Work Text:
1. 1874
The door had barely closed behind Mr. Fell before Thomas was teasing William, leaning back against the sofa in the smoking room and making deprecating jokes that only two old friends might make with each other. Since William had known Thomas since they were both in leading strings, and they'd discovered their inverted natures together, as well, William couldn't be too offended by his friend's jovial response. After all, he had told Thomas about his crush in hopes that Thomas might, as he tended to do, bully William into doing something about it. Thomas had gone on and on about this club, for example, until William had agreed to join, and William had to admit he was glad to have made the choice. It was nice to have a place where they didn't have to speak in whispers about their affections -- worth the price, even if he'd had to make up a gambling debt to convince his father to give him the money.
Thomas was in one of his more insufferable moods, however. He'd been dating a soldier for three weeks and was still in the stage where he compared every man to his and found them wanting.
"I like that he's a bit older," William protested, when Thomas mentioned that Mr. Fell's hair had already gone white. "I think the blond is natural, anyway -- he can't be that old."
"Who are we talking about?" John said, bustling in from the back hallway with a rustle of skirts and perfume. He was still wearing the top half of his uniform, and there was a lipstick stain at the collar. He wobbled as he poured himself a drink and then settled comfortably onto Thomas's lap.
"Mary's got a pash on Fell," Thomas said, gesturing to William. They were all supposed to be using the female names in here, for deniability, but William saw John nearly as often as he saw Thomas, although not usually in women's clothes. It was common enough here, among some of the "girls," as they referred to themselves.
"Waste of time, dear," John said, lifting his glass and then taking a long drink. "Believe me, Margaret tried for ages."
"He always comes alone," William said, trying to contain his disappointment. "He keeps saying he's going to learn to dance!"
"I think he means actual dancing," John replied. "Look," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "you didn't hear this from me, but he has someone. Or had, maybe, he was pretty vague about it. He's been coming here nearly longer than any of us, and he used to talk about him once in a while. "My friend," he'd say, like he had just one. But then after he let down Margaret he stopped talking about his friend at all. We were all playing cards once -- and he was winning by a mile, mind you -- and Jane said Fell ought to bring his friend so maybe someone else would take a hand once in a while, and he just shook his head and clammed right up, practically abandoned the table."
They were all quiet for a moment. There'd been a funeral a few weeks ago -- a club member, a third son attending art school and living quite happily with his lover, had fallen from his horse and knocked his head. They'd gone to the public funeral, of course, paid their respects to his parents, and afterwards, they'd come here, where the lover had been free to cry more than he would for a roommate.
William had never loved anyone like that. Not yet. He just thought that Fell had kind eyes, and he always seemed so gentle. He listened to everyone's stories and asked after their sick family members. He had beautiful curls, and broad hands. He was a bit older, sure, but that meant experience, of which William admitted he had little.
"That's quite enough of that!" John said, finishing his drink and setting it on the table with the exaggerated care of the very drunk. "I'll set you up, Mary. Just say the word." He winked, and then there was a roar of laughter from a nearby sitting room. John rose to his feet, picked up his skirts, and went to see.
"Sorry, Will," Thomas said. "I had no idea."
"It's all right," William said, and he found that he meant it. It was a shame, if Fell was still sweet on a dead man, or dealing with a bad breakup, but he wouldn't dwell on it. William was sure someone else would catch his eye eventually.
*
2. 1781
Ligur's lip curled up. "Bit clean, ain't he?" he muttered.
"I told you, we're undercover," Crowley hissed. He could tell that Aziraphale was going to wink. He really didn't think Ligur was going to understand the gesture.
"Surely," Aziraphale began, and Crowley pressed his hand firmly across the angel's mouth.
"Don't call me Shirley," he said, for Ligur's benefit. "You're going to blow this. This is why I hate team assignments."
He released Aziraphale, lifting his eyebrows in warning and hoping the angel got the hint.
"Blow it out your arse, Crawly," Ligur said, with no real venom in his voice. "Get the job done. I don't want to hear any excuses. And you," he said, jabbing Aziraphale in the chest, "you'd better shape up or I'll tell Requisitions not to send you up next time. Have some pride."
"Yes, my lord," Aziraphale said, managing to sound completely unrepentant.
"I want your report in tonight, Crawly," Ligur continued. "Hail Satan."
With that, he stepped down into the dirt and disappeared. The hole closed as neatly around him as if it had never been.
"Do you think he bought it?" the angel asked nervously.
"We'd both be discorporated otherwise, or worse, Mephistopheles," Crowley said.
"You didn't tell me your boss was dropping by! I always check for the signal!" Aziraphale protested.
"Signal? When did we decide on a signal?" Crowley said, wracking his brain for the memory. In any case, Ligur had appeared quite without warning, which was Hell's general preference. Heaven's too, Crowley thought, remembering more than one close call.
"The handkerchief in the window, my dear. White for unexpected visitors," Aziraphale said, and he began strolling back towards the more crowded square. Crowley simply stood there, certain that Ligur would return any minute, probably with some extra hands to drag him back to Hell. Finally Aziraphale came back and touched Crowley's forearm as if to get his attention. Crowley jolted at the casual touch.
"Are you still worried? Come on, I'm sure we can get your temptation sorted well before midnight, and then they'll leave you alone for a few months," Aziraphale said.
That was it, Crowley thought, trailing after the angel as he made his way back into the heart of the city. He'd taught Aziraphale everything he knew about temptation, and now it was being used on him. He really should have expected that.
*
3. 1975
Reggie tailed the Snake to Whickber but made himself scarce right quick when he saw exactly what shop the redhead walked into.
"Middle of the day," he recounted, breathlessly. "Not a moment's hesitation. They're definitely in together."
Ace nodded. He'd wanted to know who exactly that smooth talker was working for, and now he knew. Anyone that thick in the black market without known London ties was suspicious nowadays. That's how they caught Big Tom, wasn't it, after all? The Snake said a lot of words that didn't add up to much. All the guys he namedropped had been dead before he'd been born, guaranteed. Ace had only met Big Tom's uncle once and he'd been senile then. Marty had been shot in -- been at least fifteen years back. There was no way he was who he claimed he was.
If he was working for the bookseller, well, that explained a lot. The bookseller knew he wasn't popular with Ace's crowd. Ace had no idea how many pies the bookseller had his hands in -- the whisper network ran large. Everyone in that corner of Soho owed him something: their life, their rent for the week, their best table, regardless of reservations. Soho was so locked up that Marty had called the guy the bank. He never sold a book, but he owned half the street and several more besides. Maybe he was printing money.
He didn't have many known associates. Ace had poked at him once or twice, since their territories adjoined, just to get the feel of him, and none of his heavies ever returned. No bodies showed up, though, and Rufus swore he'd seen Ty in Brighton working in a flower shop once, but Rufus told tall tales when he was drunk.
Ace had a little cousin he was going to bring into the business, sharp as a tack, enrolled in uni and everything, so one time he sent the kid over to the bookshop. No disguise, no weapons, just to see if the bookseller was paying attention. Ricky had come back, at least, but he had been excited to join the navy, of all things. What a waste of talent. He hadn't even bought a book.
"All right, all right," Ace said. "Let him do his business. Plenty of room in this city for all of us. I'm not looking to fight that guy."
Reggie snorted. "Couldn't pay me enough, boss. I got it."
The unspoken noninterference pact would hold another day. Ace waved Reggie away. He'd gotten another letter from our Ricky in Cyprus and he couldn't wait to read it.
*
4. 1989
The thing about hanging around outside a school was that it was very difficult to do it and be inconspicuous. People tended to give second looks to unoccupied adults, and Crowley's usual air of sullen menace didn't serve her in this situation either. Why was it that the angel was always running late? And why had an overzealous priest blessed the entire school property instead of just the church?
Crowley put a toe over the line into the parking lot and hissed involuntarily, pulling it back. Yep, still blessed. Now, it did make her feel a little better to think about all of the small drug deals and teenage backseat endeavours that were occurring on this holy ground on a regular basis, but those actions hadn't been enough to permanently defile the area yet. Not enough for her to feel comfortable walking on it.
So she had to wait, as buses and cars and kids poured past her, the adults stretching tall above the sea of small heads and looking at her suspiciously. At least she'd put on a skirt this morning. People probably thought she was here to pick up a small child and were upset because she refused to enter the property or take off her sunglasses. She hoped that none of the nuns came over to talk to her.
The mass of people exiting the school slowed to a trickle, and finally Aziraphale emerged, looking oddly drab with the wimple covering her hair. She was talking animatedly with a young woman who Crowley assumed was related to Aziraphale's assignment. The angel was laughing and teasing as easily as if she'd known this woman for years. Crowley let the jealousy burn her throat a little. They'd never talked about that night in 1967 when Aziraphale had said Crowley was going too fast. They'd both known what it meant. Or at least, Crowley thought she did. Aziraphale was friends with plenty of humans -- so was Crowley, when she found one entertaining enough -- but the angel's friendship with Crowley was different. Something more, even if she wasn't ready to acknowledge that. It had only been 22 years since that discussion -- this woman Aziraphale was talking to might not have even been born then.
Crowley relaxed, pressing her spine against the sign for the bus. She was cool, she was always effortlessly cool for Aziraphale. She could tell when Aziraphale saw her; her eyes brightened and she lifted up on her toes and waved. Only long practice prevented a smile spreading across Crowley's face.
She watched as Aziraphale steered her friend in this direction, which was not what she'd been expecting. They had tickets for the opera tonight and Crowley had shown up in plenty of time for a leisurely dinner beforehand, but if Aziraphale still had to work, they might have to reschedule. Crowley kept her disappointment to herself. They were good right now. They saw each other at least once a month, and this assignment at the church school was long-term, at least a year, so Aziraphale was in London for the foreseeable future, which was nice. The political landscape right now was precarious at best, and Crowley had been doing a lot of traveling. It was easier to do that knowing that Aziraphale would still be nearby when she got back.
"Antonia," Aziraphale said, as she stepped into hearing range. "I wasn't expecting you until later." She was smiling, though, so Crowley saw that as a good sign, although she was using Crowley's human name, so maybe this would be a brush-off after all. The angel and her companion paused underneath the sign that Cowley was haunting.
"So this is the mythic Antonia!" the other nun said, turning wide-eyed to Crowley, who waved lazily in return.
"My reputation precedes me, eh, Sister Frances?" Crowley said, perhaps more flirtatiously than necessary. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Sister Elizabeth. She's been such a help to me settling in here," Aziraphale said, putting her arms around Crowley. The angel always seemed to be more physically affectionate when she was playing a woman nowadays -- it was more common, Crowley supposed, for women to touch each other in this time, but Crowley still wasn't used to it. She leaned into the angel's hug, though. She liked the way that Aziraphale's body fit against her own bony shape, the softness of her chest.
"Are you sisters? -- By birth, I mean," Elizabeth asked curiously, as Aziraphale pulled back and squeezed Crowley's hands before letting go. Crowley had been basking, a little bit, but the question made her laugh. What about the two of them screamed sisters to any outside observer?
"Sisters-in-law," Aziraphale corrected quickly, eyes widening in mild panic. She was a terrible liar. "Antonia is -- she's married to my brother."
"Her twin brother," Crowley agreed cheerfully, watching a blush cross the angel's cheeks. "He's a real sweetheart. He sent me to pick up Frances for dinner. Very busy with his bookshop."
Aziraphale gave her a bit of a look, but she couldn't give Crowley an opening like that and not expect her to add her own touches. Crowley was a great liar. The trick was to keep as much of the truth as was useful or entertaining.
"How lovely," the nun said. "Well, I won't keep you. See you tomorrow, Francie!" She waved and then turned toward the next street.
"See you tomorrow, Francie," Crowley mocked. Aziraphale huffed.
"The Bentley is parked a few streets over. Didn't want any kiddies to get any ideas about touching her. Shall we?" Crowley continued.
"Elizabeth is a very lovely person," Aziraphale said, but she fell into step beside Crowley anyway. As soon as they turned the corner, Aziraphale pulled off her wimple, shaking her curls out and lifting her face to the sun, eyes shut, and Crowley forgot about Elizabeth entirely.
*
5. 2016
They really weren't very good spies. Once Sophie figured it out, she was kind of disappointed. She was only ten, after all. If she could tell that they were spies, those two guys were going to get made. And then they'd have to disappear forever! It'd be so tragic! Unless they were non-British spies and deserved to be caught, but she was fairly sure they both had London accents.
They were just so obvious. Every Thursday after school Sophie took the bus to her gran's house so her mom could take Alfie to baby gym and not have to come pick her up until after dinner. The blond spy always got on the bus before Sophie did, and he always sat in the same place. After a while, Sophie had come to recognize most of the regular bus riders. Most people were leaving work, or going to the grocery store, or something boring like that. But the blond guy dressed like he belonged in a museum, and he always just sat there by himself, holding a newspaper or an umbrella, or reading a book. His outfit had caught her eye immediately, and then the fact that he didn't seem to have a cell phone. No one in the bus looked at each other, except babies, and Sophie, because her mom said she was still too little to have her own phone, so she got bored just sitting there. This guy was definitely old enough to have a phone, but he never, ever had one in his hands. Once Sophie saw him pull out a pocketwatch to check the time.
The red-headed person was a little better at being sneaky than the blond guy, but not much. If he wanted to be inconspicuous, he really ought to consider not wearing sunglasses all the time. He always got on three stops after Sophie did, and he always sat in the bus seat behind the blond. Sometimes he dressed like a girl -- but in an old fashioned way, kind of like the blond guy, all wool skirts and pinned hair like a schoolmarm. Anyway, it didn't matter what he was wearing because no one would mistake that combination of sunglasses and bright red hair. Either he had a twin sister, or it was him both ways. Olivia R at school had two mums, so maybe it was something like that.
After the redhead got on the bus, he'd lean forward into the blond guy's space and they'd whisper. No matter how much Sophie strained, she could never understand what they were saying, but they had to be spies, right? Why else would they be meeting on a bus like this? They were probably trading state secrets right in front of her. She tried to watch while not looking too closely, in case someone ever asked her to identify them.
One week Sophie got on the bus with her friend Lily, because they had Friday off school and Lily was going to stay over that night, and she told Lily all about the spies before they got on, so she'd know to watch. To Sophie's horror, Lily grinned at her and dragged her by the wrist into the redheaded guy's seat! They were looking at the back of the blond man's head! Lily was giggling, but trying to be quiet about it.
"What's wrong with you?" Sophie hissed, but soon she was giggling too. Still, she was counting stops in her head. What happened when they got to three and the redhead got on? You couldn't claim a bus seat, not officially. He wouldn't be able to tell them to move. Would he be mad? He never seemed mad with the blond man -- serious, but not angry. But who knew what those sunglasses hid?
Finally, it was the right stop. Sophie turned toward Lily and started a hand clap game to cover her nerves. She chanted the rhyme out loud, but it was almost worse not to see the redhead coming. Someone paused next to them, and then slid into the seat behind. From the corner of Sophie's eye, she saw a glimpse of red.
Lily was laughing. "There's no way," she said. "You're crazy, Sophie. You see? Nothing happened."
"Shut up," Sophie said. "Let's do Mary Mack next."
They reached Sophie's gran's house in just a few more stops and got off together. Sophie held her head up, trying not to look at the spies or seem suspicious, and she supposed she must have succeeded, because no one stopped her. By the time next Thursday came around, she'd almost forgotten about last week's adventure.
But when she got on the bus, the blond man wasn't there in his regular spot, and the redhead didn't board either. She never saw them again, but that was okay. If she'd managed to spook a pair of spies just by sitting in their seats, they probably needed to get new jobs.
*
+1. 2028
Crowley had just chosen his next album when he heard the knock on the door. Aziraphale wouldn't have bothered to knock and he'd only been gone for a few minutes anyway -- he'd be in the village for a few hours yet, between book club and lunch at the pub and whatever chores Ms. Miranda roped him into. Old and fragile she might be, technically, but the woman was sharp as a tack, and Crowley knew Aziraphale was charmed by her habit of referring to him as a "dear child." It always made Crowley laugh.
He sent out a little feeler to make sure, but it seemed that their guest was human. So he put down his headphones and went to the door, grabbing his sunglasses from the basket by the door, where they sat on top of the Bentley keys. Maybe their visitor was another missionary who hadn't heard what happened to the last one.[1]
Crowley opened the door. He recognized the woman on the step as someone from the village. While waiting for him to answer the door, she'd clearly been distracted by his lilac bushes, which were performing quite well if he did say so himself. She seemed a little embarrassed to be caught as she looked up from where she was nearly touching a bloom creeping onto the porch.
"Crowley, is it?" she asked. "One name, like the Madonna, your husband said." She grinned. "I'm really not sure he understood the reference. But he did say you'd be here and that you might be willing to offer your assistance with my aphid problem. He said you'd dealt with this last year?"
"Husband," Crowley repeated. It still felt forbidden, thrilling, and warm to say the word.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. I know you're not a mister or missus, he corrected me right away on that. Your partner? Spouse?"
Crowley coughed to hide the affection that rose up in him, with no angel currently available to receive it.
"Husband is fine. Come round to the garden shed and I'll fix you right up," he answered, gesturing around the side of the house towards his hobby space. He paused for just a moment, sliding the fingers of his right hand around the golden band on his left, and then he followed her, whistling.
***
- She ran off with the vicar's wife to Canada -- it had been quite a scandal. Crowley had ceremoniously added another tally to his side of the ledger, and Aziraphale had pouted since he hadn't been present, so he hadn't had the opportunity to catch up. He loved teasing fundamentalists. (back)