s-sleep.” he declared, biting down on the stuttered sibilant before it could take hold. Whatever train of thought the man had been lead down, it had undoubtedly soured the mood. Aziraphale probably should have said something.. And he did, though only after the merchant's jaw had unclenched, the tension slowly leaving his body as he seemingly drifted off, his breathing deep and calm.

The man was a good actor, Aziraphale knew that much, eyes fixated on the slow rise and fall of Crowley's chest.

Why would he pretend..? He's sleeping.

“You could be bad, Crowley. I really wouldn't know..” he muttered, and the man didn't react. “..We don't know a thing about each other.”

Feeling his own eyelids grow heavy, Aziraphale lay down himself, still turned to keep a wary eye on the merchant. He tried not to think about the crossbow lying somewhere in the darkness, ‘Just in case.’ Or about the fact Crowley had positioned himself firmly between Aziraphale and the doorway; An act of chivalry, he'd assured, selflessly guarding the only entrance..

And, by default, the only exit.

For a while, Aziraphale just lay there, watching the man (presumably) sleep, still struggling to keep his own eyes open. A woman had vanished, gone without a trace, most likely killed by some manner of man or beast... And here he was, playing happy campers with some mysterious merchant, one who had arrived barely a week before the crime.

If he had any sense at all, Aziraphale would be scared, fearing for his life.. Not fitfully ruminating over a damn, drunken comment that he had been expressly told not to overthink.

And yet..

“I'm not an angel, Crowley,” he spoke quietly into the dark, compulsively confessing to anybody who was listening, the words too sharp to keep inside. “I'm.. I'm really not.”

If Crowley was awake, if he'd heard him, he choose not to react.

And Aziraphale breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, finally letting himself sleep.

**

🌘

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

__

“Déjà Vu”

(We've Been Here Before)

🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌔🌓🌒🌑

There was no food stored anywhere in the bothy, besides the bags of weevilly, unmilled grain, suited only to the horses.. who happily picked at the scattered offering Crowley had thrown at their hooves. They were side-by-side yet again, noses snuffling through the sparse grass, having made it through the night unharmed.

“Hey, I reckon if there was a beast.. It'd have the heads off these two by now–!” Crowley called back towards the bothy, where he could see Aziraphale tending the fire pit, robes wafting precariously close to the open flames.

“-Watch it! You'll go up like a light in that thing!”

The friar startled at his words, quickly shuffling back.

“What are you doing anyway..?” Crowley stepped back into the room, looking down at the pit. Another log had been added to the fire, and it crackled away gratefully. “Hardly any need for it. Sun's out. Shouldn't we think about–”

“Breakfast first. Then we'll head off. It's a long trip back, after all,” Aziraphale cut the man off matter-of-factly, dusting his hands together. “There's bread in Antoine's satchel, if you wouldn't mind..”

Crowley gave him an odd, unreadable look, and then sloped wordlessly back out into the daylight. He was right to be a little confused, given that the friar was the one who'd been so very reluctant to stay the night before, twitching and jumping at every sound, each creak another potential threat to his sanity…

In fact, Aziraphale had loudly declared, on more than one occasion, that he was leaving. Never quite making a move to stand, accepting another round of vin rouge even as he spoke the words, eyes narrowed and darting as he knocked back each mugful.

It had seemed the merchant brought enough wine for a week, and yet they pair had finished off the lot in a single night

Not exactly the most moderate of behaviour..

Gathering up the evidence of last night's revelry, the friar winced at each sharp clink, his head throbbing punitively. The bottles multiplied on the tabletop, a gathering glass jury staring him down, passing silent judgment. The bothy had grown on a begruding Aziraphale, as that sensible flicker of fear had been slowly drowned out by the copious amounts of wine–

It was small, yes, and dull and dusty. But also warm, and dry, and with the firepit flickering away between the pair, it had begun to feel almost cosy..

Almost.

A world away from that edifice of a monastery, so striking in its beauty, a palace of melancholy prayer.. Each potential silence filled by the ceaseless warbling of sombre, celestial harmonies. The comparison sparked an uncomfortable realization.. Try as he might, the friar couldn't quite recall when he had last prayed himself.

So much for the Liturgy Of The Hours.

As if making up for lost time, he muttered under his breath; a quick, superficial plea for exoneration, as he added one last bottle to the tabletop tribunal. He hadn't been that drunk the night before.. Crowley must have had more than his fair share.

As if on queue, the man reappeared, and Aziraphale furrowed his brow. There was a lot more in his hands than a loaf of bread.

“Et voila! Pain ennuyeux!” Crowley announced in grating, gratuitous French, dumping the wrapped loaf down on the table.

Aziraphale sighed.

It's much too early for French.

Crowley set an opaque bottle of beer down beside the loaf, along with a bundled parcel that Aziraphale didn't recognise, trussed up with a dark twine. “Bière, et un régal!”

He gestured with a flourish, and Aziraphale paused, the cogs whirring wearily in his mind as he struggled to translate..

..Nope. Not a clue.

Noting the blank expression and glazed look in the other man's eyes, Crowley shook his head, tutting.

“How long did you say you've lived here, mon frére? How have you survived..?” Not waiting for an answer, Crowley turned back and listed off the offerings, one by one. "Boring old lump of bread, stiff as a bloody board. Quart of small beer and–”

He slapped a hand down on the mystery parcel, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“-A treat. Salt pork.. I think. Oh so generously donated by the archer himself.” He paused, meeting in the suspicious glare from the friar with a look of pride.

“Donated?” Aziraphale repeated, drawing out each syllable of the word, and Crowley waved his concern away dismissively.

“Ahh I'm sure he won't miss it! He doesn't even know what day of the bloody week it is..”

Aziraphale's jaw dropped, his suspicions confirmed.

“You stole from the archer..?” He spluttered as the man unwrapped the bundle, revealing a rather unappealing lump of pale pink meat. “..Why?!”

“Uh.. Don't know, really” Crowley shrugged, looking about as unimpressed as Aziraphale felt. He prodded at the unveiled blob with a single finger, not making it appear any more appetising. “..Thought you'd appreciate it more than that pickled prat. And it'll make a better meal than a loaf of stale bread, eh?”

The friar frowned, mind trundling along as he tried to make sense of the bizarre confession. He was still somewhat stuck in a haze, the stubborn headache not helping matters in the slightest. He could probably do with some good food, in all fairness.

“For heaven's sake Crowley, I can't even eat meat.. It's against my vows,” he forced himself to say, ignoring the indignant, protesting groan from his stomach. “And regardless, I'm hardly going to eat something you've stolen! The sin of thievery directly violates the divine virtue of charity, you realise, I couldn't possibly–”

“Alright, alright! I get the idea..” The merchant cut him off with a wince, evidently nursing his own well-earned headache. “Because you're just an angel, aren't you? Excuse me for forgetting.”

The drawn-out, accusatory tone of the statement was impossible to miss, and Aziraphale felt his face flush. His errant behaviour hadn't gone unnoticed then. So he'd gotten a little bit drunk..

He hadn't done anything else too untoward. Not recently, anyway. And certainly not anything that Crowley knew about.

The merchant wrapped the offending lump back up, pulling the twine so taut that it threatened to snap, lips set in a firm line.

“..I’ll take the damn pork back, if it'll stop you banging on about morals and virtues and the like,” he said, a distinct edge to his voice.

“Please do.” Aziraphale responded, tucking his hands into his sleeves, attempting to look as pious as possible, praying the disappointed gurgling from his gut would quiet down.

He watched while Crowley tore the cloth wrap from the bread, sawing off a crumbly doorstep of a slice. The man was moving in harsh, jerky motions, like an automaton wound too tight, ready to pop a spring and fall to pieces. Even Aziraphale couldn't miss the change in atmosphere.

“Eat. Then we go, right?” Crowley said, opening the beer and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“..Hair of the dog,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

Crowley didn't respond, instead mutely thrusting the hunk of bread towards the friar… Who suddenly didn't feel very hungry at all, his stomach now filled with a sense of unease.

He accepted the offering anyway, attempting another smile that went equally ignored.

Great. You've pissed him off. Good job.

Intentionally winding Crowley up had been fun, exciting almost, not so much kicking the nest as taunting the hornets from afar.. Now he'd seemingly stuck his big foot right in it, and could feel the buzz all around him. The quiet, rolling rumble of a man in a bad mood. Nothing he wasn't frightfully familiar with by now. Though, as was often the case with these things, Aziraphale had no idea what he'd actually done wrong.

The pair settled on the hearthside, a polite distance between them. Crowley drank while Aziraphale ate, each mouthful an unending chore. The bread really was tough, and tasteless, wadding in his mouth as he chewed.

He didn't dare ask for some of the beer. Instead, sat in stony silence as the fire slowly burned out, the friar struggling for something to say, resisting the ridiculous compulsion to apologise.

I haven't even done anything–

“Bit pointless this whole thing, wasn't it?” Crowley spoke out of the blue, startling Aziraphale out of his ruminations. “-Didn't see so much as a bloody paw print.. Would have been as well staying home.”

Glancing to his side, Aziraphale could see the man's eyes were closed behind his shades, looking uncharacteristically deep in thought.
Or maybe he was just bored. Not enough goblins or unicorns or whatever other fanciful rubbish he liked to ramble on about.

No murderers, and no beast.

Just a daft friar in an abandoned bothy, choking down bread like some gormless, overstuffed pigeon…

For goodness sake, pull yourself together!

Aziraphale forced down the mouthful, and the ridiculous lump in his throat alongside it. He'd done enough pathetic fawning for a lifetime before now; Crowley's wobbly mood was none of his concern.

“Well.. At least we can tell Adam we found nothing untoward,” he attempted a breezy response, lobbing the remainder of his bread into the fire. “..He's been fixated on the idea of this beast's existence for the past month, ever since poor Marie lost her head.”

Crowley groaned, lolling his own head back towards the ceiling.

“Uughh.. Don't you get it? That lads going to be gutted when we come back empty handed..” he said, eyes still pressed shut, scowling. “..He wants to know the thing's dead, not that it doesn't exist.”

Aziraphale shot him a bewildered look.

“But.. What's the difference?”

Crowley shook his head, taking a drink and offering no further explanation. Scanning the man's glum profile, Aziraphale tried to read between the lines..

Was that the real issue then? That Crowley was going to look a fool in front of the young goatherd, who’d viewed him so loftily, who’d shown him such naive, misguided faith?

What did you expect…?

For the first time, it occurred to Aziraphale that, if Crowley might have genuinely believed there was a beast.. And that he might have been able to do something about it. A ridiculous notion, really.

“Well. You could always spin him a yarn. Isn't that what you do best–?”

Aziraphale hadn't meant for it to sound so judgemental, but it came out that way all the same, a hint of his natural incredulity slipping through.

“I-I mean.. He likes your stories.. He'd probably believed whatever nonsense you told him!”

Hm. That didn't sound any better, did it?

Crowley chewed his lip, mercifully too deep in thought to be actually listening. He looked as if he were fighting against the words in his mouth, struggling to string them together coherently, or perhaps attempting to keep them reined in and under control. For all their many differences, it was one trait Aziraphale couldn't help but find startlingly relatable.

“We could, uhh–” Crowley started, staring into the fire, interrupting himself with another sweep of his tongue “-Could try again, you know. Or I could, whatever. Try and get some real evidence. Would need to go back for some provisions but..”

He trailed off, taking a large swig of beer, still noticeably avoiding the friar's eye. As it was, he needn't have bothered... Those same eyes were now thoroughly distracted, watching the rhythmic shift in the man's neck as he drank, head rolling back far further than was necessary.

It seemed as if he would drink endlessly, glugging down a single long, seamless gulp until he got a response. That, or drowned himself. Whichever came first.

Aziraphale decided not to test the theory.

“Suppose we could leave the hunting gear here.. Make it something of an outpost,” he suggested, and Crowley paused, bottled still pressed to his lips. “Save the horses from the extra weight. And that way we'd have more room for supplies. More food.. Maybe even some tea.”

Or Wine. Whichever.

Finally lowering the bottle from his mouth, that damn tongue was out again, chasing the beer from Crowley's lips, leaving a hint of a smile in its wake.

“We could, huh?” He clarified, as if he hadn't been the first to use the pointedly plural pronoun. “You're sticking around then? Don't have some friarly-business to attend to back home?”

It might well have have sounded like a lees-than-subtle rejection, but there was something about that trace of a grin, and the sideways glance behind those dark glasses, that told Aziraphale he'd said the right thing.

For once.

“What could possibly be more important than ensuring the safety of the village, hm?” he answered firmly, as if that was in any way his responsibility. “Besides.. You'd only do a runner, if I wasn't here to keep an eye on you.”

“Ah, so I’m an outlaw now, is that it? Under some sort of observation?” Crowley's hint of a grin morphed into a full on, prideful smirk, as leaned to nudge the friar with a sharp elbow “Still planning on handing me over to the archer, hm? For the unforgivable crime of telling a few fibs..?”

“Is that all you've done?” Aziraphale asked, trying to sound stern, as Crowley settled back down, noticeably closer than he had been. “You- Well, you're also a thief now, for one thing.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, seeming surprised by the accusation.

“Oh for God– Lock me up, officer, I'll come quietly!” He declared, holding his wrists together as if already in cuffs. “I already told you'd, I'll put the damn meat back.. Could swap it for some rum, actually! Shadwells got a monumental supply of the stuff.”

His tone was bright, and in that moment, Aziraphale was too distracted by the palpable shift in mood to comprehend what Crowley was actually saying, nodding away with an embarrassing eagerness..

As the words sunk in, his smile fell, replaced with a manufactured frown of disapproval.

“Oh, don't give me that look, we'd be doing him a favour–”

“No more stealing, Crowley. I mean that.”

The merchant shrugged. Again.

“Yeah well, not on your behalf anyway,” he replied, handing the beer bottle over to Aziphale, grinning as the friar took a large, grateful glug. “..If I get my hands on anything, I'll keep it to my-bloody-self”

His words set off a tiny spark of realisation in the friar's mind.

“..Wouldn't dream of dragging you down to my level, angel,” Crowley added as he stood, dusting himself down, and Aziraphale's suspicions were all but confirmed by the insincere statement.

I knew you were up to something..

If he hadn't been convinced before, he was now; The stolen hunk of meat might as well have been a big, glossy red apple. Far more thematically appropriate, if a little on the nose. And had he nicked something sweet, a fresh baked brioche or a jar of confiture, something more fitting to the friar's tastes..

Aziraphale might well have been tempted, as was clearly the man's goal.

You really are a demon, aren't you?

As if he'd heard the silent accusation, Crowley stopped by the open door, winter sun throwing a heavenly glow over those copper locks, as he gazed outside. With that shock of red of his hair, the fair skin and oppressively black attire, he was a living fable himself. There was something awful and eerie and Eldritch about that man, Aziraphale was sure of it.

Something as dangerous as it was alluring.

“It's a nice day,” Crowley announced, his suddenly blunt tone not at all matching the innocuous statement. “Come on.. Let's go.”

He stepped outside, gesturing mutely for the friar to follow along behind him..

And, without a hint of hesitation, Aziraphale did just that.

**

Perched on the highest step of the town square monument, the young lad waited, so still that squat pigeons were landing all around him.

Hopefully that's all they're doing.

As the men approached, Adam sprang to life, sending the birds flying. For an awful moment, Aziraphale thought he might ring the embedded bell, announcing their arrival to the entire village. He had planned on coming and going with minimum interaction from his fellow townsfolk, although the rumours had probably started already. The fact the friar had gone galavanting off into the hills with some beautiful stranger was more than enough to light the kindling.. But if he were caught gathering supplies for another night or two?

That would really be fanning the flames.

If there was one thing Aziraphale couldn't abide, it was gossip, or at least not when he was the subject of such scurrilous twaddle. He really didn't need, nor want, the attention. The pair would come and go without adding fuel to any unfounded, fictitious fires. If they weren't spotted in the interim, the villagers would hopefully just presumed he'd died.

Mauled by the beast. Or by Crowley.

Or killed off by the third and final suspect, the fabled mad murderer, a man Crowley had christened Dalrymple The Executioner; Weaving an elaborate tale of some deranged doctor, who would snatch up bodies from fresh graves, for medical experimentation. And whenever cadavers became scarce, he'd simply go out and make his own..

The stories flooded from Crowley with the ease of a priest reciting scripture, and despite their rather morbid nature, Aziraphale had to admire his imagination.

You should write books.

He smiled to himself with the thought.. knowing better than to dare speak it aloud. Adam scrambled down from the steps towards them, spooking the mule once again.

“You’re ba–!”

“Shhh..! Quiet, kid!” Crowley hushed him, craning his neck around, evidently sharing Aziraphale's desire for a swift and uneventful visit. “-We're not really here, right? Listen, I'm going to need you to do something for me.. Something vitally important.”

He slipped down from Beonet and put a hand on Adam's shoulder, guiding the young lad off into town, all the while muttering something into his ear.

Leaving a rather bemused Aziraphale abandoned in town square, alone save for the riderless mule and his own steed, who he dismounted with a frown. He hadn't the foggiest idea what Crowley was up to.

Probably for the best.

With a quick prayer that the living quarters would be empty, Aziraphale headed off towards the church, leaving Antoine safely tethered nearby.

Thankfully, the only monks in the building were asleep, the guttural snoring working to mask Aziraphale's footsteps as he slipped down the corridor towards the pantry, heart hammering so loud he was sure it might wake them. Was it still stealing if the food would otherwise be given freely?

Seemed like a bit of a grey area, in all honesty.. Probably best not to dwell on the question. After all, he was simply cutting out the middleman, helping himself to his usual share and no more than that.

He and Crowley would split the friar's meager rations, and be happy with it–

“I think you could afford to skip a meal or two…”

He forced that familiar, uninvited voice from his mind, and hurriedly filled his satchel with a conservative cache; Some bread, a paltry lump of wax-wrapped cheese, and a couple of small, sealed bags, the contents of which he didn't take the time to check, simply slipping them in alongside the others.
They might as well be filled with diamonds, for how it felt taking them.. The bag far heavier in his hand than it should be, laden with the additional weight of all that damned Catholic guilt.

He couldn't have been more than a few minutes, before he was back out in the bright winter sun, scrambling to load his pilfered pouchful onto the horse.

Beonet was still hovering nearby, untethered, her master yet to return from his undisclosed mission–

“You! Monk! Yeeevve survived the night then–?”

The slurring shout nearly startled Aziraphale into dropping his bag of incriminating evidence, right in front of the l’archer of the maréchaussée himself.

“Archer Shadwell! Uh, bonjour..”

Pulling the closure tight, he managed to fling the satchel up onto Antoine just before Shadwell approached, with a distinct wobble in his stride.

“I'm afraid it was rather an uneventful evening!” Aziraphale added, quickly turning from the horse to face the man. “A wily adversary, that.. Beast. Cunning, and rather, uhm..”

Incorporeal? Imagined?

“..Illusive. But we're making progress, don't you worry.”

“Ah.. Ye've set the traps then?” Shadwell asked, nodding away to himself. “Can take a while, these things.. You'll need purseveer– persurvur– Need tae wait about a bit.”

Aziraphale nodded too, pulling his lips into a strained, insincere smile.

“Right. Perseverance. Jolly good.”

It wasn't really a lie, as such– Crowley had unloaded all of the ropes and snares, as well as that horrible toothy foot trap.. And promptly dumped the whole lot on the floor of the bothy.

With any luck, they might catch that bloody rat.

“Good going lad. But hear this–”

Shadwells voice dropped to a low, slurring whisper. He placed a hand on the friar's caped shoulder, leaning in as his eyes darted suspiciously about, checking for eavesdroppers. Aziraphale fought the instictual urge to throw the hand off his shoulder, recoiling at the pungent smell of booze oozing from the man.

Maybe Crowley had a point about the rum.

“-That ‘un.. The red head. He's a wicked man, I tell you.. It's a sign of the devil that–”

He gestured to his own stringy hair, pausing to burp under his breath.

“Madame Tracy has red hair,” Aziraphale pointed out before he could stop himself, in a tone he'd been explicitly warned against using.

‘Insufferably smug’ was the phrase, if he remember correctly..

To the friars surprise, Shadwell nodded enthusiastically.

“Aye! Too right! And look at her! Look at what spell that woman cast on me..!” He thumped a hand to his chest, nearly knocking himself over. “Eeugh.. He'll do the same to you, you know.”

“Oh I-I really don't think I need to worry about that,” Aziraphale stepped back, eyes darting around. Said ‘wicked man’ could return at any moment... And though Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure where the archer was going with this little speech.. It didn't sound like something he wanted Crowley to overheard.

Shadwell squinted, trying to focus his gaze, miraculously sobering up as he scanned the friars face.

“Watchit lad, I warn ya.. I know ‘em when I see ‘em. That man is a flagrant–”

“Ah, Archer Shadwell! Ça va?” Crowley cut the man off, appearing seemingly from nowhere. A large satchel was slung from his shoulder, notably stretched to the seams. It seemed Adam had been replaced by Madame Tracy herself, and the sight of the two together set Shadwell spluttering all over again.

“What the devil are you up to now, Jezebel?! You're in tow with that degenerate candlestick, is that it—?”

“Now dear, do calm down.. You'll have all the curtains twitching,” Tracy replied in a soothing, yet no-nonsense voice. With a surprisingly forceful shove, she hurried Crowley onward, nearly sending him straight into the startled friar. “..The boys here are just leaving, isn't that right?”

Crowley caught himself at the last second, the satchel swinging dangerously close to Aziraphale, like a flail. It clinked as it moved.

Shadwell scoffed, shuffling petulantly away from the pair, towards Madam Tracy's outstretched hand.

“They've ever such a long day ahead..” she added with a smile, looping both arms around one of the archers, reining him in. “I'd say we're in good hands with these two, my dear.”

“Where were you?” Aziraphale asked under his breath as they moved away towards the horses, frowning as Crowley swung the heavy bag up onto Beonets back. “What is all that..?”

“Provisions, of course.. Courtesy of the Madame herself–” He whispered back, grinning as Aziraphales brows shot up. “-I didn't steal anything, don't get your habit in a bunch. Swapped her a few bottles of snake oil, she's mad on the stuff.. Probably rubbing it on the Archers nasty old–”

“Stop.” Aziraphale cut him off with a horrified expression, and Crowley snorted, struggling to mount the mule as he fought back the laugh, his foot slipping from the stirrup.

“Feet.. I was going to say feet,” he clarified, managing to regain his composure long enough to climb into the saddle. “Nice to know where your head's at though, angel.”

The friar grimaced.

Thankfully, Shadwell was paying the pair no mind, too focused now on chastising poor Madame Tracy. She turned, catching Aziraphale's eye, and gave him a knowing wink.

And Aziraphale quickly turned back to his horse, praying the belligerent drunk by her side hadn't seen. He really didn't need to spark any additional rumours.

People are going to think I have a type.

“Where did Adam get to?” he asked Crowley, mounting the horse and steering him away from the bickering couple.

“Ah. I set the lad an exceedingly important task; To place a piece of precious porc salé in the tavern, while I distracted Madame Tracy with my fine wares..” Crowley rolled a hand as the ludicrous yarn was spun, looking pleased with himself. “You see, and I have this on good authority.. The beast will be instinctually repelled by such an object. As such, it will leave the Archer and his mistress safe and well, until our return..”

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes narrowing as Crowley circled him pointlessly, pacing about even on horseback. It was making him dizzy to watch.

“That.. Makes no sense. Why would an animal who enjoys beheading goats be repelled by a chunk of meat?”

“Because it's been blessed by a holy friar, of course! And, you know.. Salt.”

“Salt?”

“..Well there's something about salt, isn't there? Salt and demons.”

Crowley shrugged as he spoke, as though Aziraphale were the one being stupid. He was still struggling to keep a straight face as he continued gravitating around.

“-Look, gave him something to do, didn't it? And now we've been absolved from any pork-stealing sins in the process.”

Aziraphale's jaw dropped, and Crowley let another snort of a laugh escape.

“We’ve been absolved? I think you'll find I’ve nothing at all to do with your sins, Crowley" Aziraphale sped up his horse, cutting Beonet off from her nauseating circling, heading out of the town square.

“Ah, you're an accessory to my crimes now, mon frére!” Crowley quickly caught up, neck craned back towards the town, and the odd couple still entwined behind them. “Au revoir, citadins! May we meet again, if we are spared the ravenous wrath of the beast!”

“Good luck, lads–!” Tracy yelled back, not looking the least bit concerned. “-Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“Like that narrows it down..” Aziraphale muttered, setting Crowley off laughing once again.

**

They were definitely lost.

Not that they had admitted it yet, even to themselves, but neither friar nor merchant had the foggiest idea which way they were supposed to go next. The pair had been in midst of a spirited debate about the existence of the Leviathan (“It's in the Bible, angel, how can you say that's not real?!”) when Beonet had stumbled off down a narrow path, so sure of herself that the stallion had followed along without hesitation. Neither rider had noticed the impromptu change of direction, not until they'd arrived at the water's edge.

“...Did we pass a river last time?” Crowley asked, as the mule stopped to take a long drink.

He’d slipped his glasses off his face, as if that would somehow help him work out where they were, honey-brown eyes narrowed against the low winter sun..

“I'm.. Not sure,” Aziraphale said, mind still caught on the book of Job, and the most definitely fictional fire-breathing sea serpent.

“It's a metaphor, Crowley. Not everything in the bible happened exactly as it is told, even you must know that..”

He gazed along the obstacle in question, following its path as it sliced through the landscape, the icy black surface gliding smooth as the Leviathan itself. They most definitely did not pass a river before, not least one as dark and wide and imposing as this.

“I'm sure if we just turn back the way we– What are you doing?”

Crowley had dropped down from the mule, and was now perched on the riverbank, shuffling his boots from his feet.

“Taking a dip. We both stink of woodsmoke and horse, you know,” he said, blinking up at the friar. He was attempting to shimmy his breeches higher, a futile effort when the things were so needlessly tight, eventually managing to dislodge the stockings out from under them.

“You'll only be getting right back on a horse afterwards,” Aziraphale pointed out, dismounting all the same. “And It's winter.. You’ll freeze.”

The merchant shrugged, slipping his coat from his shoulders as he did so.

Aziraphale hovered by the horse, not moving any closer to the riverbank, or to the merchant who was still undressing, down to nothing but his linen undershirt and trousers.

“Crowley.”

“What..?”

The man turned, thumbs already hooked into unbuttoned breeches. Aziraphale merely shook his head, and Crowley barked out a single, crude laugh.

“Look away then, you prude.. Not like it's anything you haven't seen before.”

Aziraphale began to protest, but all that came out was a startled squawk, as Crowley swiftly (and shamelessly) dropped his trousers.

“Et voilà!” The oversized undershirt immediately cloaked the man like a robe, providing a much needed modicum of modesty.

“For goodness sake–” Aziraphale tutted, sounding more English than ever before. “-How childish.”

With a self-satisfied grin on his face, Crowley turned back towards the river, mercifully ending his impromptu strip tease. For a single, insincere second, Aziraphale considered violence.. Wiping that smug smile off the merchant's face with a single well-timed shove. He'd seen how uneasy Crowley was on his feet at the best of times, like a new-born deer, still getting used to having legs.

Of course, such an immature response would require getting far closer than Aziraphale was comfortable with, not only due to Crowley's disgraceful state of undress– But because the man was now wading knee-deep into the river, gasping at the sudden chill.

“You're going to soak your shirt,” Aziraphale called out from a safe distance, hands wedged deep in the sleeves of his habit.

“..Is that your way of asking me to take it off, angel?” Crowley shouted back, teeth bared against the biting cold.

He attempted to face the friar, slipping on the slick river rocks below, nearly losing his footing.

“Careful–!”

Aziraphales heart shot into his throat, his hand reaching out instinctually.

“-For God's sake Crowley, you'll drown yourself!”

The merchant was laughing again, frustratingly so, plunging a hand into the water to steady himself, drenching his shirt sleeve in the process.

“Awh, you'd save me, surely..?” Crowley replied, righting himself. He was still smiling, looking absurd in his half soaked linen, pale legs growing pink in the cold. “..You wouldn't just stand there and watch me get washed away!”

The image had Aziraphales heart racing again, and as he tried to answer, his mouth and throat were painfully dry.

“Enough, Crowley..” he managed to say, his voice sounding foreign in his own ears. “..Don’t go any further.”

Crowley paused, his smile wavering.

“..Alright,” he answered, uncharacteristically compliant, making his wobbly way back towards the edge of the river, and throwing himself down on the grassy bank. “There.. Perfectly safe.”

With a sharp nod, Aziraphale took a single tentative step closer to the rivers edge.

“Going to join me..?” Crowley asked, slapping a hand on the ground beside him. “...It's fucking freezing.”

Aziraphale gave a short, wry laugh. “You make it sound so appealing” he replied, eyes following the path of the river, to where the view was cut off by the trees.

It wasn't an entirely sarcastic statement; Aziraphale hadn't had a chance to wash up during their fleeting visit to the village. A cool, refreshing dip really was a rather tempting prospect.

And speaking of temptations..

Even as he kept his eyes firmly on the horizon, Aziraphale could see the other man shifting on the bank, wringing out the soaked hem of his undershirt.

“I mean.. We can take it in turns, if you want,” Crowley suggested, his tone still shockingly understanding. “..I can look away.”

“It's not that..” Aziraphale cut him off with a sigh, the confession creeping out before he could catch it. “..It's the water.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley twist around to face him, and another nervous laugh escaped.

“Silly really.. A man of my age, unable to swim!” Aziraphale turned back to meet the man's inquisitive gaze, smiling sheepishly. “No, I–I'm afraid if you had needed saving, I'd have been quite useless to you.”

Crowley pursed his lips, and Aziraphale braced himself for whatever suitably scathing reply was coming his way…

“I can't really speak French, you know,” Crowley declared, apropos of nothing. “I use all the words I have when you're around.. But half the time, I'm not sure they mean what I think they do.”

It wasn't quite the response Aziraphale had been expecting.

“..The villagers are humoring me most of the time, I'm sure.” There was a pause, as Crowley stared out across the river, and Aziraphale settled down on the bank beside him, legs drawn in beneath his habit, safely tucked away from the river's edge.

“Why pretend?” he asked, picking at the grass between them. “I mean.. I’m hardly in a position to judge anybody else's grasp on the language.”

“Dunno really. Didn't want you to think I was stupid..” Crowley replied, leaning back against the grass, head tilted to the winter sun “Or.. Maybe I was trying to impress you?”

Aziraphale didn't know how to answer that one. It didn't seem a very likely suggestion.

He rubbed a blade of grass between his fingertips, staining them green as he mulled the thought over in his mind.

Why would you care what I think?

“Is that why you stole from the Archer? To impress me?” He asked eventually, a curious new hypothesis slowly forming in his head. “...You can't get in God's good books simply by bribing a friar, you know.”

Pushing himself up from his elbows, Crowley turned to shoot the man a scowl.

“I don't give two shits what God thinks of me, Aziraphale.”

The friar flinched at the blasphemy, only just stopping himself for blurting a reflexive apology out loud. Instead, he said a short and silent prayer for the man's salvation, trying hard to keep his lips from moving;

May you be forgiven.

It must be the cold water. He didn't mean what he was saying. Any of it.

Crowley sighed, as if he somehow knew what Aziraphale was doing, and didn’t approve. Surging forwards, the merchant scooped up a handful of frigid water, and began aggressively washing his face.. Signalling a chilly end to that particular topic of conversation.

No religion talk then. Probably for the best.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley ran a hand through his hair, musing it into a damp mess that, inexplicably, rather suited him. How somebody could be in such a sorry, sodden state, and still look so unreasonably pleasing was beyond him.

“Your shirt really is soaked,” he pointed out, while not actually looking anywhere near said shirt. “..Not sure you really thought this through. You'll catch your death.”

“It'll dry,” Crowley said, flopping back down on the grass with his hands behind his head, seemingly planning on drying out right then and there.

It might have been a barely two word reply, but it was enough to let Aziraphale know the atmosphere had cleared again, the man's mood changing like the weather. Which was, conveniently, rather mild for the time of year.. No frost gilding the surrounding pines, an unseasonable warmth settling over the pair as they sat in amiable silence. The only sound was the gentle rumble of the river, and the distant trill of birdsong among the trees..

And then, from the depths of the forest behind them, came a blood-curling scream, slicing through the peace like an arrow.

**

Crowley had never dressed faster in his life.

Not even that time the high priest had returned unexpectedly early, just about catching the young man in a truly sacrilegious position with a fellow chorister–

Probably not the time to be thinking about that.

He threw his vest and coats onto Beonets back, mounting the mule in just his shirt and breeches. Aziraphale was already on the move, rushing the buckskin stallion onwards, towards the source of the scream.

The friar, for all his apparent nerves and fidgeting hands, seemed fearless in the face of true crisis.. And Crowley struggled to keep his pace. Rushing blindly through the trees, low branches battered the men, gripping their clothes, threatening to throw them off the horses entirely.

“Are we eveuphftuck- Going the right way?!” Crowley shouted, nearly swallowing a mouthful of pine needles in the process.

Aziraphale, sensibly, didn't answer him.

Groping about for the swinging bag strung for the mule, Crowley found his precious glasses, ramming them firmly onto his face in the hope they'd offer some protection..

They ended up being rather unnecessary.

The smothering branches suddenly cleared, and a dirt road appeared before them, much like the one they had followed to the bothy before. The stallion slowed, hesitating.

On the opposite side of the road was a small cart, upturned on its side and half buried in the undergrowth, no horse or rider to be seen. But someone could be heard–

“Oh God, Oh.. Wait! Don't try to get up..”

Aziraphale coaxed Antione on, peering over the verge. A man was crouched in the bushes, mud streaked across his forehead, his glasses knocked askew, muttering away nervously as he hovered over..

A body.

The friar gasped, startling the young man out of his skin. The body shifted, and groaned. It was a young woman, and if nothing else, she seemed to still be alive.

“You.. You hit her?” Aziraphale stated the obvious, too startled to think straight, as he watched Crowley approach from the corner of his eye.

The man quickly scrambled to his feet.

“I didn't!” he blurted out, hands held out in a surrendering pose. “..She hit me!”

On closure inspection, Aziraphale noted the cart was not a small horse-drawn carriage as he’d thought, but a two-wheel firewood wagon, the kind pulled by hand.

“She came out of nowhere! Straight out in front of me on a horse! They couldn't stop in time and.. Well, it threw her,” he trailed off, biting down on his lip “Oh God, I can't believe this is happening to me..”

“Right.. Well, good luck with that” Crowley answered, attempting to quickly turn the mule around. “I think we better– Oh, Aziraphale, don't–”

Aziraphale was off the horse already, slipping his way down the soft verge towards the girl, who was stirring now and trying to stand.

“Slowly my dear, careful now, you might have broken something..” Aziraphale held out his hands and helped her stumble to her feet, the woman clutching her arm. “..You're hurt.”

“I'm fine.. And I didnt come out of nowhere. I knew you'd hit me. It was, ow, foretold..”

“Must have hit her head.” Crowley said unsympathetically, and the girl shot him a glare. “..If you knew he'd hit you, why didn't you get out of the way, hmm? And why did you scream?”

“I didn't,” she answered tersely, stepping away from Aziraphale's steadying hands. “That was him. And you can't simply ‘get out of the way’ of destiny. You, help me up the hill.”

The command was directed at the pale, bespectacled man, who pointed to himself in response, looking panicked.

“What- Me?” He glanced over to Aziraphale, seeking some sort of salvation.

The friar offered nothing more than a sympathetic shrug, as the girl took another pointed step away from him.

“Right.. I'll just–” The man put tentative hands on the woman's offered out elbow, and the pair clumsily climbed back up towards the road. Aziraphale tried to follow, his legs slipping beneath him on the soft, muddy slope.. When a firm hand suddenly caught hold of his arm, hauling him up onto terra firma.

“Uh, Thank you.”

As he reached the top, Aziraphale realised Crowley hadn't even taken the time to put his shoes back on, freshly washed feet now caked in black mud. He hoped they hadn't been left by the riverside.. Good riding boots like those would be stolen in a heartbeat.

“..Your wrist is broken.”

His attention was snapped back to the (rather more serious) situation at hand.

The young man was starting to panic, fawning over the girl, who was still strangely calm. She looked down at her wrist as if it belonged to somebody else, held out and aloft in an entirely unnatural angle.

“Oh no.. Oh God, we need a doctor, we’d better–”

“It's fine. Take me back to my cabin.. All of you,” the girl spoke matter-of-factly, despite what must be an immense amount of pain. Her forehead was gleaming, the only evidence that she was feeling anything at all. “..It's just a little further down the road, come on.”

“Maybe she really did hit her head..” Crowley leaned in and mumbled to the friar, pulling back on his arm as the man made to follow. “..Why would she want us to come too?”

Aziraphale frowned. He had a point.
One of them should really be heading back towards the village, to bring a doctor out to the girl. Or they could bundle her up onto Beonets saddled, and deliver her safely to Rossignol–

She was already leaving.

“Will you two hurry up..?”

Setting off in the opposite direction to the town, the girl marched purposely onwards, the young man rushing close behind, his upturned cart forgotten in the thicket..

“Well, There's nothing wrong with her legs anyway! Here, angel, let's just go–” Crowley turned and glanced back the way they had come. “That mopey mophead has everything under control, we should– Aziraphale? Gahh..”

Realising he was talking to himself, Crowley reluctantly grabbed Beonets reins, coaxing her on as he rushed to catch up to the group.

“Oi, lady.. Wait!” He shouted “Get on the bloody mule at least.. You shouldn't be walking.”

“No, you ride her. You don't have shoes.” The girl called back without turning around, attention fully focused on the road ahead, and the young man by her side.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look.

“How'd she even notice that?” He asked, and Aziraphale only shrugged, scanning the merchant, who was still distractedly half-dressed, and hopelessly bedraggled.

How had she noticed something so insignificant, faced with a sight like that?

Oh.. And with a broken bone, no less.

There was something very odd about the entire interaction. It felt almost like being part of a play, like everything had been rehearsed and planned out.. Only nobody had warned either of them that there would be audience participation.

It seemed the pair were more lost now than ever before.

**

The young maiden hadn't been lying when she said the cabin was close by. The upturned cart was barely out of sight when she turned, the road suddenly diverging into a narrow, hidden path that cut through the wall of trees. The bespectacled man followed her like a shadow, hands hovering uselessly as if the girl might collapse at any minute.. Despite looking closer to fainting himself. Crowley and Aziraphale trailed behind, sticking close together.

“This could be a con, you know.. She barely seems hurt, and we never actually saw them crash..”

The merchant was still stubbornly on foot, leaning forward to mutter in the other man's ear.

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched..

He'd already been thinking the same thing.

He cast a quick glance back down the winding path, any sign of the main road already smothered by the pines. They could barely walk two-abreast, the horses brushing sides as the branches crept in around them.

“I know.. Be ready,” he answered, eyes darting back to the unassuming couple up ahead. He felt something brush against his fingers, and for an absurd moment, he thought Crowley was going to take his hand. He didn't, of course, and Aziraphale tried to focus on the winding path ahead, steadying his nerves with a placating, internal prayer..

“Oh wow!”

The young man ahead turned back towards them, waving them on, as the suffocating trees parted all of a sudden, flooding the narrow path with daylight..

They'd been climbing, not that anyone had noticed, and the forest had now opened out to a gentle sloping valley. At the base stood a single stone hut, rounded in appearance, cloaked with tendrils of ivy and clematis, smoke already rising welcomingly from the stacked chimney. A verdant smallholding wrapped around the building, lush with leafy greens, bright nasturtiums, and vines which hung from canes. Several fat, black hens scurried about the pasture, never straying far from the hut, circling back obediently as if bound by an unseeable force.

It was all very… Quaint. Very cute.

As the group began to descend the hill, Crowley's fingers brushed Aziraphale’s again, only this time he really did take the friar's hand, grabbing ahold and roughly pulling it backwards.

“Stop.”

Aziraphale did just that, watching as Crowley scanned the pastoral paradise with narrowed eyes, barely visible behind those ever-present glasses

“Something's off about all this.. Can't you feel it?”

In all honestly, Aziraphale was struggling to feel anything other than the cold fingers wrapped around his own, the merchant's hands still chilled from his dip in the river.

“..I think she's a witch.”

The startled snort escaped before the friar could catch it, and Crowley scowled, looking genuinely wounded.

“You've been spending too much time with the archer!” Aziraphale said, meeting the frown with a smile, which only seemed to annoy the merchant more. “I know you like your fables.. But witches aren't actually real.”

“Oh, they're real, all right.. And we're about to walk right into a covenstead, a temple to all things obscure and occult..” The cool hand toyed nervously with the other man's fingers, tracing his knuckles with his thumb as he spoke. "...A dangerous place to be, mon frére.”

One particularly plump hen waddled past the pair, gazing up at them. They gazed back, watching the wall-eyed creature on its short stroll amongst the nasturtiums, clucking mindlessly all the while.

“Oh yes.. Seems terribly dangerous.”

Crowley's eyes narrowed even further.

“..Sarcasm isn't a sin then?” he asked, looking thoroughly pissed off, though Aziraphale couldn't help but notice he was still toying with his hand, the merchant's fingers starting to finally warm up again.

“Not that I know of” he replied, feeling an odd, comfortable warmth wash over himself, soothing his anxious mind. “Listen, Crowley, I agree that something is strange about this whole thing, but–”

“Look, right there..!”

Cutting Aziraphale off, Crowley pointed over to the cottage, towards the suspicious couple who were unlocking the door. In fact, he was pointing above said door, at the iron horseshoe that was crudely hammered into the frame. So crudely that it was threatening to fall right off, hanging upside down from a single nail, like a little iron frown..

“Wrong way wrong, that. A bad omen.”

The girl whipped around to face the pair, face scrunched in a scowl.

“It's a good omen, I'll have you know..!” She shouted back, simultaneously informing them she had most likely heard their entire conversation. “the positive energy flows down, and protects those who cross underneath.. Now come on, I'm going to need your help with this next part, friar!”

“Mngk!” The grip on the Aziraphale's hand tightened as he took a step forward, Crowley crushing his fingers together, as if hoping to squeeze some sense into the man. “-How did she know you were a friar, huh?” he asked, his voice a low, paranoid hiss.

With a ‘hmm’ of consideration, Aziraphale made a point of looking down at the brown caped habit, before slowly raising his head to meet Crowley's eyes again.

“Haven't the foggiest,” he answered, and Crowley let out another incoherent noise of frustration. “You're being silly, I'm sure we can handle ourselves..”

An injured young maiden inviting a gaggle of strange men into her cottage.. And we're the ones who are frightened?

For a moment, Aziraphale considered the fact the girl might actually have hit her head, for how confidently she beckoned the two inside, disappearing into the cottage with the bespectacled stranger in tow.

“You can leave the horses out there..” her voice called from inside as she vanished, “..They won't go anywhere.”

She didn't seem threatened by him or the merchant in the slightest. In fact, it was really starting to feel as though they'd been expected.

“..Come on. It'll be fine,” Aziraphale spoke with false bravado, dropping Antoine's reins and stepping purposefully towards the cottage.

Grumbling to himself, Crowley had little choice but to follow, their hands still inconspicuously intertwined beneath the friar's cloaking habit. As they crossed the threshold together, neither noticed the swing of the door as it closed firmly behind them, seemingly of its own accord. Nor did they hear the dull metallic clang that followed-

The horseshoe lay on the stone step where it had fallen, red-hot, and smouldering.

**

🌓

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

—

“Faites Comme Chez Vous”

(Make Yourself At Home)

🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌔🌓🌒🌑

As he'd already told the group several times over, Newt simply couldn't watch…

Crowley, however, certainly could. He leaned across the table with unabashed interest, as if the witch and friar were about to perform some sort of hand-based interpretative dance, or a shadow puppet show.

“Get on with it,” he urged, stifling a yawn, “..It's going to get stuck like that if you hurry up.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily, both hands held either side of the girl's bulging wrist.

“...Oh! Can't somebody else do this?” He asked for the third time, whipping his hands away, voice high and strung out.

Anathema (as she had introduced herself mere moments before) shook her head. Again.

“I don't trust him. And Newt will pass out,” she said, staring into Aziraphales eyes. Or she was trying to anyway, couldn't be easy with the way they were darting all about “..It's simple, just press firmly, and don't stop, not until you hear the bone pop back into place.”

Newt made a strangled noise, looking straight up to the ceiling.

“Oh God.. Alright. Alright. Are you ready?” Aziraphale asked, and the girl nodded. Lowering his glasses, Crowley leaned in for a better look, not for a moment believing the friar would actually go through with what had been asked of him…

He doesn't have the nerve.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and pressed down on the fracture. The pained gasp struck the atmosphere like an axe, a palpable, visceral wince..
But, true to his word, the friar kept going, pushing firm.

Finally, there was a sickening crack, and the bone shifted beneath his hand.

Newt collapsed.

Crowley barely glanced at the man, before quickly turning his attention back to the table, watching Aziraphale lift his shaking hands away. The wrist was purple, but mostly straight, the protruding lump of bone forcibly coaxed back into its rightful place. The girl didn't speak, breathing heavily through her nose, lips taut.

“Are you alright, dear..?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley barked out a laugh.

“She's hardly alright, Aziraphale! Honestly, she'll probably lose the whole hand if we don't get a doctor out–”

“I'm fine. Thank you.” She cut him off, sounding surprisingly unaffected, despite the pale sheen that painted her face. “I'll need a wrap, and poultice.. In that bowl over there..”

She gestured with her head, and Crowley turned to see another table by the wall, that was laid out with supplies. There was a bowl that, as she'd said, was already filled with a greenish goop, resembling porridge. There were also several willow strips, in various lengths and sizes, as well as a wound length of cloth bandage, bundled into a loose ball and pierced in place with a long needle.

“Hm. Almost looks like you were expecting this to happen,” Crowley said, lifting the swampy porridge bowl and swilling it around. The mixture inside didn't move.

“I was.. I told you that already. Can somebody check on Newt, please?”

Aziraphale jolted into action, as if he'd only just noticed the young man slumped lifelessly on the floor, rushing to his aid. Piece by piece, Crowley began ferrying the medical supplies from one table to the other, grumbling about why Anathema had left them out of reach in the first place, being so very omniscient and all...

She didn't argue, watching him move about the room with interest.

Waiting.

The moment Aziraphale was suitably distracted by Newts' stirring, she caught the merchant's wrist with her good hand, making him jump.

Their eyes locked, an unreadable expression on the girl's face as she leaned in, speaking only to him.

“You. You need to leave.”

Any hint of polite niceties had vanished from her voice, the hand gripping his wrist so tight that Crowley was genuinely worried he too might suffer a fracture. And then, she let go, leaning away and looking down at the supplies, as if nothing at all had happened.

For a moment, the man just stood there, dumbstruck, before he was startled back into the room by a hand on his shoulder, guiding him gently out of the way.

“Newts awake dear, he's quite alright, I've set him down in the other room. Now uh..” Aziraphale's hand danced over the table, not knowing where to start. “..I'm afraid you're going to have to guide us through this.”

Crowley shook his head, shaking the chill from his bones at the same time. Reaching around the side of the friar, he grabbed the poultice bowl and thrust it onto his hand.

“This, on the bruising. The shortest splints will do, either side of the swelling, not on top. Fix it on with the bandage once the poultice has started to set..” He said, speaking quickly, pointing to each item in turn..

Aziraphale gave him a funny look.

“What..You never broken anything before, friar?”

“Hearts, mainly” the friar replied, without missing a beat, smiling as he set about following Crowley's instruction “As well as several fingers.. Oh, and a nose.”

Crowley raised a brow, eyes drifting over that neat, perfectly smooth swoop of a nose.

What a load of tosh.

“Will you help me, seeing as you're the medical man..?”

Aziraphale held out the bandages, and Crowley took them, in a wordless agreement. The pair worked as a team, setting and binding the girls wrist in a split, the merchant fingers nimble and methodical.

The friars were decidedly less so, and Crowley quickly relegated him to handing things over, and holding them in place.

At some point, Newt returned from his solitary confinement, looking slightly less ashen-faced than before. He sat across from Anathema as the other two worked, and the group chatted cordially, as if they were old friends, rather than perfect strangers in a terribly bizarre situation. All but Crowley, that was, who stayed uncharacteristically quiet throughout, answering mostly in indecipherable noises rather than words.

The need to focus was a welcome distraction from the overwhelming desire to do as he'd been told, and leave. By the time Aziraphale fixed the sling around the girl's shoulder, the fire had all but burned out.. The only real indication of how long the whole task had actually taken.

Time seemed to be moving strangely, as if it wasn't passing at all.. And yet, as Crowley ducked down near the window to collect another log, the sun was already beginning to set. He said as much aloud, his own voice strange and hollow in his ears as he handed the collected wood to Aziraphale, who was attempting to resuscitate the dead fire with little success.

Anathema leaped from her seat in an instant, hissing as she jolted her arm.

“Oh! Of course. Drat..” she looked out the window herself, evidently not trusting the merchant to give the time of day. “..You have to go. Now.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance, and the friar nodded. He looked a little disappointed, and Crowley could practically see visions of tea and cake and cosy conversation by the hearthside rapidly fading from his mind. It seemed he'd quite made himself at home.

Like an open book, Aziraphale was frighteningly easy to read, painfully honest in every expression. It was a good thing he was a friar, and not some magnificent merchant-slash-conman. He wouldn't survive a day, if their roles were reversed.

“Of course dear, so long as you're alright now.. We better all leave you in peace,” Aziraphale said, still fussing over the fireplace, stoking the flames with an iron poker and blowing a final puff of air on the smouldering kindling.

The fire, by some miracle, wooshed back to life, and he nodded again, looking proud.

“Jolly good! Right.. Crowley, Newt, we’d best–”

“Not Newt. He stays.”

The young man's face burned as red as the embers, and Crowley couldn't help but react, momentarily breaking his pensive silence to give a low whistle.

“..She's forward.”

Aziraphale smacked his arm, lips pursed disapprovingly. His own face was a little red too.. Looking almost as muddled as Crowley felt. In fact.. he looked almost drunk.. It was as if there were something in the air, something insidious carried in that wonderfully coddling woodsmoke..

We need to get out of here.

He'd had quite enough of this place, and the dreadful, discordant feelings it stirred inside him.

Crowley had never been here before, never been anywhere like it.. But with the murmuring conversation, the sound of the bowl being set on the table top, the strange, sweet smell of smoke and sage and something else that he couldn't quite place..It was overwhelming in its nostalgia, catching in his throat and stinging his eyes. With every slow blink, he was a child again, a familial love filling the room with as much warmth as any fire ever could.. Maybe his mother was making him dinner, his father stealing a sly morsel of whatever, ruffling his hair as he passed.. The scene so soothing and familiar..

And entirely fucking fictional.

Sometimes the lines got a little blurred, between stories and memories.
And dreams.

There was a very real hand on his shoulder once again, grounding as it guided him towards the exit, and Crowley's eyes snapped open. He hadn't realised they'd be shut.

“..Well, we best be off then!” Aziraphale's breezy tone was tinged with concern, fingertips digging deep into the merchant's collarbone.

Do you feel it too..?

“Wait, they're leaving? And.. Are you sure you want...? I should probably go to..?”

Newts' protests were cut off by the slamming of the door, as Crowley and Aziraphale made their swift escape. The horses stood exactly where they had been left, eerily unmoved, and the pair mounted them in a hurry, an unspoken urgency hanging in between them.

The air outside was cold and cloyingly damp, heavy with the promise of rain.. A welcome contrast to the bizarre blanket of atmosphere they were leaving behind. Clouds gathered overhead, blocking out the setting sun, and with them the night had arrived all at once.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Crowley said, rather pointlessly, as the friar was already on the move, urging the stallion into action with a click of his tongue.

The pair set off blindly into the dark, both silently praying the other knew which way to go.

**

By some sheer miracle, they’d found the bothy.

Aziraphale could have wept at the sight of it, slumping languidly down from the horse. He had no idea how late it was now, the clouds blocking any glimpse of either sun or moon.. But he felt as though he'd been awake for days.

Without conversation, the pair tethered the animals under a tree, and made their way inside. Having hauled a couple of sacks from the mule to the hut, Crowley dumped them by the hearthside and began rifling through.

Aziraphale watched, too weary to bother asking, but assuming the man was looking for food..

Rather hoping he was, in fact.

Eventually, Crowley gave up, slumping back on his haunches and looking utterly defeated. He turned towards Aziraphale.

“...Left my boots behind,” he announced, glumly.

Aziraphale paused, taking in the sight of the man in his linen undershirt, pine needles in his hair and black mud still caking his feet, solemn-faced behind those silly black spectacles..

He'd somehow remembered them.. But not his shoes.

The friar let out a snort, before bursting into laughter. Crowley gaped at the hysterical man as if he had grown a second head, before his own shoulders started to shake, and the pair were soon doubled over, giggling away together like a pair of delirious schoolboys.

“Aye, you know what this is, laddie–?” Crowley spoke in Shadwells unmistakable northern slur, wiping a tear from his eye. “-This ‘ere is witchcraft.”

Aziraphale couldn't possibly form a coherent answer.

Tracy's prediction had been right after all..

It had been a long day.

**

It was Crowley who stirred first, a bright strip of sunlight slipping in through a crack in the brickwork, searing through eyes straight to the back of his skull.

“Fucking.. Sun.”

He turned his back on the offending beam, pulling the thin, worn sheet up over his shoulder as he angrily nestled back down in the hay bed– Before he, and his heart, stopped dead, as his arm pressed against something warm, and solid.
Or againstsomeone, rather.

Crowley held his breath, praying (for the first time in a long time) that the friar somehow stayed asleep.. Despite the shuffling, and the swearing, not to mention the decidedly sharp elbow that had just collided with his ribcage. Aziraphale's eyes opened, his face barely an inch from Crowley's own. For a moment, he looked contentedly confused, before his expression shifted to a look of abject horror-

“...Crowley?!”

He bolted up, as if struck by lightning, shifting as far from the other man as possible.. Which wasn't very far, considering the conservative size of the haybed they were currently cohabiting.

“Salut, toi.” Crowley replied, unable to hide his amusement. Panicked, pale eyes darted about, as Aziraphale whipped the thin cover away from himself, blatantly taking stock of what he was wearing. Of how much...

“Oh relax, mon frère.. You haven't been corrupted in the night,” Crowley managed to say, voice shaking with barely contained laughter. He shifted up into a seated position, kicking off the last of the blanket, from where it had wound uncomfortably around his legs.

He was as dressed as he had been yesterday, which was more than enough to be decent. And it was no less than Aziraphale, who himself was noticeably disrobed.

Speaking of decent.

The friar was almost unrecognisable in a decidedly flattering linen shirt, several shades warmer than Crowley's own, and comfortable chestnut breeches that matched the brown of his absent habit almost perfectly... He hadn't been wrong when he'd assured the ugly cloak added weight.

“..You said you didn't wear anything under that thing,” Crowley said, leaning back against the wall behind them and turning to face Aziraphale, who was avoiding his gaze. “Not very monk-ish of you, lying like that”

“I'm not a mon–”

“I know. Friar. Whatever.. I don't actually know what the difference is,” Crowley confessed, turning away again and closing his eyes. He waited, listening to Aziraphale's breath as it slowed, the initial, indignant shock starting to subside.

“Well.. A friar serves the community. Displaying their devotion through charity and.. Virtuous poverty.” Aziraphale answered, sounding distracted as he shuffled about. “And Monks.. They live in a monastery, for a start–”

“..So do you.” Crowley mumbled, sleepily.

Seemed even Aziraphale didn't fully understand the difference, his voice trailing off lamely after little to no explanation. Crowley opened one eye, glancing back towards the man with a frown. His mind was clearly elsewhere, eyes still darting around the room, hands fidgeting in his lap.. For once not hidden under those heavy, cloaking sleeves. And, for the first time, Crowley noticed the ring circling the man's pinky finger.

Not a signet, but a simple gold band, set with a tiny bright chip of green emerald. He watched it glint in the sunlight, as the friar continued wringing his hands, twisting the ring around tentatively.

Bit flash for you, angel.. What were you saying about the ‘divine virtues of poverty’, hmm..?

It probably wasn't the best time to ask.. The man was already seeming a little delicate.

“I don't really, uh- We didn't drink much last night, did we?” Aziraphale asked, with a nervous laugh. “Only.. Well I hardly remember coming home.”

Crowley smiled at his choice of word.

“That witch put a spell on us..” he answered, only half joking. “..And to think, we've been treating poor Shadwell like a loon this whole time.”

Aziraphales eyes widened, as if only now remembering Anathema, and the bizarre events that had taken place the day before. His hands curled into fists in his lap.

“God lord! We left that young maiden, helpless and injured, with a strange man! What the devil were we thinking..?!”

“What was the alternative.. Having three strange men kipping on the floor of her spooky wee shack?” Crowley replied with a shrug. “Nah, she told us to leave, remember? Seemed like she could handle herself, anyway.”

Closing his eyes again, Crowley settled against the wall, toying with the idea of going right back to sleep... Wondering if Aziraphale would join him.

“..It's the boy I'd be worried about,” He added “Might’ve stuck him in a cauldron, boiled the poor sod right up. You know what they say about witches and newts.”

There was a ‘tsk’ of a reply, and Crowley felt the bed shift as the friar stood. When he opened his eyes again, the habit had made an unwelcome return.

He groaned reflexively.

“That thing looks awful, you know,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale ran a hand over the front, smoothing out the folds of dull brown cloth.

“Yes, well.. I think that's rather part of the point,” he replied, looking down with a resigned frown. “To look suitably.. Unappealing.”

Crowley chewed his lip, too sleepy and sober to form a suitable response to such a ludicrous assertion, watching as Aziraphale tied the cord round the cloth, brow furrowed in concentration, his own lip drawn in between his teeth.

“You're.. Not very good at being a friar, are you?” he settled on in the end, and Aziraphale flinched, turning quickly to face the merchant, with a look of genuine hurt in his eyes.

Crowley sat up a little straighter, panic rising in his chest.

“Uh.. Didn't mean that how it sounded,” He added quickly, cursing himself for saying something so stupid in the first place. “..Supposed to be a compliment.”

“Right.” Aziraphales reply was terse, the mood unquestionably soured.

Shit. Nice one.

He'd known it was a bit of a sore point..

It was impossible not to notice the way Aziraphale tensed whenever his precious piety was called into question.

That was what made it fun, that figurative halo above his head such a bright, and terribly tempting, target. But even Crowley could tell when he'd gone too far.

Aziraphale had turned away, tightening the cord around himself roughly, as if physically pulling himself together. Crowley struggled to his feet, the small room spinning with the sudden change in altitude.

“I meant to say.. Well… You're hardly unappealing–!”

He winced as the words left his mouth. But the proverbial shovel was already in hand, and it seemed the only way out of this mess was digging. Aziraphale turned his head almost imperceptibly, offering only the slightest indication he'd heard him.

“Honestly it's uhm.. A bit of a waste, really. That you're.. You know–?” Crowley gestured at nothing in particular, rapidly losing the thread of what he was saying, trying very hard to swerve away from the word celibate.

If he kept digging, maybe he’d fall right through the bottom of the earth, perishing instantly amongst the stars.

“It's a ‘crying shame’, my old man would say, someone like you… Wearing something like that.” Crowley trailed off, and Aziraphale turned a little more, the blessed hint of a smile at the playing at the corner of his mouth.

“...Are you implying your late father would find me attractive, Crowley? Because I’m really not sure what to say to that.”

Crowley winced again, replaying his own words in his mind.

“Hm.. I kind of did just say that, didn't I?”

Aziraphale laughed, and just like that, Crowley was pulled from the depths of his self-dug grave and back to the land of the living. Or higher even, catapulted straight up into the heavens by a single cherubic chuckle, and that stupid, infectious little grin..

God. You're actually pathetic.

Through the conflicting cloud of sheer relief and self-aware repulsion, he realised Aziraphale was leaving, having said something unheard and turning away..

The merchant tried to follow, feet catching on the discarded blanket, nearly sending him face-first into the still smouldering fire pit. Aziraphale watched from the doorway as the man struggled to keep himself upright, whilst also attempting to free his feet, cursing with the combined effort of these two very manageable tasks.

“..What are you doing?” he asked eventually, barely able to hide the amusement in his voice. “You're not coming with me, you know.”

“Wh-What? I bloody well am..” Crowley argued, finally free from the cotton snare, ramming his glasses firmly onto his nose. “..Where are we going?”

“I am going to retrieve your blasted boots, and you, my dear, are going nowhere in that state.. Are you quite sure we didn't drink last night? Because it seems you might still be rather afflicted.”

Crowley looked down. He'd forgotten about the boots.. Abandon by the riverside in his desperation not to be left behind himself.

He groaned. They'd be long gone, no doubt.

They were good boots, higher on the sides than a court slipper and rolled on top, finished with an ornate buckle and red stacked-leather heels that had complimented the man's hair, perfectly bookending his entire ensemble..
Far grander than he could ever afford, those boots had found their way to him by fate; He'd boarded briefly with a bearded, bespectacled cobbler, and the man had decided to show him a thing or two about mending shoes. And Crowley had rewarded that kindness by stealing. Not from the man himself, in all fairness, but from a particularly annoying client with a thick mustache, and a conveniently similar statue to himself..

Feet and all.

If the client hadn't been so smug, so fussy and overly-fastidious, so very against the idea of anyone but the man in charge touching his precious boots, maybe Crowley would have left them be. But they'd looked so good on him, as he brazenly stuck them onto his own feet and walked right out the door, leaving a pair well-worn pumps in their place– As well as a smug, hand-scrawled note of confession, hoping to absolve the illiterate cobbler of the crime.

He wasn't heartless, after all.

“Ah.. Damnit.”

He'd stolen the boots and now, rather fittingly, they'd probably been stolen from him. Divine retribution at its finest.

“They'll never still be there..!” He called after the friar, who was already out the door and readying his steed. Beonet watched, looking rather miffed that her buckskin companion was being taken away. “..You sure you'll be alright out there on your own?”

Aziraphale waved his concerns away, mounting the horse with little effort.

“If I run into the beast, I'll let him know where to find you!” The friar called back with a smile, and he was off, trotting away into the dense thicket of trees surrounding them.

Crowley watched him go, like some forlorn little housewife, seeing her husband off to a day toiling the fields.. He shook his head, dislodging that particular comparison the moment it crossed his mind. It was rotting away at him, this whole pointless expedition.. Creeping into the woodwork and boring holes into his carefully crafted facade of nonchalance.

He was better than this.. knew better than to hang around for so long. With a twinge of guilt, Crowley realised he'd no idea how long it had been since he first wheeled his way into Rossignol. A month, maybe? Surely no longer..

It had flown by, and yet at the same time it was hard to believe only a few short weeks ago, he was yet to even meet Aziraphale. It was as if he'd always been there.

He barely knew the man, and what he did know did little to explain away why Crowley was still hanging about like a stubborn weed. Growing roots.

Or equally, why Aziraphale was still there himself, hunting for a beast neither one of them truly believed in–

Bit of a mystery, that one.

There was little more that drew the merchant in like an intriguing tale, the exposed thread of a story not yet fully unraveled.. And if he were honest, the friar had him fascinated from day one. Sharing sanctimonious speeches between swigs of too much wine and coy looks and painfully obvious innuendos. Never losing that elegant, refined aura, despite that awful brown potato sack. He was smart and quick and surprisingly funny, even as he pretended not to know it…

And also a friar.

A man of the cloth, of the church. A man of God.

Crowley sighed aloud to himself. He wasn't here to fraternize, to make friends.. Not least with some bloody Bible-bashing clergyman.

You could be making money right now.

His wares, those profitable, purposeless oils, had been stashed away, his beloved wagon entrusted to a young goatherd he barely knew from Adam.

“Ha.. From Adam. Get it?” Crowley mumbled aloud to Beonet, slipping the shades off his face and pressing his fingers to his eyes. “...God, I'm literally going insane, aren't I?”

The mule, thankfully, did not answer him.

He really should have just left that night, the friars' pitiful attempts at blackmail be damned. The promise of a bounty still hung tenuously in the air, teetering on the concept that there was some sort of predator roaming around these parts, something tangible he could trap and trim and parade about as proof of a real live beast. Or a real dead beast, as it were.

“Ah… Shit. I'd have to kill the damn thing, wouldn't I?” he realised, grimacing at the thought. “No way Aziraphale would have the nerve..”

Beonet let out a chastising snort, dragging the merchant out from his pit of fitful ruinations. The mule stared him down with an uncanny look of disapproval, as his thoughts had circled right back to that damned angel of a man.

“I know, I know…” Crowley replied with a sigh, a hand clapped against her glossy black shoulder. “..We need to leave.”

**

Newt's cart was gone.

Or it seemed to be, unless Aziraphale was lost again.. Which he knew deep down was a distinct possibility.

The soft verge was gouged, the bushes bent and broken where the cart had been, and he turned to face the dense woods behind. If this was where they'd found Anathema, then that was the direction he needed to go to find the river–

“..Oh. It's you.”

Speaking of Anathema.

The girl appeared suddenly from the trees, looking dazed. Her hair was pulled back in a crooked bun, making her eyes seem even wider as they scanned the friar. She brushed aside some clinging ferns as she approached, and Aziraphale noticed the sling was gone, the bandaged split the only remaining sign of yesterday's injury.

“Ah, Anathema! I'm so glad you see you're alright, how are–”

“Where's the other one?” Anathema cut him off, eyes still roaming over the man, as if a shrunken-down Crowley might spring from his pocket at any minute.

“Oh. He's back at the.. uh..”

..Back at the abandoned shack we've commandeered in order to play house like a pair of infatuated schoolchildren..?

“He stayed behind. No shoes,” Aziraphale answered vaguely, realising he had no idea how to explain their current arrangement to this strange young woman.

She nodded, looking suspicious.

“What happened to them?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“To… To whom?”

“To the shoes, I mean—” Anathema circled the horse as she spoke, and Antione shook his head, the uncomfortable aura not lost on the animal.

“-Seems odd for a struggling merchant to leave behind such a fine pair of boots?”

“How did you..?” Aziraphale tried to face the girl, but his horse fought against the pull of the reins, refusing to turn.

Anathema circled back into view, and the friar suddenly noticed the simple hessian sack in her hand.. One he could have sworn she didn't have a second ago.

Anathema smiled, shaking the bag.

“..You stole them,” Aziraphale said, managing to read between the lines.

“So did he!” The girl shot back, lowering the bag. “Bit of an odd mix, you two. The wayward friar, and a merchant thief.. How on earth did you become so close, hm?”

“We’re not!” Aziraphale answered far too earnestly, quickly reining his voice back in. “He's not my friend. We just met, in fact..”

“I see,” Anathema nodded, looking very much like she didn't believe a word of what he'd said “So.. If you're not friends.. What are you doing here, together?”

“We uh..” Aziraphale sighed, realising how absurd he was about to sound. “Well.. We've been sent to hunt down a beast.”

Anathema's brows shot up, and Aziraphale immediately wished he had lied.

“Something has been killing goats, you see! Goats and hens and uh.. Possibly a young woman too..” he rushed to add, as if any of that helped make him sound less frighteningly insane.

“..Possibly killed a young woman? You mean you don't know for sure?” She asked with a hint of a smile, looking more amused than afraid “..You don't believe there is a beast.”

He nodded before he could stop himself, unsure which part he was even agreeing with.

“If there is.. I'm yet to see much evidence..”

“Besides dead goats and hens and an entire person. I think most people would call that pretty compelling evidence, Friar.”

Aziraphale sighed again, wishing he'd let Crowley come along after all..

He would have lied, without hesitation.

“Anything could have killed those poor creatures.. Another animal.. A fox or–”

“And the girl?” Anathema cut him off again, eyes fixated on the man, far too intensely.

Aziraphale bit his lip, fighting the confession as it formed on his tongue.

“I don't know. I'm not sure why but.. I can't believe she's really gone. Perhaps I'm in denial of the facts.. But regardless, nothing occult is responsible for any of this! It's a wolf or.. Or more likely, some wretched man, who's taken advantage of the situation and of Maggie's naive, trusting nature..!” He blurted it all out in one breath, the facts being drawn from him, like blood to a leech.

Stop. Talking.

The girl cocked her head.

“..Why do you think a man would harm someone like that, hm? Someone so.. Nice?”

“Because I know men–” Aziraphale spat out, before pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, trying to steady himself. “-Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever it is you're doing–!” Despite every rational bone in his body telling him witches were nothing but irrational fables of a hysterical mind.. The friar had never felt more sure of the supernatural as he did then. And he was running out of innocuous confessions, coming dangerously close to saying something he would regret.

“Here.”

Anathema held the bag out, and after a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale reached down to take it, his lips pressed firm between his teeth, determined not to speak another word. As his hands brushed against hers, fingers wrapping around the neck of the hessian sack, Anathema's dark eyes glinted. She kept a hold of the bag, leaning in to whisper the question;

“Have you ever heard of a place.. Called Gévaudan?”

Her words ran a chill through his bones, freezing his outstretched hand in the air and drawing the air from his lungs. He didn't answer. He couldn't.

She couldn't possibly know.

Anathema smiled at his reaction, seeming satisfied, and let go of the bag.

“You should go,” she told the stunned man, an odd wistfulness in her voice. “You know, for once… I'm really not sure how this story ends.”

Even if Aziraphale had trusted himself to speak, he wouldn't have known what to say.Without any input from his rider, Antione suddenly turned and walked away, perfectly following the route they had taken to get there step-for-step..

Heading for home.

**

“I told you she was a witch!”

Crowley had listened to Aziraphale's troubled tale (or to the parts he had seen fit to share, that is) while lounging on his side along the haybed, taking up the entirety of the thing. He had a tankard of Tracy's wine in one hand, his head resting in the other-

“You look like some drunken deity.. Dionysus or Bacchus or..”

“Asmodeus?” Crowley had offered, and the friar had pretended not to know the name.

They'd started the night on an odd high of relief, both seeming as surprised as the other at being reunited.. And the wine had been fast flowing ever-since. In all honesty, Aziraphale half expected Crowley to have left.

Instead, it seemed the man had cleaned, the bothy as neat as such a hovel ever could be, the dusty central pit swept and rekindled into a welcoming fire, the scattered grains plucked painstakingly from the ground, not a single kernel left to be seen.

The previously unruly hay bed had been tucked and tidied into some semblance of submission, looking almost comfortable.

It would have all been a rather lovely sight to return to, had it not been for the thick air of guilt that filled every rounded corner of the room, an uncomfortable sense of anticipation hanging between them, truly a most unwelcome third wheel;

You're are leaving, aren't you?

Aziraphale frowned into his own cup, which was empty once again.

“I swear this one's leaking..”

He filled it up again, ignoring the grin stretching across Crowley's face as he did so. A similar grin to before, when Aziraphale had first declared he'd bumped into the decidedly spooky young girl, preceded by an uncharacteristic demand for a stiff drink.

He'd heard enough tales to know how to tell it, rationing the short story like a loaf of bread, doling out merger bites of information, and Crowley was more than happy to be led down the meandering path. Each overblown crumb was washed down with copious amounts of wine, as he goaded the friar to do the same.

“Go on, mon frére.. What happened next?”

Just like that, Aziraphale had grabbed that third wheel, the unmistakable, unspoken announcement of his companions' planned departure, and sent it barreling downhill, out of sight.

A wheel in one hand.. And breadcrumbs in the other…

How Crowley kept all these daft idioms and metaphors straight in his mind, he'd never understand.

“You know, I don't recall ever telling her I was a merchant,” the man in question pointed out, rescuing the drunken friar from his own muddled thoughts. “Certainly didn't call myself a thief..”

“You must have said..” Aziraphale mumbled into his mug, lazily knocking back another mouthful “..And anyone with eyes would know you’d stolen those boots.. You could hardly have afforded to buy them.”

Crowley's smile wavered, his brow furrowing in a fleeting frown.

“I make good money, Aziraphale,” he replied, unable to hide the wounded edge to his voice. “Unlike some, destitute and living off the good will of others.. Or so you like to make out, anyway.”

Aziraphale frowned himself, lowering his tankard.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, his grip tightening around the wooden vessel. Had he said too much..? He'd been so careful as he'd told Crowley his tale, skipping over anything too overtly damning, filling in the gaps with the odd fictitious detail.

Then again, he'd long suspected the man was a bit of a mind reader, at least now that clairvoyance seemed to be somewhat plausible. And his mind had been stubbornly swaying back towards that final, frightening detail all evening… Gévaudan.

Crowley downed his own cup, drinking steadily as he delayed his response. With each gulp Aziraphale felt his own throat closing, a creeping sense of inevitability drawing tighter around it.

Maybe Crowley's unspoken statement hadn't been so much a ‘third wheel’ after all..

It suddenly it felt much more like a noose.

**

The mug was emptied, and the merchant answered the question with a wobbly shrug, propped up precariously on his elbows.

“Mhm.. Just, I don't know. Not sure I buy it, the whole virtuous poverty thing.”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley watched Aziraphale falter, and a devilishly buzz of delight shot through him. Despite his better judgment, he kept pulling at the thread.

“A friar ferrying about bags of silver coins.. And a bloody emerald engagement ring?” Crowley shook his head “..You're a bit of a dark horse, aren't you?”

Aziraphale's expression switched from indignation to confusion, and he looked down at his own hand. The habit had been discarded once again, the man sitting cross-legged by the hearthside in his linen shirt and brown breeches, fingers exposed without those smothering sleeves.

The gold band shone glinted in the light of the fire, the stone shimmering like a lake, entirely unmissable.

“..Who gave you that ring, hm?” Crowley asked, inspecting the inside of his empty mug, trying very hard to sound disinterested. “It's very nice.”

He spat out the maligned word, as if he had any right to be envious. The hand shifted, drawn close to the man's chest, and for a second, Crowley thought he might plead ignorance. Claim the gold band had miraculously materialized then and there, perhaps planted by that wicked forest witch Anathema, for some unknowable, nefarious reason–

“Its Maggie's.”

Aziraphale's voice was barely more than a whisper, the words catching in his throat.

“..It's Maggie's ring, not mine.”

He gently twisted the band around his finger, looking down. Crowley couldn't fully make out his expression, but even a bottle and a half deep in le vin rouge, he could sense the swift decline in mood... And just when things were starting to look up.

Why the ever-loving fuck do you have the missing girls engagement ring, angel–?

Part of him desperately wanted to ask, but it sounded far too close to an accusation no matter how he thought to phrase it.

“...Sorry.” Is what came out instead, without permission, and Crowley shook his head, trying to jostle his thoughts into order. The word had been rolling around inside him all evening, and he hadn't even done anything.. Not yet, anyway. But he really was sorry, either way.

Aziraphale looked up at him, seeming confused.

You and me both, mon frére.

“About Maggie.. I mean,” Crowley lied effortlessly “I know she was your friend, and I never really–”

“I don't think she's dead,” Aziraphale interrupted, with a sudden, startling confidence. “She left me this, you see.. On purpose. Maybe it was a sign. A clue.”

Crowley drew in his lips, and nodded. Alright, so the man was still in denial… There was no way on God's green earth he was going to be the one to tell him that.

“Maybe you're right,” he said, brain and mouth finally starting to work together. “Does that.. Does that sound like something she would do?”

“Wouldn't put it past her”

The answer came too immediately, too forcibly breezy to be entirely believable. Aziraphale downed another tankard of wine, then lowered his cup with a sigh, offering up a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

“..You never finished telling me about the hydra, you know.”

Crowley smiled back at the abrupt, blatant shift in conversation.. And decided to let it slide. Raising himself up from his Roman recline, he patted the space he'd made beside him. He’d half expected some form of protest, but Aziraphale was on his feet without hesitation, grabbing the open bottle of wine on the way over. Settling down beside him on the bed, Aziraphale handed it over to the merchant, who took a swig straight from the bottle, watching and waiting for some sort of disapproving reaction.

Nothing.

Aziraphale waited patiently, pale eyes fixed on the man.. Who found himself wondering (once again) if they were more green, or blue–

He could have sworn they were a dull grey when they met, barely even a colour at all. And yet now, in the warm glow of their bothy, they seemed practically iridescent.. not grey or green or blue but somewhere between all three. How hadn't he noticed that before?

Maybe they hadn't ever sat so close together.

Or maybe its the wine..

“..Crowley?” Aziraphale coaxed, and the man visibly jumped, startled right back into the room.

The friar grinned, those same eyes glinting.

“The hydra, Crowley! Why do you need to leave two heads..?”

“Oh for God's sake, I think you know why–!” Crowley answered abruptly, his voice not sounding at all the way he wanted it to. “..One so the damn thing survives, and the other so it doesn't get–”

“Lonely.” Aziraphale finished with a silly, smug smile.

Crowley nodded wordlessly, looking away. He'd never meant for bloody Aziraphale of all people to hear that one.. And now he'd never hear the end of it, no doubt.

It was far too blatant a tactic to have ever tried on someone like him. Too sweet, too embarrassingly guimauve. Aziraphale was still smiling, the act of being a total annoyance evidently doing wonders for his mood. Crowley sighed, handing over the wine bottle, desperate for any form of distraction.

Probably wasn't the best move, in hindsight. The friar tilted the bottle to his lips far too slowly, facing forward, but with his eyes never straying from the man by his side.

It seemed that Crowley wasn't the only one fishing for a reaction. Without that awful brown habit, you could forget he even was a friar.. Not least when he was drinking wine from the bottle, like that. Like it was the nectar of the Gods, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut. A flagrant, deliberate attempt to sabotage the composure of his travelling companion..

You bastard.

Even without the cloak, and the straight-laced reverence, both of which had been lost somewhere between the first and fourth bottles of wine ..He was still a friar.
Devout. Virtuous..Celibate.

Apparenty.

It was a fact Crowley was trying very hard to accept, even as his hand slid across the bed on its own accord, snaking subtly around behind the other man.. The other reaching out, and wrapping around that defiantly tilted chin.

Aziraphale gasped into the bottleneck, quickly lowering the wretched thing as he was turned to face Crowley, the pair suddenly meeting at the hip.

Crossing a line.

“What about you, hm?” The merchant asked casually, as if nothing at all untoward was happening, trying to hold his nerve. “..Do you ever get lonely, angel?”

Someone needed to take control of this bizarre game. The friar had started it, but by God, Crowley was going to be the one to end it. This time, Aziraphale would be the first to break.

He traced the man's jaw with his thumb, eyes darting as he searched for a reaction, some clink in the facade.

“Not.. right now” Aziraphale answered, sounding frustratingly calm, his voice dropping to a low murmur, as if someone might overhear them. He turned his head away, ever so slightly, until Crowley's swiping thumb brushed his against his bottom lip.“..Not with you,” he added for good measure, outdoing Crowley's sickeningly sentimental hydra story in just two short utterances.

Fuck.

Crowley was losing, fast. He made an incomprehensible noise, and shifted forward–
Stopping with his mouth barely a breath away from Aziraphale's own, not quite closing the gap. Calling his bluff.

Tell me to piss off, Aziraphale. Tell me to stop.

Aziraphale did no such thing, eyes closing reflexively, hands skimming across boney hips, drifting gently up Crowley's back as he drew him in.

“You're.. Rubbish at this friar nonsense.” Crowley muttered, their lips just barely brushing together as he spoke. For a second, they stayed like that, neither wanting to be the first to make a move.

In the end, it was Crowley who caved first, yet again.
He sighed.. And pulled away.

Sitting up abruptly, Crowley turned to face the fire pit, draping his arms across his knees.. While Aziraphale sank unceremoniously down on the soft bed, having lost the anchor by his side.

“Wait- What are you doing!?” he asked, struggling to right himself. The deep, alluring rumble had been immediately replaced by a more familiar, reedy voice. A needy voice.

“I'm not doing anything, angel, that's the point,” Crowley bit back, not meeting the other man's eye. “..And neither should you.”

He stared at the fire burning out in the pit, as Aziraphale shifted up beside him, into a less comfortable, more composed position.

Good.

He waited for a joke, a sarcastic comment on his obvious lack of self-control, his sheer, unquestionable depravity. Chalk up another win for the friar, though it was hardly a fair fight. After all, Aziraphale had been saying no to things a lot longer than Crowley had.

In fact, Crowley rarely felt the need to say no to anything at all. Or not to the things he wanted, anyway.

And look where that's gotten you–

“Uhh.. Nobody would- Nobody would need to know, you know..”

Crowley had to face him now, whipping around to gape at Aziraphale with a look of total disbelief. The friar fidgeted awkwardly, but didn't look away, his eyes wide and brows furrowed.

He was wasted off the stage, truly. Would make a marvellous Rosalind. Or Iago.

“I mean.. I won't tell if you won't,” Aziraphale added, offering a small, shy smile, the picture of innocence.

And Crowley all but snarled in response.

“Drop it, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale's smile faltered, finally realising that Crowley was no longer playing along. It was all going too far, this bit. His mind might have known the sly bastard was having him on... But his daft, flesh-and-blood body was a lot easier to fool.

And he was feeling pretty damn foolish at the moment.

“Ri-Right! Forgive me. I uh.. I've had rather a lot of wine and–”

“No more than me.”

Aziraphale winced at the blunt, accusatory tone, turning away as he wrung at his hands.

“I'm really not sure why you're mad at me,” he said, with a breathy laugh thrown in for good measure. “I wasn't– I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I hope you can..”

“If you say ‘forgive me’ one more bloody–” Crowley cut himself off, taking a sharp, steadying breath. “-It's not me you should be asking forgiveness from, Aziraphale, it's your big buggering boss upstairs you should be worried about.”

Crowley pointed towards the ceiling, as if God themselves was perched atop the thatched roof, peering down the chimney at their sordid little hovel. He stood, and Aziraphale flinched back, recoiling in on himself as he watched the man pace like a caged animal.

Enough had been said, and Crowley knew he should stop, should let the whole thing lie... But that was easier said than done.

“You’re supposed to be acting a lot holierly than me, angel..” Crowley gestured angrily as he paced, delivering an impassioned soliloquy to his sparse audience of one. Or two, if he thought anyone ‘upstairs’ really was bothering to listen. “We both know I'm already condemned, unfor-fucking-givable, and now I've been dragging you right down to my level..! Not that you've put up much of a bloody fight–”

“Don't say that. That's not true.”

Crowley didn't know which part he was arguing with. It didn't matter anyway, it was all true.

“I've corrupted you.”

“Oh, now you're being ridiculous–!”

Crowley shook his head, slipping into his best, most unflattering Aziraphale impression;

“Ooh, monsieur marchand! I'm so lonely and virginal, let me flutter my eyelashes while I stick my tongue down this bottleneck and–”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cut off the vulgare pantomime with scandalised gasp. “I did not do that! You're the one that bloody started it, pulling me in like that, your hand on my.. My derrière!”

Despite the tension in the air, Crowley let out a single short, startled laugh. In all fairness, he hadn't been consciously aware of doing anything of the sort. He hadn't really been keeping track of his hands, not in the moment.

“Don't blame me. You're the angel here.. Surely a blasted monk should be the one showing a little bit of self-control?”

Aziraphale gave a desperate groan, covering his face with his hands.

“I'm not a–”

“Not a monk, a friar, whatever you call it! The point still–”

“Oh God, Crowley, will you just shut up and listen?”

He threw his hands down from his face, and Crowley flinched at the very real tears threatening in those iridescent eyes.

“I'm not.. I'm not friar either. I'm nothing but a damn fraud!”

**

🌔

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

__

“Après Moi, Le Déluge”

(After Me, The Flood)

🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌔🌓🌒🌑

The second the words left his mouth, it was like a dam had broken. The dam that had been keeping Aziraphale and his new existence safe, nestled in a secluded valley like Rossignol itself, fresh and precious and fragile. Now that metaphorical valley was flooded; Battered with water and debris, and Aziraphale was drowning, fighting hopelessly against the surging waves and yet–

In reality, the room was peaceful as ever. The fire crackled sympathetically between the pair of them, peppering the silence with warmth. A little glimmer of hope in the storm.

“Right,” Crowley answered, running a hand through his hair. “Right. Hm.”

“..Can you please say something else?” Aziraphale sighed, eyes lingering on pendulum legs as Crowley paced circles by the hearthside. Now they had started, he had to keep going. No hesitation, he had to push through and get it all over with, before either of them cracked.

"Why would you pretend..?” Crowley turned on his heel to ask the only obvious question, trailing off with a wave of his hand. “What was the point?”

Only moments ago, Aziraphale had been admiring those mesmerising amber eyes.. And now he so desperately wished Crowley was wearing his glasses. He was gazing down at Aziraphale, not with the expected anger, but with a soft, understanding pity that was much worse.

“I had to. I didn't know what else to do.. I didn't have anywhere else to go ..." Aziraphale started, struggling to speak around the lump in his throat. He attempted to clear it with a harsh cough, and Crowley waited.

This would be easier if he would act a little more like Aziraphale had predicted. Less patience, and less kind and soft and sweet... He should be smug, at the very least. He should be angry. The anger was coming, inevitability, and the longer it took to arrive, the harder it would be to cope when it did. Aziraphale knew all too well how quickly a kind man could change.

“I uh.. I used to live in another village, not terribly far from here. I'd told you I came to France to serve the community, and I did, I meant that.. I had always intended on serving the Church, but..”

What would his dear, long-suffering parents think of him now, so far removed from the promises he'd made to them? Never a more privileged, pious child, and yet he'd ended up in such a sorry state. Aziraphale sighed, pressing a hand to his temple.

It felt terribly hot.

“I'm afraid.. I rather made a mess of things”

Through closed eyelids, he saw the shadow of the man pass in front of the fire, and felt the bed shift as Crowley took a seat beside him once more. For a while, neither spoke, as Aziraphale worked a worried hand over his brow, as if he could physically knead the crumbling pieces of his composure back together, at least long enough to spit the story out. In the end, it was Crowley who broke the silence;

“I did steal those boots, you know. When I was boarding with a cobbler. Helped him fix them up all nice and– Well, then I figured I’d get better use out of the damn things anyway. The smarmy bastard who left them could afford a new pair.”

Aziraphale lowered his hand, turning to face him.

“...What?”

Crowley was staring at the fireplace, not meeting the other man's eye. And as he scanned that apathetic profile, Aziraphale was brought back to the riverside, back to when his companion had offered up his own bizarre confessions, entirely unprompted. Not in pity, or even so much as in solidarity... But as a trade.

“I know all about being a fraud, angel,” he added, in case the message hadn't been quite clear enough. “Turned out I was actually quite good at mending things... Could have been a damn fine cobbler, if I’d–”

“I was involved in an affair.” Aziraphale cut him off, catching himself off guard “And I.. It didn't end well.”

Crowley, by some miracle, managed not to react, drawing his lips into his mouth as if to keep himself from speaking. He nodded mutely, coaxing Aziraphale on.

“Oh.. It should never have happened! I came to Gévaudan to work, to aid the poor like my parents had always instilled in me! But he–” Aziraphale grimaced as his voice cracked, forcing himself to push on. “I was supposed to be doing good. But I was too spoiled and selfish and.. And I've been paying for my own stupidity ever since.”

It was Crowley who needed to clear his throat now, looking dazed as he grappled with the revelation, eyes darting as he tried to tie it all altogether in his mind. It seemed Whatever he'd expected Aziraphale to confess, it hadn't been this.

And you don't even know the worst of it!

“Uuhh.. Well I used to be a choirboy. Wore the little white robe and everything,” he offered, eyes still fixated on the wall ahead. “And I'm sure you can imagine how that ended… So uh.. this affair..?”

“Oh he was awful,” Aziraphale continued, saving Crowley from having to form a coherent question. “From what I saw, his wife was hardly better, although.. I shouldn't say that, should I? He really was a vile man.. He must hurt her.”

The merchant turned to face him suddenly, as if he'd been slapped.

“Did.. Did he hurt you?”

The question caught Aziraphale off guard, and it seemed his expression answered before he'd even had a chance to think. Crowley was back on his feet in an instant.

“He did, didn't he?! What did he– Wait, is that why you left? Why should you have to be the one– Why didn't he bloody well leave?!”

The anger had finally arrived, though not quite in the way Aziraphale had expected. The merchant gestured wildly as he ranted, voice growing louder with each and every word, filling in the blanks with startling accuracy. "So what, just because the guys some brute, he gets off with the whole affair scot-free? And you're the scapegoat? Tossed aside like some sacrificial lamb..!?" Crowley looked ready to pluck the loaded crossbow from the table and hunt Gabriel down himself, right then and there. Not that doing so would be necessary, or indeed even possible."He should be the one cast out, not you! He's the one whose married and he.. He..!"

“He's dead,” Aziraphale interrupted, deadpan, and Crowley's shoulders slumped.

“..Oh.”

He looked so absurdly, inappropriately disappointed, that Aziraphale couldn't help but let out a laugh. It was a strange feeling, to be teetering on the precipice of disaster, choosing to bet the new life he'd built for himself on the moral fibre of an unscrupulous stranger. It wasn't as if he needed to confess... Crowley couldn't absolve his sins, after all, but what the man could do is head right back to Rossignol village and tell everybody about Aziraphale's true, terrible nature.

If he wanted to, he could ruin him.

“Aren't you going to ask what happened, how he died..?" Aziraphale forced himself to say, a weary smile on his face. It must have looked positively deranged, but he was past the point of caring by now. "...Maybe I did it. Maybe I've been the murderer all along?"

He'd handed over the weapon, and now it was up to Crowley if he was going to use it or not. The man in question slumped back down on the bed, pressing his head against the wall as he regarded the fraudulent friar, mouth twisted in consideration.

“Hm.. Honestly, I don't think you’d have it in you.” he answered with a shrug, as if Aziraphale had asked something terribly mundane. “You're too bloody soft.”

"But I.. I was there Crowley. I'm not as innocent as you—"

"Would you hurt me?"

"No!" Aziraphale answered before he'd even quite registered the question, a visceral response drawn right out of him. "Why would..? Of course not. I would never."

"Yeah. Didn't think so." Crowley rolled his head against the wall, closing his eyes. "...Just not in your nature, is it? Doesn't suit you."

You're... Insane.

Crowley smiled lazily, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he might have spoken the thought aloud, as he fought the overwhelming urge to collapse against the other man and sob. After all, there was no way Crowley would be comfortable with such a dramatic display. So instead, he simply nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat once more.

“Hm.. I'm running out of confessions..” Crowley mumbled, eyes still closed, giving Aziraphale a brief respite from the intense, golden gaze. “Oh uh.. I set up that foot-trap thing. While you were away getting the shoes. Said I wouldn't, but I did.”

Aziraphale faltered, his own weary smile dropping into a look of abject horror.

“You..! Wha- Why? What if I'd stood on the bloody thing!?” he spluttered, and it was Crowley's turn to bark out a harsh laugh “It's not funny, Crowley! Someone could get hurt!”

“Yeah, and hopefully it'll be the beast!” He replied, finally sitting up and alert, and Aziraphale could only shake his head in disbelief “Oh come on, don't be like that.. It's nowhere near the road, perfectly safe. Now, c’mon...”

He made a rolling motion with his hand, and Aziraphale sighed, looking up towards the thatched roof… His turn again. Time for the coup de grâce, as it were.

“He fell. He slipped and fell, by the river.. I'm not sure if he hit his head or what happened but he... He didn't get out again.”

Crowley made a strange noise, but Aziraphale continued, knowing if he stopped now he'd never start again, fighting through the panic of self-preservation that was telling him to stop talking.

“We'd uh.. We'd had a bit of a ‘set-to’, you see. I meant to call the whole thing off and he.. Well, he didn't take very kindly to the idea. He tried to...” Aziraphales voice cracked again, and he trailed off, his hand wrapped around his wrist as he struggled to spit the words out. It was as if the water was surrounding him, forcing his mouth to close, and he fought the instinct to cry out for help, lest the river flood his burning lungs...

Crowleys own lips were set in a firm line, eyes fixated on that white-knuckled grip, undoubtedly filling in the gaps once again.

“...I don't know if he'd have gone through with it. He was probably just trying to scare me, really, but I... I pulled myself free, and he fell. I swear I didn't-"

"I know."

"You don't know me, Crowley! Oh God... I should have been hanged.” Aziraphale choked out the words, that phantom noose tightening around his neck, and he was drowning all over again.

Crowley chewed his lip, deep in thought, and for an awful moment Aziraphale wondered if his confidence was waning, if he'd finally said too much. They barely knew one another, he had no reason to believe Aziraphale's innocence. No more the abbot, who'd known him far longer. And who, despite his doubts and his abrasive, capricious nature, had been kind enough to let him flee...

Sparing the man the gallows.

“..Only God can judge you now, Aziraphale. Go, live a life of penance.. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be able to earn some sort of forgiveness.”

If he hadn't believed him, what chance did he have convincing of Crowley?
Just as Aziraphale was about to stand and walk out, unable to bear the weighted silence any longer, an arm slipped cautiously around his shoulder, pulling him close.

He tensed, not daring to react.

“Well.. Glad you weren't...” Crowley mumbled, his words reverberating against Aziraphales side, as he continued to stare dead-ahead, not acknowledging their sudden proximity. “..Weren't hanged, that is.”

“You must think I'm..” Aziraphale couldn't even think of a word, closing his eyes against the looming threat of tears. “..I'm a terrible person, Crowley. I've done nothing but lie to you.”

“Hey, that makes two of us!” Any previous trace of that fury had vanished from his voice. “You're not a bad person Aziraphale. You just.. Made some bad choices.”

“You can't possibly know that..”

“Can so. You're an angel, remember..? Couldn't do wrong even if you wanted to.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly at the ridiculousness of the statement, in light of everything he'd just confessed.

"Oh.. You really are insane." He said, seeing no point in holding back any more, and he felt Crowley shrug in response.

“Yeah, probably... So what, is all this is your punishment then? Living as a friar, in a dusty old habit? No earthly possessions, no fun, no friends..”

“I have friends,” Aziraphale interrupted, the tension slowly easing off, soothed away with the gentle ebb and flow of the other man's breathing. They were closer than ever, but it was a world away from the almost combative flirtation they'd engage with before. This was different, this was nice.

“You have a friend,” Crowley corrected, and even without looking, Aziraphale could sense the smirk. “..Christ, you're like a little furnace, you know.”

He wasn't wrong. In the wake of the flood, in all the destruction of the burst dam, Aziraphale had seemingly been left with fires. The burning in his chest and face was getting hard to ignore, not entirely helped by the lithe fingers trailing absent-mindedly up and down his arm. Crowley's other hand brushed against his forehead, wonderfully cold against the feverish heat.
He was frowning now, glancing down at the Aziraphale with a look of concern.

“Hm... I'll open the door,” Crowey mumbled, shifting as if to stand “You're burning uup–!”

His words were cut off as a strong arm wrapped around that narrow waist, pulling Crowley right back into position.

“Right.. Or not.” He said with a chuckle, landing heavily back down on the bed. Aziraphale kept quiet, as if he hadn't done anything at all.. As if he wasn't shamelessly huddled against the other man like a sweltering, needy little limpet. The hand returned, this time tracing a path from forehead to cheek to chin, leaving a cool, ghostly trail as it travelled.

How are your hands this cold, when it's so unbearably hot in here?

Those same soothing fingers skimmed over Aziraphale's jaw, trailing across his neck, featherlight. As it wandered down, Aziraphale turned his head, shamelessly offering up his throat to those blessed, healing hands.

Because Crowley was helping him, that was all... This was fine, medicinal even. Bringing down his sudden, spontaneous fever, as Aziraphale struggled to keep his breath even.

After all... Thats what friends do. They help one another.

As the hand dipped below the collar of his shirt, Aziraphale drew in his lips, pressing his burning face against Crowley's chest. He was suddenly painfully aware of his own heartbeat, pulse racing wildly under that lingering palm, as it slid across his chest.

And once again, there was that tension in the air, a stillness in the other man that made Aziraphale want recoil in on himself.

“Aziraphale, you really are–”

Before he could finish the thought, Aziraphale had already moved away, dislodging himself from Crowley's grasp in one fluid motion. He shifted, sitting up straight and trying to regain some semblance of composure, to rein himself back in. It was a danger, this blasted hay bed and windowless hut, each far more welcoming than they had any right to be.

“I wish you hadn't set that awful trap–” he declared, trying to steady his hammering heart. “It's a horrible thing.. Utterly barbaric.”

Crowley hummed in response, looking down at his own hand with bemusement, as if he hadn't quite decided if he was going to let that whole awkward interaction go unmentioned or not.

“Some innocent person could stumble across it.. Or a deer. A fox. A little family of ducks..”

“Oh don't,” Crowley cut him off with a moan, wincing at the thought.“..Ducks aren't even out at night!”

“They get up very early, you know–!” Aziraphale insisted, having no idea if such a statement was true or not. He was just happy to have found something to distract from his sinful, checkered past, not to mention his shameless behaviour in the present, albeit at the peril of a few hypothetical ducks. “To think.. You could have chomped up an either flock of ducklings in one fell swoop–”

He was cut off by another long, theatrical groan, as Crowley stood abruptly. Aziraphale faltered, only just stopping himself from grabbing Crowley's hand again, pulling him back down on the bed beside him.

Dear God, Get it together.

“Ggahhh.. I'll go get the stupid thing,” Crowley said, stretching in a slow, languid way that did nothing to help steady Aziraphale's racing pulse.

Maybe he really was unwell... This surely couldn't be healthy. After living the better part of a year on a diet of bland food, holy reverence and steadfast chastity.. It was as though every fiber of Aziraphale's soul had been set alight once again. The feeling really was all-consuming, both overwhelming and uncomfortably urgent.

Probably for the best then, that Crowley was pulling the black redingote over his shoulders, snatching a lit lantern from the table while heading towards the door. As he opened it, the bothy was flooded with a blast of frigid air, proving some much needed relief from the heat.
The two of them seemed to be in agreement with that, as Crowley practically melted against the door frame, soaking in the sudden chill, his head tilted up and out towards the stars.

“Gorgeous..” he muttered up at the sky, before glancing back towards the friar, as if he'd momentarily forgotten his existence “..You want to come?”

Aziraphale shook his head, and something about his expression had Crowley laughing once again.

“Right,” he said, smiling infuriatingly at some private joke, voice quieting as he drifted out into the dark “I'll be back, just uh.. Don't go anywhere.”

“Don’t go any– pft" Aziraphale parroted under his breath, crossing his arms in a childish manner. "Where would I bloody well go..?"

Crowley suddenly shot back, head reappearing in the doorway, making Aziraphale jump.

“Did you say something..?”

‘ I said this damn hut could burn to the ground around me..’ Aziraphale thought to himself, meeting Crowley's grin with a stoic stare, arms still folded defiantly. ‘It could burn down and I'd still be sitting right here, all covered in soot and ash, waiting for you on this horrible bed like some loyal, pathetic dog…’

“I said–” Aziraphale wrestled his mortifying thoughts into submission, pushing them firmly back down into his subconscious mind where they bloody well belonged. “-Mind how you go.”

**

The night air was a welcome reprieve from the smothering atmosphere inside the hut.
Breathing deeply, Crowley tried to clear the prickling smoke from his throat, filling his lungs until he felt they could burst. It was a good kind of pain, sharp and grounding, one he could make better sense of. A vast improvement on the tension that had been wound around his chest all afternoon, ever since Aziraphale had stumbled back home–

Not home. Dear God, it's contagious!

He should have left. Could have collected the wagon and been halfway to Paris by now. Never to know what happened next, to Maggie, or the village, or to him..

What happens after I'm gone is none of my concern.

You couldn't worry about things like that, not in this game. If he had, he'd never have survived this long. No amount of guilt, Catholic or otherwise, was going to keep Crowley hungry and needy and begging. He'd found his niche, making use of his greatest, God given skill; Lying.

Sell what you can, using whatever means necessary.. And when you can't sell, steal.
Then get out, before the dust has time to settle, before the oil starts to turn and the maréchaussée finally come knocking.

He’d had every intention of leaving, truly. But then again.. Couldn't exactly go without his boots. It was as good an excuse as any to stay that little bit longer, busying himself about the bothy, tending the fire, clearing up. Preparing for an honest conversation, for once in his damned life.

Crowley slipped past by the tethered horses, both snorting for attention, evidently up for a midnight gallop under the pale light of the moon..

Doesn't that sound romantic?

He continued down the hill on foot.
The walk would do him good.. Help clear his head. Not that he'd had much at all to drink, but he was undoubtedly intoxicated, in one way or another. It was pathetic, really, going all loopy over a man he barely knew. A man who may well have just confessed to being a murderer, with at least two unexplained deaths occurring in his general vicinity..

And I could be next.. He's probably sharpening the knives right now.

Try as he might, Crowley couldn't get the thought to stick. The idea of Aziraphale purposely harming anybody was too preposterous to entertain. Which, in fairness, would probably make it very easy to lure in potential victims. Nobody would suspect a friar, after all. A man who devoted his entire life to serving the Church, whose first and only devotion was to God alone. Maybe that's why Crowley had stuck around.. Knowing with confidence that the strange unspoken whatever between them would never actually be acted upon.
They could keep playing their sordid little game without consequence, without it ever going too far, without anybody getting hurt–

And now?

Well, now Crowley was trying not to lose a bloody leg, as he staggering about in the dark and the mud, looking for an iron foot trap he should never have set in the first place.

What had he even hoped to achieve, really, to prove a point? To make it at least look as though they had a reason for being there..?

To catch something?

Oh God.. I hope it hasn't caught something.

The sight of those unused traps had been a wake up call.. Shining a light on the indignity of his situation, taunting him wordlessly into action. And Crowley had taken the bait, storming out of the hut, the deadly metal wreath slung up onto his shoulder. He'd set the thing with a smile, hamming up his performance for an entirely imagined audience. This place was an outpost, for hunting, and he was there to do a job. The metal was snare set in an entirely impractical position, but set nonetheless. It was a start. Some small amount of evidence that they were doing anything other than simply playing house, if anyone were to check.

Who is going to check...?

He could have set more, weaving an elaborate web of rope snares, or actually bothered to dig a bait pit or two.. Kept going until there was no chance of any man or wolf or mythical beast slipping past unseen. The thought of digging without his boots was quickly dismissed... And then, as he'd held a rope snare aloft, he'd just as quickly realised he had no idea how to string the stupid thing up. He'd never been good with knots.

And besides.. Aziraphale wasn't back yet.

Could hardly risk inadvertently dropping the man down a hole, or hanging him by the leg from a tree, like the world's angriest Christmas bauble. No, they'd need to work together. Set every damn trap at their disposal until they caught something, some unfortunate scapegoat that could be presented as the killer and turned over for that promised bounty.

And if that didn't work, he was done. There was only so long he could play this game.

“Where is that fucking thing..?” Crowley growled in the dark, feet slipping beneath him. The unseasonal warmth and rain had replaced the frost with a cloying marshland of mud, not making his job any easier.

The moment Aziraphale had arrived back at the bothy, a sack of stolen shoes in hand and a scandalised expression on his face, Crowley had felt his resolve start to slip. Nothing tempted the man quite like a good story, and Aziraphale wasn't half bad at telling them. They'd popped open the wine, settling by the fire to discuss the man's bizarre encounter with the local forest witch.
And then... Well, it had all gotten a bit out of hand after that.

“...Ah! You beauty!”

The lantern light bounced back off the iron foot trap. It was planted right where he'd left it, nestled at the foot of a rowan tree like some dreadful, flesh eating flower. Still empty, mercifully.

“Right. Uh.. Now what?”

Crowley spoke aloud to himself, attempting to bring himself back to the task at hand, as his mind stubbornly continued to recount the evening's events. How it had so quickly devolved, from a terribly, all too enticing proposition, to that hideously distressing confession. And.. all the way back again?

It had all been a little disorientating, to say the least. He'd been so ready to sit the man down and have an honest-to-God discussion, to confess he was in over his head (in more ways than one) and that they needed to either knuckle down and do their jobs or... Or stop pretending.

“Need to set this damn thing off–” Panning the lantern around, Crowley searched for a suitable sacrificial stick, the swirling light making his head spin, shadows racing around him like rats, a vortex of incorporeal black rodents.

Alright.. Maybe he was a little bit drunk. He'd needed the courage, in case things had all gone wrong... And even more so if they had gone well.
For a minute there, things seemed to be going very well indeed.

In hindsight, he probably should have kept going.

Closing his eyes and trying to steady himself, vivid images flashed across Crowleys mind.. Not memories anymore, but fantasies, of roaming hands and parted mouths and arching backs, as they finally crossed that line, bending those damned, irritating boundaries until they were well and truly broken. It was hardly the first time he'd thought it, of course, salacious dreams of the friar acting terribly unholy had often kept the merchant company, safe in the privacy of his wagon. But now there were new, unwelcome details colouring the imagined scene. The ghost of another, far less gentle hand tracing the angel's throat, circling his wrists, pinning him down below the water–

Crowley's stomach heaved violently, teeth gritted as he tried to will any other thought into his mind, only encouraging the flood of distressing images to flow. The other man was strong, would have had to be to overpower Aziraphale of all people. Strong and temperamental and insatiable, evidently not one to take no for an answer. That someone so abhorrent had laid a hand on the angel, that he’d been hurt in such a way, was unthinkable, and yet it was all Crowley could see in his mind's eye. He could still hear the obnoxious, incessant braying of Beonet in the distance, hurrying her owner back to the bothy, the noise piling on to the stress.. Bringing him back to the present, if nothing else.

“For fucks– Oi! Shut up, will you!” Eyes snapping open, Crowley scowled in the direction of the noise, as if the mule could possibly make out his chastising glare from such a distance.

Miraculously, the braying stopped–
And was replaced by the sound of thunder.

A shadowy black mass moved in the dark, charging over the valley, accompanied by the unmistakable rumble of hooves on soft earth. Crowley's eyes grew wide as the animal bolted straight towards him... Towards the bared-teeth of the iron foot trap.

“Shit–! Away! Get away!” He yelled, flailing the lantern, the thundering so loud he could feel it in his chest as he desperately tried to put himself between Beonet and the snare. “Stop you stupid mare! Stop!”

She paid her owner no mind, spooked beyond reason, the thundering so loud he could feel it in his chest as the creature nearly trampled straight over him–
In the wake of the charging mule, Crowley fell hard onto his back, all the air rushing from his lungs the moment he hit the ground, the lantern sent flying from his hand.

There was a sickening crack as the foot-trap triggered, and the valley was plunged into darkness.

Crowley lay still for a moment, trying to breathe..
Listening.

Beonets hooves continued into the distance, the rolling rumble slowly fading away, unimpeded. He let out a sigh of relief, letting his head sink back down into the soft ground.

This is.. Not how I thought tonight was going to go.

Part of him considered sleeping, right then and there. Let the worms and the soil slowly envelope him, reclaiming his earthly body as their own as he was dragged down to the depths below…
The wet chill of the mud began to seep through his clothing, dirt clinging to the back of his neck, and he begrudgingly sat up, gazing around in the gloom

The lantern had spoiled his vision, eyes struggling to adjust to the abrupt darkness. He could just about make out the foot-trap, mere inches from his own arm, which had sprung shut and seemingly shattered his only source of light. As Crowley struggled to his feet, the small amount of wine he'd consumed began to grow biblically within his gut, once again threatening to reappear and bless the spiralling ground below. He held himself up, and his stomach in, fighting the waves of nausea as he steadied himself against the rowan tree. Everything kept moving around him.

I'm never drinking again.

Forcing his head up, Crowley blinked at the moon, set bright and round against the sky. Round and soothing and crucially, staying nice and still.The spinning in his head started to ease, his feet heavy, finally grounded.

“Well.. That was a thing.” He spoke aloud again, turning to face the direction his wretched mule had gone. How had she gotten loose? He'd never seen the stoic animal so spooked, bolting blindly as if she was being chased..

But nothing at all had followed her.
Not yet, anyway.

The surrounding woods seemed to breathe into life, the creeping grasp of branches moving in on the valley, coming closer with each exhale. A tightening noose, a closing iron jaw. It was all entirely in his head, of course.. But that didn't make it any less disconcerting. Crowley had a very vivid imagination.

Why didn't I take the damn crossbow?

Every sound hit his ears just a little too loudly, every snap of a twig a gunshot, each frantic caw of the crows above him seemed to herald the demise of their namesake, as they circled above like vultures. He knew the tales were fiction, that the supposed hellhound was no more real than the hydra, or his halcyon childhood. Despite what Aziraphale might think, Crowley understood the difference between a fear-mongering fable and fact.

But alone and unarmed in the dark... No man could be blamed for believing in the beast.

Something had to have scared the horses, and that something must be close to him, and closer still to their commandeered outpost..
And to the daft, drunken angel waiting patiently inside.

"Oh..Fuck.”

Crowley turned, leaving the trap behind as he rushed towards the bothy, his legs heavy in the mud. The glowing speck ahead seemed to drift further away as he moved, the door still open, warm light from the fireplace spilling out like a beacon, calling him home. Yet with each step he felt no closer—

Something sharp struck Crowley's head.
And for the second time that evening, everything went dark.

**

..

...

….

Warmth flooded Crowley's skull, a throbbing, painful heat welling at the back of his head.

His hand flew to the nape of his neck, fingers immediately slick with blood. He could taste it in his mouth, a metallic tang, and smell.. something. Smoke. Woodsmoke… The smell of burning.

Was it.. Was the bothy on fire..?

Crowley struggled to his knees, clutching his head, when a noise behind him cut through the fog of his mind, snapping the man back into reality. It was a long, low, tremorous growl.

He sighed.

This can't be happening.

With one hand on the ground to steady himself, Crowley turned to face the source of the noise.

“Oh... You have to be fucking kidding me.”

The animal was hunched, and still, barely a foot away, a mass of fur and muscle silhouetted in the light of the moon.
A wolf, undoubtedly, but like none Crowley had ever seen before. It was twice the size it should be, and as it shifted to face him it stood on its haunches, forelimbs moving like arms, clawed hands curled against the ground in fists. None of these observations meant anything to the man, who was focused on one overwhelming detail.. Or, as the creature turned to meet his eye, two details;

One, was the unnaturally pale pelt of the thing, muddied as trampled snow, the light of the moon clinging to its fur like a halo. The second thing he noticed, even more damning than the first, was those hopelessly familiar eyes, that almost seemed to glow in the gloom..
Definitely more green than blue, and more blue than grey.

“...Aziraphale?”

The absurd accusation could have come from anyone, Crowley's own voice foreign in his ears. The beast did not react, unmoving as it watched the merchant stumbled to his feet. One clawed fist was streaked with red, the fur slicked back with blood.

My blood.

Crowley couldn't think, feet rooted in place as the creature shifted upright, muscles moving like white rapids, as it towered above him.

He’d hit his head. This couldn't be real.

“Aziraphale..” he tried again, slowly backing away as he spoke, still not entirely convinced of his own ludicrous assumptions. “...Angel?.”

Something flashed in the beast's eyes, a fleeting glimmer of light, of recognition. No words were spoken, but Crowley understood, as an unmistakable voice seemed to shout the command, ringing deafeningly loud his mind–

“ Run. ”

He didn't need to be told twice.
Crowley turned and bolted towards the woods, just as a piercing, wretched howl flooded the valley all around him.

**

He had meant what he said in the bothy. Crowley knew Aziraphale was no murderer.

But now, as his feet struck the ground, clawing branches rushing past in blur, he also knew The Beast was far too close behind, tearing through the woods with ease. He could sense the pale spectre hunting him like a deer, rabid and insatiably hungry…
And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that once Aziraphale caught him, he would kill him.

There were too many trees, slowing Crowley every step of the way as he hurtled down the hill. He was running like that kid.. Adam. He'd been right all along, the clever sod, there really was a monster in the woods.

And now he'll never even know!

The ache was all but gone from the back of his skull, although he could still make out a distinct damp chill, as the night air dried the blood on his neck. He should still be in pain, surely.

Unless he was dreaming?

There was a sudden flash of copper, darting past his eyes like an arrow. A fallow deer, appearing from the gloom as if summoned from the depths of his subconscious, running alongside the man before darting to the side, out of sight.

The beast ignored it.

Crowley's mind was a mess, the overwhelming instinct to run being interrupted by all these inane observations.. Mortal panic punctured with a mundane sense of inevitably.

Am I seriously about to die?

It didn't feel like it. His lungs were bursting, but he hardly felt the need to breathe. Maybe he really was dreaming. It would explain where the pain had gone, but not where it had come from in the first place.

Another guttural snarl snapped him to his senses, and Crowley decided not to test the theory, legs bounding blindly over soft moss and sharp roots. It was a miracle he hadn't fallen yet. But this wasn't going to work, he couldn't keep running forever. He could hear each heaving breath of the creature closing in, and the smell of woodsmoke wrapped around him, drawing him near, the beast burning a trail through the forest like a white hot flame, impossible to smother out…

Wait.

Amazingly, despite the blinding fear and numbing alcohol, Crowley had an idea.

It took less than a second to spot the trail the deer had cut through, and he risked the turn, spinning on the heel of his stolen boot and nearly sliding straight down into the mud, a flash of white striking his vision as he stumbled past, barely an inch from the creatures open jaw…

By some miracle, he was still running.

The path narrowed, threatening to cut off altogether, branches clinging to his hair and arms, just the way he remembered it.

Do you remember this path, Aziraphale? Do you know where I'm taking you..?

A hysterical laugh burst out of Crowley as the beast's claws struck a branch, a hair's breath away from his head, splinters hitting his ear.

He was so close…

The path opened up, the moon welcoming Crowley out of the woods and shining down on what could be his salvation. So long as his plan worked–

So long as it really is you.

He ran higher, to the crest of the hill that hung over that beautiful, blessed river, a ribbon of polished jet stretching before him, drawing him in. Without giving himself time to think about a what would happen if he was wrong–

Crowley jumped.

His feet struck the surface of the water, and everything slowed.

As he sunk into the icy embrace of the river, he prayed for the cold shock to wake him.The world was still, the roar of the river surprisingly quiet beneath the surface. He held that final breath in his lungs, all the weight and tension gone as the water held him.

It was tempting to stay there, the peace and quiet keeping him calm as the current dragged him downstream, drawing him deeper. Right now, drowning didn't seem like such a bad way to go–

Better than being torn apart, anyway.

Baring his teeth, Crowley kicked hard against the current, struggling to the surface as his lungs threatened to give out… Finally breaking through, with a gasp of relief.

Swiping the water from his eyes, Crowley blinked up at the overhanging cliff, and the infernal creature that was staring straight back at him. Strong, long arms hung low, clawed hands grasping the rocky verge as the beast swayed, eyes narrowed, fangs bared in a twitching grimace

It couldswim, no question about it, the surging flow of the river would be nothing to such a herculean animal. If it decided to jump, Crowley wouldn't stand a chance.

After a moment, the beast slowly raised itself up on its heels, and turned away, sloping silently off towards the forest.

And Crowley had to laugh, letting out a loud whoop of adrenaline, dipping his head back until the water rushed around his ears

Well… That only goes and bloody proves it–!

As the river carried the man away downstream, the searing pain in his head returned with a vengeance, the final skull-splitting nail in the ‘this-is-not-a-dream’ shaped coffin.

There really was no doubt about it... Aziraphale was the beast.

**

🌕