Rise, I'll rise, I'll rise
Skinned her alive, ripped her apart
Scattered her ashes, buried her heart
Rise up above it, high up above and see
Pray to your god, open your heart
Whatever you do, don't be afraid of the dark
Cover your eyes, the devil inside.
-"Night of the Hunter", 30 Seconds to Mars

Over a week later, Crowley had made exactly no progress on bloody well finding out anything about the deaths of the two small boys. No one was willing to speak to Crowley about a crime that they had neither witnessed nor had any connection to, at least as far as they were concerned. The people who lived there were poor and desperate, and most struggled to simply make it through the day relatively unscathed. What once had been a thriving, affluent area filled with the nobility of the times had turned into crowded tenements filled to the brim with underfed, often times starving families, and surrounded by brothels, music halls, and theatres, while the aristocratic residents had fled in the years leading up to the terrible cholera outbreak a decade earlier.

Their treatment by the highborn population during the years of co-habitation had transformed the remaining community into an insulated, protective community that had banded together out of necessity, forming symbiotic relationships with those around them to give everyone their very best chance at survival. They were suspicious of outsiders - those whose daily lives were not a constant battle just to make it home by nightfall. Aziraphale's bookshop may have been in Soho for over half a century, but he, personally, was not an integrated part of the largely illiterate community. They had no use for him or the books that scattered his shop, and they certainly had no inclination to give him, or his dark-spectacled associate with the sneering voice and flamboyant gestures, any information on their family and friends. They were not wealthy, or educated, and had very worldly possessions, but they were loyal to their own. No one else would help them, after all – not a decade ago when they were all literally dying in and from their own filth, and not now, when they were as beaten down and hopeless as they ever had been. They were all they had, but at least they had each other. It was a sentiment Crowley understood, even as he despised it.

"But we're trying to help them," Aziraphale protested as they made their way back to the bookshop, his voice distressed. "It stands to reason that those poor children are from here, there's no way that they could have made it far in that – condition. Shouldn't they want to know what happened, and why?"

"It's not about that, angel," Crowley answered absently, his attention cast about the streets around them, looking for... well, anything, really, that seemed out of the ordinary. "There's so many of 'em here, it's impossible to know everybody and even if they did, no one wants to be the one talking to the law. Police don't help the likes of them, they just storm in, rile everything up, drag away some poor soul that can't defend themselves, and leave everyone worse off than they were before. They don't want to be next."

"Oh, really Crowley, it can't possibly be that bad! The police enforce the law, they're here to help!"

Aziraphale's objection drew a brief sigh from Crowley, accompanied by an eye roll. "You can't possibly be that naïve. No one cares about them, least of all the police. Two kids dying in the slums means nothing to anyone, even the poor sods that live here. They have no power, no influence. They're just factory workers, or dock rats – no, don't look at me like that, that's not what I think, obviously, but that's just how it is, and you know it. Easier to just keep quiet, keep their heads down, and go about their lives as best and long as they can, because Go – Somebody knows that they don't have much time anyway."

The angel huffed, but declined to comment further as they reached the front door of his shop. The knob turned under his hand, and he stepped back to allow Crowley entrance first, shutting it behind them and ensuring it was firmly locked. Still quite upset but unwilling to show it, Aziraphale made a beeline for the back room, where he began to fuss with the kettle, the desire for displacement activity stronger than any actual craving for tea.

"None for me," Crowley called before the question was even asked. He grinned as he heard a soft sound of surprise mixed with slight indignation drift through to the front area where he now paced. His eyes glared around at the shelves and tables of the shop that were damn near impossible to see under the piles and piles of books, tomes, digests, and – ah! There it was, the Vedas, sitting on a small, round, wooden table next to a –

Well, well. Wasn't that interesting?

"How long's this chaise lounge been here, then?" he asked, head tilted a bit to the side in scrutiny. He was sure it hadn't been last week, when they'd set off to the British Museum together, and Aziraphale rarely spent much time in the front part of the shop unless he was organizing – he preferred to devote his attentions to his volumes privately, at his desk, where interruptions were less likely. There certainly weren't customers that came in with any regularity, and even had there been, it was highly improbable that the angel would set out a piece of furniture that would encourage someone to linger in the building, maybe grab a book and relax on the plush cushion… Settle for a while….

It did look rather comfortable, now that Crowley thought about it, and although he strictly had no need to stretch out and let the burdens and heaviness of the last week slip off his shoulders, metaphorically speaking, he found he couldn't resist the temptation to just exist without reason or justification in a place that was familiar and safe. He didn't even try.

It was thus that Aziraphale found him when he walked out with a cup of tea only ten minutes later, sprawled out, head thrown back, eyes closed, and looking the very paragon of a creature at peace. The angel's smile was far fonder than was perhaps proper, and for a moment he simply stood there, happy to take advantage of the unusual sight of the normally so tightly-wound demon for once allowing himself to be so at ease. It made his heart swell with an emotion he could not identify, and though he hated to disrupt what was such a rare luxury for his compatriot, he knew that Crowley would not thank him for seeing him in this way, uninhibited and almost vulnerable, no matter how pure his intentions.

"I'm so pleased you like it," he commented gently, not wanting to harshly break the silence and startle the contented figure splayed on his couch. "I found it in a quaint little shop off York Street the other day, and I knew – well, rather, I thought of you when I saw it, since there's simply nowhere for you to sit when we conduct business, and how, how rude it was of me to not even take into consideration! You don't mind dreadfully, do you?"

"Mmph. Stop talking, angel," Crowley muttered as he lifted his head and sunglasses, revealing cheeks that were tinged ever-so slightly pink now, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly before dropping the spectacles back in place. "What now, then? We've been at this for over a week with nothing to show for it. No one saw anything, and anyone who did isn't willing to talk."

"I don't think there's anything left to do, Crowley," the angel reluctantly answered. "You said it yourself that the police will only make things worse, if they do anything at all, and I don't see how either one of us can do much else if not even the families seem to care that their children are gone. Perhaps they're just so overwhelmed with grief to truly comprehend – "

"Nergh," Crowley cut him off with something akin to a frustrated snarl, his face reflecting the emotion. "It's not incomprehensible, it's just humanity. They would be blind to the start of the bloody Apocalypse, if it meant that they could continue their normal lives for just a few days longer."

Ever optimistic at the thought of someday being able to speak a complete sentence, Aziraphale once more opened his mouth to protest, managing a full, "Now my dear, you can't possibly mean –" before being interrupted once more, this time not by his redheaded companion, but by the sounds of shrieking coming from the street. Both froze for a moment, but a second scream sent Crowley shooting up off the chaise and running for the door, Aziraphale close on his heels.

The scene that greeted them outside was not a pleasant one, not that they imagined it would be. At the center of the commotion was a rough looking woman, stringy dark hair falling in her blood-shot eyes and tear-stained face, which was noticeably swollen. Two bobbies visibly restrained her as she kicked and screeched, trying to wrench out of their grips and launch herself at a short, overweight man standing next to another Metropolitan police officer, and a taller, well-dressed gentleman wearing the current fashion of the day, complete with a top hat and cane. He looked far too finely dressed to be in the middle of the filthy, crowded burrough, though he appeared completely at ease and in control of the situation. Indeed, he seemed as though he would look collected and confident in any setting, whether it be the opera house or, like this very moment, standing in the middle of the slums, watching a poor wretch shout senselessly at what seemed to be her equally poor husband, whose expressions vacillated wildly between confusion, terror, and something else, something increasingly dark and nervous as the disturbance escalated.

"He killed him!" the woman screamed again, managing to twist just enough to yank one arm free from bondage, lifting her other one to her mouth and sinking her teeth deeply into the skin of the other copper's forearm. He let out a shout of his own and released her instinctively to prevent further damage, which she took as a grand opportunity to fling herself at her husband, knocking him quite unceremoniously to the ground and immediately wrapping her hands around his throat.

"Oh!" Aziraphale breathed, taking a step forward as if to intervene. In a flash, Crowley's hand caught his bicep, squeezing it firmly, though not painfully, in warning.

"Better not," the demon murmured lowly, not taking his eyes off the situation. Something wasn't right, and it wasn't the fact that a wife was throttling her spouse in full daylight, in front of three police officers, one of whom was dripping blood from the bite marks in his flesh at a rather alarming rate – while it wasn't necessarily an everyday occurrence, violence in London was not even remotely uncommon, and it certainly wasn't enough to set the spine in Crowley's corporation a-tingling in this manner.

"But Crowley, she's – "

"No, look, see, they've set him right again. Now be quiet, angel, I'm trying to listen."

The stylish gentleman stepped forward now as the officers managed to slip handcuffs on the hysterical woman, her husband still on the ground in a sitting position and massaging his throat in a daze. He surveyed the scene for a moment, an expression akin to mild enjoyment flickering over his face before being placed with a look of practiced, even casual, concern. "If I may," he began, commanding the attention of everyone within a mile radius, it seemed, "I may be able to shed some light on the situation."

His voice was smooth and cultured, with the faintest hints of an accent that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could quite place, but that they felt deeply inside them. It was the authority that laced even those three words that twinged them at their core: Aziraphale recognized it as the same arrogance that laced every word that fell out of the Archangel Gabriel's mouth. For his part, Crowley hadn't experienced that level of easy self-assurance since before the Fall, when Lucifer's voice enchanted his followers with promises of answers and change. It made his skin crawl.

It seemed, however, that the officers were less impressed, though their attention was decidedly divided between the new orator and the still-spitting captive being forcibly detained until the police cart arrived to transport her to a holding cell. "And who might you be?" demanded the injured officer, holding a (relatively) clean handkerchief to his wound.

A thin smile wound its way over the gentleman's face at the bobby's tone, but his own voice was measured and restrained as he answered. "My name is Harrison C. Olom – "

"What's the 'C' stand for?" Crowley mumbled rhetorically under his breath, smirking as the angel next to him rolled his eyes.

"It's just a 'C', as far as anyone here is concerned," the man – Olom – answered, flicking his eyes over to the pair standing only a few feet away in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale elbowed Crowley in the side, obviously embarrassed to be caught rubbernecking a situation that did not involve him. Crowley, of course, had no such compunctions, and merely shrugged carelessly. "And you are…?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale flushed lightly at being so directly addressed, and his hands fluttered lightly for a second, fingers lacing together at his front. "I am Ezra Fell, owner of this establishment," he gestured vaguely behind him, "and this is my, err…"

"Crowley."

"Your Crowley?" Olom sounded amused.

"His associate. My name is Crowley," he corrected, decidedly not amused.

"Do you have a first name, Mr. Crowley?" His voice was obvious in its mockery, conveying fully just how entertained by this exchange Olom was, even as man who had just nearly been strangled was being escorted down the street to the local doctor7 to be checked for any lasting injuries. The mirth in his eyes now bordered 'inappropriate', clashing with the obsidian colour of the iris that rendered it nigh indistinguishable from the pupil and contrasted sharply with the unusually tanned face of the aristocrat.

"Just Crowley," the demon ground out, the lines on his face drawing tighter as his temper flared. His fingers itched with the desire to punch this smug bastard's face and wipe the smile off of it at least momentarily; only the surrounding crowds, complete with policemen with more on the way, and the angel at his side, stayed his hand. He was rash, but not a fool, after all.

"Well, Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell… Officers," Olom continued, maintaining eye contact with Crowley for a good ten seconds more before turning his attention back to the situation at hand. "As I was saying, I know this man and his family. Mr. Cartwright and his son Henry work for me in my shipping business, down at the docks. Regrettably, young Henry suffered a tragic accident this morning, and was fatally injured. Mr. Cartwright and I delivered the tragic news to the missus just now, who, understandably, went mad with grief upon seeing what was left of her son."

"You burned him, you lying bastard!" Mrs. Cartwright shrieked from where she was held, fifteen feet away. "Weren't no accident, weren't no tragedy, you sons of bitches killed my boy! Murderers! MURDERERS!"

Olom shifted in what would be an uncomfortable manner, except that he seemed physically capable of such awkwardness. "Yes," he went on, this time at a much lower volume, "I'm afraid Mary quite blames us for the death of her son. She was against the boy coming to work for me at all, but Richard was insistent. I, of course, am wracked with guilt at what has happened," he added, without an ounce of actual guilt in his voice. "The boy was only six years old, a terrible waste. Terrible."

"Lying bastard!" Mary Cartwright would not be silenced, despite the best attempts of the people around her, thrashing once more in a desperate bid for freedom even as the police wagon clattered up. "My Henry never fell into no furnace! You killed him! You killed my son! LET GO OF ME!"

As they struggled to load Mrs. Cartwright into the back of the transport, Mr. Olom sighed and ran a hand over his mouth in a display of exaggerated distress. "I wish there was more I could do," he confided to the general audience as the streets began to clear of spectators, now that the whole ordeal seemed to be over. "Richard was always so… loyal an employee. It's a terrible shame." There was a pause, and then he shrugged inelegantly. "Well, Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintances, despite the unpleasant circumstances. Perhaps we will meet again, during a happier occasion. I do so love a good book."

With a smile that was full of hidden meanings and even more hidden knives, Olom turned on his heel and strolled away from the bookshop towards a handsome black carriage with the words, "H. C. Olom" embossed on the side in curling gold script. A footman opened the door for him, and a few seconds later, the horses pulled away, turned a corner, and were out of sight.

For a moment, all was quiet.

"I don't like that man," Aziraphale commented, somewhat surprised at the vehemence in his words. Next to him, Crowley snorted in agreement, fingers still twitching at his side. "He seems so familiar, though I can't quite place him. I know I've heard the name before."

"He just bought one of the biggest shipping companies in London," Crowley answered immediately. "There was a big to-do about it, especially since before that, he'd bought out the textile mill down by the Thames. Brought on a lot of honest work for a lot of people – what?"

"How do you know all of this?" Aziraphale sounded amazed, but with an ugly undertone of suspicion that, in all fairness, may have been warranted, but wounded Crowley nonetheless.

"I listen, angel, and I pay attention. My, ah, work takes me all over this blasted city, from the nobs in Mayfair and Piccadilly to St. Giles, and Whitechapel, and yes, don't glare at me, even Soho. I do still have compliance reports to fill out, you know, I don't just exaggerate all of them."

This was obviously news to Aziraphale, but he did not press the point. The confusion, distress, and frustration of not only the afternoon, but the entire last week and a half had quite caught up to him, and the thought of going back-and-forth even with his dear Crowley made the beginnings of a headache creep into his temples. He found himself longing for that cup of tea, which would of course be cold by now, he realised dismally, and a good, comforting book where everything made sense and no one shouted about murder right in front of him. It didn't seem too much to ask.

As always, Crowley seemed to interpret the angel's mood perfectly, and took pity on him. "Look," he conceded, his voice now lowered and almost gentle, if a demon ever could be that, "look, it's been a long day. Why don't you go back to the bookshop, collect yourself, do whatever it is you do when you're not thwarting dastardly wiles or asking questions with obvious answers, and I'll pop around the docks, see what I can find out. We'll meet up sometime next week, see what we have then."

The angel's smile was beatific, and Crowley resented the thrumming of his heart in response to it. "Are you quite sure? Oh, my dear, that sounds perfectly lovely. I've been simply itching to start work on the Vedas text, and with all the, well, the unpleasantness recently, I haven't had a spare second!"

"Yeah, yeah, go on. I'll get in contact with you when I have something," the demon assured him, watching Aziraphale retreat back into his building with a sigh and shake of his head.

He still hadn't replaced that bloody scroll at the British Museum. Might as well start there.