Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A lonesome angel in the frock of a friar strides down the middle aisle of the ornate cathedral, cutting a path between the rows upon rows of ornate pews. The smell of camphor wood, and the lingering residue of frankincense and myrrh incense fills his nostrils. Colored geometric shapes gleam across the floor from the stained glass windows lining the walls.

Finally, Aziraphale reaches the sanctuary after an obnoxiously long walk, where a familiar figure stands next to the altar and below the quite frankly imposing golden cross towering above all else in the vicinity.

“Ah, Aziraphale!” The archangel Gabriel, clad in voluminous white robes and a finely embroidered golden and purple stole, greets the angel. Light that somewhat inexplicably, given that it is already evening, shines down in rays from the vaulted ceiling above, cutting a makeshift spotlight in the overly decorated room. “You’ve arrived!”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale returns the greeting uneasily, but as usual, the Archangel does not seem to notice, or at least not have any regard for it.

“Let me tell you, you are going to love this assignment. It’s quite the doozy.” Gabriel says conspiratorially with a steeple of his fingers. “And we saved it just for you! To be honest, I’m jealous.”

“Oh good! So then, we’re finally going to be allowed to intervene in this awful plague business? Such a menace returning so soon after that first outbreak surely isn’t a part of the divine pl-”

“Pfft, what? No! It’s even better!” He leans in with a knowing, facetious smile, eyebrows raised. “And who wants to deal with boring old sick people, anyway? Maybe they should try not being sick!”

“O-Oh. Hm.” The other angel offers a thin, pinched smile in return, if you could call it that.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the little heresy problem we’ve been dealing with as of late. The rest of us simply have our hands full returning the wandering flock to the pen- What else is new, am I right?-”

Aziraphale, struggling not to tune out his superior, finds himself gazing up at the middle section of a stained glass triptych high up on the wall. His eyes meet with a small lamb’s where it sits in the robed lap below it.

When he returns to focus, Gabriel is mercifully finishing up his long winded direction.

“-and so that’s why you get the very special opportunity to investigate some very interesting rumors about some crazy person raising bloodthirsty corpses from the dead! We can’t just have any unsanctioned rube wandering in off the farm and playing at making the next Lazarus, after all- Or worse, Hell being involved.”

“Ah- Right! Of course.”

Once night has fallen, Aziraphale departs for the suspicious location he’s been tasked to investigate. The walk to the rundown cathedral in question is remarkably different than the relatively clean and safe street he walked along earlier.

This part of the city is littered with rundown buildings, and a non-zero number of impoverished residents slowly succumbing to the effects of the black death, crammed into alleyways and forgotten. Many of the people left here have been turned out by their own flesh and blood, left to die alone for the sake of sparing the rest of their kin.

Only one thought rings in his mind, the same thought that has haunted him these last few years, like a reverberation of a bell tolling a call to prayer; Why does Heaven allow this to happen?

There must be a reason, Aziphirale tries to convince himself. Surely…

Finally, the angel arrives at his destination; what seems to have once been a functioning cathedral, but now has been reduced to disrepair and rot. Despite the holes forming in the structure itself, all of the windows and doors are blocked over with nailed-on planks of wood. Aziraphale walks around to the back entrance, slinking through discarded trash and mystery liquids he would prefer not to think too hard on the origin of, assuming that it will be easier to dislodge the barrier off of a smaller entrance.

Once he has given up trying to get in by mundane means, Aziraphale relents with a sigh, and after making sure no one is in sight, simply miracles the boards off the door.

He lets himself in, the door creaking and threatening to fall off its hinges completely.

The most peculiar thing that hits him as soon as opening the door is the eerie green lighting. It seems to be emanating from a large fireplace along the back wall. The strange, almost unnatural green of the flames casts a sickly hue across everything in the room, making the shadows long.

Inside, most of the vestiges of ever being a place of worship have been eroded away- the inside gutted out and now housing what seems to be some sort of heretical alchemical laboratory. A variety of bubbling liquids inhabit a swirling track of thin and twisting glass tubing and bulbs, making up a network of fragile looking equipment. A leatherbound journal, splayed open on the desk, has demonic looking writing scribbled across its pages.

Examining the journal, Aziraphale is unsure of what this Yersinia pestis is, but it sounds like a fitting name for a demon of great terror. Even reading the latin strikes up a bit of unease- he wouldn’t want to unknowingly give the entity power by reading its name.

In one corner of the room, there seems to be some sort of makeshift morgue.

And, as one would expect from a morgue, laid out on a slab next to the workstation, there is a body.

Aziraphale’s eyes warily come to rest on the nearby cadaver. Its toe pokes out from beneath the stained off-white sheet acting as its shroud. He approaches, hand trembling slightly as he pulls down the sheet.

The corpse is pale as a ghost, almost a sickly grey-purple tint to their complexion where blood has pooled under their skin. In stark contrast, blood has collected around their mouth and under their nostrils, and while most of it is darkened and crusted dry, there are some traces of fresh, red blood accumulating as well. Also of note is the awful, painfully swollen blistered lump on the side of the neck, and the blackened skin on the nose. The smell is unpleasant, to say the least.

Aziraphale cringes mournfully, replacing the shroud of the unfortunate soul. He is about to investigate the rest of the room, when he realizes he is no longer alone. He quickly swivels to look at the figure now standing behind him.

They are tall and lanky, their ominous form swallowed up by a wide, flowing black frock, the high cowl buttoned all the way up to the neck. Roomy sleeves frame gloved hands, and a wide brimmed hat sits upon their head. Secured by the hood is a stark black beak structure, studded around the edges with metal grommets. On the nose of the mask rests an inquisitively reflective set of dark goggles.

The mystery figure dislodges the long beaked mask on his face, revealing just enough of their features to be recognizable before fixing the mask back in its proper place. As the mask is shuffled round, he catches the faintest whiff of spice on the air- perhaps clove.

And of course, Aziraphale would recognize the flash of those eyes golden anywhere. How could he not?

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, trying and failing to not sound pleased with the revelation.

“Angel.” The muffled voice behind the mask is unmistakably familiar, even with the mask.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing with all of this?”

“Just practicing a bit of preventative medicine.”

Crowley continues to work some esoteric process with the alchemical tools in the makeshift workspace. Aziraphale watches for a long moment, intrigued.

“...Don’t take this as unjust criticism, my dear,” He fusses with the tassels of the braided cord acting as the belt of his frock. “But, oh, well… it’s just that… isn’t it a bit…”

“Spit it out already. I’m busy- in case you didn’t notice.” Crowley flicks one of the many glass flasks on the table with the back of his index finger. It makes a dull clink, the bubbles in the green liquid agitated for a moment by the reverberation.

“Healing the sick- It simply doesn’t seem very demonic.” Aziraphale hisses the last word, as if the sounds themselves might come back and bite him. “Why would Hell have you be doing something like this?”

“Oh, this isn’t an order from Hell.” Crowley says simply, letting the implication that he’s doing this of his own accord be communicated without being said aloud. He uses a gloved hand to add one final touch of some mysterious powder to the potion in the mixing glass. He gives it a swirl, beak quirking to the side as he examines the mixture from behind his inlaid goggles.

“But then…” Aziraphale, rapidly running out of rebuttals, only has one thing left on his mind; “Why?”

“Why? Angel- All of this plague business - it’s just so boring. There’s more than enough suffering to keep Hell happy, sure, but it’s all the same groaning and shambling and lying about in heaps waiting to die; day in, day out. It gets old. And I don’t fancy myself another thousand year nap. So I’ve decided to put an end to it.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” Aziraphale’s eyes follow the route of the glass tubing on the workspace,

“Watch and see for yourself.”

Crowley pulls down the shroud of the corpse on the table once more- and then promptly squeezes the person’s nostrils shut until their blood-crusted jaw sags open. Then, he unceremoniously pours a glug of the mixture, measured by eye, directly down the cadaver’s throat.

The supposed corpse lets out a bubbling, bloody cough, then a belabored rattle of a groan. Then, miraculously, it begins to breathe- the subtle rise and fall of their chest with shallow, spaced out breaths now obvious. Though they do not seem particularly lucid, they are unarguably, alive.

“Oh, Crowely- using miracles of all things to bring back the dead? That’s madness! And how are you managing to conceal the energy signature? It surely must still be drawing unwanted attention from down below… ”

“It’s no miracle.” Crowley sniffs the remaining mixture in the glass before plugging it with a cork. “And I’m not bringing back the dead. Just the nearly dead.”

“Then… just what is it that you’ve mixed up here, Crowley?”

The demon rises to his feet, black fabric billowing about the floor. Aziraphale can detect the coiled excitement in Crowley as he savors revealing the information- and perhaps even a small hint of pride, if the uncharacteristic way he squares his shoulders instead of his usual sulk is any indication.

Finally, he speaks:

“Antibiotics.”

There is a long pause. One of the glass cylinders drops with a dull clink, followed by the sound of it rolling to a slow stop on the surface of the rough hewn wooden desk.

“...Antibiotics…?” Aziraphale feels out the foreign word in his mouth.

“Yes. Like biotics, but, well, the other way.”

“Ah, some sort of curative? You were being truthful when you said medicine…”

The realization clicks into place for the angel.

“That must be it, then. The displaced skulking about pale and gaunt, the aversion to sunlight, the blood stains around the mouth. Loved ones returning from their assumed final demise.” Aziraphale concludes, stroking his chin. “ It’s why people think there are some sort of foul undead that feed on the blood of the living skulking about in the shadows. “... I-It doesn’t exactly explain any of the claims about garlic, per say, but most things are harmed by steel, if you really think about it-”

“Hmm. Skulking about, you said?” Crowley faintly grumbles behind his mask. Aziraphale can’t see it, but can imagine the deep furrow in Crowley’s brow from his voice. “...May have to hold them longer for observation from now on…”

“And the fireplace…? A minor miracle?”

“No. Probably old copper dust in the ashes.”

“Hmm… Well, as far as I’m concerned, as long as there are no more reports, the problem is solved.”

“May still get some lingering reports about blood fiends, what with the flagellants about the city.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Azirphale inquires.

“Hell if I know. But there’s a dusty old crate of communion wine in that basement that I could use help disposing of. It’s no Chateauneuf du Pape, but it isn’t vinegar yet. Probably.” A unseen, angular brow perks up over the tinted goggles obscuring his eyes. “Unless of course… you’d rather run back to Heaven and report me?”

“Oh, Crowley, you already know I plan on doing no such thing.”

Before he can second guess himself, Aziraphale finds himself seated in a partially destroyed armchair, looking down at the questionable iridescent sheen to the top of his wine. Opposite him is a reclining and unmasked Crowley, the angular lines of his features and the pushed up beak of his mask still bathed in verdigris light.

“I suppose it’s a good thing in the end, that you’ve intervened.” Aziraphale muses.

“Sometimes a bit of intervention is necessary.”

“Perhaps this way there won’t be a third wave.”

“Pfft, another plague as bad as this,” Crowley shakes his head, beak of his mask waving where it’s pushed up on his forehead. “Could you imagine that, Angel?”

“I’d prefer not to. `Not in a hundred years.”

“What about five hundred?” Crowley teases.

“Not even a thousand, thank you.”

After settling into a comfortable silence looking at the weakly crackling green flames of the fireplace, Aziraphale feels a gloved- and miraculously, unsoiled- glove covered hand come to rest on the top of his hand where it sits on the tatty armrest.

And he smiles.

Chapter Text

As the carriage clackets down the bleak, lonely dirt road towards his destination, Aziraphale contemplates his recent assignment from the archangel:

"Aziraphale! my friend! There are more of those bloodsucking undead about causing strife, and since you dealt with them so smoothly last time- we’ve decided that you’re going to deal with them again. ‘We’ being Heaven and I! But mostly me, it being my brilliant idea and all.”

A withering sigh escapes him at the memory, raising steepled forefingers and thumbs to his brow. The assignment, of course, is a nuisance, but at least he’s been able to repurpose his reason for coming here, to the hotbed of the rumors.

The ride itself is uneventful, up until several meters from the property, when the mare halts in her tracks, giving a high, faltering alarm neigh in protest. The carriage comes to a jarring halt, threatening to throw Aziraphale onto the floorboard. The coachman refuses to get any closer, as well. Something about the castle being ‘the abode of the devil’. A quaint belief, if one with an amusing bit of truth to it, the angel supposes.

And so, Aziraphale is left on the side of the road in somewhat mountainous wilderness, with nothing besides his large travel trunk sitting in the sparse grass, the briefcase in his hand, and a torch the coachman shoved into his hand (before fleeing in muted terror) in the other.

The sun has just sunk below the horizon, leaving a pale, full moon visible. The entire vicinity of the castle is covered by a thick blanket of mist, almost like it’s creeping out from the structure itself, rolling out across the bridge like a white carpet in invitation. The echo of hounds baying mournfully starts in the distance.

Aziraphale considers dragging his own luggage up the rest of the dark path by hand, briefly.

Briefly.

Then, before he can dwell on it for too long, whoops- it seems the luggage has mysteriously appeared on the doorstep of its own accord. The angel makes the rest of the walk up the dusty path and over the creaking old wood of the wooden bridge, briefcase in hand. He can hear the sound of the running water of a moat far beneath him, at the bottom of the gorge carved out of the hill below, where it runs into a river proper farther down.

Once he reaches the looming stone facade of the estate, he sets down his briefcase, sets the torch in an empty sconce by the door, straightens his waistcoat, then finally reaches out to knock the ornate metal door knocker himself.

The metal clangs heavily against the old door, hollow reverberation hanging in the air.

When the door creaks open, it’s someone that Aziraphale doesn’t recognize opening it; a slight woman with dark hair and a ghostly pallor, her lips with the faintest hint of bluish purple. Dark circles ring her hollow eyes. Her dress looks more fine than a typical servant’s; and yet still the lace and velvet looks old, mealy and moth-eaten, like a funeral gown of an exhumed woman.

“Welcome.”

“Oh, good evening, miss,” He greets her in his most pleasant and good mannered speaking voice, his cheerful smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m A. Z. Fell, a bookseller.”

“You’re here to see the master about the library, then?” She acknowledges in a neutral manner, her tone so lifeless and matter-of-fact that it seems more of an observation than a question.

“Quite! I’m here to discuss some business with Master Crowley,” Aziraphale offers, ready to verbally spin the winding and, in his own opinion, very well thought out cover story he had concocted for this meeting with his beloved companion. But he cuts himself short, seeing from the woman’s unfazed expression that it’s not going to be necessary. “As it were.”

“This way.” She nods, moving out of the way of the threshold with the most perfunctory suggestion of a curtsy. Then, she leads the way down the entry hall. The full skirt of her dress sways as she moves, like a spectre haunting the halls.

Aziraphale gives a momentary glance down at his luggage, but she’s already began to move away. He follows behind her- after setting his briefcase on the low rack by the entrance to the foyer, with the assumption that someone will be by to collect it later.

The woman brings him into the oppressively dark grand foyer. The space is framed by dual rounded staircases on either side, and only lit by a gas lamp chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The weak light casts eerie shadows on the walls and the floor, where they are threatened to be engulfed completely by the pervasive gloom.

“Stay here. I will go alert the master that you have arrived.” She says somberly, and then departs.

Aziraphale idles in the spacious room for at least a few minutes. He tries, and fails, to not nervously fiddle with every interesting little bauble that catches his eye.

Exactly what is going on here?, he wonders. It’s very unlike Crowley to tolerate living with nearly anyone, let alone employing the service of domestic workers.

While looking over some of the paintings on the wall, Aziraphale catches a peek down a hallway- to see another woman, also dressed impeccably for a servant, carries his luggage past the open arch of a doorway, without a hint of struggle with its weight.

That’s a bit odd, Aziraphale observes, blinking his eyes in disbelief.

The angel continues to look on in confusion- perhaps it’s in the realm of possibility that a single woman could lift all that on her own. It’s not as if a woman couldn’t do anything a man could. But the manner in which she carried it had a sort of unnatural aspect… It gives him a creepy feeling up his spine.

Perhaps his mind is just playing tricks on him…

Lost in his thoughts, Aziraphale runs his fingers along some of the decorations on the fireplace mantle. They look as if they should be covered in a fine layer of dust, and yet they are conspicuously clean.

“Can I fetch you anything, Mr. Fell?”

“Ah-!”

Aziraphale startles at the sudden voice nearby, knocking over the open glass jar of potpourri that was on the mantle. By sheer luck, the glass vessel doesn’t shatter, but the slew of dried and salted fragrant plant matter scatters across the oriental rug.

Another woman, this one just as distinct in features as the others, though sharing the same eerie pallor and lackluster stare. She’s now kneeling, skirts bunched beneath her, as she starts to hastily pick up the debris.

“Oh, Oh no, I’m terribly sorry, miss-” Aziraphale moves to help pick up the mess that he’s made, but the lady is insistent on completing her task.

“1, 2- Oh, do not worry yourself, Mr. Fell- 5, 6- This is of no concern for a guest- 9, 10, 11-”

He straightens back up, awkwardly watching the servant count out discarded pebbles as she places them back into the vase, one by one, but feeling it rude to interrupt her process.

The festering doubts disperse immediately when Aziraphale beholds a familiar figure finally emerging from the darkness of the second story.

Perched at the mouth of the stairs stands a lanky demon in an all black ensemble- waistcoat, overcoat and caplet. His red hair is long and allowed to hang loose, and on the bridge of his nose are perched a pair of stemless blacked out spectacles. The only hint of color besides his hair is the deep maroon of the ascot pinned at his throat.

“Angel.” Crowley acknowledges, peering down over the balcony, one hand on the railing. “You’ve arrived in time for dinner.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale answers in turn, trying to conceal his smile and failing. “Good to see you’re doing well.”

Crowley almost seems to hover down the stairs, gliding over them and then the ornate red and gold runner like a ghostly apparition.

The demon idles at the bottom of the stairs for a moment then looks over the trio of pale ladies that have arranged themselves in a straight line at the side of the room, the third still holding a refilled vase of pebbles, returning his gaze with dead-eyed stares.

“What? Go on, then.”

After a moment, they quickly disappear from sight into the service area of the castle, like mice scattering into cracks in the walls.

“You’ll have to tell me all about what you’ve been up to- surely you’ve been busy, you’ve somehow acquired a castle since I’ve seen you last...”

And a harem full of sickly looking, vulnerable women, Aziraphale does not add out loud.

“Not my castle- You could say it’s on loan.” He shrugs, disinterested.

“Ah. Perhaps that does explain all of the fear-stricken villagers I’ve encountered over the journey here. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, Crowley, would you?”

“Hell is all about sowing superstition in the area at the moment. Trying to instigate revolution or some other unimaginative business. Playing the long game, and as usual, doing an awful job of it.”

Aziraphale feels the corners of his lips curl in amusement at the demon’s snark, though he manages to hold back the urge to laugh.

“Here, let’s go to the library. They have a habit of eavesdropping.” Crowley says, directed at the ever so slightly cracked kitchen door, which coincidentally creaks closed upon his words.

Crowley takes an empty crystal wineglass, and glances at a bottle of red wine that’s been left to breathe. After a moment, the glass is filled with wine.

“Care for one?”

Aziraphale nods, taking a glass himself and watching as it seemingly fills on it’s own accord.

“It’s unlike you to keep close company unless you must,” Aziraphale questions, probing for the information he’s looking for in the least insulting way possible.

“Don’t you think it looks a bit odd?”

“Odd?”

“Oh, you know. An older gentleman with only young, female servants. The pallor, the entranced look in their eyes, the tight corsets and frankly low cut bodices…”

“Hm. I think that’s just the fashion at the moment, Angel.” Crowley pauses thoughtfully. “Was thinking about taking the look for a spin myself, but the job called for menswear…”

He leaves him no choice. He must go with the direct route.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale scolds, deathly serious. “Are you doing something untoward with these women?”

“Untoward? No!” Crowley barks in return.

“They’re not being… perhaps… forced to stay here, against their will? All the villagers seem to be convinced they were kidnapped by some ghoulish fiend.”

“Kidnapped? Pft! You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Then, what? Demonic possession?”

“No.” He scoffs. “And what reason would I have to possess them? Menial domestic labor? That seems like a waste.”

The logic is undeniable, though Aziraphale doesn’t feel much better at the thought.

“Then… What have you done to them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… you know what I mean.” He urges in a hushed tone. “What’s wrong with them, if not for some demonic interference?”

A deep frown creases Crowley’s face, then one eyebrow quirks up from behind his dark spectacles in mock surprise, drawing lines across his forehead. He tilts his head toward the angel, just slightly.

“You can't just ask what’s wrong with someone, Angel.”

He’s clearly being purposefully obtuse. Facetious, even.

Aziraphale huffs.

“Ahem- I’m starting to think all of the hysteria about blood drinking nonsense that Heaven is in the throes of may have some sort of basis in reality at this point! What else am I to think? They look like they’ve been drained.”

“Drained? Who? Verona? Aleera, or Mishka…?” Crowley inclines his head slightly. “Well, nevermind- I guess it doesn’t matter who. They’re all quite anemic.”

“A-Anemic?”

Crowley looks over his spectacles, a momentary flash of gold for effect.

“They’re transylvanian peasant women, Angel. Of course they’re anemic.”

"That new fangled mineral deficiency? You have the medical equipment here to detect something like that?"

"No, but do you think the average peasant diet can afford steak? Kale?” Crowley shrugs his shoulders, tapping on the rim of his glass for effect. “An iron deposit to lick on when they feel a bit faint?"

The angel looks at Crowley, dubious.

“That makes sense… I suppose…” Aziraphale wrings his hands, trying to wash off the insecurity with the motion. “A very convenient explanation…”

“It’s convenient because it’s true.” Crowley shrugs.

"Oh, dagnabit. I just remembered that I left something very important in my trunk! Silly me. Be back in just a pop!" Aziraphale sets his glass down on the nearest surface, then turns to make a beeline back towards the stairs in the foyer so fast that the tails of his vest flutter.

"Don’t you want to be shown your room?" A slender eyebrow raises above one of his lenses.

"Oh no my dear, I'm sure one of these lovely ladies of yours could assist me!" Aziraphale calls back, not bothering to stop hurrying out of the room.

"... Suit yourself then! You know where I'll be."

As if by being summoned by the sound of her unspoken name, Verona appears in the foyer as soon as the angel approaches the steps.

“Hello, miss, er-”

“Verona.” She says, her intonation as hollow as the look she’s giving him.

“Miss Verona, would you be so kind as to escort me to my bedroom? I find myself in need of something from my luggage.”

“This way.” She nods, and begins to lead Aziraphale up the stairs. When she reaches one of the last doors in the upstairs hall, she opens the door, then gestures inside.

Aziraphale sees his trunk laid across the footstand of the bed as soon as he enters the room.

“Miss Verona,” He says urgently, under his breath but loudly enough to be heard. “If you were being held captive, now would be the time to speak up. Is that the case?”

“No... I came here to work after being thrown out by my father. None of the other estates would take a woman in my position in.”

“Oh, is that the case? And Master Crowley… took you in? Under what sort of conditions?”

“Fair wages for even a man, room and board included, he doesn’t beat or torment or molest us, like some others would…” She says, her words seemingly genuine, despite her toneless demeanor. “There is one room that we cannot enter from which horrible yelling comes from, daily- but he never so much as raises his voice at us, let alone a hand. Master Crowley is quite the kind employer. Eccentric, perhaps- but not cruel.”

“Right. Well, I’m pleased to hear it!” Aziraphale smiles and turns to leave the room. “I would um, of course simply despise the thought of doing business with some sort of virtueless rapscallion.”

“...Did you not need something from this room, Mr. Fell?”

“Oh, Hahah, right you are! Thank you for reminding me.” The angel returns to the end of the bed and makes a good show of rummaging through his trunk for the imaginary forgotten item.

“Perhaps you would like to hear the words of my fellow servants,” Verona says, clearly having put together what information Aziraphale was trying to extract, but not directly acknowledge. “To ease your mind about the character of your business partner?”

Aziraphale looks at her brightly, and nods.

Verona then leads the angel back downstairs to the service kitchen, finding the other two servant women busy preparing dinner.

“Ah, um. How do you two ladies feel about working for Master Crowley?”

“Working here is good. Much better than being a milkmaid.” Aleera, the one violently mashing potatoes with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, says. “No need to haul around bags of feed here.”

Aziraphale supposes that a background of farmwork may indeed explain why she could easily haul around luggage with little issue.

Mishka, the slight woman that was counting the spilled potpourri earlier, is polishing silverware; several pieces are lined up in front of her in meticulously aligned columns.

“I kept getting the boot for all of the counting and the tapping and the rearranging. But Master Crowley doesn’t have a lady of the house to get fussed over my rearrangements, and almost never has guests that’d be bothered by my eccentricities... so he doesn’t seem to mind. Working here’s been a blessing.”

The women continue to lay praise on their employer and speak about their experiences working at the castle; contrasting it with tales of their previous horrific experiences. The angel listens intently for a while, soaking in their words. Aziraphale gradually smiles a tight-lipped smile. Maybe it was foolish to jump to conclusions, after all.

He eventually opens his mouth to speak, but a different voice supplants his own from the other room.

“If you’re done with your investigation, feel free to join me whenever you please,” Crowley’s snark echoes from the dining room.

Thoroughly convinced that there is nothing anywhere near as untoward transpiring as he was postulating, Aziraphale follows the sound of Crowley’s voice into the dining room. He sheepishly takes his seat at the table setting placed across from the demon and is pleased to see his wine goblet has also made the trip into the dining room, which he hastily picks up.

“So, what interests Heaven enough that you’ve been brought all the way out here? I’m sure you didn’t fancy a holiday in the middle of rural Transylvania of your own accord.”

“Heaven seems to think that the dead feasting on the blood of the living is a problem again.” “And, of course, thought I would be the perfect angel for the job.”

“This again? I thought that was put to rest centuries ago. Back with the one plague business.”

“Yes well, it’s back in vogue, as it were. They’re calling them vampires now.”

“Angel… Vampires aren’t real.”

Crowley pauses in thought and leans back in his chair, before contemplatively adding;

“...Are they?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue! They sound like they’d be one of yours if they were.” Aziraphale second guesses the use of ‘yours’ when in fact he means Hell’s, but ultimately decides to not correct himself.

“I thought it was some nonsense that Hell cooked up for this misinformation campaign. It’s why all the peasantfolk are losing sleep at night. Turning on each other and what have you.”

“I’m sure this will amount to nothing, just like the last time.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’ll just have to tell them something they want to hear.”

To his relief, conversation takes a much more pleasant turn afterwards, and it begins to feel much like a normal visit that they would spend together in each other’s company.

That is, until there’s a knock on the door. Crowley’s interest is peaked monetarily, but he quickly brushes it off, assumingly comfortable enough to let one of the women handle it.

Though, after a few more minutes of conservation, something is clearly wrong, given the faint sound of conservation coming from the front entrance.

A repentant looking Mishka enters the room, nervously picking at her dress sleeves.

“Master Crowley, you have a visitor…” She makes the announcement in the most pitiful voice imaginable.

“Oh, do I?”

“Still at the doorway. I-I may have told him dinner was to be served soon and um… he took that to mean I invited him in. I think? He said you had a meeting scheduled.” She warbles anxiously. “I’m so sorry! Verona was in the washroom- I-I knew I should’ve let Aleera answer the door-”

Mishka’s speech is cut off by the sound of heavy bootfall trailing her into the dining room, causing her to scurry away back to the service kitchen in fear.

“Well hello, gents. Master Crowley, I presume? A fine evening, isn’t it?”

The guest is a slightly stout, long-haired bearded man. He’s dressed in a neutral-toned practical outfit that, from a cursory glance, has been purposely made flashy with added shoulder board fringes and rank badges sewn to the leather overcoat.

“And who would you be?” Crowley says, but what he means by that is; and who the hell are you?

“Surely you received my many letters? I took the lack of response to mean that this time was suitable for you.”

Crowley is silent for a moment.

Those letters clearly were all thrown in the bin. Or incinerated.

“Witchfinder Sergeant Helsing van Pulsifer.” The man introduces himself, then presumptuously takes a seat at the table across from them. “I’m here to check the premises for witches and their ilk.”

Aleera comes out with a fresh bottle of wine, and a third glass and place setting for the Witchfinder.

“Is there some reason to believe there are witches here?” Aziraphale inquires.

“There have been reports,” The witchfinder explains. “And with new brash of cases, we’re being especially careful. Have you heard of this new variant of witch? Vampires, they call them.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a glance.

“So, how would one identify one of these…” Crowley purposefully says the next word with a fully snide pair of verbal air quotes; “Vampires?”

“First order of business; How many nipples have you got? Witches always have an ungodly number.”

“Oh, the godly amount, I assure you.” Aziraphale says.

“Ngk-” Crowley nearly spits out the wine that he had just brought to his lips, barely managing to keep his composure.

Dinner is served, but even Azirphale doesn’t have much appetite in current circumstances. The Witchfinder seems to not have such aversions, and immediately begins to tuck into a roasted pork leg.

The servant women try, and two thirds of them fail, to not be conspicuously lingering in an attempt to overhear the ominous conversation conversation.

“Good to hear! Besides that, there’s some variation of course, but the typical morph is: Pale, clad in dark colors. Dark hair or redheaded. Usually hiding their eyes, which either appear dead and hollow, or with a supernatural glow. A slinky look to them- gaunt and hungry looking. Usually unmarried, either in a hag or a jezebel persuasion. Completely devoid of the warmth of the living.” Witchfinder van Pulsifer does not yet seem to realize he is describing all of the castle’s current inhabitants, baring himself and Aziraphale, Aziraphale notes- except that last part, which just seems rude to say.

“I… see. And out of curiosity, what exactly does a witchfinder do with the witch when they’ve found one?”

“Oho, well, interrogation via intense corpreal torture, obviously. Burning, dunking, bone crushing, scalping, breaking on the wheel, pear of anguish, the whole works. It’s all very technical.”

Aziraphale winces at the answer to his inquiry, but the witchfinder does not seem to find reason to stop his explanation.

“...And then after learning the identify of other coven members a witch reveals under the revelatory sensation of torture, ye move on to the next witch, until the whole coven is cleansed from the area. It’s like formed little nests of rot that need to be excised, like an infected pustule… burned down at the roots, so to speak-”

“We can’t have that.” Crowley says, his jaw set.

“As for after that, there are all manner of execution methods. My personal favorite is good old beheading. A real classic that, but it’s not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. But even that isn’t the worst method. Burning at the stake, impalement, hanging, reverse hanging, iron maiden… Even scaphism, if it’s the right time of year. Some of my colleagues are certainly not squeamish, not in the least-”

Multiple courses go by at a grueling pace, with none of the subtle hints to leave being picked up on by their uninvited guest.

“It sure is getting late.” Aziraphale finally observes.

“That it is. I better get started, lest the sun start shining halfway through my investigation!” Unsurprisingly, the Witchfinder Sargeant fails to catch the hint as he rises from his seat.

“Mr. van Pulsifer, perhaps you’d like to stay for the night?” Aziraphale says, the suggestion more of a hail mary to get the man out of the room, if anything. “I”m sure you’ve done a lot of traveling. You must surely be tired from the journey. Then you would be fresh faced and ready to slay undead fiends in the morning.”

“Are ye daft? There’s no slaying evil in the light of the day! That’s only done after the sun’s set, when the fiends are active,” The witchfinder scoffs, but then strokes his long goatee in thought. “Though yer right about the fatigue setting in. I’m in no shape to fight the evils of the night like this.”

“Right, even more reason to postpone any hunting until tomorrow night. In fact, then my companion and I could even assist in your search, if that would be amenable.”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s gaze burning into him from behind his lenses, so much so that he glances in his direction.

Have you lost your damn mind? He silently questions.

Trust me, Aziraphale silently responds, despite not having a single clue what he’s doing.

“Hm. I suppose this way I could check the bedrooms for coffins…” van Pulsifer relents, straightening his coat. “Right, well. Who am I to turn down such hospitality? After all, I’ve had a bit of drink besides, and it’s best to slay vampires sober.”

Crowley calls for Verona and explains that the Witchfinder Sargeant will be staying in a guest room tonight.

Witchfinder van Pulsifier walks over to grab the briefcase from the foyer rack on his way up, Verona patiently waiting in the wings like a phantom to escort him up the stairs. After bidding goodnight to his hosts, he begins his ascent to the second story.

Crowley rises from the table and all but stomps outside, incensed. Aziraphale of course, follows.

“What was that, Angel?”

“I don’t know- I was only trying to buy us more time to figure out how to get rid of him!”

“You thought the best way to get rid of him was to invite him to stay the night?”

“I thought it would help!”

“Well, it didn’t.”

“Well, what are we going to do now?” The angel huffs. “Since you seem to have better ideas on how to handle this quagmire.”

There’s a tense moment of silence between the two. Aziraphale already knows what Crowley is thinking, but hasn’t yet said out loud.

“...We could always just kill him.” He sighs.

“No! You wouldn’t-”

“I would.” Crowley insists, but after a moment, though, he concedes with a noise of disgust; “But not if you don’t want me to.”

“I would much prefer you didn’t.”

“Right. Because we have so many other options.”

Their squabbling hits a stopping point, with angel and demon simply holding terse eye contact for a few moments, a tense silence building, neither willing to budge.

The silence is wound tightly enough it feels like any small noise will cause it to violent snap-

And then, it does.

“AAAAAAAAAaaaaah-”

A loud, echoing scream and the sound of a struggle causes both of their attention to be drawn to the spire of the castle- Aziraphale freezes in place, and Crowley spins around, tails of his overcoat whipping with the urgency of the movement.

Eyes fix on the source of noise in time to see the Witchfinder Sargeant tumbling headfirst from a great height, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

Down, down-

Instead of witnessing the creation of an awful mess on the barren dirt below, though, the ineffables watch, stunned, as his form passes below the edge of the rocky gorge. Followed, moments later, by the trailing scream being silenced by the faintest, wettest plunk of a splash in the moat below.

Looking out farther in the distance, where the river flows downhill, barely visible through the cover of mist, the faint form of Witchfinder van Pulsifier flails in the water, swept away from the castle by the current.

Several moments pass, watching until he’s out of sight.

Aziraphale’s eyes dart up to the castle window that the witchfinder just toppled from, drawn by a hint of movement. Though it’s cast in shadow, he sees the form of three women backlit by candle in the window. The two flanking forms are further back and hard to make out, but the one in the middle is clearly Verona.

She looks down and meets Azirphale’s gaze. And then, for the first show of emotion the angel has ever seen from her since he’s arrived; she smiles.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, but he finds himself returning the smile.

Then, she steps back, melding into the shadows. The window is left empty, with only the curtains flapping slightly in the night breeze.

“...Well.” Aziraphale says. “I suppose that problem has solved itself.”

“More of a Bohemian tradition, I think,” Crowley adds dryly. “But fine enough work.”

Aziraphale and Crowley determine that there is surely nothing they can really do regarding the Witchfinder’s unfortunate fate, so they walk back into the castle to finish dinner. After they’ve had their meal with a renewed sense of ease, they find themselves in the library once more. The angel has grabbed the briefcase from the foyer, ready to show off the supposed reason they came to visit in the first place.

“Now, finally I can show you these volumes I brought that I think will go perfectly in this library,” Aziraphale says in glee as he props the suitcase on its side on the claw-footed coffee table. Both he and Crowley are already well aware there is next to zero chance that the angel will part with any of the books currently in his possession, but it’s the thought that counts.

“I’m sure whatever you have in mind will be perfect, Angel.”

“Let’s see here-” The angel pops the briefcase open, but is immediately jarred by what he sees.

Nestled in the plush maroon velvet interior of the briefcase are all the essential trappings for slaying a vampire (or, at least what recent rumor would have one believe are essential): a pocket bible, multiple crucifixes and a rosary for good measure, a mallet and wooden stakes, small glass bottles of various herbs and small loose items, and a of course, a flintlock pistol, complete with silver bullets.

And thus, not a book to be seen.

“My books!” Aziraphale exclaims, hand slapping his forehead, making the connection of what has occurred.

Crowley peers over, confused at Aziraphale’s reaction at first, until looking into the briefcase himself.

“...Ah. In the river too, then.”

“My poor books…” Aziraphale repeats mournfully, unable to hide the heartbroken tone from his speech. He takes a seat from the wave of grief, then looks up at Crowley with a deeply etched frown.

“A shame. But, I’m sure there’s something here suitable to read...” Crowley looks over the titles on the spines lining the neary shelves. As luck would have it, there is a fitting title that catches his eye, so he picks it from the shelf. Then adds, knowing the offer will instantly cheer the angel up; “You can read it aloud for me.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Sure. This one, maybe?” Crowley says with a smirk, holding it out with the angel to take.

“This one? You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale says as he takes the suspiciously worn copy of The Vampyr from the demon. “This is one of those stories that came from that quaint little story contest that free love polycule had while cooped up in a swiss chalet during the Year Without a Summer.”

“Uh huh…”

“It was all very scandalous. Do you know that, rumor has it, there was even supposedly use of large quantities of a performance enhancing substance involved? Any inkling on what it may have been?” Aziraphale instigates, his lips curled at the edges into the attempt of a devious smile.

“...No?” Crowley peers at Aziraphale over the top of his black lenses, intrigued by Aziraphale’s behavior moreso than the question itself. “What was it?”

“Laudanum.”

Crowley manages to cringe and perform a full body shudder at the very mention of the word, and then proceeds to slump dramatically into the parlor chair adjacent to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale cracks the book open with a pleased chuckle, clears his throat, and begins to read.

“It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter…”

Chapter Text

A lonesome angel in a classic tan suit stands behind the front counter of A. Z. & Co. Booksellers, looking over the condition of a set of manuscripts he had recently purchased.

Of course, the end goal being to sell them, but the actual likelihood of that remains to be seen.

Then, the shop bell rings.

Normally, he would relish the opportunity to chat with a customer, but that is not who walks through the door.

Instead, it is the archangel Gabriel, dressed in his typical suit.

“Aziraphale, my good friend!” The archangel approaches, spreading his hands in greeting.

“Oh- Hello, Gabriel.” Aziraphale finds his mouth automatically pressing in that same taut smile that dominates his features whenever the archangel is around.

“Have any plans for today, old chum?”

This is almost certainly a trap, every fiber of Aziraphale’s being screams.

“Just some upkeep tasks, perhaps some light cleaning, then some light reading-” He responds, keeping it vague

“Well, not anymore! You have some new and exciting plans, straight from upstairs.” He grins smugly, cutting the angel off. “Do you have any idea of what?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Well, there’s some sort of mass meeting of vampire covens happening today- In broad daylight, in a convention center in the middle of London, of all places! Pfft, can you believe it? Stupid. The leeches aren’t even trying to hide at this point! You would think that living that long would teach them a thing or two about hubris.”

“A… coven meeting?” Aziraphale titles his head in curiosity.

“Yes! And since you are our resident vampire exterminator, I dropped by to tell you that it’s exterminating time.” He chuckles. “So, hop to it. Those blood sucking degenerates aren’t going to destroy themselves. And I’m sure your flaming sword will make short work of them.”

“Ah, hah. Yes of course it will. You can leave it to me…” Aziraphale laughs awkwardly, trying not to visibly wince at the mention of the sword. “I’ll get right on it, Gabriel.”

The archangel gives him an infuriatingly smug wink, and then is gone as quickly as he appeared. Aziraphale lets out the breath he was holding hostage- one he didn’t even need.

So, after a bit of preparation, the angel grabs his vampire hunting kit and embarks to his exotic destination: ExCeL London.

Once he arrives, Aziraphale finds himself a bit intimidated by the scale of the large building, and just how many people are swarming the area.

But, Aziraphale steels himself. He is here to slay vampires, after all- And it will start as walking through those glass doors.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like it’ll be that easy.

“Hold on there,” one of the security guards motions for him to stop.

Aziraphale politely complies, setting the briefcase on the table and opens it facing the security guards. The one that spoke to him raises his eyebrows in curiosity, picking up the weapon.

“... Izzat a real pistol?”

“Oh, well-” Aziraphale stammers, and then, as a knee jerk reaction, snaps his fingers. “No, of course not. It’s clearly a prop.”

The guard’s expression softens immediately, supernaturally so.

“Yeah, well, that’s right good construction on that prop there, sir.” He places the pistol back in its velvet bed. “Go on through, then.”

Aziraphale closes the kit up and scuttles through the checkpoint, bullets of cold sweat running down his temple despite his forced smile.

The gathered crowd in the convention center isn’t much more dense with people than a busy weekend in the denser parts of London, so while not surprising, it is still oppressive compared to Aziraphale’s preferred, calm environment. He manages to maneuver through the sea of human bodies for nearly an hour, slowly heading towards a specific room of the center where the event he’s seeking out is being held- the other reason he’s here today- while still looking for any blood sucking fiends that need smiting.

There are people in all sorts of vampire costumes; from classic dracula types, to hot teen heartthrobs, and everything in between. The sheer amount of white face paint and cherry-flavored fake blood in this room alone is staggering.

But costumes, Aziraphale observes. Meaning, not actually vampires. From the moment he has set foot in this convention center, he has not encountered one single real, bonafide vampire. No matter how long he scans the crowds, nothing but garishly dressed humans present themselves.

There are no vampires here to slay, Aziraphale concludes.

Of course there aren’t. …Perhaps because they don’t exist?

Deeming his duty to this heavenly assignment as paid, Aziraphale changes gears, deciding he’s more than due some leisure time.

Aziraphale takes his place in the queue, waiting for a very specific book signing taking place today. He did not expect the queue to be quite this long, however. Just how popular is this series, he wonders.

It’s not just the length of the line, either- but the sheer dedication of the fans standing in it. Aziraphale even overhears someone ahead of him make a comment about people camping out to save their place in line, and not even leaving to take care of base boldly functions- he grimaces, and hopes to heaven above that they are using hyperbole.

It finally comes time for it to be Aziraphale’s turn at the front of the line.

Suddenly, he’s face to face with the familiar figure he expected to see, though clad in an outfit fresh on his eyes.

Crowley is seated behind the white clothed table, a stack of books to one side, and chisel-tip permanent marker in her hand. She is dressed in a red and white floral patterned dress, that on anyone else, Aziraphale muses, might look frumpy, but it is impossible for anything to look as such on Crowley. The look is completed with a black bolero and pumps, the dip of her clavicle is framed by a chunky necklace. Familiar loose red waves hang around her face, overpowering the light pink lipstick of her natural makeup. The only thing unfitting the typical smart casual for women at the time, is the seemingly quirky choice to wear a pair of tortoiseshell cat's eye sunglasses indoors.

“Good afternoon, Cr-” He greets his friend with a wry smile. “Miss.”

“Angel.” Crowley says in greeting, taking the paperback she’s offered. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I’m here to slay some vampires,” Aziraphale says with a smile, and motions with the briefcase in his hand. “I thought that’d be obvious. Oh! And to have this signed, of course.”

The angel produces a hardback copy of a novel with a highly saturated piece of fruit on the cover.

“Hmm.” Crowley lets out an amused noise and takes the book, then her eyes set on the familiar briefcase in Aziraphale’s hand. “And you got that through security?”

“Yes. On the Underground as well.”

“You took it on the tube.” Crowley repeats in disaffected awe. “The antique vampire hunting kit. On the tube.”

“Yes.”

“With the flintlock still in?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale repeats once more, proudly.

Crowley clearly could banter with the angel all day, but her lensed gaze sets on the increasingly frustrated looking queue still behind him.

She cracks the book open, and quickly signs an oversized S.M. across the first page.

“Meet me around back after this is over?” Crowley says as she places the book back in the angel’s waiting hands.

“Of course.”

Aziraphale wanders around the convention center, simply people watching and taking in the infectious energy, and all the rest the event has to offer- not particularly minding he sticks out like a sore thumb. Eventually when it gets closer to when the signing was set to end, he circles back to the much quieter (but still thrumming with human activity) stone-paved garden pavilion, selects one of the iron wrought benches, and takes a seat to wait for Crowley to appear. At least here they might be able to have a bit more luck having a conversation.

Crowley slumps into the bench next to Aziraphale, easily dominating the rest of the available space despite her slim figure.

“I’m about done with this.” She grumbles, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“Not having a very good time, are we, dear? The life of a young adult fiction writer must be quite difficult.” Aziraphale hums, patting her comfortingly on the shoulder. “What on Earth does Hell want with this sort of gathering, anyway?

“Hell conceived the idea for the series itself to sow discord. Trying to leverage the mania over it for Satanic Panic 2.0.” Crowley scoffs from under her forearm. “Book, movie, merchandise, the whole works. They didn’t even wait for the ink to be dry on the novel to start the movie script.”

“Well, now that is demonic intervention if I’ve ever heard of it.” Aziraphale observes. ”But how much evil could a little book about vampires do?”

“All it’s really accomplishing is making teenagers wear more black and bite each other, so results so far are mixed. But if all they’re having me do is this, well. At least it’s not much work.”

“I suppose I’m happy they’re not working you too hard.” Or making you do anything actually harmful…, Aziraphale does not add out loud.

“Haven't had a successful hunt today, eh?” Crowley peeks out from under her forearm.

“No! Not a vampire to be seen. Only people dressed as them.” Aziraphale says with a false tone of exasperation. “People do seem to be giving me some dirty looks. Some react in fear, some look a bit peevish…”

“Hah- Angel, they’re cosplaying as vampires, and you look like you’re dressed as a vampire hunter. Of course they’re giving you the stink eye.”

“Before I forget- Here.” Crowley produces a hardcover book, setting it in the angel’s lap. “Advanced copy of the next book.”

“Oh Crowley, you shouldn’t have! Thank you.” Aziraphale smiles warmly at the gift. It may not be the type of story that Aziraphale typically reads, but it’s different if it was made by Crowley, regardless.

“Maybe next time you’ll have to cosplay.” Crowley hangs her head back to let out a bark of a laugh.

“It does look like such fun. All of those different costumes…” Aziraphale sighs, looking out at the passing cosplayers from vampiric IPs old and new filtering through the convention grounds. “It’s almost like a- well, granted, a very anachronistic one- but almost like a ball! I’d love to join in, but I don’t exactly have much reason to pretend to be a vampire…”

“Sometimes you don’t need a reason.”

Aziraphale hums, unconvinced.

"You know, they're already making another movie adaptation. A sequel."

"You’re well aware I don't care for cinema, Crowley." He thumbs the signed hardback tome in his hand, trying not to be too obvious about taking in the scent of paper.

"Oh no, I would never dare suggest such a thing. But you know... They're looking for talent."

"Talent? What are you getting at?"

"Well, it's no Hamlet, but if you really are in the business of thwarting… There’s plenty of space to do that from the inside."

“Are you suggesting I act? In a moving picture about vampires, of all things?”

”I could pull some strings, if you’d fancy it. Quite the excuse to wear a costume.” Crowley smirks. “I already have the perfect role in mind for you. It’ll be interesting to see you in a long black wig, that’s for sure…”

“Oh, Crowley, are you sure?” Aziraphale says, doubt in his voice despite clearly being enamored with the idea. “I’m by no means an experienced thespian… An accomplished magician of course, but that is where the scope of my expertise ends…”

“Believe me, given the staff they already have hired on, I don’t think acting ability is of any concern.”

Crowley and Aziraphale enjoy each other's pleasant company for a few more precious, easy minutes. They bask in quiet amusement at the groups of people wandering by, dressed up like beloved characters from stories, permuted from folklore, that itself resulted from the application of time and unfettered human imagination to the rumors spawned from a simple, solitary interaction they had shared centuries ago.

Once again, they are in silent consensus that Earth was- and continues to be- a place worth saving.

“...You really think I’d be good?”

“I think you’d be perfect, Angel.”