Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘So, how did you get into a life of crime?’ Aziraphale Fell asked rather conversationally, considering he sat on the passenger side of Crowley’s motor car with his wrists bound and a paper bag over his head. ‘Was it a lifelong ambition? A childhood dream? Or more of an accident, much like my own career?’

Crowley said nothing and kept his eyes on the road, on the lookout for potential pursuers. They were speeding away from Tadfield as fast as the engine allowed, racing past street lamps and terraced houses through a blissfully deserted suburb.

‘I’m a writer, you see,’ Fell prattled on. ‘Never intended to become one, but you know how these things go. I was bored after graduation, then the novel became a success, and now here I am with a contract and a publisher eagerly awaiting the next one.’

He let out a dramatic sigh, which was somewhat muffled by the paper bag.

‘Murder in Eden, have you read it?’

‘No,’ Crowley answered.

‘Oh.’ Fell’s disappointment was audible. ‘Bit of a busman’s holiday for you, I suppose.’

‘M’not a murderer,’ Crowley said through gritted teeth. ‘Might become one, though, if you don’t shut up.’

Aziraphale Fell did shut up, but with a smug huff that told Crowley he was not at all intimidated by the threat. He sat back into the gleaming black leather of the passenger seat, raising his bound wrists to adjust the hem of his black waistcoat. He began humming a nondescript tune, which was a great deal more irritating than the talking.

But this was clearly not the sort of man who could remain silent for long. Before they’d even made it outside Tadfield, Fell laced his fingers together. The paper bag rustled as he let out another sigh.

‘These automobiles are awfully loud, aren’t they? I suppose that’s the price one pays for speed and convenience these days. Is it yours?’

‘Huh?’

‘The car. You see, my brother has been talking about buying one for the family— I don’t personally see the appeal, but he’s always got places to be, people to see, and he doesn’t enjoy train journeys like I do. But then, Gabriel has always—’

‘S’not my car,’ Crowley interrupted.

Then, after thinking about it for a moment, he added: ‘Well, I suppose she’s mine now.’

Fell gasped, managing to sound both scandalised and delighted.

‘You stole it? Goodness, you really are a criminal.’

‘Yeah, I thought the fact you’re being kidnapped would’ve clued you in to that,’ Crowley muttered, but he wasn’t sure Fell was even listening.

‘How exciting, I’ve always wanted to talk to a thief. Was it difficult, breaking into this? And, for that matter, do all motor cars drive the same? I’ve never bothered to learn myself. Though I have often wondered, if one car were to chase another— oh, I do wish I’d thought to bring my notebook with me. One always has the best ideas when it’s most inconvenient.’

Crowley bit down on a laugh. Being blindfolded and tied up in a motor car was most inconvenient indeed.

‘To the theatre? You wish you’d brought your notebook to the theatre?’

‘As I said, ideas come at the most unexpected times. And the play really was dreadful.’ Fell let out an indignant huff. ‘I’m in half a mind to thank you for tearing me away from it when you did. Though I wish you’d given me enough time to rinse off my shirt. The stain will never come out now.’

The stain had been caused by a well-timed glass of red wine, expertly spilled over the man’s pristine shirt and waistcoat by the concessions boy, who’d rightfully thought it an excellent way to earn a shilling. That lad would make a successful criminal one day. He’d broken down in nearly convincing tears as he stammered his apologies, shepherding Fell to the deserted staff bathroom. There, of course, Crowley had been lurking behind the door, fishing rope at the ready.

Crowley glanced down at Fell’s hands. The rope was wound tightly around both wrists, skin pink and chafing already. Poor bastard. And yet, he sat there quite happily, upright on the leather seat with his hands in his lap. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

‘Just out of interest, where are you taking me?’

This time, Crowley couldn’t hold back a laugh.

‘Nice try, mate. Not telling you.’

Partly because Crowley wasn’t entirely sure himself. There had been directions in the anonymous letter he’d received along with a tightly folded wad of cash and the promise of more in the form of ransom. If those directions were correct, they would still be on the road for a few more hours, due to arrive at their destination some time after midnight.

They had already left the outskirts of Tadfield behind and were now rolling along a deserted country road. Which was good. The fewer people saw a gleaming black Bentley at this unusual hour of night, the better. Not to mention the fact that one of the inmates of said motor car was wrapped up like a beef joint fresh from the butcher’s.

For a while, they drove along in silence. Well, as much silence as the rather noisy engine and the screeching of tyres on rough gravel afforded. Perhaps Fell had fallen asleep. Crowley found himself, absurdly, wishing for his prattling back. He was beginning to get rather sleepy. Should have packed a flask of coffee.

Bloody hell. How had he gotten himself into this situation? He’d sworn never to do kidnappings. Too much trouble, too much stress. He’d always preferred to work in solitude, and by its very nature, the crime of kidnapping necessitated company. Usually anxious and often terrified company.

And yet… the money had been too good to refuse. And it had seemed a simple job.

The boy is spineless, the mysterious letter writer had assured him, and his family’s wealth is immense.

The plan was really very easy. Take the young Mr Fell to the agreed upon secure location, squeeze as much ransom out of the pater familias as possible, return the lad without a scratch and make off for a nice life on the continent. Crowley had always fancied the Pyrenees. Good food, good wine, plenty of sunlight, and people minded their own business. Or so he’d heard. He’d never been further south than Bournemouth.

He drove along through the darkness at a faster pace than was strictly necessary, now they were well out of Oxfordshire. But the road was deserted, and without Fell to converse with, it was a dreadfully dull drive.

Suddenly, a light flashed up ahead on the left side of the road. Someone was there. A hitchhiker or a bicyclist, or a lone wanderer who had gotten lost on a nighttime walk. Crowley hit the brakes and slowed to a halt, but there was nowhere else to go, just the narrow road following the gentle curve of the hillside.

Next to him, Fell jolted awake with a sharp intake of breath.

‘Whatever’s happening?’

‘Nothing,’ Crowley snapped, drowning in the panic and confusion that rose within him.

He ripped the paper bag off Fell’s head, revealing a set of panicked eyes and a head of white-blond curls that had been neatly combed and pomaded when he’d last seen them a few hours ago, but were now sticking up in all directions.

‘One word and you’re dead,’ Crowley growled, before smashing the paper bag down onto Fell’s bound hands, covering them.

He’d only have to shake his wrists for the bag to fall off and reveal everything.

The light by the side of the road approached, with the back an forth motion that suggested a person holding an electric torch. When the man had gotten close enough to be caught in the double cones of the Bentley’s headlights, Crowley saw with the ice cold horror of recognition that it was a police officer.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

He turned to Fell and found him inexplicably looking back at him rather than at the approaching bobby. His guaranteed rescue. Fell’s eyes were large and round, stormy grey in the darkness, and they were staring straight at him with a determined sort of look that made no sense whatsoever.

‘You should probably open that window.’

Crowley obeyed, winding down the window just as the police officer reached the car.

‘You alright in there, sir?’

The man spoke in that booming tone of voice that was so common among his profession. ‘Uh, sirs,’ he added, when he’d bent down enough to spot the young Fell on the other side of the seat.

‘Quite alright, constable,’ Fell said, smiling as if that was true. ‘Just stopped for a moment. If you must know, I get terribly nauseous in these awful machines, and I’m afraid I had a rather large dinner today.’

The policeman looked back and forth between them, taking in Fell, wearing his wine-stained but undoubtedly expensive dinner suit, and Crowley in his worn grey shirt and no tie. He spoke directly to Fell. Probably thought Crowley his chauffeur.

‘Right, well, you shouldn’t stop in the middle of the road like this, ‘specially in the dark. Wouldn’t want anyone bumping into the back of you.’

‘Of course, I’m awfully sorry. It’s all my fault.’ Fell chuckled, shaking his head in a way that made his curls fly about his head. ‘Shouldn’t have had the pudding, but I’ve always been weak for an Eton Mess. It was absolutely to die for, I could have easily devoured another two or—’

‘Don’t you worry about it now, just get yourselves moving again.’

‘We most certainly shall. Thank you ever so much for your understanding, and your sound advice. Good night, constable.’ Fell shuffled about in his seat, nudging Crowley’s leg with his own. ‘Whenever you’re ready, James.’

Crowley put the car into gear and drove off, with a mumbled ‘goodnight, sir,’ that was drowned out by the renewed roaring of the engine. The police officer tipped his hat and watched them drive away, until he was little more than a black dot in the thick darkness of the countryside in Crowley’s wing mirror.

Then his gaze drifted back to Fell, who still sat up straight, still with that placid smile on his face, flyaway hairs the only giveaway that this was not a casual evening drive for him. All in all, he looked rather relaxed.

‘Why’d you call me James?’ Crowley asked, when they were once again swallowed by the night.

Fell’s smile widened, and Crowley had the sudden urge to pull the paper bag back over his head.

‘Because, my dear, in the hubbub of this whole kidnapping business, you have yet to tell me your name.’

‘Crowley,’ Crowley said, too slow to come up with a false one.

‘Charming. I’m Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose you must do.’ Fell looked rather pleased at that. ‘I don’t expect you’re in the habit of snatching up young men in deserted bathrooms at the theatre.’

‘Er—’

‘Not to worry. Goodness, you’re not about to put that horrid bag over my head again, are you?’

Crowley should. He really should. Rule number one of this whole kidnapping business. Keep the victim in the dark. Both figuratively and literally.

‘Do you know where we are?’ he probed.

Fell responded promptly, without so much as a glance out of the wind shield.

‘Not a clue.’

His gaze was wholly fixed on Crowley. It made him squirm.

‘Whatcha staring at me for?’

‘No particular reason. You just don’t— forgive me if this is terribly insensitive to your profession, but you don’t much look like a criminal. Gosh, it sounds awful when I say this, but I always picture people like you to be, well, evil-looking. Ugly, perhaps, or at the very least… shifty. The cruelty of their work writ on their face, you know, that sort of thing. But in my next novel, should I survive this little excursion, I might just make the murderer more handsome. Charming.’

‘M’not a murderer,’ Crowley grumbled.

‘Perhaps not. But you cannot deny you are charming.’

Crowley glanced away from the road to find Fell still smiling at him, with a smug lift of the eyebrow. The bastard was toying with him.

He slammed his foot on the brake, car screeching nearly to a halt, before swerving left onto a narrow gravel path. Fell slid forwards in his seat, raising his forearms to brace himself against the dashboard only to awkwardly crash into it when his tied up wrists couldn’t buffer the collision.

‘That was entirely uncalled for,’ he huffed after he’d pushed himself back into the seat. ‘Are you trying to kill me before even seeing a penny of ransom money?’

Crowley flushed at his ill-advised display of impulsivity. He couldn’t let his victim get to him like that. That didn’t bode well at all.

‘Ransom?’

‘I can see no other reason for your abducting me. My family’s fortune is common knowledge.’

Of course he’d abducted Aziraphale Fell for the ransom money. But the idea had come from that letter, written in a neat, womanly hand, suggesting a convenient time and date and offering Crowley use of an even more convenient deserted manor house in rural Lincolnshire.

If it was a stitch-up, so be it. Crowley’s gut instinct — and it had yet to fail him — said otherwise. Aziraphale Fell didn’t look like an undercover copper. No. What he looked like was an easy target. A perfect victim. Soft in body and mind, with a downright dangerous mix of youthful innocence, and an entirely skewed sense of self-preservation, worn away by the comfort and privilege he’d been afforded in what Crowley knew had been a cushy life so far.

Fell let out a deep sigh, shoulders sagging in a gesture of defeat. Good. Maybe he’d finally caught up on the fact hat he was being abducted here.

‘You’ll be lucky if you manage to squeeze a single penny from my father.’ Then, after a self-conscious chuckle: ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, or you’ll drop me by the side of the road before we’ve even gotten to wherever you’re taking me.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Fell, I’m not a murderer,’ Crowley snapped, not entirely sure why this insinuation was getting to him.

He might have been a murderer. It was only due to luck and circumstance that he wasn’t.

‘You’re also not a very good kidnapper.’

‘What?’

‘No offense, my dear, but I rather believe the whole point of a successful kidnapping is that you want to make both my family and myself believe that you would, indeed, be ready to murder me if we don’t dance to your tune. Your tune, presumably, being a large sum of money from my family, and complete compliance on my part.’

‘Something like that,’ Crowley mumbled, not liking the feeling of being so thoroughly examined by someone who looked like the human embodiment of a cream puff. ‘But I’m telling you now that if anyone’s gonna bring out the killer in me, it’s you.’

Fell simply smiled at that, and Crowley wondered if there was anything at all he could say that wouldn’t make him smile. It was making him nervous, that smile. Too bright, too cheerful considering Fell’s objectively dire situation. It was unnerving. He pushed down the gas pedal. According to the instructions in the letter, they should be arriving at the house very soon indeed.

Whoever had given Jasmine Cottage its name either had an odd sense of humour, or a fundamental misunderstanding of common architectural terminology. It wasn’t a cottage at all. It was a mansion. Perfectly secluded, far from prying eyes and ears, just as the letter had promised. The owner of this place — the letter writer, presumably — was rich. Filthy rich. And an enemy of Aziraphale Fell, by all appearances.

The house was dark and deserted, not a single lamp lighting up the small rectangles of the windows which stretched, as far as Crowley could tell, three floors high. The key was under the doormat as promised, and when Crowley turned it in the heavy iron lock, it snapped open with an eerie click.

He shoved Fell inside and hastily closed the front door behind them. The car was safely hidden away in one of the old stables, just like the mysterious letter writer had suggested. Nobody could have seen them arrive, or enter the house. They were entirely closed off from the rest of the world, and perfectly safe.

Well, Crowley was perfectly safe. Aziraphale Fell’s safety depended rather more on his family’s willingness to send Crowley a large enough sum of money to facilitate his escape. But until then, this was to be their home. Crowley didn’t like it.

This place felt spooky. Cursed. Perhaps it was the darkness and emptiness of the entrance hall, the way their footsteps echoed ominously as they made their way up the stairs. The electric lights buzzed and flickered, illuminating a broad staircase.

Crowley stood before it, hand clasped tight around Fell’s round shoulder. The letter writer had led him here, but no further. The rest was up to him. And damn it, he’d not set foot in places like this often. The most he’d ever seen of grand old houses was the garage.

‘Home, sweet home,’ he muttered.

Fell laughed, bright as a bell, and let himself be pushed through the entrance hall.

It was lined with doors, presumably leading to drawing rooms and music rooms and whatever other nonsense the rich thought necessary to put in their homes. But Crowley walked straight past those closed doors, marching Fell up the stairs, and then up another, narrower set, until they reached the second floor. At the end, there was yet another staircase, just wide enough to fit one person, leading up to an attic. Crowley made his way towards it, pushing Fell in front of him without a word.

The ceiling was lower here, the corridor narrow. There were only two doors, one on each side. Fell, who was slumped over and panting from the exertion, leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

Crowley took his hand off his shoulder, fairly certain he wouldn’t, or at the very least couldn’t, make a run for it. He kicked open one of the doors, which led into tiny attic room, with a minuscule window set into the sloped ceiling and a heavy iron bed pushed against the wall underneath. Perfect. And what was even more perfect was the key sticking out of the lock.

With a triumphant grin, Crowley pulled it out, then stepped back into the corridor to grab Fell by the lapels of his wine-stained shirt.

‘In there.’

Fell stumbled through, unable to maintain his balance with his hands tied together. Crowley caught him by the elbow. Fell whipped around, and for the first time, there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes. A slight lift of the eyebrows, his shoulders pulled up. Like he only just understood what he’d gotten himself into.

When he spoke, his voice was breathy, flat.

‘Untie me.’

Crowley shook his head. Too much of a risk. The room looked fairly secure. The window was set high in the ceiling and so small, even he would struggle to squeeze through it. And the lock on the door appeared to be perfectly functional. But still.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and he meant it.

He stepped forward and, not knowing exactly why, reached out to smooth a wayward curl out of Fell’s frowning face. His breath hitched when Crowley’s fingers touched his hair, soft but heavy with pomade. It made Crowley shudder. He pulled his hand away.

‘It’s late,’ he said, gesturing towards the bed. ‘Get some sleep.’

Fell lowered himself onto the bed, which creaked under his weight. Rusty springs screaming to life as he sat up as straight as he had in the car.

Crowley turned to leave, twirling the room key in his shaking fingers. He paused with a hand on the door handle and looked back at Fell, who was observing him with an unfamiliar sharpness in his gentle face. It wasn’t quite a fire, but it was a gleam of something. A candlewick before it catches the flame from a match.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Crowley couldn’t stop himself from asking. ‘To the constable earlier? You could have gotten away, you know. You could have escaped. Gotten to safety.’

Fell smiled, but it was a wistful smile, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether the path which had led him here had been the right one to choose.

‘I’m well used to safety, Crowley.’ It was the first time he’d said his name, and the softness with which it was spoken made him shiver. ‘I’m used to doing what I’m told, and being where I’m expected. I’m used to monotony and routine. But this? This is quite the adventure. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Chapter Text

Aziraphale Fell was furious when Crowley unlocked the attic room door the next morning.

‘This is barbarous,’ he hissed, squeezing his way past before he had the chance to stop him. ‘Tied up all night, my poor wrists look like roast potatoes. I don’t suppose you’ve ever attempted to sleep with your hands bound together.’

Crowley stumbled along the corridor after him.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

They had reached the top of the stairs that led into the main part of the house. Fell whipped around, eyes blazing.

‘To the loo, since you didn’t have the decency to leave me so much as a chamber pot. Now untie me before I risk falling down these stairs. I’m no good to you with a broken neck, I dare say.’

Crowley couldn’t argue with that. He pulled his pen knife from his pocket and sliced through the rope between Fell’s hands until it came apart. Fell rubbed his wrists and, with a final look of disdain, turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs.

‘Wait wait wait,’ Crowley called, half tripping over his own feet in his hurry to keep up.

Fell marched along the second-floor corridor to the door right at the end, ripped it open, and disappeared inside. Crowley rushed in after him, and found himself in the largest bathroom he had ever seen in his life.

There was a claw-footed bathtub that looked large enough for Crowley to fully submerge himself in it, toes outstretched and everything. There was a gold-framed mirror mounted to the wall, at least six feet tall. There was a chandelier, an electric one, but still. A chandelier. In a bathroom. The room was brightly lit in white and duck-egg-blue by the morning sun streaming in through a wide bay window behind the bath tub.

Fell stood by the toilet, hands on his flies, looking at Crowley over one shoulder.

‘Want to watch, do you? Hadn’t taken you for that sort. Well, suit yourself.’

‘What? No.’

Crowley threw his hands in the air. He was much too tired for this. He really should have scoured the kitchen for coffee or at least tea before traipsing upstairs to the attic to free his captive. Alas, his too-soft heart had gotten the better of him again.

‘Fine,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll wait outside, but you keep talking to me. If there’s even a second of silence, I’m coming in.’

Fell deigned this command with little more than a huff and began instead to undo his belt. Crowley fled the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and leaned heavily against it.

‘I’m still here,’ Fell said, his voice muffled by the thick wood of the door, but clearly audible over the splashing sound of urination, ‘though I do think you’re exaggerating somewhat. Do I strike you as a man with the flexibility to climb through a second-floor window? Not to mention that we’re in the middle of nowhere, I can’t drive a motor car, and my hands are still half numb. This really is most uncivilised… ah, that’s much better. Oh dear, there don’t appear to be any towels here. Ah well, my poor shirt is ruined already, and it was my one of my favourites.’

Crowley ripped open the door to find Fell at the sink, dabbing his hands on the stained cotton of his shirt.

‘That’s enough,’ Crowley barked, grabbing Fell’s right forearm and twisting it behind his back.

He raised the point of his knife to his throat.

‘No more shenanigans now. You do as I say or you’ll get a lot more than a stained shirt. Understood?’

Fell swallowed hard, even as he winced from the roughness of Crowley’s grip on the tender skin of his wrist.

‘Understood.’

With an unpleasant heaviness in the pit of his stomach, Crowley marched Fell along the corridor, making sure to keep the knife point a good few inches away from his skin. He didn’t want to hurt the man. Which was certainly a novelty. Crowley had never been one to shy away from a good punch, or a well-aimed stab with a sharp blade.

And yet, something in him wanted to spare Aziraphale Fell any more pain than he’d already caused. A sensation he didn’t like, and which he did not want to examine closer right now.

The first-floor corridor was just as huge as the other one, lined with just as many closed doors. Crowley banged against one of them.

‘There’s too many bloody rooms in this place.’

He swallowed down the steadily rising feeling that he was in over his head with this and pushed open a random door on his right. It was a bedroom, with an elegantly carved wardrobe in the corner and an equally elegant four-poster bed in the centre. It wasn’t the room he’d spent the night in, but it looked nearly identical.

The next three doors along were also bedrooms. One of those was the one that Crowley had chosen for his own the previous night. The covers were ruffled, and the curtains drawn across the tall windows.

Not that he’d gotten much sleep. And tossing and turning in a silk-covered four-poster bed had not been nearly as luxurious an experience as he’d hoped.

‘There’s got to be rooms here that aren’t bedrooms.’

Fell huffed and crossed his arms, peering through the doorway.

‘Not up here. I expect you’ll find the reception rooms downstairs.’

Crowley lifted his knife again and pointed it right at Fell’s forehead.

‘Fine. Off you go. One wrong move and—’

‘You’ll slice me open like an envelope, yes, yes, I get it.’

Fell raised his arms, hands coming to rest on either side of his head as he walked along the corridor and down the stairs. The sight of his raw wrists made Crowley uncomfortable. Perhaps he should get him something for it. Some salve, perhaps, or bandages.

At the bottom of the stairs, Fell stopped, turning around to shoot Crowley a questioning look. He pointed his knife at the first door on the right.

‘In there.’

Fell dutifully opened the door, peered inside, and then disappeared with a squeal of delight.

‘It’s a library!’

Crowley followed, finding Fell with his arms outstretched, as if he was trying to hug every single one of the thousands of books that filled the dusty shelves. The floor was covered in burgundy carpet, with sofas and chairs upholstered in rich emeralds and oranges dotted about like enormous jewels. The ceiling was impossibly high, but any echo was swallowed up by paper and velvet, wood and brocade.

Fell inhaled deeply, and for the first time that morning, a smile spread across his features.

‘Yes, this will do very well. Oh, look, there’s even a desk here!’

He practically skipped towards it. And a magnificent desk it was, large and mahogany, facing one of the five windows that were set along the length of the wall. Its surface was cluttered with an odd assortment of items. There was was a crystal ball perched on a wooden stand, a deck of playing cards that looked positively ancient, and a brass bowl filled with what appeared to be pigeon feathers. But right in the centre stood—

‘A typewriter,’ Fell breathed, studying it with a gleam in his eye.

It looked cold and heavy, all polished back iron and spindly silver bits.

‘Great,’ Crowley said, ‘cause you’ve got a ransom note to write. Sit down.’

Fell did not sit down. He turned around and frowned.

‘A ransom note? Isn’t that rather your responsibility?’

‘Sit down,’ Crowley repeated, with a little more bite.

Fell pulled out the heavy wooden chair from underneath the desk and sat. Crowley pocketed his pen knife, walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against the windowsill behind it.

‘Is there paper in there?’

Fell pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a thick sheet of paper. Crowley snatched it from between his fingers, before he held it up to the light streaming in from the window. Perfect. No watermark, no pre-printed header. Just a plain white sheet of paper. He let it flutter back down to the desktop.

‘So the address is—’ Crowley rummaged in the pockets of his trousers until he’d found the anonymous letter. ‘Er, it’s Fell Manor, Eastgate,—’

‘I know my own address, thank you. And anyway, what are you reading that from?’

Fell craned his neck to peek at the letter. Crowley clutched it to his chest.

‘None of your business. Get writing.’

Fell typed away and Crowley watched in awe. He’d never learned to type. Had never needed to. And it didn’t look that complicated, just pressing the key with the corresponding letter on it. But Fell’s fingers moved over the machine so quickly, with a click-clacking sound that was absolutely mesmerising.

‘What next?’ Fell asked, after he’d typed his parents’ address in the top right corner.

‘Right. Er. I am being held captive by a most unhinged and violent criminal—’

‘No offense, my dear, but you don’t strike me as particularly unhinged.’

‘Shut up. He demands the exact sum of fifteen thousand—’

‘Fifteen thousand pounds? You severely overestimate my family’s regard for me.’

Crowley groaned.

‘Ten thousand?’

‘You can certainly try.’

‘Right. He demands the sum of ten thousand pounds, paid promptly in cash, to be delivered to—’

The click-clacking stopped.

‘How are you going to send this note?’

‘What?’

Fell sat up straight, fingers still hovering over the keys.

‘We’re quite far away from the Fell estate. Surely if you send this letter by post, it can be traced back to the nearest post office.’

‘We’ll… I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.’

Fuck. He hadn’t thought of that at all. He’d have to drive elsewhere to post the letter, or find someone trustworthy to deliver it. But that was a problem for later.

‘Ten thousand pounds, delivered promptly to St James’s Park, London, where the money is to be wrapped in an unmarked paper bag and placed under the bench by the duck pond nearest the Regent Street entrance, in the shade of the beech tree.’

‘Oh?’

‘What oh?’

Fell studied him with a curious look.

‘How does that work then? Say Gabriel goes and puts the money under the bench. What happens next?’

‘My accomplice picks it up and keeps it safe for me.’

‘Ingenious.’ He looked genuinely delighted at the idea. ‘And what if my family alarm the police and they lie in wait for your accomplice?’

‘Then I’ll have to kill you.’

‘I see,’ Fell said, completely unfazed by that possibility. ‘So you await your accomplice’s signal before you release me?’

‘Yup, that’s the plan.’

‘But surely your accomplice is doing this at great risk to his own safety.’

‘Her own safety. And she’s getting a hefty cut of the ransom money if all goes well.’ Crowley wasn’t quite sure why he was telling Fell all of this. ‘That’s what’s in it for her. She’s been in the game for longer than I’ve been alive, and hasn’t been caught a single time.’

The very idea that Tracy might get in trouble was laughable.

Fell nodded, clearly impressed, and it filled Crowley with a strange sense of accomplishment. He didn’t often get praise for his work. Certainly not from the victims of his crimes.

‘Outstanding. Right, shall we get on with this letter then? And afterwards, if you don’t have any other plans, I should like to spend an hour or two writing my novel. After months of the most debilitating writer’s block, I’m positively drowning in ideas.’

Crowley shrugged, still baffled by the fact that Aziraphale Fell appeared to consider his own abduction little more than a holiday in the countryside.

As if he’d read his thoughts, Fell looked up from the typewriter and batted his eyelashes.

‘If you could rustle up a pot of tea and some breakfast, that would be just lovely.’

The morning passed, and Crowley spent it leaning against the window, watching Fell type away at his novel, fingers flying over the keys. Damn. He didn’t even have to look at them. His gaze was firmly fixed to the sheet of paper that was emerging from the top of the typewriter, covered in black ink. Once it was filled, it joined the others on a steadily growing pile at the back of the desk.

The sun had risen well above the horizon now and was blazing through the library window. In this light, Crowley got a proper look at his victim for the first time since he’d bundled him into the stolen Bentley the night before.

The most surprising realisation was, perhaps, that Aziraphale Fell was not much younger than he was, if at all. Crowley had been thinking of him as a child, a bratty, spoiled twenty-year old. He’d been mistaken. There couldn’t be more than two or three years between them. He’d been tricked by Fell’s youthful innocence, by his dangerous delight in his own dire situation.

But now, with his brow furrowed and his shoulders tense with focus, he appeared different. Older, certainly, but also wiser. It threw a whole new light on his carefree conduct. Perhaps it wasn’t naivety, or stupidity, but simply stoicism. Optimism. The desire to make the best of his situation, and if his situation was to be trapped in a house with Crowley, then he’d make it as pleasant a stay as he possibly could.

There was something else about him, too. A softness that was reflected in the golden shimmer of his still unruly hair where the sunlight hit, and the gentle arch of his chafed wrists, bent over the keys of the typewriter. Even in his wine-stained shirt and wrinkled waistcoat, there was an elegance about him that Crowley found himself drawn to like he’d never known before.

‘Are you just going to stand there and watch me write?’ Fell asked without looking up.

Crowley shrugged as a flush rose to his ears.

‘Got nothing else to do.’

Not until he’d figured out what to do with the ransom letter.

‘You’re in a library. There’s thousands of things to do.’

‘Not much of a reader, me.’

‘In that case, you could help me with a question or two.’ Fell’s head tipped up. He let out an impatient huff. ‘Oh, do come over here, I can’t bear you looking down at me like a schoolmaster.’

Crowley moved around to the other side of the desk, leaning over the back of the chair. He braced a hand on the warm wood. He’d only have to stretch out a finger to see if it matched the heat of Fell’s body.

‘If you were a kidnapper—’ Fell began, with a coy look up at Crowley.

He snorted, trying to tear his mind away from his strange desire to smooth out the wrinkled fabric of Fell’s collar.

‘If I was a kidnapper.’

‘Quite.’ A sly grin spread on Fell’s youthful face. ‘Try to imagine it, if you will. If you were a kidnapper, how would you know which victim to pick? I expect a rich family is a given, but are there criteria beyond that?’

‘You want to know why I chose you?’

‘Yes.’

Crowley laughed, unsure why the question made his nerves flutter.

‘I mean, as you said, you’re rich and I knew you were going to the theatre last night.’

‘Only that?’

That, and somebody had written to Crowley, practically begging him to kidnap the man.

‘Yeah.’

‘Hm.’ Fell looked disappointed. ‘I expect the kidnapper in my novel will have a more glamorous motive.’

‘Like what?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps he’s desperately in love with his victim and won’t stop at anything to pull her away from her dreadful fiance.’

‘What, so he kidnaps her? That’s not love, that’s lunacy.’

‘I wouldn’t know much about either.’

The admission evidently flustered him. He pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter with such force, it tore. With a sheepish look and bright red cheeks, he set it aside and turned, once more, to Crowley.

‘Lord, I could kill for a cigarette right now.’

It didn’t take more than a raised eyebrow for Crowley to draw his own cigarette case from his pocket, shaking his head. He pulled a roll-up from it and handed it to Fell, before he fumbled in his other pocket for the matches.

‘Didn’t bother to take your own with you to the theatre?’

‘Oh no. I much prefer stealing my friends’. The thrill of theft makes them so much more satisfying.’

‘You’ve really got a thing for crime, huh?’

‘One likes to entertain oneself, especially without the independence to live the life to which one finds oneself drawn.’

The bitterness leaked through the facade of his smile. Crowley didn’t know what to do with it.

‘Yeah, well, it’s a lot less entertaining when you’re actually involved in the business.’

‘I am getting that impression.’ Fell sighed. ‘Is this what we do then? Sit around in yesterday’s clothes, waiting for my parents to send you money?’

‘Pretty much. But hey, at least you’ve got a typewriter.’

Fell looked at it with a frown.

‘I suppose so. My editor will be happy. Should I survive this ordeal, of course.’

He held the cigarette out for Crowley to light, took a drag, and then coughed.

‘Good heavens, this is absolutely vile,’ he spluttered. ‘Tastes like a chimney in desperate need of cleaning.’

Crowley snatched it from Fell’s hand and put it to his own mouth. It was fine. Perfectly good tobacco. The same he’d smoked since he was thirteen. Fell stared at the cigarette between Crowley’s fingers with longing. Tough luck. He shouldn’t have insulted it.

Crowley sauntered over to one of the squashy sofas, secure in the knowledge that Fell wouldn’t try to escape through the window. The key to the library door was safely tucked away in his right boot.

To his surprise, Fell got up from the desk and followed him, dropping down on the navy velvet next to him.

‘You said you’d help me with my novel.’

‘I never did.’

‘Well, I want you to help me with my novel. It’s the least you can do for me, after bringing me here in such a barbaric manner.’

‘I don’t owe you nothing.’

Fell leaned closer, eyes fixed, once again, to the glowing tip of the cigarette between his lips.

‘Quite right, you don’t. But it would be terribly kind if you did.’

‘M’not kind. The sooner you realise that, the better.’

Fell’s smile did not waver. Did his stupid smile ever waver?

‘Be that as it may, but you’re the only company available to me right now.’

Crowley tore his gaze away, squirming.

‘Fine. Tell me about your novel, then.’

Fell rubbed his hands together, elbow bumping into Crowley as he wiggled from side to side.

‘Of course. It’s a sequel to Murder in Eden. You should read it, by the way, it is a most thrilling tale, if I say so myself. Perhaps there’s a copy in this very library.’

He scanned the bookshelves around them, but didn’t appear to spot the title in question.

‘Anyway, in the first novel, our hero solved the most slippery of murder cases and gained rightful recognition for it. He’s not what you’d call a typical detective, gloomy and serious. No, he’s much more refined in manners, but in a way that makes people quite underestimate him. He’s handsome and easy-going and chatty, the type who makes friends easily and draws the confidence of those around him.’

‘Bit like you, then.’

‘You think me handsome?’

Crowley coughed. Perhaps his tobacco was a little rough on the back of the throat. He’d never noticed before.

‘Not in that grubby stained shirt and waistcoat. You look freshly stabbed.’

Fell raised his eyebrows, looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Do forgive my impudence, I didn’t pack a valise when I went to the theatre last night.’

Crowley threw his head back into the velvet head rest of the sofa, caught between a groan and a laugh. Whatever these next few days would bring, he would certainly not get bored.

Chapter Text

Every wardrobe in this godforsaken house was stuffed full of women’s dresses. There were evening gowns in fine satins, tea dresses made from printed cottons, nightgowns, woollen skirts, a staggering amount of blouses with flouncy collars, and more pairs of shoes than a single person could ever need in a lifetime.

‘A-ha!’ Fell cried triumphantly, bent over a large wooden chest in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Crowley closed the door of yet another wardrobe spilling over with petticoats and turned around. The chest contained a stack of haphazardly folded men’s shirts made from white linen. They were creased and unbearably frilly, but clean. Underneath them, there were a few pairs of tweed trousers in varying shades of brown, equally as old-fashiond.

Fell’s smile vanished at the sight of them.

‘Savile Row this is not, but I suppose it will have to do.’

Crowley rolled his eyes. He thought that after three days of wearing the wine-stained tuxedo, Fell would be as desperate for a change of clothes as he was. He pushed past him and rummaged through the chest, picking out the darkest pair of trousers and the least billowy of the linen shirts.

Fell stopped him with a hand clasped around his elbow.

‘Excuse me, what gives you the right to pick first?’

Crowley pulled his arm away and began to strip off his own really quite grimy shirt and trousers. His vest was disgusting, too, sweat-soaked and horrible. He ripped it over his head and tossed it aside.

‘I’ve got a knife and I’m not afraid to use it.’

Fell swallowed hard as he watched, eyes flitting up and down Crowley’s naked chest.

‘Really, my dear, you needn’t keep reminding me.’

Crowley thought that, if anything, he should remind Fell more often that he was in fact being kidnapped, and not out on a rich boy writers’ retreat in the country.

‘Come on, get dressed. We’ve got places to be today.’

‘Oh?’

Fell perked up, and Crowley didn’t blame him. They’d spent the entire previous day lounging about in the opulent comfort of the library, drinking tea without milk and eating baked beans on crackers, which was the only food Crowley had been able to scavenge from the kitchen cupboards.

It hadn’t been all bad. Fell had sat at the desk, click-clacking away at his novel, occasionally asking Crowley questions about getaway vehicles and literacy rates among the criminal set. Not once had he attempted to escape. And when Crowley had escorted him back up to the attic room, he’d locked Fell inside without the additional restraints of the fishing rope.

This morning, there had been a new kind of camaraderie between them as they scoured the house for clean clothes. And though Crowley would never admit this to anyone, it had been fun, barging into bedrooms and ripping open closet doors.

But now there was work to do. The ransom letter had to be dispatched, and food procured.

‘Get a move on,’ he barked at Fell, who was still standing there with one of the linen shirts draped over his arm.

As he should have realised by now, barking at Fell did nothing but make him more stubborn.

‘I wish to take a bath,’ he declared, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘If we’re going outside, I want to be presentable.’

Crowley threw his hands into the air.

‘Nothing wrong with soap and tap water, but of course that’s not good enough for Aziraphale Bloody Fell Esquire.’

Fell did not look at all intimidated. If anything, he appeared to be suppressing a laugh.

‘I have standards. There really is no use in arguing. You’re welcome to set up camp outside the bathroom, if you insist. Although…’ He leaned in and wrinkled his nose. ‘Please don’t stab me for saying so, my dear, but you could do with a soak as well.’

By the time they both climbed into the Bentley, the sun was blazing down through the windshield. Crowley’s stomach had been distinctly growling since about ten o’clock. Fell, who’d proclaimed to be starving around the same time, was sitting stiffly in his seat, arms folded across his chest.

‘I must say, this whole endeavour seems to be very badly planned.’

‘Huh?’

Crowley blinked and refocused his attentions on the road ahead. Lavender-scented air wafted over from the passenger side. It was distracting.

‘No food, no change of clothes, no plan as for the communication of the ransom demands. Is this your first kidnapping?’

It was. And it was no good denying it. Crowley said nothing, but gripped the steering wheel harder and slammed his foot down on the gas.

‘I thought as much,’ Fell continued, rather smugly.

‘I am a criminal,’ Crowley insisted. ‘Done burglaries, blackmail, the odd mugging, and stolen more motor cars than you can shake a stick at—’

‘How perfectly charming. You really are a jack of all trades. Well, all trades except the one in which you’re currently employed.’

Crowley hissed, but there was no fire in it. All the fire had been washed away by the bath, which, though he hated to admit it, he had rather needed. The hot water and floral bath salts had cleaned off not just the dirt of the past few days, but also some of the anxiety that had clung to him since he’d first stepped foot inside Jasmine Cottage.

The relaxing effect of the enormous tub had only been somewhat lessened by the sound of Aziraphale Fell, whom he’d left shackled to a chair on the other side of the door, huffing and throwing snide comments at him about the futility of tying him up again.

And still, he couldn’t shake the notion that his victim was, on the whole, quite enjoying himself. The look he’d given Crowley when he had finally undone the fishing rope and marched him at knife point to the car had been one of genuine gratitude.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Dunno yet. Find a town that’s a little way away to post the ransom note. Get food.’

‘And razors, if you please. I don’t at all care for stubble.’

Fell rubbed a hand across his face. Crowley dared a quick glance over, noticing for the first time the fine gold hairs that had begun to grow on his jaw. It wasn’t a bad look, combined with the flowy linen shirt and his candy floss hair freshly puffed up from the bath. Like a swashbuckling romantic hero of old.

Crowley suspected his own ginger stubble looked a lot less debonair and rather more unkempt. It was highly unfair, how the old-fashioned shirt made Fell look more like a handsome outlaw than Crowley ever could.

He was too skinny for all that frill, he decided. Too narrow. Fell made it work, with his rounded shoulders and his gently curved chest. But then, he’d also looked sharp in the closely tailored tuxedo he’d worn the night of the abduction, before Crowley’s young accomplice had soaked it in red wine.

‘What were you doing in Tadfield on Saturday, anyway?’ Crowley asked, following that train of thought. ‘You don’t strike me as the type to buy tickets for a community production of Shakespeare.’

Fell, not at all put off by the sudden change of topic, shrugged.

‘Goodness, no, I much prefer the West End. The Tadfield lot made a right mess of it, too. Fumbled both the jokes and the heartbreak. Dreadful production all around.’

‘So why did you go see it? You’re not from there, are you?’

‘No, but one of my friends is.’ Fell let out a heavy sigh. ‘And I’m sorry to say he appears to have quite fallen in love with an enthusiastic, though entirely untalented amateur actor. He dragged us all along to show off his new beau. Pretty enough boy, though nowhere near as charming as the Claudio he attempted to portray.’

‘Right.’

Crowley’s thoughts kept spinning back to that evening, and the letter that had detailed exactly where he would find Aziraphale Fell.

‘Those friends you were with that night,’ he began again, unsure of how to finish the question. ‘What do you think they did when you didn’t return from the bathroom?’

Fell laughed and ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it up even more. He had very expressive hands, Crowley noted.

‘I expect they weren’t particularly worried about my sudden absence. They’ll suspect me of having gone home with the bartender.’

‘Why would they assume that?’

‘Because during the interval I declared my every intention of going home with the bartender. I like to think he was interested, too, but alas, I shall never know for certain.’

‘Right,’ Crowley said again.

His throat had gone all dry and tight. He tried to remember the bartender. Surely he’d walked past him, on his way to the bathroom, with the fishing rope tucked away inside a pocket. But if he had, he didn’t remember the look of him. Nice, probably. Fancy. Bow tie and a sleek jacket, to fit right in with the polished silver and crystal tumblers.

‘Why are you asking all these questions? Surely this cannot be relevant with regards to the ransom?’

‘Your friends,’ Crowley said quickly. ‘D’you think any of them might wish you harm?’

Fell chuckled, hands coming down to rest on the tops of his thighs.

‘Of course not. What a preposterous idea. Why would you suggest such a thing?’

‘Cause I’ve got reason to believe that one of them wrote to me.’

‘To you? But surely you don’t know any of my friends. I’d be very surprised indeed if you ran in the same circles.’

Crowley shook his head.

‘Someone knew you’d be at the theatre in Tadfield that night. And that someone wrote to me, suggesting you as a perfect target for a kidnapping. Telling me to bring you here. And sending me fifty quid for my troubles.’

For a long few seconds, the only sound in the car was the roaring of the motor as the Bentley rolled along the country road.

‘I don’t believe you.’

Crowley drew out the letter from his pocket.

‘Got the proof right here.’

‘Let me see.’

‘Nah. So, know anyone who might wish you harm?’

‘I don’t have enemies, Crowley. I’m not that sort of man. And anyway, if I did, they’d surely go down the path of blackmail above anything else. Why bother with the whole kidnapping business when a few well-timed photographs… but that’s neither here nor there.’

‘You trust your friends?’

‘To the ends of the earth.’

‘What about family?’

Fell didn’t respond right away. His hands knotted together so tightly, one could be mistaken in thinking Crowley had bound them again. His response was slow, hesitant.

‘They’re not… the most loving, I’ll grant you that. But I cannot imagine any of them wanting me hurt. Well, Gabriel perhaps, but he’s—’

‘Not Gabriel,’ Crowley interrupted. ‘Letter’s written in a woman’s hand.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Spent enough time in my life looking at anonymous letters.’

‘Ah. For blackmailing purposes?’

‘Yup.’

‘I must make a note of that.’

Fell patted the pockets of his borrowed trousers as if there might be a secret notepad tucked away in there.

‘Got any sisters?’ Crowley asked.

The hesitancy returned immediately.

‘One. Michael.’

‘Does she hate you?’

‘Well, hate is such a strong word…’

‘So she does.’

‘We’ve never been close,’ Fell admitted. ‘She’s the middle child, you see, and I think in some ways she resents me for the opportunities I had just by virtue of being born a son. University, and travel, and the freedom to go wherever I please. These are all things for which she envies me.’

Crowley didn’t point out that he, too, had been born a son and the closest he’d gotten to university was breaking into one to steal exam papers for a particularly lazy lot of students.

Fell looked out of the window, frowning.

‘It makes no sense whatsoever, Michael wanting my abduction. And most certainly not right now, when it’s only days before her wedding. In fact, if I’m not released by Tuesday, there will be quite the talk among the guests. She won’t like that at all.’

Crowley could think of a myriad reasons for a bride not to want Aziraphale Fell at her wedding reception, but resorting to hiring a kidnapper seemed a tad extreme.

‘Out of my siblings, Gabriel is the one most capable of cruelty,’ Fell said quietly. ‘He’s never approved of me.’

‘What, d’you mean the novel-writing?’

A laugh escaped Fell, one that was harsh and bitter and so unlike him.

‘My writing, my friends, the way I chose to spend my time, and the people I spend it with. Yes. All of it. My parents have always afforded me freedom, you see— out of indifference rather than affection, I should think, but Gabriel likes to accuse my father of being too soft where I’m concerned.’

Fell was animated now, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he let out another cold laugh.

 ‘I don’t know what gives him that impression. We were raised by the same governess, after all. Went to the same school. He simply cannot fathom my decision to willingly reject the boundaries with which he’s only too happy to confine himself.’

‘Hm.’

The handwriting proved nothing, after all.

‘Do you have any older brothers?’ Fell asked, nearly pleading.

‘Only younger ones.’

‘I expect they look up to you.’

Crowley shrugged. He hadn’t seen any of his siblings for years. And his family wasn’t the letter-writing kind.

‘They’re both in prison,’ he admitted, not at all sure what had compelled him to share that.

Perhaps a misguided attempt at sympathising with Fell. Ridiculous. And still, he wanted to soothe, to show him that families weren’t all that. But all he’d done was to draw Fell’s pity, so obvious in the way he looked at him, thin-lipped and frowning.

‘I’m so sorry to hear it.’

‘Yeah well, they’re dumb. Got caught. Ligur’s out in two years, Hastur in five.’

By which time he’d already have fled the country, if everything went to plan.

The rustle of paper made Crowley look down, and only then did he realise that he was clutching the anonymous letter so hard, he’d crumpled it up at the corner. He pulled open the glove compartment and stuffed it inside.

They reached the outskirts of a quiet market town. Tidy terraced houses with neatly kept front lawns that gradually gave way to taller, older buildings lining cobbled streets. Crowley followed the signs to the centre and parked the Bentley in a deserted street just off the town square, where a row of overgrown hedges offered some amount of concealment.

‘I’m gonna lock you in here,’ he said, bracing himself for the inevitable protest.

But to his surprise, Fell only sighed and rolled his eyes.

‘I thought as much. Well, do get a wiggle on. And don’t forget to get milk, I can’t bear to have another cup of tea without it.’

Crowley climbed out of the car, locking the door before he made his way over to the row of shops lining the town square. He sneaked one final backwards glance at Fell, who sat in the passenger seat with his arms crossed and his eyes half closed, deep in thought.

Crowley got food and milk and petrol. He got razors and soap and even picked up a tin of posh tobacco, before popping into the bakery for some fresh Chelsea buns. It barely made a dent in the fifty pounds the mysterious letter writer had left him.

When he returned to the Bentley, the glove compartment was open and Aziraphale held the anonymous letter in one hand, with the other clasped over his open mouth.

Crowley groaned and unlocked the driver’s side door, throwing first the shopping, and then himself inside.

‘Spineless?’ Fell spat for a greeting. ‘How very dare— I’m not spineless!’

‘Should’ve taken that with me.’

‘Do you think I’m spineless?’

‘Well,’ Crowley began, stretching the word as far as he could. ‘You’ve been pretty, er, easygoing about this whole abduction business so far.’

‘I’m dignified. And anyway, what good would it accomplish if I were to flail and scream and make myself a nuisance? Nothing at all, except perhaps my untimely death. Then there’ll never be a sequel to Murder in Eden.’

Crowley didn’t point out that Fell had done a stellar job at making himself a nuisance even without flailing. He closed the door, and started the engine. Fell was still clutching the letter, but Crowley was much too wise to try and take it from him now.

‘I simply cannot believe that any of my friends would write such a letter. It’s perfectly horrid.’

‘Don’t recognise the hand at all?’

Fell looked at it again, tracing the lines of black ink with one finger.

‘No. Though I agree with you, it does look rather feminine.’ He shook his head. ‘I keep thinking of who was at the theatre with me. But I would vouch for every single one of them.’

‘Alright. Let’s go through them, then.’

‘There’s Anathema, my dearest and oldest friend, with her Newton and his friend Shadwell, a Scot, I believe, and a rather strange one. Then there were the Them—’

‘Hang on, not so fast.’

Fell, who’d been counting on his fingers, paused and frowned at him.

‘Anathema,’ Crowley prompted. ‘Weird name. What’s she do?’

Fell laughed.

‘She doesn’t do anything, she simply is.’

‘Huh?’

‘She’s an heiress. Richer than the King, but many Americans are these days. She’s the sun around which the rest of us circle like planets in their orbit.’

‘How poetic. So she could feasibly own an enormous mansion in the countryside filled with ballgowns and thousands of books?’

‘She could and she does. Two, if I’m not mistaken. One in Essex and one in Cornwall by the sea. I’ve been there enough times. And anyway, the idea of her having me abducted is absurd. She doesn’t need the money.’

‘Well, technically whoever’s written that letter isn’t getting any money from this at all.’

‘Oh?’

‘The opposite, actually. They sent me fifty pounds and said I could keep the ransom.’

‘Well, that’s all manners of suspect.’

Wasn’t it just? The more Crowley thought about it, the less sense it made.

‘Does she have any other reason to hate you?’

‘No,’ Fell said much too quickly. ‘None whatsoever.’

He turned away to look out of the window, but not before Crowley had noticed the faint blush that spread across his cheeks.

‘Who else, then?’

‘Well, there’s her Newton.’

‘Her Newton?’

‘You know, her fellow.’

Crowley turned to fully look at Fell and nearly steered the car off the road. The man had gone bright red and was resolutely not meeting his eye.

‘As much as a man can be anyone’s fellow. He’s very shy, but dreadfully talented, an artist, you see.’

‘Is he poor?’

‘Oh, very. His parents cut him off when he decided to pursue the bohemian life rather than enter the family business.’

The man was decidedly not poor, then. But Crowley supposed that being the fellow of an American heiress with two manor houses wasn’t much of a hardship in that regard.

‘Who else was there? At the theatre?’

Crowley didn’t even know why he was so keen to find out about the letter. It was nothing to him, not once he’d gotten the money and returned Fell to London.

‘There was the Them— there’s four, I can’t even remember who gave them the stupid nickname, but they only ever go out together. Adam’s the one with the unfortunate infatuation with the actor, then there’s Brian and Wensleydale.’

Fell shuddered as he said the name, but Crowley couldn’t tell whether he disliked the man or was simply suffering from hunger pangs. He certainly was.

‘And Pepper,’ Fell added.

Crowley perked up.

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, but goodness, Crowley, it wasn’t her. It wasn’t any of them. I’m sure of it. My friends and I, we understand each other. We have each other’s backs, to use a common turn of phrase. We’re all… Lord, I’m not sure if you understand, but we’re all outsiders.’

Crowley suppressed a snort. It was just like Aziraphale Fell and his rich, bored friends to think themselves outsiders for going to art galleries and indulging in fornication.

And yet, there was something about him that resonated with Crowley. Something that was a world away from flirting with bartenders and being snobs at the theatre. A world away, even, from cold-hearted families and big dreams that might never be fulfilled.

There was a connection there. And that was just bad news all around. The last thing Crowley needed was a connection with the victim of his crime. Fuck, if Tracy knew, she would rip him to shreds. Focus on the money, love. Or Bea. Always knew you were weak. But she wasn’t here now. Neither of them were. It was only him and Aziraphale Fell, sharing a car with feelings that were big and confusing and so bloody distracting.

Crowley dug around the shopping bags by his feet and found the one from the bakery, pulling out the Chelsea buns and handing one to Fell. He accepted it with a grateful smile and spent the rest of the drive nibbling at it, licking sugar glaze off his fingers with delighted little sighs between bites.

They pulled up through the gate of Jasmine Cottage just as a curtain of clouds drew across the sun, bathing the creepy old house in muted tones of grey. Crowley turned the motor off. He had to get out and open the stable door, to hide the car away just in case someone did come by this deserted part of the country.

But he sat there as if glued to the seat. Everything was heavy, and slow.

Fell’s voice broke through the silence.

‘You do realise I could have escaped if I wanted to.’

‘Huh?’

‘You left me alone in your car, when you went to the shops.’

‘I locked it.’

The smile that had not gone away since he’d finished his Chelsea bun softened.

‘I might not be as nimble as you, but I expect even I would manage to wind down the window and squeeze through it if I wanted. They’re rather large.’

The windows. He’d left Fell in the car completely unattended and worse, unbound. Didn’t even tie up his hands. One stupid mistake that could have cost him everything.

‘Fuck.’

He banged his palms against the dashboard. Fell flinched at the sound. But then, he sat up straight, turned his whole body towards Crowley and he was, once again, hit with the overwhelming desire to touch him, to close the gap and never let go again.

‘Don’t you understand? I’m not trying to escape, Crowley. It’s not freedom I want.’

‘What is it, then? What do you want?’

Fell looked at him as if it was obvious. An invitation. Crowley regretted the question, because now he’d asked it, the answer had suddenly and immovably manifested between them.

Crowley surged forwards and before he could do, or say, or think anything at all, Fell’s mouth was pressed to his, hot and pliant and sugary sweet. He forgot to breathe. Grasped at the quickly fading notion of control like air.

He’d done this before. Girls liked to kiss him in cars. They liked the headiness of speed and the novelty of driving, and they liked how they looked sat next to Crowley as they whizzed past their jealous friends. They liked the intimacy of the shared front seat, the privacy of a hidden parking spot.

And this wasn’t so very different, was it? Fell, too, was soft and warm. Through the thin linen of his shirt, Crowley felt the gentle give of his waist, his heartbeat thundering just underneath his skin. He toppled forwards, pushing against the passenger door in his overwhelming need to get closer, drawing a whine from Fell’s throat that made him ache. Their hips tilted and their bodies aligned, and it was all so eerily familiar to Crowley, he was certain he must have done it a million times.

But then his other hand crept around Fell’s neck, cradled his jaw, and it was rough with stubble which prickled against his palm.

It was wrong, it was all wrong. Aziraphale Fell wasn’t a girl he’d picked up at the working men’s club dance, taken on a joy ride in a stolen motor car. No. He was his victim, and he was a man.

‘No,’ Crowley whispered against Fell’s lips.

But his fingers, not at all keen to break contact, clung to the nape of his neck a second longer. When they finally let go, when Crowley finally summoned enough strength to tear himself away, it didn’t feel good at all.

Grey eyes were staring at him, large and cloudy like the sky above, and just as full of the promise of thunder.

‘No what?’

Fell spoke quietly, but with a wariness that pricked at Crowley’s heart like a knife tip.

‘I can’t.’ The words burst out of Crowley, even though his lungs were squeezed tight and empty of air. ‘This is wrong.’

But while a storm raged inside of him, Fell only smiled again, straightening the collar of his shirt where Crowley’s hand had pushed the fabric aside. He nodded once, as if they’d come to an agreement.

‘I see.’

And with a look that had a steely kind of resolve about it, Fell opened the door, climbed out of the car, and walked away towards the house.

Chapter Text

He found Fell in the library, head bowed over the desk, click-clacking away at the typewriter. Only a flinch at the sound of the door closing gave away that he had, indeed, noticed Crowley’s entrance.

‘I got milk.’ Crowley raised the bottle he was holding. ‘D’you, er, want a cuppa?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ Fell said to the keys underneath his fingers, with the slightest quaver to his voice.

Crowley fled the library and, after leaning against the door with the milk bottle clutched to his chest for a second, he pulled the key from his boot and locked Fell inside.

I’m not trying to escape, Crowley.

But was that still the case? Even now?

He returned with the tea tray balanced on sweaty palms and a plan formulated in his mind.

Fell thanked him curtly, without glancing up from the typewriter.

With a shaking hand, Crowley put the cup and saucer down on the mahogany desktop. The steady sound of typing hurt like a dozens tiny hammers whacking him in the softest part of the brain. The amber surface of the tea in the cup echoed the rhythm of it in circular waves.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know when we can expect your accomplice to pick up the ransom payment?’

Fell’s tone was one of polite interest, and it was just as grating as the click-clacking of the typewriter.

Crowley blinked. The ransom. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Er, the letter said Sunday.’

Another six days before he was free. He shook his head.

‘Listen, what happened in the car…’

He bit his tongue. Fuck. He didn’t even know what had happened in the car. Only that he had started it, he had kissed Fell and it had overturned everything. And yet, here he was, typing away as if those fingers had not been clinging to his body just minutes before.

‘Look, can you stop writing for a moment? I’m tryna talk here.’

Fell’s hands froze over the keys, fingers curled to claws. The smile he gifted Crowley was poisonous.

‘Go on, then, I’m all ears.’

Suddenly, all the words had gone from Crowley’s head. The plan he’d formulated while waiting for the kettle to boil. The carefully crafted excuse and explanation he’d almost convinced himself with. Almost. It vanished into thin air as soon as Fell’s eyes fixed on him.

‘I, er… I’m not like you.’

‘That much is evident.’

‘I didn’t want to. I mean, fuck, I just got confused. What with everything going on— I just don’t want you to think that I’m… you know.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Crowley. You’re not the first chap to kiss me and then get cold feet. I suspect you won’t be the last.’

The bitterness of countless rejections hung heavy in the air, and it was too much for Crowley. He took a step back.

‘It’s… it’s against the law.’

He cringed as he said it.

Fell let out a cold laugh.

‘Is it, now? I had no idea. This anti-kissing legislation must be brand new, but then Gabriel always tells me off for not paying enough attention to matters of government.’

‘Not that. But. You know.’

‘I understand completely.’ Fell looked up, mouth pulled into a pained smile he held for a fraction of a second. ‘You’re perfectly alright with theft and kidnapping, but you draw the line at sodomy.’

He laughed at the expression of shock on Crowley’s face, but the mockery was slowly dissipating.

‘Tell me it isn’t so.’

Crowley couldn’t say anything at all. He was struck dumb by the full power of Fell’s beauty. How had he not noticed it before? The way his lips stretched over brilliant white teeth, the kind that suggested a past of caring nannies and regular dentist’s appointments. The dimples on his cheeks and chin, the lies they told, not just about this man’s age, but about his maturity, about his wisdom. Crowley had written him off as a child, innocent, naive, unknowing, and yet he was the one in need of a lesson.

Fell continued to speak, but Crowley barely took in any of it. His eyes roamed over the billowing linen shirt, which was absurdly tucked into the waistband of the borrowed tweed trousers. They were much too tight on him.

‘Well?’ Fell finished, cocking his head in a way that made his curls bounce.

Wild, they were, tufty and light as air. Just like Crowley, he hadn’t seen a comb in days. Heavens, how he wanted to sink his hands into those curls, untangle them gently with his fingers, scrape along the scalp just to hear Fell’s satisfied sighs.

Crowley blinked.

‘What?’

‘I said: What are you going to do now? With both of us trapped here until you hear from your accomplice.’

‘I don’t know. I—’ Crowley swallowed hard, then forced the words out before his cowardice had a chance to catch up. ‘I want to kiss you again.’

His gaze dropped to Fell’s lips, still curled in a smile but a soft one now, not mocking or sneering. His eyes, though, were serious, boring into him and seeing, no doubt, everything Crowley had been trying to hide.

‘And then what, Crowley? You want to kiss me and then? I needn’t remind you that you’re the one keeping me here. You’re the one with the keys to the door and a knife in your pocket, and it would be very foolish of me to indulge someone as armed and insecure as you. Men have been stabbed for less.’

‘What?’ Crowley said again. And then, when understanding set in: ‘I won’t hurt you. I won’t harm a hair on your body, I promise.’

Madness overtook him. He pulled his pen knife from his pocket and thrust it, still folded, into Fell’s hand.

‘Here. Have the knife. Do with it what you want. Run me through. Take the keys and get away. I don’t care. I just want to kiss you again.’

He wanted it so very badly. It was the admission that left him more vulnerable than the loss of the knife. He was handing over power to Fell. It was stupid. It was reckless. It was the only thing on his mind, and it was burning him up.

Fell turned the knife over in his hand, running a thumb along the worn enamel. Gently, he placed it on the desk, right next to the typewriter. Then he turned in his chair until he was sitting on it sideways, shuffling closer to the edge. His legs parted and Crowley stepped between them, looking down with baited breath.

‘Go on, then,’ Fell whispered.

It was all the invitation Crowley needed. The madness that had taken hold of him pushed him into Fell’s embrace, seeking his kiss like a maiden in a fairy tale. He barely noticed dropping to his knees, begging for absolution, not just from Fell but from himself. For denying what he so desperately wanted with every fibre of his being.

His hand shot up to cup Fell’s jaw, and this time he didn’t recoil at the scratch of stubble against his fingers, or the deep rumble of the sigh in Fell’s chest. When Fell pressed back, letting his arms rest heavy on Crowley’s shoulders, he rejoiced in it, the strength of another man, the force of his want which matched his own.

Crowley threw his head back and closed his eyes, sucking dry and dusty air into his lungs as if he was drowning. There was some sort of motion, wood scraping across carpet, and when he opened his eyes again, Fell had slid down from the chair and was kneeling, too, a mirror image of himself. His eyes were stormy and dark, wet lips parted.

‘You’re quite sure about—’

Crowley pulled him down into another kiss. The less they talked, the better. He’d been on edge for days now, ever since he’d stepped foot inside Jasmine Cottage. No, earlier than that. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on his victim, just seconds before tackling him down in a brightly lit bathroom at the theatre. And now, finally, he’d given into the fire that had been burning him up from the inside. Words just wouldn’t do. He needed touch.

They both toppled over, Crowley’s spine bending uncomfortably as his shoulders hit the plush pile of the carpet. He wiggled his legs free from underneath himself and stretched them out, and in a swift motion, Fell was straddling him, swooping down to resume their kiss.

Crowley was the one being constrained now, with the heavy weight of Fell on his thighs, and the iron grasp of his hands as they got tangled in Crowley’s uncombed hair.

The kiss got wetter, messier. Better than any he’d had before. A delicious contrast of the soft tongue in his mouth and the sharp stubble scratching his chin. Crowley’s hands came to rest on Fell’s lower back, fingers tense, pulling him closer into his lap until he felt his erection grinding against his own. Longing shot through him like a lightning bolt.

Fell pulled away, eyes darting across Crowley’s face, searching for god only knew what. The frown was firmly back on his face.

‘What?’ Crowley panted, impatient fingers pulling at the hem of the linen shirt. ‘Get back to it, Fell.’

A smile appeared, which was a million times better than the frown.

‘Do call me Aziraphale. We know each other well enough, don’t you think?’

‘Aziraphale.’

Saying it sent a new shiver down his spine. He grabbed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying to pull the ridiculous shirt up over his head. The collar caught on Aziraphale’s ears and he laughed, sitting upright to get the shirt off himself.

Crowley sank back to the carpet, awestruck. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. Aziraphale was not wearing a vest, and his heaving chest was gloriously on display, round and furred, nipples peaked from the chill that was creeping in from the windows.

‘Really, now,’ Aziraphale said with a huff, and he squirmed as if Crowley’s gaze made him uncomfortable. ‘Let me.’

A moment later, the pressure on his crotch had lifted, and with it, the heat of Aziraphale’s skin, tinged with the floral notes of lavender bath salt. Crowley pushed himself onto his elbow to see where he’d gone only to find him kneeling between his legs, hands busy undoing the buttons on Crowley’s fly.

‘Lay back down,’ he said softly, ‘let me take care of you. There’s no need… just lay back.’

Crowley did, letting his head drop back down onto the soft carpet as Aziraphale opened his flies. His hands were cold, but the goosebumps that erupted on the exposed skin of Crowley’s thighs had nothing to do with that.

He was tight with tension, with anticipation. Above him, the library ceiling was a patchwork of shadows, light years away. But Aziraphale was right there, pulling his pants down tortuously slowly.

‘You’re really sure about this?’ he whispered, breath ghosting over Crowley’s exposed cock.

His heightened senses registered every brush of Aziraphale’s fingers on his naked thigh, the friction of his briefs sliding over his skin. It took all his willpower not to grab Aziraphale by the back of the neck and push him down until he was buried in his throat. He’d never done this before with a man, but even in these circumstances it seemed impolite.

‘Just get on with it already,’ he groaned instead, thrusting into the air to make a point.

Frustratingly, Aziraphale did not get on with it already. Instead he craned his neck, looking Crowley directly in the eyes with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

‘Changed your tune rather swiftly, haven’t you?’

‘Aziraphale, I swear—’

‘But it’s a crime, don’t you know.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Don’t you forget it,’ Aziraphale said, and finally took him in his mouth, lips dragging over the shaft all the way down.

Fuck.

Crowley clawed into the carpet, foot kicking out right into the leg of the desk chair. The sharp stab of pain wasn’t quite enough to drown out a wave of arousal so intense, he wouldn’t be able to take it for much longer.

Even as he lay there, panting and squirming, he couldn’t fail to see the hilarity in it. There he was, brought to utter and complete helplessness by one poncy rich boy with a clever tongue. An evidently well-practiced tongue, licking up his length, swirling around the head of his cock, with just the right pressure in just the right places.

Sharp eyes were peering up at him over the top of the linen shirt that was now bunched around his ribcage. So familiar, and yet so entirely new. Even if he were to look away at the bookshelves creaking under the weight of thousands of volumes, or the window where the clouds had thickened to a foreboding mass of grey, there was no mistaking the fact that he was getting sucked off by a man.

There was that scratch of stubble again, harsh against the sensitive skin of his groin. The little moans that rumbled deep into his pelvis. The thick fingers gently pressing his hip into the carpet. So very different from the women who’d gotten their hands and mouths on Crowley in the past.

And fuck him if that didn’t turn him on more than anything ever had before. More than anyone ever had.

Laying back and staring at the ceiling suddenly wasn’t enough.

Crowley pushed himself up on his forearms to get a better view. Aziraphale’s head was bobbing up and down between his legs, eyes closed and half obscured by the flaxen cloud of his hair. Even like this, he was still a tease. Still not giving Crowley what he wanted.

‘Wait,’ he rasped, too wound up to be embarrassed by the threadiness of his voice. ‘I want to touch you.’

Crowley surprised himself with these words. With his boldness. He’d never been one to talk during sex, to make demands or state his wishes. Things always just happened to him.

Aziraphale paused, grip tight around the base of his cock, glistening with spit and precome.

‘If you’re—’

‘Yes, I’m bloody sure. Come here.’

A moment later, Aziraphale was there. Very there. Belly pressing down on Crowley’s, knees bracketing his hips. His breath was hot steam on Crowley’s jaw.

It was then that he realised he didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

Aziraphale realised it, too, judging by the cocked eyebrow and the hint of a smirk around his swollen lips. It gave Crowley the bravado to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and push.

They rolled over with a surprised squeak on Aziraphale’s part and a choked-off laugh from Crowley. He propped himself up with one palm flat against the carpet, right by Aziraphale’s head. The other ran a lazy trail up along the inside of his thigh, where it brushed against scratchy, horrible tweed.

‘Take them off,’ he whispered.

Another wish stated. Another desire said out loud.

Aziraphale shifted underneath him, squeezing his hands into the space between their bodies to fiddle with the flies on his trousers. Their eyes were locked.

Feeling brave, Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s trousers down as far as he could reach. He dimly noted that, with both of them still in their shoes, they would not come all the way off. Then he tipped his head down and looked. He swallowed hard.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? It’s not so different from your— oh.’

Aziraphale’s cock was jutting out from between the button flies of the tweed trousers, nestled in a cloud of ashy blond hairs. Before those pesky second thoughts could worm their way into his mind, Crowley curled a hand around it. There. It really wasn’t so different from his. Hard and velvety smooth and hot in his fist. Crowley gave it a cautious tug, savouring the glide of foreskin over the head.

‘Have you been walking around all day with no pants on, you pervert?’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale breathed. ‘Not a pervert. Washed them in the sink. Didn’t dry. Lord yes… just like that.’

Looked like Crowley had finally figured out how to shut Aziraphale up. Or at least how to reduce him to whispered half-sentences. His own arousal was spiking at the sight. Aziraphale with his eyelids fluttering, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Crowley kicked his legs, awkwardly shifting his own tweed trousers down to his knees. Aziraphale laughed and pulled him close, trapping his hand between their bodies.

‘Stop wiggling.’

‘I do not wiggle,’ Crowley retorted with all the outrage he could muster.

Which, admittedly wasn’t a whole lot right now.

Either way, Aziraphale had apparently had enough of Crowley’s fussing. He curled one hand around Crowley’s cock and the other around his waist, bringing him close until they were flush against each other.

‘There, just like that,’ he gasped. ‘Do what feels good to you.’

Crowley did, and it was easy. Thrusting into Aziraphale’s hand, feeling the glide and the heat between them, the sticky mess of precome, the fingers that had crept underneath the linen shirt to dig into the small of his back.

And then, finally, he stopped thinking, and worrying, and wondering, and gave in to the feeling that was all body and no mind. His knees, wedged between Aziraphale’s slipped on the carpet and his shoulder was getting sore from keeping his body in position.

His heart was thundering so loud, he nearly didn’t hear Aziraphale’s gasp when he came. Quietly, with eyes pressed shut and cheeks gently flushed, shaking underneath him. Picture perfect. Crowley couldn’t believe he’d nearly deprived himself of that.

He snapped his hips faster and harder, watching as Aziraphale’s spend eased the friction of the hand on his cock. Blood was rushing in his ears and his toes curled against the rigid leather of his boots. When his orgasm broke, it eclipsed everything, like a thunderstorm tearing through the clouds.

Crowley let out a moan, shameless and uncontrolled, and Aziraphale opened his eyes again, smiling up at him, holding him through the pulses. The bastard had the audacity to look shy. For a moment they stayed there, unmoving, both catching their breath. Sensations filtered in that had been tuned out for the past minutes. The dryness of the air, and the whistling of the wind in the window frames.

Crowley rolled off onto his side, reaching for Aziraphale’s discarded shirt to wipe up the mess, before he closed his flies with unsteady fingers. He waited for the inevitable barrage of doubt and regret, but it didn’t come.

How strange.

Next to him, Aziraphale, too, had done up his trousers. 

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Crowley tilted his head just enough to see that he was frowning again. Worry, even the fleeting hint of fear crossing his face. He raised a thumb to it, smoothing out the wrinkles.

‘I was thinking,’ he said slowly, ‘about whether that bathtub upstairs is big enough to fit both of us. Cause I reckon it is, and we’re covered in carpet fluff.’

Aziraphale relaxed, practically melting against Crowley’s skin.

‘A truly inspired idea, my dear. We must find out, but perhaps after dinner. I’m getting rather peckish.’

‘Go get yourself something, then. Kitchen’s just down the hall, on the right.’

Crowley bent his knee up to his chest, opened the laces on his right boot, and pulled out the key. He held it out to Aziraphale, like a knight presenting his fair maiden with a flower.

‘That’s it,’ he said, going for a casual tone, but it came out all flat. ‘Off you pop. This disaster of a kidnapping is finished.’

Aziraphale didn’t stir. Didn’t even look at the key.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’re free to go.’

‘I— what?’

‘Yup. Congratulations. You’ve successfully shagged your way out of an abduction. I expect you’ll want a lift to the station and some change for the train. Dinner first, though.’

Aziraphale looked aghast.

‘But your ransom?’

Ten thousand pounds. That was what Crowley was throwing away here. He shrugged, much more casually than he felt about it.

‘Got fifty quid out of this, didn’t I?’

And a life shattering realisation about himself. He didn’t say that bit.

Aziraphale didn’t look at all pleased about his sudden freedom. He wrung his hands and wiggled his shoulders.

‘There’s no need to be hasty, my dear. My father and brother are at this very moment scrambling together ten thousand pounds for my release, right?’

‘Right.’

‘We might as well let them get on with it, then. And once your accomplice has collected the money, you may drive me to the train station.’

Crowley sat up. The sudden motion made his head spin.

‘You want to hang around?’

‘This is not the worst place to spend a week, is it?’ Aziraphale sat up as well and looked around the library.  ‘Not the worst company to spend it with, either. You’ve gone through all the trouble of abducting me, it seems a shame not to make the most of it. Not to get the money you’re due.’

‘You want your daddy to pay the ransom? Ten thousand pounds?’

Aziraphale waved him off with a shrug.

‘He’s rich enough.’

‘Oh, I get it. You want to split it? Five grand for you, five for me?’

‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding gauche, but— I’m rich enough as well.’

Crowley simply stared, the meaning of Aziraphale’s proposition sinking in. He didn’t want money. And he didn’t want freedom. He wanted to stay with Crowley, here in this spooky old place, and he wanted him to get ten thousand quid for it.

Any time now, this would begin to make sense.

Aziraphale grabbed the key from Crowley’s hand and got to his feet, patting down the fronts of his thighs in a fruitless attempt to get carpet dust off them.

‘I’ll go make us some sandwiches, then. I appreciate the lettuce you bought, but I’m afraid salad’s quite out of the question. My horoscope was very clear about that.’

He bustled out of the library, and Crowley was left alone with his thoughts and his ever growing confusion. He’d just had the most spectacular fuck of his life, which, considering it had consisted of him rubbing up against another man on a dusty carpet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade, was quite something.

And, even more spectacularly, the demons that had been whispering in his head since he’d gotten out of the car, the ones whose voices sounded suspiciously like Bea and Hastur and Ligur— they’d all shut up. They’d all realised that this Crowley was the real deal. He was a criminal, and he liked to fuck men. Well, one man in particular. Granted, it was a small sample size, but it had to mean something.

The afternoon sun had completely disappeared behind a curtain of rain clouds now. Crowley stood up, head spinning, and wandered over to the bookshelf closest to him. What a ridiculous place this house was, stuffed full with more things than anyone could ever even need. If Crowley were to steal a dress, or a cushion, or a book, would the owner even notice? Surely not.

He ran his hand along the neatly lined up book spines, until one of them caught his eye. The dust jacket was a deep forest green, with the author and title embossed in scarlet: A.Z. Fell. Murder in Eden. With pointed fingers, he pulled it out from the shelf on which it was wedged.

Crowley had never been much of a reader, but he might make an exception for this one.

He turned the book over in his hands, flipping through the pages. They fell open easily. It had clearly been read before. The sides of the pages were cut smooth, except for the sharp edge of paper that was sticking out between two of them, about three quarters of the way through the book. A bookmark. Whoever owned this hadn’t made it all the way to the end to find out who the killer was.

Crowley let the book fall open to page 317, on the beginning of a chapter titled The Poisoned Apple. But he wasn’t looking at the writing. Instead, he stared at the slip of paper used as a bookmark. It was a pencil drawing, and a good one. Done by an artist with a keen eye for proportion, with a sense of light and of texture.

Aziraphale was instantly recognisable. Bare naked, sprawled out on a sofa with his eyes half closed, head cushioned on a forearm, knees slightly drawn up. Not unlike how he’d laid there on the carpet by the desk, just minutes ago. It was a sensual pose, but casual. Intimate. A drawing meant for the artist’s eyes only, a single moment captured in lead.

If Crowley was not mistaken, he knew that sofa, too. There it was, just behind him. Navy velvet, rendered in shades of grey in the pencil drawing. A signature was scrawled in the bottom right corner, but Crowley couldn’t make out a single letter.

The library door opened and Aziraphale approached, the plates on his tray clanking merrily against each other. Crowley tore the drawing from the book and held it out like a weapon.

‘Look what I found.’

Aziraphale paled at the sight, eyes widening with the shock of recognition.

‘Oh dear. How did this get here?’

Chapter Text

Aziraphale snatched the drawing away, but it was too late. The pencilled lines had burned themselves onto Crowley’s retinas.

‘That’s you,’ he said, quite pointlessly. ‘That’s you on that sofa.’

It was obvious that Aziraphale had seen the drawing before, evident in the way he was holding it between pinched fingers as if it was on fire. And the way he avoided Crowley’s gaze.

‘You’ve been here before,’ Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale dropped the drawing onto his sandwich tray, bustled over to the sofa on which he had once reclined naked, and began to eat. He was still shirtless and, despite the chilly air, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

Crowley tore his gaze away from the bare skin on display and sauntered over, dropping onto the sofa next to him. He let his hand hover over the tray in Aziraphale’s lap, as if indecisive about which sandwich to choose. In a lightning-fast move that was second nature to him after a childhood of pick-pocketing, he plucked the slip of paper off the tray instead.

‘Who drew this?’

Aziraphale tried to huff, but with his mouth full of bread, he only managed an undignified snort.

‘Look,’ Crowley barked, impatience already starting to make his blood boil, ‘you can sit here and stuff your face and not answer my questions, but that won’t—’

‘Newton,’ Aziraphale interrupted, keeping his gaze averted. ‘My friend Newt drew this.’

The name triggered a memory, and Crowley searched the well-organised library of intelligence at the back of his mind.

‘The artist. Shy but dreadfully talented.’

‘The very same.’

‘Isn’t he the fellow of an American heiress?’

Finally, Aziraphale turned to him with a defiant lift to his chin.

‘He is now, but he wasn’t always.’

‘Right. So this Newton,’ Crowley began, deliberately slowly. ‘He used to be your—’

‘This really is quite immaterial.’

 Crowley cursed himself for the sharp edge of jealousy that pricked at him and did his best to replace it with ice-cold rage.

‘Yeah, you’re right actually. Doesn’t matter who he is to you. Not important. So spit it out. What the fuck is going on?’

Aziraphale swallowed the last bite of his second sandwich and picked up a third from the tray.

‘Goodness,’ he mumbled, still chewing, ‘I hardly know where to start.’

Crowley had not seen Aziraphale this flustered before. Not even when he’d clasped a hand over his mouth in that theatre bathroom and crowded him against the wall to tie his hands up.

‘You can start by telling me where the fuck we are. Is this your house? Your daddy’s?’

Aziraphale shook his head, placed the half-eaten sandwich back on the tray, and rubbed his hands to get the crumbs off them.

‘It’s my friend Anathema’s.’

‘Her again.’ Things were beginning to make sense. ‘You obviously know your way around. Stupid of me not to see it.’

The anger kicked up a notch, and this time it was directed at himself as much as at Aziraphale.

‘You wrote the letter, didn’t you? You organised all this.’

Burning with what Crowley hoped was real shame, Aziraphale nodded. And now the shame was catching up to Crowley as well. He’d known for days that he was a lousy kidnapper. But the extent of his failure was only just becoming clear.

‘This was all fake,’ he whispered. ‘All of it. The letter and the ransom and your little performance in the car and… and earlier—’

He pointed at the desk chair that still stood at an odd angle, with Aziraphale’s come-stained shirt draped around one leg.

‘No,’ Aziraphale was quick to say. ‘There was nothing fake about that. I promise. I didn’t expect this… us… any more than you did.’

His hand clamped down on Crowley’s knee, and the look that accompanied it was earnest and imploring. Crowley chose to believe him. He had to, really, for his own sanity’s sake.

‘And the ransom money? Is your family in on this?’

‘Of course not. To be frank, I hadn’t thought that far ahead when I wrote the letter. But then, when we met—’

‘When I snatched you away from the theatre thinking I was doing an actual kidnapping.’

‘Yes. I thought if anyone deserves ten thousand pounds, it’s you.’ Aziraphale spoke softly, as if the very mention of the ransom money required a great amount of delicacy. ‘My father has more than enough. So the plan was simply that. For you to get the ransom and then… well, to do whatever you want with it. I’m sure you had plans.’

‘Was gonna run away to Spain.’ The word Spain came out on a hiss. ‘Leave this hellhole behind forever. That’s the plan.’

‘I shall miss you terribly if you do.’

Crowley threw his hands in the air.

‘Don’t you try to manipulate me again. I’m done with this. Done with your scheming and your lies. First thing tomorrow, I’ll drive you back to your daddy and you can write a bloody book about this if you like. Seducing the kidnapper or whatever rubbish you’ve been typing up. I’m done with you.’

Aziraphale stared at him with that hard gleam in his eyes that Crowley had already noticed on their very first day at Jasmine Cottage. It was a look that told him plainly that this man would not be intimidated by shouting, or flailing, or desperate attempts by Crowley to master his own confused thoughts.

‘I’m far from being done with you, Crowley, so I’m afraid you will sit here and hear me out. Then, if you’re foolish enough to still want to throw this opportunity away, you’re very welcome to do so.’

Crowley opened his mouth, but no words came out. Aziraphale drew himself up on the sofa, a surprisingly formidable sight considering his state of undress and the sandwich tray balanced on his knees.

‘As I mentioned, this house belongs to my friend Anathema.’

‘She’s in on it, too?’

‘She’s not. She doesn’t have the faintest idea of our presence here. If I’m not mistaken, she and Newt are currently soaking up the sun on the Cote d’Azure, and will remain there for another three weeks. And anyway, she doesn’t live here. Doesn’t even keep servants here.’

‘But you’ve been here before.’

‘Once,’ Aziraphale admitted. ‘We came here shortly after Anathema bought the house, for a party. A housewarming, I suppose. Not that I remember much aside from the general drink and debauchery. But I did notice how perfectly cut off Jasmine Cottage is from the world. How easy it would be to hide something here… or someone. And I knew where she keeps her spare key, so I mentioned that in the letter I wrote to you.’

‘Right. So we’re breaking and entering,’ said Crowley, who was, of course, very familiar with that particular crime. ‘Bloody brilliant. Just what I needed.’

Aziraphale flapped a hand at him impatiently.

‘Don’t bore me with the minutiae of the law. The point I was making is that nobody knows about this other than you, me, and my occultist.’

‘Your what?’

With a sigh, Aziraphale picked up the half-eaten sandwich again and studied it with a weary look. Cheese and pickle.

‘I was in her shop having my horoscope read, as I do every fortnight, and I’m afraid I must have been in a particularly morose mood about my future prospects… to cut a long story short, I spent a rather expensive half hour complaining about my family instead of listening to what the stars had to say to me, but in the end, she told me she might be able to help and—’

‘Tracy!’ Crowley interjected.

Of course.

‘You know her? How queer, you didn’t strike me as the type to put faith in astro—’

‘Shut up about your bloody horoscope! She’s the accomplice. She’s picking up the money from the park.’

‘Ah.’ Aziraphale tipped his head from side to side, considering that revelation. ‘That makes a whole lot of sense. All she told me was that she had connections to, well, people like you, I suppose, and if I wanted to hire a kidnapper, she would pass on the instructions. So I wrote the letter and gave it to her. She only charged a small handling fee for her troubles.’

She’d sent the letter straight to Crowley, pocketing a no doubt exorbitant amount of cash from a naive rich boy while also setting herself up for keeping a hefty cut of the ransom. How very like her.

And Aziraphale’s motivation? It had been so obvious. If Crowley hadn’t been so busy with his own personality crisis, he’d have seen it, too. The realisation of it made him laugh, and just like that, the anger vanished.

‘You’re a fucking lunatic.’ He swept the last sandwich off the tray and bit into it. ‘Doing all of this for your bloody novel.’

Aziraphale laughed, too, relieved as he leaned back into the sofa.

‘It’s called research, my dear. But that’s not all. My editor has been a right pain in the backside for weeks now. But it was probably Michael’s wedding that made me truly desperate to escape the Fell estate for a while.’

‘Holy shit. You got yourself kidnapped to get out of your sister’s wedding?’

A guilty little squirm was immediately negated by a smug grin.

‘One more conversation about seating arrangements and the conveniently single bridesmaid I was to be matched up with at the top table and I was quite ready to drown myself in the soup terrine.’

‘But your sister—’

‘Will be relieved that her wedding won’t be overshadowed by her little brother, the famous author and notorious libertine.’

Crowley snorted and shuffled closer, draping his arm across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing the soft hairs that grew at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

‘Instead, it’ll be overshadowed by her little brother, the author and libertine who’s currently being held captive by a criminal to the tune of ten thousand pounds.’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said lightly, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. At least they’ll have something to gossip about during the reception lunch. Either way, it was imperative for me to excuse myself from the wedding, lest I come out of it with a courtship thrust upon me.’

‘With the conveniently single bridesmaid?’

‘Indeed. And no matter how many times I tell my family that I have absolutely no intention to marry, they won’t stop bothering me about it.’

Crowley shook his head. Rich men and their problems.

‘So you thought you’d get yourself kidnapped by the world’s biggest idiot.’

It was a lot to take in, and yet he didn’t particularly feel like thinking right now. How pathetic. Aziraphale poked him in the side with a sharp elbow.

‘If you’re expecting me to contradict, I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a long time.’

‘Oi.’

‘It’s meant with affection. But since we’re on the subject, what happens next in the order of events?’

‘We wait for word from Tracy. Then, when your parents have coughed up the money, I’ll drop you off at a train station somewhere. You go back to your family, I pocket the ransom after giving Tracy her cut and then… well. I’ll have an awful lot of money to spend. And since I’m not going to Spain after all—’

‘You’re not?’ Aziraphale interrupted, wide-eyed and hopeful.

‘Nah, don’t think so. Sun’s no good for me. Curse of the gingers. And anyway, there’s an English crime novel coming out soon that I’m desperate to read. Don’t think they sell those in the Pyrenees.’

Aziraphale leaned in and whispered into Crowley’s ear, ‘For a kidnapper, you really are quite nice.’

‘Shut up.’

Aziraphale only smiled in response, and Crowley was mortified at the way that smile made him feel all hot inside.

‘Since we’re stuck here for the time being, we better find something to do. That novel is not nearly half finished, I’m afraid. Though, I was wondering: are you still curious about the capacity of the bathtub upstairs?’

The bathtub did fit both of them comfortably. Aziraphale got in first, with a satisfied wiggle as he lowered himself into the water. The overwhelming scent of lavender rose from the tub, and Crowley scolded himself for not having thought to buy more bath salt at the shop.

He had averted his eyes when Aziraphale had stripped off his trousers, which was ridiculous in of itself. As if he hadn’t seen him already. Touched him.

Aziraphale was all smugness, sitting upright at one end of the tub with both arms resting on the edges of it, comfortable as if he’d done this many times before. Which, Crowley realised, he probably had.

On the other hand, his only experience of sharing baths was a childhood of squeezing into a cold tin tub with his siblings on Sundays. He took a deep breath and pulled off his clothes. Even with his eyes cast downwards, he could feel Aziraphale’s heated gaze on him.

‘Make some space then,’ he grumbled, annoyed by his own embarrassment.

Aziraphale pulled his knees up until the tops of them stuck out from the surface of the water like two pale islands.

Crowley stepped into the tub. The water was warm, nearly hot. It was perfect. He let himself sink into it, at the opposite end to where Aziraphale sat and watched him like a falcon studying a field mouse.

Feeling bold, Crowley stretched out his legs, until his shins were trapped between the edges of the tub and the soft curves of Aziraphale’s hips. He nudged him with a toe.

‘What now?’

Aziraphale dipped a hand into the water, trailing it up along the inside of Crowley’s leg.

‘You’ve never done this before?’

Crowley cleared his throat, resisting the urge to squirm with arousal at the touch.

‘Obviously not. Never seen a tub this big in my life.’

‘I meant to say: you’ve never been intimate with men before? Or thought about it?’

Which was a funny way to put it, but Crowley knew what he meant.

‘No,’ he said automatically, but he corrected himself immediately. ‘Yeah.’

‘Which is it?’

Aziraphale regarded him with a look that was much too understanding. It was so bloody confusing. There had been times he’d looked at a man with desire, but he’d always discounted those as mistakes. Drunken slip-ups at the pub, stolen glances at his friends when they stripped off for a dip in the river. All easily forgotten.

‘I don’t know,’ Crowley said miserably.

This time was different. There was no ale involved, no plausible deniability. Only Crowley, sober, wanting nothing more than to pull Aziraphale Fell towards him, to sink into the bathwater together and make it splash all over the bathroom tiles.

He shook his head.

‘So you and this Newt, you… er… you… er—’

Aziraphale retrieved his hand, laughing at the obvious change of topic.

‘Yes, we er. That was before I introduced him to Anathema and he became hopelessly devoted to her instead.’

‘Fuck. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. She’s much better for him. We’re too alike, Newt and myself. Both with our heads in the clouds, drifting through the world. You know. Artistes.’

‘Artistes,’ Crowley repeated incredulously.

‘Quite. He needs to be with someone with both feet firmly on the ground. As do I.’

Crowley slid further into the water, bracketing Aziraphale between his legs. The back of his head hit the solid edge of the tub and he stared up at the unnecessarily ornamented ceiling.

Was he someone with both feet firmly on the ground? Last week, he would have said yes. That was before he’d let himself get drawn into the fake abduction of an entirely ridiculous and entirely irresistible man. Now he was floating, and he knew if he thought too much about it, the vertigo would set in.

‘So this bloke drew you naked and then left the drawing lying around at his sweetheart’s house?’

Aziraphale cocked his head, clearly biting down on a laugh. He grinned at Crowley as if he thought the very question rather cute.

‘My dear, she was there when he sketched me. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about the drawing, it’s not as if my naked body is about to be displayed in the National Portrait Gallery.’

‘M’not making a fuss,’ Crowley grumbled, trying his best not to appear too ruffled by all of this. ‘And anyway, won’t this Anathema be pissed off when she finds out you’ve broken into her house with a known thief and used up all her bath salt?’

Aziraphale looked down, splashing about in the water for a bit before he answered.

‘Let’s just hope that the promise of a riveting new novel will placate her. She’s quite the force of nature. In either case, I expect she’ll forgive me once I introduce you to her.’

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. Aziraphale flushed at lightning speed.

‘That is, of course, if you want to continue our acquaintance, I entirely understand—’

‘Yeah,’ Crowley said quickly. ‘Yeah, I want to continue our acquaintance. Meet your snobby friends and all. As long as I don’t get ogled like a zoo animal.’

Aziraphale let out a sigh, and Crowley realised that he, too, had been holding his breath.

‘No-one will be allowed to ogle you. Myself excepted, of course.’

He looked off to the side, into the darkness that had settled beyond the window. His delighted wiggle caused the surface of the bathwater to rise and ebb in tiny waves.

‘Lord, I can’t wait for you to meet them all. There’s going to be a party up at Shadwell’s castle, when Newt and Anathema are back from their holiday. It’ll be good fun. What say you about joining us?’

‘A party? In a castle?’

‘Up in the highlands. Shabby old place, horribly draughty, but ever so romantic.’

‘Er… sure… if your friends are okay with me being there and all.’

Aziraphale pushed himself off from his end of the bathtub and shuffled over, until he was kneeling between Crowley’s legs.

‘Darling, they’re going to adore you.’

Crowley’s heart was hammering in his chest. It was less from nerves about meeting Aziraphale’s poncy friends and more just a natural reaction to having him so close, hot and damp from the bath, and just as excited about entwining their lives together in a way that Crowley would later struggle to explain to Tracy.

Aziraphale’s eyes searched his from underneath pale lashes. Crowley leaned forward, away from the safe solidity of the edge of the tub, wrapping both arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, damp skin sticking and hasty breaths floating above the gentle splash of the water.

Their kiss was wet and bitter and lavender-scented. Crowley savoured every second of it. A new feeling, that. The enjoyment of someone else’s mouth on his, how a sweep of lips or a shared exhale could make his body flicker like an electric lightbulb.

His hand slid lower down the slope of Aziraphale’s spine, dipped into the water, coming to rest on the curve of his arse. Aziraphale gasped into his mouth and toppled forwards, right into Crowley’s embrace. Their hips tilted, growing erections grinding against each other.

Crowley ripped himself away, sucking in the heavy, steamy air. It made him dizzy in the best possible way.

All right, he thought as he pulled Aziraphale even closer. Maybe this kidnapping had not been a complete failure.

Some weeks later, they were back in the stolen Bentley, driving north at breakneck speed. Crowley forced his eyes on the country road, annoyed at having to drive instead of being able to sit there and stare at Aziraphale as much as he desired.

It was another hour before they would cross into Scotland, and perhaps there they’d find an abandoned lay-by, or a private spot shaded by the flora to indulge in each other’s company a little more intimately. Until then, split-second glances would have to be enough.

As it was, Crowley had both hands clasped firmly around the steering wheel, which wasn’t at all what he wanted to be grabbing right now. Aziraphale sat next to him, wearing a pair of round spectacles Crowley hadn’t seen before, peering down at a floppy pile of papers in his hands. The first draft of his novel. The editor had yet to see even a page, but Crowley was about to hear it all.

‘Arabella Fox had not expected the kidnapper to be quite so handsome,’ Aziraphale read in the affected tones of a radio presenter, clipping his vowels and rolling his r’s even more than usual.

Crowley pressed his lips together, suppressing a snort.

‘Wait, wait, wait.’

‘What?’ Aziraphale huffed.

‘The kidnapper’s victim’s called Arabella Fox?’

‘Well, yes. She needs an appropriately glamorous name. And think of the possibilities for the book title… Outfoxed, or The Fox and the Wolf, the wolf in this analogy being the kidnapper, of course.’

‘Right, of course. Go on.’

Aziraphale raised the stack of papers high and took a deep breath.

‘Arabella Fox had not expected the kidnapper to be quite so handsome. He was tall and rather thin, with ink-black hair that matched the colour of the starless night sky.’

‘Black hair?’ Crowley interrupted again.

This time, Aziraphale didn’t look annoyed at all, grinning at him over the top of the printed pages instead.

‘Yes.’

‘Not red?’

And there it was, the laughter Crowley had missed more than anything. Bright as sunlight, and just as warm. The kind that couldn’t be captured in a letter or a telegram.

‘Don’t pout, darling, your hair is as gorgeous as the rest of you, but I’m afraid in the realm of mystery novels, redheads aren’t quite… um…’

‘Quite what exactly?’

‘Never mind now.’

Crowley spun the car around a bend in the road without braking, just to make a point.

‘And anyway, I thought the kidnapper is her long lost love,’ he pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t she recognise him when she first sees him?’

‘Ah, I scrapped that idea.’ Aziraphale braced a hand on the glove compartment, his only reaction to the car’s speed. ‘No, the kidnapper has been hired by her evil fiancé, who wants her out of the way for reasons I shan’t reveal to you just yet. Either way, her betrothed has her kidnapped, but of course she’s going to fall in love with the kidnapper by the end of the book.’

‘Right.’

Crowley’s stomach dropped. He let off the gas, allowing the car to roll gently down the hill. If only his racing thoughts were as easily controlled.

‘Falling in love with the kidnapper,’ he said apprehensively. ‘Bit unlikely, don’t you think?’

‘No.’ Aziraphale gifted him a beaming smile full of promise. ‘Not at all.’