An Arrangement

A Good Omens fanfiction

Year: 1020

Aziraphale was stepping heavily (he was rather tired) out of a side door at St Edmund's Abbey when he got the prickly, hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck-standing-upright feeling he was being watched.

He felt certain a demon was in close proximity and tensed.

A wave of paranoia overcame him. He'd only come here – on some second-hand orders from Gabriel – to take a look at the construction of the rotunda (which was, as far as he could tell, going smoothly enough); but perhaps he ought to go back inside and ask for temporary sanctuary.

Then he had a proper look at what was watching him and his fear eased up considerably.

A little ways off, just where the ground would no longer be consecrated, was a red-haired demon in a black tunic and hose, peering out at the world from behind a pair of tinted spectacles.

Crawly.

Oh, no, that wasn't right: Crowley – he went by Crowley now.

Aziraphale kept forgetting about the name change, even though it had first been brought up to him ages ago. Well, it could have been worse. He could have picked something really difficult to remember, like Asmodeus.

Whatever he called himself, Aziraphale wasn't particularly frightened of that particular demon. They were always bumping into one another, sooner or later, ever since the garden of Eden, and he hadn't done anything very bad to him – if he'd wanted to harm him, Aziraphale figured he'd have done it by now.

The relationship between the two of them, if such it could even be called, was reasonably benign.

The worst Cra–Crowley had ever done to him was make some frustrating remarks about how much easier things would be if they helped one another. If they shared jobs and stopped cancelling each other out all the time.

The idea was ludicrous, of course, but Aziraphale almost thought it might have come from a place of good intentions on the demon's part.

Almost.

After all, demons didn't really have good intentions, not in the way angels did.

He wondered what Crowley wanted now. He hadn't cropped up for a few decades; Aziraphale had been starting to think one of his thwartings had actually taken and felt a little sad over it. Good should win, naturally, but he didn't want anything especially awful to happen to Crowley – he was one of God's creatures, too, when you took a moment and thought on it.

"Aziraphale," he said, once the angel was in earshot. "It's been a long time."

"I suppose it has," he answered cautiously, keeping a brisk pace and walking forward, meaning if the demon wished to keep talking to him he had to follow him.

"You don't look well," Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale paused, lightly offended. "Eh?"

"You look tired, that's all."

"Virtue is ever vigilant."

"You know, if you gave some thought to what I suggested–"

"Crowley," he said, giving him the sternest look he could muster. "No."

"All right, all right, don't bite my head off."

A man on the side of the roadway was taking a stick to his braying mule, his strokes falling rather hard and rapid on the shrieking animal's back.

"I say, my good man, isn't that a little rough?" Aziraphale protested anxiously over at him.

"It's no concern of yours," the man barked, glaring out at him from under a dirty cap. "Keep moving unless you're wanting some a the same. Aye?"

A little boy came along then, singing to himself and tossing a rather mealy-looking apple in the air. He made a face at the man. "Your clothes smell of wee."

"What's that you said to me?" the man bellowed.

Aziraphale put out his hand instinctively, as if to protect the child. "Come now. He's only a boy."

Crowley was smoothly edging over.

"He disrespects me – he says my clothes smell of wee!"

"You can see his point," Crowley put in.

"Get on with you." Aziraphale took this moment to nudge the child forward, thinking it best to get the boy out of the way as quickly as possible. He must live around here, surely. If he could get home before this angry man had any further words with him that would definitely be for the best.

"Don't know who you think you are." The man stuck his index finger in Crowley's face.

"I think if you don't get that finger out of my face now," Crowley hissed, "you're not getting it back."

Aziraphale felt shivers run up his back. The demon's tone made him think of a snake right before it struck, fangs bared. "Crowley, let's just go." The angel's arm was still extended though the boy had left – he made a motion as if to herd Crowley back onto the road.

The man did the stupidest thing imaginable. He blocked the demon's way, keeping his finger in place.

What happened next was awful to see. Crowley did something, occult power crackled briefly in the air, and the man's finger melted, dripping to the dry, dirty ground in a puddle of skin-and-bone goo.

"All right," said Crowley, nodding at Aziraphale, who was watching the man stare with muted horror at his four remaining fingers. "We can continue on now."

"Crowley," gasped Aziraphale, once they'd left the man a couple feet behind them. "That wasn't very nice."

"Oh, come off it – he wasn't very nice."

"You need to give people a chance."

"He had a chance; I warned him, fair as anything."

"All the same, his quality of life, without that finger, as things are..."

"He beat a mule, and he would have beaten that child," Crowley reminded him. "He would have hit you, too. I was waiting on you to smite him, but you didn't, so...well..."

Aziraphale inched away from Crowley, shaking his head.

What Crowley didn't tell the angel, what he kept to himself for the time being, was that what he'd done wasn't as permanent as it looked; it was one of his favourite tricks to play on people that pissed him off. Made them think they'd lost a finger – because, technically, they had, that bit was real – and they went running to show someone, or to a physician for help, and what do you know five perfectly fine fingers waggled urgently. It grew back when they weren't looking. A couple of cranky blacksmiths who'd given him a hard time over shoeing the big black horse Hell saddled him with had spent a week in a madhouse the last time Crowley pulled that stunt – it was highly entertaining. Made him smile just a little while falling off the back of that stupid horse. Something had to.

Rain clouds gathered overhead. Thunder rumbled.

Aziraphale's eyes rolled up to the sky anxiously. "That sounded close."

"Nah," disagreed Crowley, only to immediately be proven wrong as a torrential downpour began and lightning struck a nearby tree. "Shit." He waved the angel towards a fork in the road. "Come on, this way."

"What?" Aziraphale squinted through the blinding sheets of rain miserably. "That's not–"

"You can stay here and keep getting rained on, if you like."

Aziraphale would have liked to stretch out his wings and hold them over either his own head or Crowley's to keep at least one of them dry, but the hamlet they were passing through was fairly densely populated and people tended to get overexcited if they saw something like that.

Even in this sort of weather, you couldn't be too careful.

He made an executive decision and followed Crowley, who stopped at a lane leading to a nice cottage with a thatched roof.

Crowley yanked the door open and held it for him.

Grateful, Aziraphale ducked inside and, shivering anew, shook off the excess rainwater.

Inside, it was neat and dry, though it smelled a bit musty. A little table surrounded by low, three-legged stools was in one corner, and three thick reclining cushions were placed in front of a cold, clean fireplace.

The angel flicked his beringed little finger at the fireplace and a roaring fire flared up, pretty as anything, in the grate. He walked over and spread his hands over the crackling flames. "Ah."

Crowley snapped his fingers at the door and it swung shut behind him.

"Whose house is this?" Aziraphale asked, suddenly aware of the fact that people would see smoke rising from the chimney and be aware somebody was in here.

"Don't worry about it – I know the owners. They won't be in anytime soon." It was only a rustic summer cottage for some aristocrat's children who rarely ever turned up. Their servants came in by cart and cleaned thoroughly every other week, all the same, so it was always kept up decently.

Aziraphale gave him a disapproving grimace and eased down onto a cushion.

Crowley sat down beside him.

Aziraphale stretched and let out his wings, which were in rather a pitiful state. He hadn't had time to keep up with grooming them lately and the weather had been humid, which hadn't helped. He had an itch near the part of the wing-bone closest to his shoulder-blade which he couldn't reach; letting them out helped some, as did waggling them about, but the relief was far from total.

"You should take better care of yourself," Crowley remarked.

Grunting, Aziraphale glanced away from him.

"Oh for Sa–" He stopped, as if not sure he should say what he'd been about to out of habit. "For Go–" Nope. Worse. "For somebody's sake." The demon reached out.

Eyes widening, Aziraphale shifted and gawked. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to help you neaten your wings. They look bloody awful."

"You can't just go about touching my wings." He was nonplussed. Holding a wing over the demon's head to shield him was one thing – actually having Crowley touch them was another.

"Why not?"

"Because..." he spluttered. "Because..." He tried to think of a reason – or, rather, a way to explain his own automatic reasoning. "Well, I mean, it's not decent."

"Right." Crowley withdrew his hand, but only in order to take off his spectacles. "Show me where that's written." His voice became mocking. "Thou shalt not touch thy neighbour's wing-feathers. Is that the eleventh commandment?"

Admittedly, no such thing was written anywhere Aziraphale knew about. And perhaps even the principal of the thing wasn't quite the issue here. Crowley didn't mean anything untoward by it.

At least, he hoped he didn't.

No, it was more that... "You know our superiors wouldn't approve."

"And they are where in this room, exactly?" said Crowley pointedly.

That itchy spot was agony. And here was Crowley, offering, and... A suspicious feeling enveloped him. "Wait. Are you trying to tempt me?"

The demon pouted. "I think we're a little beyond that, don't you?"

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Not really."

"Fair enough." Crowley stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"There's a barrel of wine over by the pantry – I'm going to roll it in here." He paused, then added, "I'll bring two cups."

"I don't drink stolen wine."

Crowley ignored this, rolled the barrel over, and began to fill two cups. "Are you forgetting we can always replace what we take? More or less?"

Aziraphale sighed and took one of the filled wooden cups, drinking deeply.

"More?" There was a hint of friendly laughter in his voice.

Aziraphale nodded, a trifle sheepishly. "Thank you, my dear fellow."

He refilled the cup and handed it back to him. "Rather good wine, I thought."

"Must be imported," the angel agreed, bringing the cup to his lips and sipping from it a little more slowly this time. "It's hardly got that down-the-lane marketplace flavour."

"Hmm. Now..." Crowley motioned at the angel's wings. "Listen. I won't, all right? Not if you don't want me to."

"Suppose I'm being a bit silly," Aziraphale conceded. "It's just...I generally don't allow anyone..."

Crowley softened. "I'll be gentle," he promised.

Aziraphale nodded and stopped shifting away from him. He was surprised, when contact was made, by how warm the demon's hands were. He'd expected them to feel cold and bony, somehow.

"You have good feathers, if you'd groom them once in a while." Crowley laced his fingers through them, straightening the matted portions and lightly swatting out dust and a couple of stray lice (came of life on earth in the 11th century, unavoidable). "You keep your hands so sickeningly neat." He glanced down briefly at one of Aziraphale's polished-looking, plump hands, each nail filed down into place perfectly, not a crack or chip visible anywhere on them. "How does someone as tidy as you manage to neglect your feathers?"

Cheeks hot, Aziraphale mumbled that, generally, nobody saw his feathers, but hands were quite visible, and that one had to make a good impression.

But it was more than that – his hands held things that mattered, like books – an invention Aziraphale had fallen madly in love with after the Romans did away with the long, awkward scrolls – or his food. Hands delivered blessings, and held the hands of friends or the suffering. He didn't think a demon could understand that.

"Oh," said Crowley, matter-of-factly, without judgement, "it's one of holy on the outside things, eh?"

"That wasn't precisely what I meant," murmured Aziraphale.

Crowley scratched the itch Aziraphale had been suffering from, tidied the feathers until they practically glowed, then – to the angel's surprise – began to rub at the bones, digging in with his thumbs.

"Oh!"

"What?" He kept his hands in place but stopped rubbing. "Did I hurt you?"

"N-no..." he stammered. "I just wasn't expecting you to do that."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No... It... Well, it feels rather nice."

"Right." He noticed the tense angle the angel was holding himself at, struggling to sit upright. "You can lean back on me, if it helps."

Aziraphale took another sip of wine, then complied, leaning back and closing his eyes halfway.

Rain was still pelting the casement windows. They might be stuck in here for a bit longer.

By the time Crowley withdrew his hands, Aziraphale felt...there was no other word for it...wonderful... At least physically. His wings were so beautifully tended; Crowley had done a remarkable job. Guilt was pricking at him again, however. Although it whispered this time, rather than shouted.

Moving on the cushion, edging a little closer to the fire, Aziraphale stared anxiously into the flames – his eyes were slightly moist. Probably he should not have allowed a demon to run their hands up and down his wings so freely, no matter how good it felt.

"Aziraphale..." Crowley was still being soft with him – perhaps he understood, just a little. "It's all right."

"I know, but, I never...I don't...I shouldn't..."

"Would it help if I let you touch mine?" he offered.

"It might." At least, then, it wouldn't feel one-sided – not if it was something they both allowed.

Crowley unfolded his dark wings. They were sleek, elegantly groomed.

Stretching out his hand, Aziraphale lightly touched a feather with a single fingertip. "Oh! They're soft."

A laugh of genuine amusement escaped the demon. "What did you expect?"

"They look slick." He'd thought they'd feel sort of slimy or oily. If nothing else, he'd thought they should have felt vaguely slippery, because they were demon wings, not like his own angelic ones.

"See?" Crowley told him. "They're exactly like yours; I just groom them more often."

Braver now, Aziraphale slid his hand upwards. The feathers gave off an oddly sparky sensation.

"With the feathers, Aziraphale!" Crowley snapped.

"Oh, frightfully sorry." He stroked downwards, splaying his fingers.

"Your hands feel so clean," Crowley sighed contentedly.

"You could wash yours more often," Aziraphale pointed out, a touch pertly. "Gosh, they're like goose down."

He'd once done a few small blessings for a man who raised geese and gave the feathers to his wife to sew into pillows. There had been a big crate of cleaned feathers in the corner of the room he'd visited the man in, and Aziraphale had been permitted to stick his hands inside the crate.

This felt a bit like that, only even nicer.

"Don't compare me to a goose. Snot a goose, 'snot." Crowley began making little drunken honking sounds.

Aziraphale was shaking with laughter, struggling to keep his hands steady as they stroked the demon's feathers.

"Dig in a bit, would you?"

Aziraphale complied; Crowley leaned back on him, trustingly, with a comfortable groan. "Ooh. That's the spot. D'you know what? You're much better at this than Hastur."

"Who?"

"Duke of Hell – pulls on the feathers like a bitch."

"Do other demons usually help you with your wings?"

"Ngh. Not any more. Once was enough – you can't trust them not to do something nasty."

Aziraphale tried to think of a diplomatic way of pointing out that Crowley hadn't done anything to him. And surely he was as much a demon as any other in Hell. Coming up with nothing, the angel proceeded to finish in silence. When he was done, he leaned forward, put an arm around Crowley, and gave him a light squeeze in parting.

"Did you just hug me?" The demon pivoted round at the waist and granted him one of his rare – very slow, very snaky – blinks.

Aziraphale was red again. "Er." He wasn't sure why he'd done it. He supposed it had just – in a moment of unsurety regarding everything else – seemed to be the right thing to do.

"You must be even more tired than you look," Crowley decided.

"Crowley, this is entirely unnecessary. I told you, I don't sleep."

The demon folded his arms across his chest. "And you don't drink stolen wine, or let a demon groom you, either."

Aziraphale had been coaxed up a little ladder into a loft above the rest of the cottage where, below a cosy triangular window with criss-crossed bars, a sizeable bed made up with velvet blankets and patchwork quilts waited for a dozy visitor.

"You're exhausted," Crowley said, very no-nonsense. "Just try it for a bit. It's pleasant. Scout's honour."

Aziraphale sat down on the bed, bouncing lightly. There was a nice, bouncy give to the mattress. "Not bad."

"Just lie on your side there," Crowley suggested, pointing to the pillows next to a carved headboard.

Aziraphale made a motion to draw his wings in.

"Leave them out," said Crowley. "They could use a few hours' airing."

"Someone will..."

"No one will see anything – it's just us here, angel."

"Mmm, all right."

Crowley reached out and straightened the angel's wings so that Aziraphale wouldn't roll over onto them and hurt himself in his sleep. He'd done that once or twice, and the sore bones hadn't been fun to cope with.

Although he wasn't properly drunk, the world did seem a little bleary to Aziraphale, between being tired and having had enough wine to make him just slightly incoherent. He looked, a little helplessly, at Crowley. "You won't..."

"Won't what?"

"This...this isn't a trick, is it, Crowley?"

"How do you mean?"

"M'not going to wake up surrounded by other demons, or with my wings tied together, or...or...discorporated..."

"Of course not!"

"You said you couldn't trust demons to...to..er..." he trailed off, beginning to slur.

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale's head, patting it lightly. "I've got nothing against you. Never did. Thought you knew that."

"Promise," he urged.

"Promise what?"

"Promise you won't hurt me." He was feeling vulnerable. Even a demon's promise – which theoretically shouldn't count for much – was better than nothing.

"I promise. Rest."

The angel took the demon's hand in his own and held it as he fell asleep. Crowley pulled it free, but not right away, not until Aziraphale's breathing suggested his slumber was sound enough he wouldn't notice.

Aziraphale woke alone, to a room filled with sunshine. His wings were still out, and still gleaming. He pulled them in and sat up, stretching. Sleeping wasn't as great as Crowley made it sound, but it had left him a bit more rested, which was nice.

He made his way down the ladder and looked about the cottage. Everything was the way it had been when they first entered – the wine barrel was back where it belonged and the grate was empty.

Because he couldn't resist, Aziraphale left a note – in perfect copperplate handwriting – for the absent occupants, thanking them for their unwitting hospitality. He folded it and placed it neatly under a wooden cup in the pantry.

"Crowley?"

There was no answer.

He wandered around for a bit, peeking in various corners. "Crowley?"

Nothing.

The demon had left.

He wasn't entirely sure why that fact upset him, but it did.

Crowley was walking down a heathery hillside, three days later, when he saw – from behind – Aziraphale sitting on a low stone wall.

He was reading a leather-tooled book.

Crowley couldn't see the title, but it must have been fascinating to the angel, because – in addition to holding it close to his face – he was subconsciously relaxing his body as he read.

"Oh, shit!" exclaimed Crowley, realising what was about to happen and rushing forward.

Aziraphale toppled backwards – he would have looked like Humpty Dumpty, if Humpty Dumpty had been invented in those days.

"Oof!" cried Aziraphale, from the ground, eyes darting back and forth, trying – and momentarily failing – to locate where his dropped book had landed. "That was unfortunate. Luckily, something's broken my fall."

"That would be me," hissed a voice under him. "Get off!"

Leaping up, Aziraphale saw Crowley sprawled on the ground where he'd landed. "Oh, good lord."

Crowley rose to his feet and brushed his hose off. Noticing the angel's book, he picked it up and handed it to him nonchalantly.

"Thank you." Aziraphale studied him for a moment. "What were you doing there? Were you trying to catch me?"

"No," lied Crowley, with forced bitterness and colouring cheeks. "Was just walking by, minding my own business. Hardly my fault if angels can't be expected not to come crashing down on my head."

"Well, thank you all the same," Aziraphale managed, his stare growing icy as he began to walk away.

"Wait a minute," Crowley trotted after him. "You're not mad at me?"

"Rather a bit, yes."

"What about?" He rubbed the back of his sore head.

"The cottage, Crowley."

"What'd you mean?" He frowned. "I didn't do anything to you. Left you safe and sound in a cosy bed."

"That's just it," Aziraphale explained, moodily. "You left."

"You've lost me, angel."

He attempted to nudge past him. "I expect your side had rather a laugh – I mean, getting an angel to trust you, then abandoning him in a stranger's house."

"Aziraphale." Crowley snagged his arm and made him stop. "My side doesn't know anything about it."

"Really?"

"Yes! Whatd'you take me for?"

Well, a demon, quite frankly. "Perhaps I was a little hasty to judge, it's simply that..." He began to dither, wringing his hands awkwardly.

"Not that it's anything worth bragging about, not the way you think it is, but even if I wanted to – I mean, I don't see my superiors very often... Do you hear from your people a lot?"

"No, actually," Aziraphale confessed, softening to Crowley's point. "Only on occasion, when they want something."

"I know you've said no before, but think how tired you were that day in the cottage. Look what passively cancelling one another out is doing to our well being."

"What are you suggesting, Crowley?" For the first time, Aziraphale was listening; for the first time, the question was not wrought from pure indignation on his part.

"I'm suggesting," said Crowley, simply, actually daring to slip an arm around the angel's shoulders, "that you and I come to an Arrangement."

A/N: Reviews Welcome, replies may be delayed.