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It was during one of many little visits to Tadfield following Armageddon’t that the discussion of the famous Loch Ness and its’ monster occurred.
Anathema, Newt, Aziraphale, and Crowley were in the sitting room of Jasmine Cottage, enjoying some afternoon tea(1)when the subject had cropped up.
Crowley had snatched up a shortbread round and shovelled it quick as a snake into his mouth, hardly seeming to chew at all before it was swallowed down and he was reaching for another; his curiously forked tongue flicking out to lick crumbs off his lips with relish. “These are good. Proper shortbread this. Where’d you get it?”
“Madame Tracy and Shadwell sent us a tin as a souvenir. They’re holidaying in Scotland at the moment.” Anathema explained.
“Scotland, eh? Whereabouts are they staying?”
“They’re doing a bit of a tour I think. They started in Aberdeen, and then travelled to Forres. I think by now they’ll have reached Inverness, from there they’ll be travelling down to stay a few days beside Loch Ness. Madame Tracy was desperate to visit the place. She’s determined to try and spot the monster.”
Crowley barked a laugh while Aziraphale simply smiled into his teacup with a politely murmured, “well that’s nice for her. I’m sure they’ll have a delightful time sightseeing around there regardless.”
“Are you trying to say there’s not a monster?” Anathema pinned them both with one of her frank and (despite only being human) rather unnerving looks from behind her thick-rimmed glasses.
“Well, all the modern sightings seem to describe a- a Plesiosaur or some such nonsense and I’m afraid, my dear, that is quite impossible.”
“So you’re telling me the Kraken can exist and Adam can wish into being the lost city of Atlantis, but a remnant of the dinosaurs living in a Scottish lake is taking things just a smidge too far?”
Anathema raised one elegant eyebrow sardonically, a sure sign she was readying herself for a verbal battle with the two immortals sharing tea and biscuits with them, Newt noted with a slight sense of unease.
Aziraphale looked somewhat indignant at the lack of trust Tadfield’s resident witch had in the truth of his word and sat up a little straighter in his armchair, clearly steeling himself to argue his case.
It was, ironically, Crowley who interjected to keep the peace with a nonchalant shrug and easy wave of one hand (the other busy purloining yet another shortbread from the tin). “Look, I dunno if there is or isn’t a creature of some sort in there, but I can tell you right now that at least one of those sightings was something a bit less ‘dinosaur’ and a bit more demonic.”
“Crowley, you didn’t!”
“S’not my fault they thought I was a monster!”
Aziraphale sighed but said no more on the matter. (2)
“You mean to say you went cavorting about in Loch Ness looking like a monster and frightened the life out of some locals for fun?” Newt wanted to look stern on behalf of the innocent humans duped by Crowley, but it was difficult when said demon had flushed nearly as dark a red as his hair under the scrutiny of the angel and was clearly floundering to explain the confession away.
“I wasn’t cavorting!” Crowley scoffed, mimicking the word with a hint of derision. “Look, I wasn’t even disguised as a monster; I had just taken on my demonic serpent form. It’s a lot bigger than your common or garden adder y’know and I didn’t plan to reveal myself to anyone... I jus’ well—” he trailed off in an unintelligible mumble.
“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale prodded.
“I sssaid I fell in. It was bloody freezing! I panicked and shape-shifted out of shock. Next thing I knew I was all ssssnake like and some idiots on the shoreline were gaping at me.”
“Oh, dear me.” Aziraphale tried and failed not to appear amused, earning a baleful glare from the demon who had actually removed his ever-present sunglasses in order to drive home just how offended he was at Aziraphale’s lack of sympathy.
“When was this exactly? Sightings of Nessie date back to the 500s after all.” Newt wondered aloud.
“Nah, not that far back. I can’t explain any of those sightings, I was there in 1933.”
“I thought you were still asleep then.”
Anathema noted something softly hurt and a little accusatory in Aziraphale’s tone at that moment. Thus, Agnes’s descendent didn’t need a prophecy to foretell that the next few minutes of conversation could prove to be rather awkward for Newt and herself to sit through if both immortals didn’t think through their responses carefully.
“I er… hn. I woke up in the mid 20’s, angel. That’s how I managed to get the Bentley from new after all. I was- well I wanted to check in with you, but after- you know in 1862. Wasn’t sure I’d be welcome, so I decided to pop up to Scotland for a bit. Always liked it there.”
“You would have been,” Aziraphale’s voice was very soft and very small. “You were – you are always welcome, Crowley. Even if I never said as much, and I really should have…”
“S’fine, angel. I know that now.”
Nope, they thought it through carefully and it’s still awkward. Anathema thought, spying Newt busying himself cleaning his glasses in a vain attempt to escape the second-hand embarrassment of being privy to all this.
“So er, what were you doing up there anyway?” Anathema interjected after a few too many seconds of silence and tender glances between the pair had elapsed. A part of her wanted to know more about whatever had kept them apart for so long, but she wasn’t entirely sure either she or Newt could survive anymore awkward conversations today.
Crowley cleared his throat and seemed to come back to himself before replying. “Was meant to be increasing the ol’ sin quota really, I’d been asleep so long I’d fallen behind. But, well, m’heart wasn’t in it. Thought I might get fantastically drunk instead,” a quick flash of a wolfish grin before Crowley continued, now looking rather peeved as he clearly recalled something irritating. “Only I’d forgotten how quickly things change with you humans. I made my way up to Inverness but of course all my old haunts had either closed down or been demolished entirely. Decided there was nothing else for it but to wander around until I found somewhere with some half decent booze…”
Crowley had been making his way grumpily down the western shore of Loch Ness, having already miracled himself to this point from the outskirts of Inverness, doggedly determined to check and see if anyone still resided in Urquhart Castle (3). Nobility might be thinner on the ground this century, but Crowley’s logic insisted that if someone owned a castle, they were bound to own some pretty decent wine, or whisky, port… Heaven he’d settle for beer at this point. All he had to do is just remind the owner that he was a distant relation, and an invitation in would surely be secured. Particularly, as he had discovered that tonight was Hogmanay. He’d filched a black bun from a well-to-do store in Inverness earlier that day just for this purpose. He may be a demon, but he wasn’t rude.
What was rude was the sorry state he found the castle in once he reached its location. Ruined! Hadn’t even had the decency to leave the tower intact! Crowley blessed and swore, and briefly mourned the loss of such a fine castle. He’d visited a fair number of times in its’ hey-day, and to see it like this was a shame. Giving one of the sad, tumbledown walls a fond pat, Crowley turned on his heel and stalked back the way he had come.
So much for getting drunk in comfort here, he thought bitterly.
It was a good fifteen minutes later following the road back up from the castle, as Crowley was just about to give up on any kind of enjoyment as a lost cause, that he arrived at the edge of Drumnadrochit village.
Although nearly midnight, there were still people out and about celebrating, as many a person wanted to be awake to see in the start of a new year with friends or family.
Crowley hung back from the main festivities, keeping to the shadows and allowing his occult powers to keep him from being noticed while the people cheered and sang and danced with one another as the New Year arrived.
He decided then to try to find somewhere to spend the night. It was more than likely that alcohol would be within easy reach wherever he ended up given the date. It was as he was making to head towards The Drumnadrochit Hotel that he managed to bump into one of the revellers, and very nearly bit his own tongue when she turned, laughing to apologise.
Had Crowley not sensed that Aziraphale was still in London, he might have mistaken this human as the angel in feminine form. She had a pretty, dimpled smile, and long, curling flaxen hair she wore in a braid. Her clothes seemed a little old fashioned compared to the other ladies around her and were in shades of pale blue and cream.
“Sorry, so sorry, sir. Happy New Year!”
“Er, sure, same to you.”
The woman tilted her head quizzically, an expression startlingly familiar to Crowley; he’d seen Aziraphale wear such a look countless times when trying to divine the meaning of a prophecy in one of his many books.
“Not from around here, are you?” The woman’s voice held the soft characteristic lilt of the Highlands, and Crowley inwardly berated himself for not adopting the accent when he spoke.
“Nah, um no, just on holiday… looking for a place to stay the night.”
The woman frowned in concern and followed the direction of his gaze towards the hotel. “You’ll not be getting a room there if that’s what you’re thinking. Fully booked, I’m afraid. So are all the rooms at the pub.”
Crowley swore quietly under his breath, and was just considering either miraculously making one of the hotel’s guests leave, or just giving up and clicking his fingers to return himself to London, when the woman spoke again; calling someone over from across the street.
“M'eudail!”
Crowley turned to see a man separate himself from a group of dancing locals and jogged over, grinning, before pressing a chaste kiss to the woman’s cheek. “Did you need something, Eliza?”
“Do you know where there might be a room available in the village? This gentleman doesn’t have a place to stay.”
Crowley just knew there’d be questions as to why he was here, where his luggage was, and why he had not booked a room in advance and gently prodded the mortal minds around him to forget to ask such trivial things.
The man pulled on his lower lip briefly in thought, before shaking his head with a regretful look. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well, could he perhaps stay with us?” Eliza looked imploringly at the man and Crowley was certain that he’d not be able to refuse her. He knew from being on the receiving end of similar looks from a certain angel in the past.
Some of the other women Eliza had been celebrating with before bumping into Crowley overheard the exchange and tittered: Giggling over how easily the man blushed and then agreed to his ‘dearheart’s whims’ and teasing Eliza for ‘acting like a saint again’.
“There’s really no need—” Crowley had been hoping for a private hotel room for the night, not spending it in some random humans’ home.
“Nonsense, it’s Hogmanay. You’re more than welcome Mr…”
“Crowley. Mr. James Crowley.” Crowley, reluctantly coming to the conclusion that any port in a storm would do at this point and feeling that wiping so many memories just to go elsewhere would be bothersome, reached out and gave a firm handshake to the man and a polite nod to Eliza.
“Pleasure to meet you, James. I’m Anthony MacDonald. And this is my wife, Eliza.”
And so that was how Crowley found himself the guest of two humans for the remainder of the night. The pair ran the local bakery it transpired, and Eliza was overjoyed when Crowley handed over the black bun he’d originally intended to offer to whoever owned Urquhart Castle as they entered the couple’s cottage.
“A fine first-foot you make, Mr. Crowley. I’m surprised you knew the custom.” Anthony grinned and Crowley shrugged in reply, explaining that he’d been to Scotland before.
“Ah, then you must know that it’s also customary to see in the new year with a decent whisky.”
“Says he that needs to be up early to get those loaves baked.” Eliza quipped and rolled her eyes, but was smiling and already bustling to the kitchen cupboards to fetch three glasses as Anthony retrieved a bottle from the larder.
“A gift from Eliza’s brother in Dufftown.” Anthony explained, uncorking the bottle and pouring a dram for each of them in the glasses Eliza proffered.
The three seated themselves at the scrubbed kitchen table and clinked their glasses together before taking a sip.
It was very good whisky, and Crowley almost felt guilty that if he wanted to get drunk on this, he would have to drink more than a whole bottle to himself… it hardly seemed fair to his hosts, though he supposed he could just make it so he didn’t need as much alcohol as usual to become drunk… Crowley concentrated and felt his corporation’s constitution shift a little to fit his belief that a demon such as he would, just this once, only require a measure or three to become comfortably tipsy.
As with a fair number of Crowley’s wiles; this one decided to pay him back, in so much that the demon needed far less than he had intended to begin rambling on to his hosts and start slurring his words.
“’S jus’ that if it weren’t for all thisss sides- er… family business, we wouldn’t need to be all secretive. Could, could jus’ say how we feel. How I feel at least, maybe, I dunno… Not sure if m’angel feels the same, hope so though, but point isss, maybe we could be happy together?”
With any drunken confessions there are always odd moments of clarity. Crowley’s just so happened to remind him at that moment that perhaps referring to Aziraphale as he whilst discussing the stupid enormity of his affection had probably been a bad idea given how such relationships were currently viewed by mortals in this part of the world. He looked up, frowning and blinking blearily at the two equally tipsy humans at the table with him as he tried to muster the concentration he’d need to wipe that little slip-up from their minds and not kill them accidentally whilst inebriated.
He was surprised then to see that there was not a trace of judgement or distaste about their countenances at all. They were still seated close together; Eliza’s head on Anthony’s shoulder, and Anthony’s arm wrapped ‘round his wife’s plump waist. The position they had arranged themselves in was what had prompted Crowley to lament over how lucky they were in the first place. Eliza was still smiling gently, cheeks rosy from drink. Anthony looked more sombre, but was nodding as if in understanding.
“You love him, Mr. Crowley?”
“… Jus’ jus Crowley, thanks.”
“My apologies. You love him, Crowley.” Anthony amended with a surety and lack of questioning that the demon was unaccustomed to.
Crowley squirmed in his seat, and wrinkled his nose as if he might protest on principle of having that word uttered in his presence, but finally sighed and relented with a mumbled, “yep.”
Eliza’s smile grew and she sat up straighter, reaching over to slosh what was left of the whisky into Crowley’s glass. “I thought as much. As soon as you started talking about him I could tell, you know. You needn’t fret. You’re in good company here.”
Crowley frowned in confusion but felt his defensive hunch relax somewhat. “How?” He croaked.
“’S plain to see, Crowley. Besides, Eliza and I know a little about families.” Anthony murmured. Then, with a cautious glance at his wife, and encouraged by a nod from her, he continued. “My family was insisting I marry a businessman in Glasgow before I ran away.”
Wait, a businessman?
Crowley blinked again and looked, really looked at the pair who had so kindly offered him a place to stay this evening. Eliza had caught up Anthony’s hand and tangled his fingers with her own upon the table; a faint tremor in Anthony’s hand was visible as the man swallowed nervously.
And Crowley just knew then.
Crowley had never been one to conform to humanity’s narrow view of what made a man or a woman, had presented himself as both or neither throughout history whenever he chose and now he knew, he could see the small signs: The cut of Anthony’s trousers, the loose fitting shirt that had been swallowed up by an even larger thick wool jumper while outside, the lack of any facial hair, and the shallow way he breathed as if constricted in the chest.
Anthony crooked a wry smile and nodded again, wetting his lips before speaking. “I was called Constance as a wee bairn. Hated that name since I was old enough to walk an’ talk. I never felt like a Constance, never… never felt like- well… When I found out at eighteen my parents intended for me to marry, insisted that I marry, I had to get away. I made my way to Edinburgh and, thank goodness, happened to meet Eliza and her brother, Douglas. They befriended me, let me stay with them. Over the months I was with them, Eliza and I fell in love. I was terrified what Douglas might say or do when he found out but he supported us. Said he’d never seen a couple so happy and how could that ever be wrong?” Anthony paused, and swallowed nervously again, taking a steadying breath and squeezing Eliza’s hand. “Then I was terrified what they would both think when I confessed I didn’t want them to call me Constance anymore, but well—” Anthony laughed a little wetly, sniffled and then grinned. “Douglas just gave me some of his old clothes to wear and I don’t think Eliza has ever once called me Constance since that day.”
“It wasn’t all as easy as that though,” Eliza murmured. “We knew we couldn’t stay in Edinburgh as we were. Anthony had changed how he looked but there might be some who would recognise him. Not to mention the chance that Anthony’s family could still happen across him. Glasgow isn’t terribly far from Edinburgh after all.”
Anthony nodded, but still smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth. “Good ol’ Douglas saved the day. He’s a solicitor y’see. He managed to falsify some documents for me. Wrote me up a birth certificate and what-not. We were able to marry then, and with proper papers and Eliza using some of her share of their inheritance, we bought a little place away from Edinburgh and I managed to apprentice with a baker in a nearby town.”
“We eventually decided it would be safer to move even further away, just in case, so we came here. Douglas had moved to Dufftown himself by then anyway, said that Edinburgh was becoming too busy for his tastes and wanted to set up his own firm somewhere quieter.” Eliza concluded, settling her head gently on Anthony’s shoulder once more.
Crowley had listened with rapt attention as the pair told their story, and swallowed down the remainder of his drink along with the smallest tickle of envy he felt at seeing this pair so contented together. Envy might be a vice, but demon or no, he didn’t think he should feel it towards this couple. They deserved his admiration, and he said as much. “Y’re brave y’know. Sticking it to your family, being together, being true t’yourselves. If me n’ angel were able to…” he trailed off uncertain.
“You will, someday.” It was Eliza who spoke, so certain in tone that Crowley actually believed her despite all evidence to the contrary.
The night devolved then into silly parlour games and dancing to songs from their old gramophone. Anthony teased that Crowley was a terrible dancer, and Crowley actually laughing, didn’t deny it.
Eventually Eliza insisted they try to get some sleep, it was nearly four in the morning and she bemoaned the fact that they would all feel awful come sunrise.
Anthony watched her totter off to their bedroom with an affectionate smile before making up a bed for Crowley on the sitting room sofa with pillows and numerous blankets.
He paused as he made his way towards the stairs only to mumble quietly. “Thank you, for understanding. It was good to talk to someone who does.”
“Don’ mention it.” For once Crowley meant it, and not as a warning against offering a demon gratitude; too tired to keep up the pretence. This couple deserved gratitude in turn after all; they had listened to him as well.
Anthony smiled once more and bid Crowley goodnight, before making his way upstairs.
Crowley flopped unceremoniously onto the sofa, but for once, did not sleep.
Crowley left before Anthony or Eliza woke, scrawling a brief note of thanks on a scrap of paper and leaving it for them on the kitchen table to find later. He let himself out and paused in front of the cottage, admiring the cosy tableau it made in the dim light of pre-dawn. These were good people he thought, loathe as he was to admit it, and deserved some good in turn.
Though still more than a little tipsy, Crowley was lucid enough for a minor but well placed curse: may misfortune befall any who wish them ill or do them harm.
And because Crowley was a demon, it was part of the job description that he lie now and then, up to and including to himself. Thus, he simply refused to acknowledge the silent blessings he performed along with that curse: may they wake today well-rested and hangover free, may they be happy together always, and may Anthony’s secret remain hidden.(4)
Crowley nodded to himself, and sauntered away from Eliza and Anthony’s home, listing only slightly as he made his way back down toward Urquhart Castle, just to give his regards once more to the poor old thing before he left the area.
The castle was just as he’d left it the night before, though perhaps a little grander and bit less skeletal in the rosy glow of daybreak. He wandered through the remains of the gatehouse, reminisced about how magnificent the great hall used to look as he avoided the site of the old chapel (ruin or not, there was too much of an unpleasant tingle remaining there to bother with it), and made his way up Grant Tower to take in the view properly.
Perhaps it was the alcohol still impeding his reflexes, perhaps it was just Crowley’s unique brand of coordination, or lack thereof. Or perhaps it was something a little more ineffable that caused what happened next.
Crowley had just leant over a crumbling parapet to take a better look at what appeared to be a trio of otters frolicking in the choppy waves near the base of the cliffs below, when the old stone gave way and sent the demon tail over teakettle, plunging with a startled cry into the loch.
The icy water struck like a thousand holy swords and enveloped him quicker than Hellfire. Crowley gasped reflexively and promptly choked; writhing and flailing, as he struggled to move the leaden arms and legs of his corporation before having a single coherent thought of ‘to Hell with this!’ and suddenly found moving a lot easier as limbs were no longer an issue.
Crowley’s glossy black scaled head breached the surface, rearing twenty feet above the water as the demon coughed, sneezed, sputtered, and then gulped for air he’d quite forgotten he didn’t really need.
Well that’s one way to bloody well sober up.
Crowley hissed and blessed to himself, already feeling the chill of the water (though initially helpful in shocking him into sobriety) threatening to make him brumate, and so struck out, powering through the loch toward shore as fast as he was able.
There were some people on the shoreline, he realised with a lazy sort of good humour; they were pointing and gaping at the wake his undulating coils created, and marvelling over what he could be.
He could make them forget, but he was much too cold to try to perform such a trick right now, and besides, he was woefully behind on making trouble up here. This sort of mischief would do well enough for now.
It won’t matter much anyway, not like anyone will believe them if they say anything.
“… And that was that. Got drunk, fell in the loch, accidentally helped popularise some barmy legend about a monster.” Crowley finished his tale awkwardly noticing the delight on the mortals’ faces and the affectionate look in Aziraphale’s eyes. There was a sense of foreboding to his demonic pride warning him to escape the conversation and change the topic as quickly as possible. “Right, who wants some more tea?”
Aziraphale wasn’t to be deterred it seemed, and Crowley groaned and hid his face in his hands at the sheer brightness of the angel’s smile as he spoke, ignoring Crowley’s offer of another drink. “When you told me the next time we met that your name was Anthony, I never would have guessed it was to honour such a fine young man.”
“It- it wasn’t! that’s ridicu- He… I- It just seemed like a cool name!” Crowley insisted, the red hue warming the tips of his ears giving away his lie.
“I think it’s sweet,” Anathema cooed, and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale (and Newt) would ever forgive him if he made the witch disappear for a while.
“No, nope, not sweet, never sweet me. I just thought that since he’d rebelled so much, his name made for an apt alias for a demon. Dastardly n’ all that: dishonouring your family, running away, wooing and marrying a woman using illegal documents—”
Crowley continued to ramble on, denials and excuses uttered thick and fast as Anathema snickered and went to fetch them more tea, Newt smiled and nodded while not really listening, and Aziraphale attempted to keep the affection and admiration he felt from being picked up by Crowley. It would only make him embarrassed, and for all that the angel liked to tease him, it wasn’t particularly fair to sully the demon’s reputation and proclaim he was nice in front of their mortal companions.
Aziraphale wiggled in a self-satisfied sort of way and helped himself to some shortbread, placating Crowley with the occasional sound of agreement as he continued his tirade. Perhaps, once Crowley had calmed down he could suggest they go and visit Loch Ness together. It sounded like a lovely place.