London, 1666
The fire had been burning for two days.
When it had broken out on Sunday morning, no one, especially not the city officials responsible for stopping such disasters, had thought it would become a major problem. One had even been reported as saying "a woman could piss it out," but clearly he had overestimated the size of the female bladder, and the willingness of women to squat over open flame. The fire spread steadily on Sunday, and still no coordinated action was taken, despite an order from the King to pull down houses in its path. On Monday, the flames spread to London Bridge, ripping through its homes and shops, while on the northern edge of the fire the banks went up one by one, and to the west, Baynard's castle burnt to the ground. London's inhabitants scrambled to beat the city's innate gridlock as they hurled their possessions into bags and boxes and carts and rammed their way through chaotic streets to the city gates, where teeming masses of flesh and goods surged towards a few tiny openings. The Roman wall, a fortification of defense and power, trapped its Londoners in, with the heat of the fire growing ever closer.
Now it was Tuesday. Firefighting was finally happening, but the delay had been too great. Flames jumped the River Fleet, breaching the western wall of the city. And incredibly, moving against the wind, they spread east towards the Tower, and its massive gunpowder stores. At the heart of the city stood the bulwark of St. Paul's cathedral, stuffed to the gunnels with precious goods by those who thought would serve as a firebreak, and sheltering a precious few souls who had found nowhere else to go. But they had been mistaken: the cathedral and its surround might have been made of stone, but Wren's restoration scaffolding was built of wood, and the winds were strong. Embers lifted by their sinister fingers alighted upon the beams, and soon the cathedral was engulfed in flames. Screams and prayers and the frantic rattle of iron-clad wheels on cobbles cut through the roaring of the fire that surrounded and now consumed St. Paul's; smoke choked the air, and people ran hither than thither, seeking escape.
Amidst all this chaos, was Aziraphale.
The angel burst through the wide-flung doors of St. Paul's, a small child in his arms. He hoisted the child onto the back of a cart, then turned to beckon hastily to the mother, running behind. No sooner had he helped her up beside her child than the cart jerked and took off, disappearing into the umber haze. There wasn't time to worry about where they were going: Aziraphale ran back into the cathedral. Inside, the smoke that had rushed in from outside was now augmented by that creeping in from the blazing scaffolding, and he glanced up worriedly into the invisible vaults above.
"Hello!" Aziraphale bellowed, "Is there anyone else in here! Shout, I can help you get out! Hellooo!" His shout was cut off by a fit of coughing, but still he ran through the nave, ignoring the ominous sounds from above as he searched for stragglers, calling out whenever he was able to draw breath.
"Aziraphale!" A shout from near the doors made the angel turn, and groped his way back that direction. The smoke thinned nearer the entrance, and into view came a tall, thin figure, hopping from foot to foot in the central aisle.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale croaked, "What are you doing here? Is this you?!" He demanded, sweeping an arm at the fire. Grimacing, Crowley snapped over the sound of the flames,
"No! Would I be burning my soles off on consecrated ground if this was my idea? Come on, we have to get out of here!" The creaking from above was growing louder. Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder.
"There might still be people inside! And I haven't been in the crypts— The books—"
"Angel, that roof is going to come down any second!" Crowley jabbed his finger upwards, where the creaks had turned to anguished groans, "And the whole city is lost! If you don't want to get discorporated, we have to get out of here now." Aziraphale nodded, and together they sprinted from the Cathedral. Outside the cacophony of the burning city became overwhelming, but even so, the screams of St. Paul's' lead roof cut through. Even as Aziraphale turned to look back, the heat became too much, and the melting roof fell through with a deafening crash. Billowing clouds of smoke, dust, and debris issued from what was now the ruins of St. Paul's, destroying nearby houses and blowing people off their feet. Aziraphale staggered against a wall, and looked up at Crowley, who was wiping ash from his eyelids.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said desperately, "if we work together, we could do something! We could stop the fire, save the city—" The demon shook his head.
"We can't do this on our own, Angel," Crowley said, and his voice was heavy with resignation. "It's gone too far, we couldn't interfere even if we wanted to. The best thing we can do is get out of here and let the people who've finally decided to do their job get on with it." Aziraphale took a deep breath, but his reply was cut off by the rumbling of stones from above Crowley seized Aziraphale's hand and yanked him forward just in time to avoid the collapse of the wall into which he had stumbled, taking off at a dead run through the anarchic city. The demon's hand was like a vice on Aziraphale's, and his legs turned over as fast as they could to keep up as he was nearly dragged along behind Crowley.
The grip only released when they skidded around a corner to be confronted with a full house tumbling to the ground in front of them, pulled down by men with firehooks. Angel and demon scrambled to backtrack and find a new route through the smoke, making towards the river. Time and again they were blocked by roaring walls of flame, piles of rubble, and masses of people and carts struggling towards the city walls. Slowly they wound their way southwards, by dint of long knowledge of London's streets, speed, and a good bit of luck. Singed, hacking, and covered in muck and ash, they finally emerged on the banks of the Thames.
"Now what?" Aziraphale panted, "Swim?"
"I bloody well hope not," replied Crowley, leading the way down a set of steps into the water. The tide was low, and had revealed beside the steps one of the many tunnels dotted along the Thames's high banks. The demon splashed into it through several inches of water, and emerged a moment later dragging a small bow. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Crowley shook his head firmly. "Don't ask. Get in!" Thinking that this was, perhaps, not the right time for what was sure to be a convoluted story, Aziraphale obligingly clambered in. Crowley pushed the boat out away from the steps until it floated freely on the surface of the river, and was just about to haul himself in, when a sound made him pause. He turned, and saw the source of the shrill yap: a skinny, scruffy, whippet-like dog whose fur indicated that he had a terrier somewhere in his recent ancestry, stood at the bottom of the steps. It was shaking and shivering, whimpering and looking nervously back at the fire. It yapped again, its paws leaving the step with the force of its plea, and its head tilted questioningly.
"Ohh— alright then!" Crowley huffed with exasperation (though Aziraphale didn't quite think this was genuine), and sloshed back to the steps. With a swift heave the demon slung the dog over his shoulder, and made his way back to the boat. As an ungainly pair, assisted by Aziraphale's hand on Crowley's collar, they rolled into the boat. The angel took up the oars while Crowley situated himself and his appreciative new canine companion, and began rowing strongly. The river was filled with other craft, either bent on escape themselves or gawking at the cataclysm before them. But somewhere along the way, Aziraphale had picked up great skill with the oars, and piloted their craft skillfully through them and across the broad waterway.
Some time later, angel, demon, and dog found themselves sitting together in a line atop the roof of a Southwark tenement. Although London Bridge connected the north bank to the south, it had proved sufficient firebreak to make the south bank safe, and from there they watched the destruction unfold. The dog had clambered into Aziraphale's lap, and the angel hugged it to his chest.
"I can't believe it," he said hoarsely, half from smoke and half from emotion, "The whole city. Just… gone."
"It's their own fault though, isn't it," Crowley muttered darkly, "If they'd just done—," he was interrupted by a massive explosion from across the river. At first both of them thought the Tower had gone up, but Crowley realized what had happened first. "Ah! There they go," he exclaimed appreciatively, "and about time." Another explosion rang out next to the first, and another blast of debris shot into the sky, followed by a black plume of smoke. "They're blowing things up to make a firebreak. I told that idiot Bloodworth to try it yesterday but he wouldn't listen."
"Blowing things up?" Aziraphale said, aghast, covering the dog's ears, "So they're going to destroy the city themselves along with it burning?"
"Better than letting the fire get any further, isn't it? Or send the Tower up like the powder keg it is?"
"I suppose," Aziraphale said halfheartedly. Booms continued to sound in the stance, carving stark lines in the ruined fabric of London, and he stroked the dog.
"Wren'll have something fancy to do with the repairs," Crowley offered, "…providing he hasn't burnt to a crisp." Aziraphale gave a quarter-hearted laugh, and silence fell between them for a moment. Crowley spoke again, quietly. "Do you know where we are?"
"Southwark."
"Well, yes. But believe it or not, we're right where the Globe used to be," Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, but the demon's face was inscrutable. "It burnt down too. Then they built it again. Then that one got shut down, then pulled down. Now bits of it are somewhere under these tenements." Crowley smiled slightly, and reached over to scratch the dog's ears.
"It'll be alright, Angel. It always is."