BAD GRACE - quantum witch © 2005
see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary
In which Aziraphale is given his ultimate assignment, and Crowley pouts.
3:02 – UNDER HIS WING
NEARLY THE END OF DECEMBER, Aziraphale mused, his cheeks red as he puffed out steamy breath into the frosty air. Snowflakes were gently falling, light and fluffy, it looked like bits of Heaven drifting down to Earth.
Somehow, he and Crowley had patched things up. Not a word had been spoken about their mutual difficulty, of course, it just wasn't the right time. But by silent agreement they were getting along as before the kiss, and even managed to look one another in the eye again.
Of course they hadn't resolved the real tension, meaning they hadn't given in. It was merely a matter of time before the tea kettle boiled over again.
Speaking of which, a nice hot cup would be marvelous just about now.
He entered the bookshop, shaking the snow off his shoes at the door. Trundling to the back room, he quickly prepared his tea and curled up on the sofa with a blanket. He should probably turn the heat up and bit, as he was actually planning to open the store today. Christmas was a week away, and there were more frequent shoppers actually wanting his wares, and especially gifts for children. There were plenty on the shelves now, thanks to Adam, and if they could be afforded, he would sell them. He was still a businessman, after all.
Aziraphale rather enjoyed Christmas time. Even though it reminded him with a small twinge of the unpleasantness two thousand years earlier. And it had become incredibly commercial and trite and overdone. And families, shut in during bad weather, had a tendency to bicker more than usual. Nevertheless, there was a general feeling of good will and anticipation of enjoyment. Some people did still manage that, for short periods.
And decorating was fun.
He had hung garlands of greenery and bright red ribbons at the windows, and a sprig of mistletoe over the door. He knew very well that most of the symbols were pagan, but it still seemed so festive that he couldn't be troubled to worry. God wouldn't mind his nailing a few bits of leafy material to the walls in honour of His only Son. At least he'd stopped short of buying figurines of Santa and the reindeer. That entire myth still baffled him.
His tea nearly finished, there came a knock at his door, and Aziraphale rose to attend his customer. It was instead a delivery man.
"Morning!" he said cheerily, wiping his boots on the rug. "Lovely day, isn't it? I mean we're getting a bit of snow, but it's nothing like a couple years ago. Quite a storm then, eh? I remember how nice and clean it all looked, then it all turned to black slush in about an hour, thanks to traffic. Darn shame, that. And it was muck to walk in, that's for sure. And me having to get in and out like I do, delivering-"
"Er, is there something you wanted?" Aziraphale interrupted as politely as only a British man can.
"Oh! Goodness, yes," the man grinned sheepishly. "Courier message for Mr. Fell."
"Ah, yes, that's me." Aziraphale took the clipboard, signed his name, and took the envelope. He kindly tipped the man, who touched his cap with a big smile and departed.
Aziraphale tossed the envelope onto the counter for later and would have returned to his tea, when he saw the envelope's edges were glowing very slightly. His heart fell into his stomach, then rose to his throat, then couldn't decide which way to go and bounced painfully throughout his thorax.
A message from Above. Probably not good. Was it a reprimand? A commendation? Was he still on the payroll? Was he being recalled Home?
Was he in deep shit?
He would never know unless he managed to brave the very long three steps it took to walk to the counter and pick up the envelope, open it, and read it.
It felt like the Green Mile.
Carefully tearing open the seal, he took an actual breath to bolster himself. Inside was a glowing piece of parchment. He gingerly unfolded the paper. He read it. He paused and read it again. And again. Well. Perhaps this wouldn't be so awful after all. Though it was certainly puzzling.
He would have to tell Crowley. Though he wasn't sure he wanted to.
And speaking of the demon, he appeared. The doorbell jangled cheerily and he snarled upward at it "Blessed bell, blessed cold...," he muttered.
Then he spotted the decorations. And more specifically the mistletoe. Oh now, that couldn't be left alone. He decided to break the strain, the last two weeks of pretending he wasn't dying of horniness, and speak up. If Aziraphale took it as a joke, or if the ceiling fell in on his head because of his strange bad luck, then he would risk it.
He grinned, quite serpentine, and looked toward the angel. Who hadn't even looked up when he entered. Crowley's mood took a sharp dive. "Aziraphale, you're breaking a very old, very sacred tradition here."
"What?" Aziraphale glanced up, then seemed to finally register Crowley's presence at the door. "Tradition? Sacred?"
Crowley grinned again, pointing upward to the leaves and berries overhead. "Don't want to anger the Christmas gods, do we?"
Pursing his lips, Aziraphale snorted. "If you think references to paganism will accomplish your goal, you'd best recall to who you are speaking, serpent."
"All too well," Crowley grumbled. To be contrary, he refused to move from the doorway, even when it was obvious Aziraphale wanted him to follow to the back room.
Eventually the demon reached up and ripped the mistletoe down and snarled at it like it belonged in his flat. "You traitor," he hissed. Leaves in fist, he stalked to the back room where Aziraphale was brewing a second pot of tea, and re-reading a letter that glowed suspiciously.
Crowley's libido was suddenly halted. "Oh, shit. That's from Above, isn't it?" he breathed.
"Yes, dear, it is," Aziraphale sighed, and poured a cup for each of them. He knew exactly how Crowley preferred it now, and added far too much sugar and a dash of milk before setting the cup into his hand. "Are you planning to keep the plant, another victim to harass?"
The demon sighed as well, and laid the mistletoe down on the counter. "What the hell do they want?"
"Not that, I assure you. It's... it's an assignment, actually."
Secretly greatly relieved, Crowley sighed. "I guessed as much. Doing what?"
"Well, it's odd really." Aziraphale was just about to sit down on the sofa, when the front bell rang again. "Oh bugger," he breathed, surprising Crowley, "I should have turned the Closed sign." He excused himself and went out, leaving Crowley to snoop at the letter himself.
The demon didn't risk touching the paper, because he wasn't sure just how holy even a memorandum from Heaven might be. This meant that he had to grab the mistletoe and nudge at the paper to turn it over. When he read it, his eyes popped open wide. "Bless me," he whispered. Then he tucked the mistletoe into the breast pocket of his coat and went out into the store.
Where he promptly turned pale, stunned at the view.
"Oh, Crowley, ah, you should probably meet Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer-Device," Aziraphale said with a rather harried expression. "It seems that we're all going to be seeing a lot of each other for a while."
Newt and Anathema stood in the middle of the floor, looking shocked. Anathema less so than Newt. He had suddenly recalled a specific piece of his previously blurred memory of Armageddon.
"You... you're... both of you were..." Newt sputtered and pointed back and forth between the two other men, nearly dropping several packages he carried.
"It's all right Newt," Anathema said softly, shifting her own packages over a bit, making it more obvious that she was four months along in her pregnancy. "I think they're angels."
"But..." Newt's jaw flapped a bit, then snapped shut when Crowley laughed aloud.
"Half right, miss. Er, Mrs.," Crowley said. "He's an angel. I'm a demon. You're a witch. You're... I'm guessing, a chartered accountant or something." He grinned toothily. "Now that we've all been re-introduced, more or less, I think I'll be leaving. Aziraphale," he turned to the angel who looked quite worried. "Have fun with your new job and I hope we run into each other now and again over the next eighteen years or so though it's not bloody likely since you'll be playing nanny for these two and don't call me when you need help changing nappies, eh? Arrivederci."
And the demon stomped out the door, slamming it rather harder than necessary.
"... Demon...?" Newt whispered, finally giving up and dropping a few packages.
"Yes, but he's really not so bad," Aziraphale said. "Just a trifle rude sometimes. Er, perhaps you'd both better come into the back room. I've just made some tea, and I think... we should talk."
"SO, YOU'RE SAYING THAT YOU'VE BEEN given instructions, by Heaven, to be a guardian angel for our baby?" Newt asked several minutes later, halfway through his fifth cup of tea.
"Yes. Well, not a guardian, so much as the Guardian, capital letter. Apparently it was a request from... a young neighbour of yours." Aziraphale wasn't sure how much he was supposed to be telling them, because it was not only his first time playing guardian, but he'd been under the impression it was supposed to be done secretly in the first place. They'd spoiled it by showing up and actually recognising him for what he was.
"Oh," Anathema said suddenly, "it must have been Adam. He seems rather taken with the idea of this baby."
"You... know about him?" Aziraphale asked, even more startled.
"Somewhat," Anathema frowned, as if trying very hard to push a memory forward. "I know he's different... important... He's got something to do with the world nearly ending, or not ending. Just like you and that other... one."
"The world nearly ended?" Newt said quietly. "Well, that explains a lot." He wasn't handling this as well as he'd have liked. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was about to take his new wife to Dorking to visit his parents for the first time.
"Yes, he was... is... er, the Antichrist. But that doesn't mean he's a bad person," Aziraphale said, hesitantly.
"No, I think I'd know if he was. A bad person, I mean." Anathema smiled. "It all makes sense now. I think, somehow, we'd been made to forget a lot of what happened, weren't we? Just to protect us and let us go on living normally."
"Yes, precisely," Aziraphale nodded. Thank goodness the young lady was sensible. She definitely had her ancestor's mindset about things. "You know, I really didn't expect to be given this assignment. I'm not sure what to do, really."
Anathema smiled again. "Well, I shouldn't think it will be too hard. We're going to be fine without a guardian angel."
"Oh no!" Aziraphale said urgently. "I can't not do the job. Even if you don't want it, it's already been Decreed... And Adam asked for it, a child's prayer, and from a child of great power. I'm not sure it's wise to ignore it."
Newt said slowly, trying very hard to digest such bizarre things, "Okay. Adam Young is the Antichrist. And he prayed to God, whom I'm not sure I even believe in. For an angel. Which is supposedly you. To come and watch over our baby."
"Er. Yes." Aziraphale could see this was going to be harder than he'd hoped.
"Um. I know that I saw you just a few months ago. You and the man with the sunglasses. And I remember... strange things happening, though I suppose I might have been delirious from bumping my head when I crashed my car. But seriously... an angel?" Newt tried desperately to look skeptical. Yet he was having troubles allowing himself to disbelieve. He believed that Anathema was special, and that she fancied herself a witch, and was certainly rather psychic... but that sort of thing was easily acceptable somehow.
Aziraphale sighed. "Very well, I suppose it had to happen eventually. You understand I'm only doing this because, well, I'm going to be the child's guardian whether any of us like it or not. And there's nothing in the assignment that says I can't be up front and open about what I am. Usually, we're supposed to be more, er, subtle, but... Fine."
He stood up, shook his shoulders briefly, and with a wince as his shirt ripped along the back, unfolded enormous wings. They weren't white, but a soft dusty blue-grey with white speckles and golden-brown bars on the longer feathers. But they shone with heavenly light anyway. They were a tad messy as he hadn't opened them since the Apocalypse, but undeniably huge and real.
"Does this satisfy you, Mr. Pulsifer? I can perform a few tiny miracles, but I'd rather not show off too much more, if that's all right by you. I'm basically a very, er, modest sort overall, if you couldn't tell by the environs I inhabit." Aziraphale gave a kind and hopeful smile.
"I think," Anathema said, a bit breathless herself at the display of wings so huge and strong that they could well have broken a fragile human body, "that we're fine with the situation. Thank you. They're, er, lovely, Mr. Fell, very impressive."
"Aziraphale is actually my proper name," the angel said, folding his wings away and making them vanish. Just because he didn't have a spare shirt downstairs, he gave in and miracled his clothes repaired.
Newt was pale and goggle-eyed. "Wow," he breathed, "should I be, uh, dropping to my knees and praying, or something?"
Aziraphale chuckled gently. "Goodness, not to me, no. I'm just a messenger, protector, and healer. I'm not God."
Anathema cleared her throat. "Um, well, I guess that's settled." She looked toward Newt for confirmation but he was still staring at Aziraphale. "Anyway. Er. I don't suppose you'd care to visit us at home? We're having a sort of Christmas celebration. Several of the neighbourhood children seem to be very fond of us, and as it's our first season together and the first in town, they were all keen to welcome us. So we thought we'd have a little open-house sort of thing. Bring a goodie, bring a gift, whatever. But, um, I don't know what angels think about parties and Christmas..."
"Oh that sounds delightful!" Aziraphale genuinely beamed at them. He sat down across from the couple and smiled with all the warmth he possessed, which was a considerable amount, leaving them with a deep down feeling of contentment. "I would very much like to join your celebration. And I shall bring along a housewarming gift. I haven't been really closely involved with a human on such a level in, oh, just ages. Rather detached influences, that's all I've had for such a long while."
Anathema actually felt herself feeling sympathy for the angel. She too had been detached from normal society most of her life, and though she hadn't missed it due to her calling, now that it was over... she was finding that she rather liked the people she was getting to know. She leaned over and patted his hand, surprising and pleasing him. "You're welcome to come by for more than just Christmas. Naturally, as you're the Guardian now… Er," she looked to Newt then, and bit her lip, "unless there's a problem."
Newt finally seemed to notice her, and smiled. "Do we have a choice? By which I mean, of course, he's always welcome."
CROWLEY DROVE FOR SEVERAL HOURS, fuming to himself. The Blaupunkt was now blasting AC/DC, as he'd discovered lately how angry he could get and how refreshing it was to shout along to obnoxious noises. It felt liberating. He'd stocked the Bentley's glove box with a wider selection of tunes in the last couple months - The Who, Sex Pistols, the Kinks, Rolling Stones, etc. For some reason, he'd found it more and more necessary to listen to loud music. It used to be classical, to soothe himself when he got annoyed. Now he wanted to let it out and scream.
Why was he so angry? Damned angel didn't care if he was angry. Damned angel had an assignment now, one that would keep him busy for nearly two decades. Guardian Damned Angel. And all Crowley had to do was screw around without actually getting laid. Maybe he should do what he'd said months ago, get some kind of job.
…Naaah.
He hated to admit it, but he was angry with himself most of all. Wanting Aziraphale had become an addiction. Crowley had seen humans with addiction problems and been incredibly grateful not to be one of them. The tension, the sweating, the abandoning of personal ethics º. The isolating, the betrayal and lying to loved ones, wrecking of lives and abusing everyone in their path. All just to achieve the next high.
Crowley now understood. He didn't think he was getting bad enough to attack anyone... except maybe Aziraphale.
The thought of being patient enough for the angel to come around nearly made him bite through his steering wheel. That could take eons. Crowley's libido might well spontaneously combust before that happened. He'd dropped enough hints, for Anyone's sake. What did he have to do? Drop his damned trousers and say, Lunch is served, have a bite, and there's plenty for leftovers.
Crowley drove on at high speed, his anger making him lose just enough control of the Bentley that it skidded in the snow. He jerked the wheel hard as the car spun wildly across the lane and ended up facing the direction he'd come form. For a few moments he sat there, breathing heavily from surprise. Then he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. He couldn't even drive away from London. He was doomed.
Leaning his head backward onto the seat, he sighed unhappily but he was thinking more clearly.
Aziraphale. Guardian angel. Oh please. He was hardly suited for such a job. He didn't know how to handle the children of this era, he'd proved that in August at Warlock's stupid birthday party. He'd lost control of them within minutes. And an infant? Just forget it. The angel was in over his haloed head.
Why… if Crowley didn't step in and either put a stop to it or help out, the angel would be pulling his hair out within a month. Crowley would have to bite the bullet and be a, pardon the pun, Good Samaritan.
The fact that Crowley knew even less about raising children than Aziraphale meant absolutely nothing. He could learn faster than the angel, who was slow and plodding in all his ways (which he was proving by his bloody ignorance lately). He would help out however he could, and such an effort was bound to mean something, anything, toward winning the angel over. Besides, it would ensure that he stayed close to Aziraphale. Maybe he could eventually knock some sense (or sensuality) into that stupid blond head.
Crowley carefully turned the steering wheel until the Bentley was settled in the proper lane, and slowly made tracks back to London. If he could concentrate enough to forget the snow existed, he might get back in time to accompany Aziraphale to dinner.."
AZIRAPHALE SAID FAREWELL to Newt and Anathema, who were on their way to meet Newt's parents where they were spending the night. And Aziraphale himself would see them again next week in Lower Tadfield. He did wonder what the Antichrist would think of his plans to bring Crowley along. Of course, he'd have to ask Crowley first.
He rang Crowley's flat but got no answer, and didn't really feel like leaving a message. Sighing, he decided to go out and have dinner at one of the smaller restaurants nearby. A bit of casual company and conversation, a tad of warm food and drink, was just the thing on a cold winter evening.
As he neared the intended café, he frowned at the new shop half a block away. It had opened a mere month ago and had been utterly packed to the rafters since then. Even now, people were spilling into the sidewalk, regardless of the snow. It was yet another coffee shop, one of the franchises that seemed to be springing up everywhere, apparently founded a famous Italian chef who had finally gone commercial. The coffee came in literally hundreds of gourmet flavours and sizes with strange names like 'yocto', 'zepto', 'atto', 'femto', and the shops didn't serve any actual food but tastefully designed gourmet cakes and breadsºº. Aziraphale liked sweets, but he couldn't comprehend why anyone would spend so much time drinking coffee and eating non-nutritious tidbits. Certainly when they actually needed nutrition in order to survive. Which he didn't, of course.
The worst part, in his opinion, was the name. Mocha Dick? Seriously. Just because the sign featured a brownish whale in a sea of creamy foam, and just because that happened to be the name of a real whale, borrowed and altered by Melville for his book, didn't mean it was clever. Was it meant to be a reference to the enormous size of the coffee containers? Aziraphale was doubtful.
He continued on to his favourite little café, cosy and old and which served fabulous food. And he was just sitting down to enjoy a bowl of rather good chowder when Crowley came whirling in, dragging half the snow from the streets and plopped down in the chair across from him.
"Hello, dear boy. Care for some dinner?" Aziraphale smiled pleasantly and waved the waitress over.
Crowley ordered, and then took Aziraphale's cup of tea and refilled it from the pot, then drained it himself. He was shivering from the cold and from nerves. And now that he was in the angel's presence again, his nerve was cooling as fast at the weather outside. "Aziraphale, I... uh... we need to talk."
"Hm, that sounds rather like an ultimatum," Aziraphale said, raising an eyebrow. "Is something the matter?"
"Well, yes. Sort of. I'm not sure," Crowley huffed and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you really taking the Guardian gob?"
"Naturally. It's an assignment directly from On High. I'm an angel. I have to do what they say."
"Right, of course, no free will." Crowley sighed. "So does that mean you'll be... moving?"
"What? Oh, I shouldn't think so. I've chatted with the young parents-to-be, and it seems they quite content with the occasional visit on weekends and holidays. I'm looking upon it as a sort of honorary uncle position." Aziraphale beamed again, and Crowley could tell that the angel was quite honestly looking forward to the prospect. It was maddening.
"A baby. You really think you can cope with a baby."
"Of course. It's not as though I've never been around one before. Spend this long on Earth and you have to face it sometime."
"I haven't," Crowley admitted proudly. "Adults and teens only. Frankly they're still immature at any age, so what's the difference, I say. Babies are just, well, so little. And messy. And they can't do anything for themselves. You have to feed them, change them, rock them to sleep."
"Yes, and it can be very rewarding," Aziraphale smiled softly. "The bond between parent and child is stronger than any love I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a lot. There is a devotion that defies all troubles. And watching a child grow and develop, become a person of their own, go out into the world and bring their particular qualities and strengths to everything they do... It's wonderful to watch."
The warmth in the angel's face nearly singed Crowley. "Kind of putting a romantic spin on matters, aren't you?"
"Just as much as you're trying to put a dampener. It's typical of us, I suppose," Aziraphale said blithely, folding his napkin onto his lap as their dinners arrived. "By the way, I've been invited to Lower Tadfield for Boxing Day, a bit of a party they're having. Er... you could come along, if you haven't anything else to do."
Crowley nearly choked on his food. "Christmas party? Me? What sort of a horrible pun are you trying to set up here, angel?"
"Well, if you don't want to, you don't have to..."
"Right, and how else were you thinking of getting there? Flying? In winter weather? Miracling yourself there? Last time you tried that, you miscalculated where to appear and wound up smack in the middle of Vatican City. People still talk about it. Way to keep the faith going."
"Er, true. I'm not really in practice anymore. Do please consider coming along, Crowley. It's not as though anyone will be angry at your presence."
"I'm more worried about how far away to stay from the decorations."
"Oh, piffle," Aziraphale chuckled. "If that's all that's keeping you away, then you needn't fret. Christmas decorations, by and large, aren't really very holy. Perhaps the nativity scenes at very the most, and that would be pushing it. The trees, tinsel, and so on are no more holy than St. Patrick's day decorations. Honestly, Crowley." The angel was giggling in an infuriating way now.
"All right, all right. I'll go. But if I wind up with a rash, you're spreading the ointment on me, got it?"
Aziraphale smirked into his tea. "Of course, my dear, whatever you say."
Crowley found himself grinning in a lecherous way, though without being able to see his eyes, it didn't go over that way. Damn the angel, he was a flirt and always had been, now that Crowley stopped and recounted the millennia. And he was optimistic, once more, that somehow he would get what he wanted.
º Ethics were, in Crowley's view, not the same as morals. One implied a personal set of ideals to which a person tried to live his life, things that had already been consciously chosen and judged appropriate. The other was pushed upon one by religion and therefore was to be ignored.
ºº This was not, as many people thought, an attempt at being 'cute'. It was the ratio of real coffee to cream flavouring made of synthesized foodless material (also what the muffins were made of), which would eventually cause weight loss. Patrons were so thrilled by this fact they kept coming back and forgetting to leave long enough to eat actual food. And they were already so severely addicted to caffeine that they came back over and over to the shops until they suffered minor heart attacks. It was gratifying indeed to co-founders Sable and Livideo.