A/N: Hello, my beautiful ducks.

Wessex, 537 AD

Sir Aziraphale, having proved himself a boon to King Arthur and the knights of the Table Round, had been rewarded with the second largest tent. It was a small mercy. Aziraphale much preferred when the knights were in residence in the castle. The cooks at Camelot were the best in the land, and the banquets were the stuff legends were made of.

He was in the midst of a pleasant daydream of rowdy music and perhaps a nice meat pie when the sound of someone shouting drew his attention. With a group of men who had not much to do but drink when they weren't fighting actual foes, shouting was the least of the trouble they got up to.

No, what made this different was that it was a woman shouting.

Sure enough, as Aziraphale threw back the flaps of his tent, he saw a single female figure surrounded by most of a camp of men. It wasn't unusual for a laundress or two to find their way to camp, but this woman was clearly not that. Her plain dress—granted a little more dark than was the fashion—and the way her mass of red curls was bound up in a kerchief should have made it plain she was a barmaid. But drink and being too long away from a village with a decent whorehouse clearly had the men a bit confused. They grabbed and jeered at the woman.

As Aziraphale strode quickly forward, he saw that she seemed more furious than frightened. She was quite lithe, spinning away from the grasping hands and delivering swift, potent kicks that kept the beasts at bay.

And if Aziraphale wasn't mistaken when one of the men did manage to lay a hand on her, they drew back with a yelp as though scalded. Or, he observed a spark come off her, electrocuted. He squinted.

"Crowley?"

It was, and though he was holding his own, there were far too many men coming at her now—some of them now riled up with rage at being kicked down by a woman. This was going to end poorly for the humans if Crowley was forced to defend himself.

"That is quite enough of that," Aziraphale boomed in his most authoritative voice. It wasn't even an act. He was sick with disgust at the sight. "Have you forgotten who you are? You're Knights of the Table Round, King Arthur's bravest and most righteous, and here you're behaving like mindless, Saxon savages."

He reached for Crowley, gratified when he got the hint and took his hand. Crowley let Aziraphale pull him against his side in a knightly, protective gesture. Crowley even turned his body toward Aziraphale, ducking her head as though she had been a little bit scared.

In reality, Aziraphale could practically feel the exasperated anger exuding from Crowley. He let his own lip curl in disgust. "I'm ashamed of you."

Some of them looked properly chastised as they came back to their more civilized selves. One of them rubbed the back of his neck. "Begging your pardon, Sir Aziraphale, but you can't blame us for getting the wrong idea. She came in here offering her wares, after all."

At that, Crowley's head snapped up. "I offered you fine food and drink."

"And the comforts of your wagon," the knight said indignantly.

"Yes, which you'll find my wagon"—she made a sharp gesture at the wagon off to the side—"laid out with cushions and blankets, you wretch. For enjoying the fine feast I thought to bring you. Should set the whole bloody thing ablaze, I should."

"Keep your silence, Sir Gareth," Aziraphale snapped at the young man who looked to want to argue the matter further. "You're only lucky Galahad isn't here. He would be ashamed at the lot of you." He shook his head and put an arm around Crowley. "There, my dear. Let us take a walk to calm your nerves while these men remember themselves."

They walked into the woods together, Crowley cowering just a bit until they were a decent enough distance away. Then, he straightened, untangling himself from Aziraphale's gentle hold and stomping a few feet ahead. "Cor. Righteous Knights indeed. Filthy as pigs."

"Is that what you're up to? Trying to impugn the reputation of the good Knights by showing they can be just as bad as the Saxon invaders?"

"No," Crowley said, the word sharp with indignation.

"Then what are you playing at?"

"Nothing! I came here to talk to you." Crowley stomped the rest of the way forward through the woods, stopping at the bank of the river with his arms crossed over his ample bosom.

"You came to talk to me?" Aziraphale repeated. "Looking like that."

Crowley huffed a few times and rolled his eyes. "All right, I'll admit I was trying to give you a hard time. I know it's been a solid month since you lot has had proper food. I thought I'd throw a right feast at your men, and then abscond with you—the prim and proper Sir Aziraphale. It was supposed to be funny."

"Funny? Do you think it'll weaken my position with the men? Knock me off my pedestal?"

"No!" Crowley put a palm to his forehead and ground it as though he had a headache. "There's no demonic plan going on for the greater bad. I told you. I just wanted to talk."

"Alone with me while the men ate your feast."

"That was the funny bit." Crowley flashed him a mischievous grin.

"That I wouldn't be able to resist your feminine wiles, and yet you expected them to? Not that there's any excuse for that repulsive behavior." Aziraphale smirked at Crowley. "And you say I'm naïve."

Crowley scoffed. "Not naïve." He leaned up against a tree. "Distracted. I wasn't really thinking about them. Been a while since I had to be so aware of what the humans were going to do. Been a while since I had a set of these." He gestured at his breasts, and Aziraphale looked away. "Human men," Crawley said with a snarl. "Ugh. You asked me once why I didn't take a human lover. There are a lot of reasons, not the least of which is apparently you can't think of much else besides that thing."

Aziraphale tilted his head, brow knitted. "I asked you … what? Why in heaven would I ask you about human lovers?"

Crowley looked back at him, his face similarly confused. "You did."

"I most certainly didn't."

They were both silent a beat, reckoning back. And despite the absurdity of the statement, it did sound strangely familiar. Something about Greek gods?

But no. There was nothing there. It hadn't happened.

"Anyhow." Aziraphale went to lean next to Crowley against the tree. "Now that you've got me in private, what did you want to talk about?"

"I think you just haven't thought of the benefits of an arrangement."

"Crowley. Not this again."

"Tell me you can't see the advantages, angel. We're both out here living rough. Bad food. Sleeping on the floor with those reprehensible idiots for company?"

"King Arthur and Sir Galahad wouldn't have stood for any of that. I'll be bringing it up with them, rest assured."

"The point is there's no sense in having to deal with it if we're canceling each other out. You're putting as much good into the world as I'm putting discord. Why not leave the humans to it? You take credit for their good deeds and me for, well, displays like that."

"That's quite out of the question. If you—"

"Shh." Crowley interrupted him, turning so he was facing Aziraphale with a hand clamped over his mouth. He cocked his head, listening, and then, to Aziraphale's utter astonishment, he slid down onto his knees.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley's grin was wicked. "Putting on a performance. Seems Sir Gareth followed us." She made a motion as though bobbing her head, close to—but not touching—Aziraphale's crotch.

"Stop that," Aziraphale whispered. He cupped his hand to Crowley's cheek, giving him the slightest push backward. He was aware though it must have looked like he was encouraging her.

"You and I are out here alone. Our reputation was shot the moment we were out of eyesight," Crowley whispered back with a saucy wink. "I'm just helping along the story they're spinning for themselves, guiding it somewhere you want it to go versus where they'll take it. It's not a bad thing for you to be seen as human as they are."

"I wouldn't want to be seen like them after what they did."

"No." Crowley got to her feet, sliding up Aziraphale's body. He still hadn't touched; not really. But the nearness of him …

Crowley tilted his head so their faces were almost pressed together. He took both of Aziraphale's hands and guided them to his waist. From a distance, it would have looked as though they were in a passionate embrace. Crowley locked eyes with him. "This is entirely consensual, Sir Aziraphale."

Aziraphale blinked. His mind had gone a bit hazy. He had the oddest sensation … the thought that if he just tilted his head just so, the act—it was just an act, right—would be complete.

"This is untoward," Aziraphale muttered, but even as he spoke, he began to let his fingers curl at her waist. His eyes fluttered closed, and he ran the tip of his nose along her cheek.

Crowley wore some kind of scent. It was intoxicating. Simply because it was rare. Humans all smelled of sweat and dirt, for the most part.

Crowley made a soft noise, leaning in so closely they really were touching now but only lightly.

Part of the act, Aziraphale thought. For the benefit of the human spy. Of course. Truly strange that his heart was pounding and his head was spinning, and—

Then, there was the sound of a resounding snap, and all time stopped.

A/N: Pity. They didn't get to have ANY fun that time.