Oh, Better Far to Live or Discorporate

When I Sally Forth to Seek My Prey

1720, Mousehole, Cornwall

Crowley approved of gin. It was one of the many ways that Cornwall had improved recently in terms of temptation and trouble making opportunities. Besides, it was delicious and potent. Maybe he should slither over to Holland again; it had been a while, and any country that produced this stuff was worth visiting.

Or maybe he just really, in his secret heart, didn't want to carry out his present assignment. The parchment cracked uncomfortably where it was tucked in his currently curvier than usual bosom, and he tossed his drink down his throat, signalling for more. He wished his contacts would hurry up so he could get out of this damned fishing village, mischief done. It was an awfully pretty place to use to tempt to murder.

He didn't mind at all encouraging smuggling, but encouraging the natives to run ships aground was a little beyond the pale in his opinion, whatever the effect on the souls of the otherwise innocent fishing folk. It would be a real pity, Crowley thought hard at the universe, if there was a convenient angel around who could miraculously prevent any sailors being drowned or smashed up in the wreck.

That, was, of course, the only motive for wishing the angel around. It wasn't as if it had been decades since he saw Aziraphale, or that he cared. They had gone centuries without seeing each other in the old days. It was only in the last seven centuries or so, since the Arrangement, that he had become used to seeing him several times a year, to look for him in crowds, reach out his mind and feel the touch of Grace against it. He had stopped thinking about it much, stopped feeling worried or guilty for wanting the presence of the Enemy around him, hoarding in his heart little memories of a pleased lift in a voice at his presence, a smile, anxious pleasure at seeing him.

No one was ever pleased to see a demon, not once they knew what he was. Even humans who summoned them were defensive and terrified. Only Aziraphale saw him as an equal and still lit up with delight, even if he often then retreated into guilty denial. The denial, too, was sweet.

After all, wasn't it Crowley's job to tempt?

Back in circles. He did not like this kind of temptation.

Come on, angel, my own particular angel. I need you.

An answering touch of Grace pressed against his mind, He grinned, his heart, such as it was, lightened, and he drained his drink. Should've known would be Aziraphale close by when he really needed him. He'd given up wondering if it was the Almighty playing games, or Crowley's own powers acting beyond his will, but he always found the angel—or the angel found him. He turned to the door of the tavern and blinked through his tinted spectacles at the impression of a sudden stream of light into the room.

Aziraphale gleamed in white and gold in a way Crowley hadn't seen for centuries. He swept his hat off, and Crowley noted that there was no powdered wig for Airaphale, whatever the fashion among the higher-ups. Still, he had grown his silver-blond curls longer than Crowley remembered ever seeing them, and they were tied neatly back from a face burned browner than the demon had seen on him for a long time. A pure white velvet coat, frogged in gold, swept his knees and—oh, Satan below, his shapely calves were encased in the finest silk stockings. His ethereal lustre gleamed in the dark tavern like a moonbeam splitting through thunderclouds

Crowley was completely unprepared. He had become used to seeing Aziraphale as a human-like figure, attractive, certainly—oh, yes, attractive enough to spend far too many idle hours thinking about his rounded arms and inviting soft chest and broad thighs and what Crowley would like to do it them—but no longer impressive, no longer angelic, inhabiting his human body far better than his Adversary really managed his, still stuck too much as a snake and a demon as he was. He hadn't seen Aziraphale glorious with light like this since the early days when his white wings spread out in the sun. Aziraphale was blazing like the heavens.