Amazing art by glitter_djenna. Commissioned through Fiverr. Title added with Canva. This is the cover for my extremely multi-chapter fic, shipping Inu no Taishō/Izayoi, and Inu no Taishō/Sesshōmaru’s mother. Cross-posted to AO3 and FFN. I hope you enjoy!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Find Father of the Son on AO3!!
Long before he would give his life for a human woman, the Great Dog General was a warrior lord—proud, powerful, and bound by duty to a daiyōkai as cold as moonlight. But hearts do not always obey the rules of blood and honor, and love is never straightforward or simple.
This is the story of Tōga, the Inu no Taishō. How he learns to become someone beyond just a general and care for the fragile lives he once dismissed. The story of the centuries-long ache between him and Sesshōmaru’s mother. The story of a forbidden mortal love.
A story of love, betrayal, courtly manners, war, and impossible choices.
Aziraphale and Crowley go punting on the Thames where Crowley has tempted Aziraphale into trying to nap by offering to eat anything Aziraphale packs in the picnic hamper. The angel really can't sleep, it's not just his excellent work ethic, but after the Armage-didn't, he's willing to try it again...if the demon doesn't let him back out of it.
The promise of seeing Crowley taste whatever Aziraphale put before him quite let Aziraphale put out of mind his end of the bargain: the terrifying prospect of trying to nap. His anticipation of a picnic with Crowley carried Aziraphale through the night and into the next morning in happy preparation.
On searching his recreated kitchen, the angel found his pantries stocked with more candies and crisps than he ever remembered laying in and a dearth of complex flavors. Or any vegetables.
No matter! The neighborhood was full of delightful shops for every taste. As Aziraphale wrote up his shopping list he paused in thought: should he lean more on Crowley’s reptilian nature? But considering that snakes enjoyed eating small rodents and frogs whole, he determined (with a shudder) that would only be desirable if Crowley attended the picnic in his serpentine form. Personally, the angel had given up a taste for hair in his food ever since you could insist on having your bacon shaved. No, if Crowley complained of a lack of serpent-friendly foods, Aziraphale would just have to tell him that he hadn’t packed glassware fit for snakes.
A quick jaunt around the neighborhood found all his favorite shops still there and doing brisk business, but not so brisk that he couldn’t sail through his shopping with ease.
Aziraphale was debating which pickle would be the perfect accompaniment for the Stilton he'd acquired when Crowley burst into the kitchen.
“What’s the hold up, Angel? We’ve got to get on the water if we want to make it to the picnic spot at the most opportune nibbling time!” Crowley hurried behind him and made shooing motions towards the front where the Bentley was waiting.
“Oh!” Aziraphale looked quickly at the jars in each of his hands before he stuffed them into both of his front coat pockets. “Ready!” he announced, and took up the overstuffed hamper.
“Wait just a minute! What do you know about the most opportune nibbling time?” he asked over his shoulder while Crowley walked behind him, hustling him along.
“Exhaustive research, angel! Now get in the car!”
***
The wild drive out of London and up the Thames hadn’t given him a chance to do anything other than yell, ‘Watch out!’ and squeeze his eyes shut while waiting for the crashes that didn’t come. Crowley hadn’t stopped animatedly talking about the boat he'd hired the whole way out of town and it was his frequent descriptive hand gestures (with both hands off the wheel) that had so alarmed Aziraphale. Fairly limp with relief, he’d let himself be hurried all the way down to the riverside quay to see what sort of vessel Crowley had actually procured.
Aziraphale had to admit, the boat was about the most delightful little vessel he had ever seen, lovingly crafted by hand and well appointed. Tucking the picnic hamper safely on board, he appreciated the built-in ice chest where he looked on with approval at the selection of white and sparkling wines Crowley stowed. Aziraphale sat primly on a bench, fully expecting Crowley to lounge beside him as the fellow with the quant pole stepped on board.
“Have the afternoon off,” Crowley made one of his smaller demonic miracles, exchanging the pole for a hundred pound note he'd pulled out of thin air. The fellow just turned around and walked back up the dock patting his pocket.
Aziraphale looked incredulously at the demon who was passing the quant from hand to hand as he walked up the gunnels and toed the rope mooring the little boat loose. With the kind of wild grin usually reserved for motor vehicles, Crowley faced upstream and planted the quant into the river bottom. Their departure from the dock was jerky enough that Aziraphale had to clutch the decking over the bow for support and hurriedly miracled them out of bumping into the boats on either side.
Looking up at the skinny dark figure that was rapidly pistoning them away from the other boaters, he exclaimed, “You want to push the boat… with a stick?”
“Got to work up a good appetite! Right, Angel? You just sit and enjoy the views.”
Once they got further away from the dock and the crowds of chartered guests, Crowley slowed down a little. Aziraphale noticed him casting the occasional nervous glance at the hamper while he rattled on about the boat, the construction of water locks, and the perfect place for the picnic further upstream. Aziraphale suppressed a little smile. It looked like he wasn't the only one harbouring second thoughts about their bargain.
Crowley got better and better at guiding the little boat, if somewhat overenthusiastic. The second time Aziraphale had to grab the demon’s coat to keep Crowley from taking an unintended swim, he said, “Let me have a turn! I think you've worked up enough appetite for the moment, Crowley!” he swung Crowley into the upholstered seats by his coat tails and caught the quant pole before it fell into the water.
“But I was just getting the hang of that thing, did ya see? I stopped zig-zagging!” Crowley announced, stripping off his coat and absentmindedly fanning himself with a dark fedora that was just suddenly in his hand.
“I insist on having a turn! I have to get properly tired out for my nap!” It might even help, he thought,
Crowley flopped back into the bench still fanning, “Yeah, well, punting should do it. And the Chardonnay I brought,” Aziraphale pouted. Crowley snorted, but stopped reaching for the ice chest. “But I'll let you tire yourself out first.”
Another mile or so up the river, Aziraphale didn't feel very tired. Why he could do this all day! He would let Crowley off the hook and just keep pushing them up river whenever Crowley dozed off. But every time he glanced over at Crowley, expecting him to be feigning sleep to get out of eating, he caught the glint of the demon's amber eyes taking in the quaint little towns and shady riverside.
Aziraphale kept going. Boat moving was less straight-forward than such simple tools implied. He was starting to daydream about what he had packed in the hamper. He wasn't tired, but had worked up a prodigious thirst.
The creak of the ice chest and chiming of ice against glass alerted him to the demon's rustling in the wine selection. The hollow pop of a cork introduced a delectable odor to the little boat. An unbelievably delectable odor.
“Is that…?”
“1973 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay?” Crowley was swirling a golden wine in his glass casually extending another to Aziraphale.
“But...how?” He stared in disbelief.
“Turns out your collection wasn't the only one that was restored, angel,” the demon sipped the award winning, impossible to find, vintage.
“Oh!” The pole slipped out of his grasp with a splash. Looking from the rare vintage to the empty stretch of river, Aziraphale gestured to miraculously stow the quant and sent them coasting upriver.
“I'd say this is the perfect nibbling time, don't ya agree?” Crowley said, holding the glass up to him. Swirling it under his nose before letting the wine dance over his palate, Aziraphale sighed, “Quite perfect, dear boy!”
They gave the first glass their undivided attention before Aziraphale set it down carefully. With a wiggle of delight, Aziraphale dug into the hamper and pulled out a vintage olive-colored Tupperware, holding it up like it contained some rare and much sought after delicacy.
Opening the plastic container with a little ‘plarp’ he announced, “There’s nothing like a cucumber and cress sandwich on a warm afternoon!” and took a bite of sandwich savoring the crunchiness of the cucumber before offering one to Crowley with a little shake of the container.
Crowley’s eyes swiveled over to the hamper (full to bursting), while he took another large swallow of his chilled wine.
“Right. Hors d'oeuvres!” Crowley said with a forced smile, squaring himself up like he did for unpleasant assignments.
Aziraphale smirked at Crowley's attempt at sounding hearty whilst only sounding heartily appalled and handed over the little sandwich.
Crowley popped the whole thing into his mouth (granted it was just a little two-bite picnic morsel), chewed twice, and swallowed it down before taking a gulp of wine. Apparently Crowley did go for the serpentine approach to food.
“But you didn’t taste it properly!” Aziraphale chided.
Teeth clenched, Crowley growled, “I tasted it just fine, angel. That’s why I swallowed it and didn’t spit it out.”
Aziraphale put a hand to his mouth, eyes twinkling merrily. “Too mushy?”
“Nnggh, yes,” Crowley twisted his neck uncomfortably. “What’s the point of eating green water, Angel?” he said, making a face.
“It’s refreshing on a hot day!”
“Well, I think I’ll stick with the chilled wine when I want something refreshing.”
Aziraphale rummaged back into the hamper pulling out some foie gras to Crowley’s obvious consternation, “Not mushy! I said not mushy, Angel!” before turning around with an open foil bag.
“How about a vinegar and salt crisp?”
***
Taking turns punting their boat up the Thames, laughing at their own clumsiness, pleasantly tired by the exercise, they found a lovely little spot with a solitary willow tree near the bank. There were no buildings in sight, just some green fields rolling up from the thickets of reed and bush and tree. The summer breeze was warm but not stultifyingly so and the rattling rustle of wind in the willow leaves was pleasant. Aziraphale spread out the picnic blanket and bustled about laying out all the main course offerings while Crowley brought the ice chest off of the moored boat.
Never having seen Crowley actually eat so much in one sitting in all their many years together, Aziraphale greatly enjoyed their picnic. Much of the food, like the foie gras, was a treat for himself, though he enjoyed the little alarmed looks Crowley gave anything ‘mooshy’. Crowley had made truly terrible faces after many of his “nibbles” though he'd finished the jar of habanero-stuffed olives. Finally, Aziraphale took the last treat from the bottom of the basket, tart lemon gelato, which pleased them both very well.
As they packed up the picnic basket, Aziraphale started to feel uneasy with the whole sleep idea again. He didn't even notice when Crowley stopped helping him, though it really was a one person job and why Crowley would insist on putting the plates on the bottom when they obviously went in the side! After taking everything out twice, he finally had the basket packed up to his liking.
With nothing left for his hands to do, Aziraphale looked over at the willow tree with some trepidation.
Crowley had pronounced the tree a perfect napping spot. The roots curved around to make a little nest circling a lovely carpet of grass and moss while the bole of the tree had a natural indent just right for one (or a very friendly two) to rest in. The angel suspected Crowley of miracling the tree into service except that he couldn’t detect the slightest whiff of a demonic miracle. *(Crowley hadn’t miracled the tree. Hundreds of years growing on the Thames and having so many people stop by for a snooze had gently shaped it over the decades into a perfect napping spot. Plus, it enjoyed seeing the odd things people got up to from time to time).
Looking back longingly at the butterfly net he’d stowed in the boat, Aziraphale sighed and picked up his book instead. He couldn’t very well back out now when Crowley had tried cucumber and cress sandwiches. Might as well make a go of it, he could always pretend to be asleep if things went poorly. Despite his good intentions, Aziraphale didn’t move any closer to the tree, watching Crowley tuck a picnic blanket into the nook of the roots before the demon flopped onto the cloth.
Looking up at him, Crowley patted the blanket next to him saying, “There! Saved the best spot for you!” Leaning comfortably into the gnarly bark, Crowley looked out across the fields and riverside, “Reminds me of getting a spot ready for Warlock,” he said fondly.
“I thought you always miracled the lad into napping,” Aziraphale said, surprised. The little fellow seemed to drop off so easily with Nanny Ashtoreth.
“Great Satan, no!” Crowley exclaimed. “Miracle the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness! I didn’t want to give him any ideas on how to control people, since I figured the first person he’d try it out on was me and…” Crowley cut his eyes up at Aziraphale, cleared his throat, and said, “Anyway, it used to give me the willies some nights, just imagining finding myself at the Antichrist’s ‘mercy’.”
Aziraphale sat down heavily on the blanket by Crowley’s feet. *(‘Willies’ was putting it mildly. Crowley hadn’t been able to sleep for months and even went through a short stint of not even thinking about what the boy might do, until he got himself in hand. Because if Satan and all of Heaven and Hell hadn’t been able to figure out what he was thinking up to this point, the kid wasn’t going to. Plus, he had some really interesting lucid dreaming he wanted to get back to.)
“Oh, yes, I quite see your point,” Aziraphale said. (Willies was a very good word for the terrors that had kept him from sleeping all these years.)
“But how did you get him to sleep so well? He was an…energetic tot,” Aziraphale remarked mildly.
“Warlock could be a stroppy little blighter,” Crowley said proudly, then smiled more gently. “Nah, no miracles, just nannying.” Crowley leaned into the tree putting his arms behind his head and crossing one black leather clad ankle over the other, looking about as far from a nanny, occult or otherwise, as one could get.
“I thought you made up all that nonsense about the ‘Guild of the Nannies for the Occult’,” Aziraphale chuckled, putting air quotes around the name.
Crowley sat up, stung. “Didn’t! Learned all the tricks of the trade! ‘M still a member, too.” He crossed his arms over his narrow chest and pouted, as though he thought it was unfair that the angel thought he lied all the time! Well founded, but still, unfair.
Aziraphale smirked at the grumpy look on Crowley’s face, the reliable relief of wittering at each other taking the anxiety out of what he was going to attempt to do. “Alright Nanny Crowley…”
“Ashtoreth, my nanny name is Ashtoreth,” Crowley groused, giving him side-eye.
“Certainly. Entirely my mistake,” he said graciously, but with enough snark to put a tiny smile into the corner of Crowley’s frowning mouth.
“Would you, Nanny Ashtoreth, be kind enough to put me down for a nap?” Aziraphale had started out teasing, but the question faltered towards the end as his voice choked into an unexpected croak.
Crowley sat up, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows onto his knees. He regarded Aziraphale with a gentleness the angel cherished, but rarely saw. “What’s up with you and sleeping, Angel? Really.”
Aziraphale dropped his gaze from Crowley’s amber eyes, and stared off across the pleasant green pastures. “I suppose… I suppose you could say I ‘get the willies’ every time I try to fall asleep,” his hands found one another, wringing until he settled them to simply grasping and turning his signet ring.
“Every time?” Crowley asked, then he made a noise somewhere between a snort and a huff, “Hruunghph! When did you first try sleeping?”
Aziraphale took a deep breath through his nose, completely failing to speak in the light tone he was trying so desperately for, “Oh, back in the Garden.”
“And you had ‘willies’ back then that kept you from sleeping?” Crowley asked softly. “What were you so worried about that you couldn’t sleep even in the Garden of Eden?”
The question, put so simply and softly, took him right back. Aziraphale closed his eyes and remembered: the wailing of fallen angels, the looks on their faces as the grace of God was ripped away.
He stopped breathing, shoulders shaking.
A slender hand covered his twisting fingers, startling him into looking up, and wondering if his eyes were as haunted as the shadows he saw in Crowley’s amber ones.
“There… there was already so much to be afraid of…” he whispered hoarsely.
Emotion raced across Crowley’s face: Aziraphale registered shock, anger, sadness in the familiar features. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was sadness for himself or sadness for Aziraphale’s own loss of peace that made Crowley hang his own head and sigh, “There was, wasn’t there.”
They sat like that and the pleasant English summer seemed far away and the horrors of the eons seemed very close.
But this time, he wasn’t alone.
Aziraphale turned his hand over, intertwining their fingers as they had on the bus home from Tadfield and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Lucky for me, that I have a card carrying member of the Guild of Occult Nannies…”
“Nannies for the Occult, Angel. You don’t have to be occult to join,” Crowley scolded.
“Oh pish, you know what I meant,” he tugged on Crowley’s hand. Their smiles were a little tremulous as the salve of banter covered over terrible memories.
“So, Angel. You want Nanny Ashtoreth to nanny you for a nap?”
Feeling rather abashed, since he usually found all Crowley’s forms quite pleasing, he hesitantly asked, “If you don’t mind terribly, I’m much more relaxed with you than Nanny Ashtoreth.”
Crowley made a surprised oh with his face.
“Not that she wasn’t a lovely female!” he hastened to add. “Just…very formal… I always got the feeling she was going to catch me out in something…”
Barely suppressing the laughter bubbling in his voice, Crowley quipped, “Sure, angel, no revisiting Nanny Ashtoreth as long as you don’t dress up as Brother Francis. I’d rather put you down for a nap than that fellow. I don’t know how you managed those teeth!”
Aziraphale chuckled, “I took them out every day, dear boy. Otherwise how was I supposed to enjoy my tea?” he said primly, making Crowley bark out a surprised laugh.
“Fine by me. Today is much too hot to get back into corsetry!” Then looking over at the angel’s book, the demon pointed his chin at the thick volume, “Good start, reading a book. Whattidya bring?”
Aziraphale picked up the hefty tome, “A treatise on macroeconomics.” He made a sad little moue.
Crowley raised a sardonic eyebrow, “Nah, nah, nah! Common misconception. You don’t want a boring book! You want a book that you love! Something with great characters where stuff turns out alright in the end.”
Aziraphale huffed, “Then what did you bring? I thought you didn’t read books!”
Crowley produced a slim volume from his jacket pocket like a conjurer, “A Midsummer Night's Dream.”
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open in surprise as Crowley settled back against the tree and patted the spot next to him. “I never said I didn’t like a good play.”
Shaking his head, Aziraphale sat down next to Crowley, leaning in while the demon read him the play (complete with stage direction, and commentary on how the Bard would have been shocked at some of the stagings they had enjoyed over the years).
Aziraphale let the familiar story wash over him, and didn’t fight his heavy eyelids as the physical effort of boat punting and pleasant fullness from their picnic added together in the warm afternoon. His head drooped onto the demon’s shoulder, where the musty smell of snake merged with Crowley’s spicy cologne and added up to “somewhere safe” on some level far below the conscious.
As he dozed off, thoughts tried to rise up, the familiar maelstrom ready to pull him in:
If we were meant to be following the Ineffable Plan, was the whole Great Plan wrong all along? So then, why have so many people had to suffer so? Oh! If I'd realized sooner I should have done more for them! All those poor people!
His breathing must have changed, his corporation started to tremble.
A surprisingly sweet tenor voice broke into his whirling thoughts, heard both through the air and the tickle against his cheek where Crowley’s chest resonated with a song in a familiar tune. Steady fingers wrapped around his trembling ones.
"Go to sleep and dream of stars,
Super nova and quasars.
Nebulae float through the night
Glimmering with soft starlight."
Crowley's lullaby in his ears, holding tight to his hand, the maelstrom of his hidden thoughts shifted:
Home Office tried to execute us, but She let us live…We did it for the world, both of us. Isn’t this a lovely world?
Mirroring his own thoughts, Crowley murmured, while the demon's thumb traced little circles on the back of his knuckles.
“Isn’t this a lovely world? Right now, the sun making everything smell so green and the breeze and the birds and the river. Right now, angel. And it gets to keep spinning and splashing and growing. Because of you. Because of me. Because of Adam. Because of a lot of people. That’s good enough, angel. Let it be good enough,”
Aziraphale let out the breath he was holding in a tremulous sigh and took a deep shaky inhale as he nodded jerkily into Crowley’s shoulder. His own warm breath brought back the smell of Crowley’s spicy aftershave, the sharp tang of sweat mixed with his own linen shirt’s lavender. Another breath brought the scent of the book, he’d long since recognized his favorite edition of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” that Crowley must have burgled out of the shop this morning. The smell of his shop mixing with the smell of Crowley soothed him. His head settled to rest in the crook of Crowley’s neck, as the demon wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
How had Warlock fallen asleep on Nanny Ashtoreth! There wasn’t a spare inch of softness on the demon! He remembered watching the small boy squeezing under the crook of Nanny’s arm, squirming into her side before falling asleep with the trusting abandon of the very young. Remembering the small boy twisting and turning to get comfortable, he gave it a try.
Crowley grunted as a particularly energetic twist brought his shoulder in contact with the demon’s solar plexus, but Crowley didn’t complain, just adjusted while Aziraphale tried to settle himself again. Somewhere in the readjustments he found, improbably, there was a comfortable spot, as his own curves relaxed and melted against Crowley’s side. A pleased hum rumbled against Aziraphale’s cheek, as Crowley leaned into the contact, arm draped protectively around him.
Aziraphale thought, So this is what Warlock felt snuggled up tight to Nanny Ashtoreth’s side! It is nice…
The breeze in the willow trees stirred the leaves and brushed his cheek like he had seen Nanny brush the boy’s cheek. Ruffled his hair like a little soughing wind would ruffle the feathers of doves roosting together.
It feels like I’m under his wing, not just under his arm, he thought nestling closer, relaxing so profoundly he felt like he was floating, suspended.
The great white wing arched over Aziraphale, sheltering him from glorious fiery lights, as meteors rushed by and the stars caught fire all around them. He was washed in the brightness of the universe coming to life and the joy in that creation coming from the being beside him.
Aziraphale dreamed of stars, floating through the stars with Crowley.
And found that an angel could sleep with this demon to guard his slumber.
fin
Thank you so much for reading! Your kudos and comments really make my day!
You can find the rest of the work at A03 or my Tumblr masterlist
After Ian Gallagher comes to ask Terry Milkovich advice on being in prison, Terry takes it upon himself to call Mickey, letting him know what a fucking crazy idiot the ginger has been to get locked up.
Fortunately for Ian, Terry's call has the opposite effect on Mickey than he thought it would.
“So I knew about Lysander one,” Dante said as he leaned back into a chair, a magazine on his lap. Vergil was out cold, and Charlotte decided to go downstairs and rest since she stayed up most of the night. For someone that promised a “watch”, she took more than her fair share. It was practically daybreak now, and Yvette had to do a combination of shove her sister down the stairs and tuck her securely into a couch to make sure she’d never move again. “I hate to say it, but I didn’t know there was a Lysander two that took on the family business.”
Startled from getting lost in her own head, Yvette blinked at him for a second before his words clicked and she nodded, “Yeah, sorry. Lotty and I don’t do every job together, a lot of the time splitting up. I also run my own little ‘at home’ business, so there’s that. I’m not always out there slayin’ monsters, but I’m always available if Lotty needs me.”
“Lotty huh? How did she get that nickname?” Dante never heard of Charlotte’s nickname, but now that he had it...he was pretty certain he was going to get shot for it. Regardless, he was still curious about it. “What at home business do you do?”
“Well, I’m younger by two years and when I was learning to talk I couldn’t say her name properly. I called her Lotty and she calls me Vetty when she’s being sentimental or upset about something. As for what I do? I go to people’s homes, businesses, or whatever and I sage cleansing and purification. Sometimes it sparks a demon attack, sometimes it doesn’t. I also offer meditation sessions and crystal massage.” She grinned, “I’m a nut for shiny rocks.”
“Lysander witches, makes sense.” Dante nodded. “Vetty’s adorable. Kind of reminds me of a puppy.”
“Lotty and Vetty could both be pupper names,” Yvette snickered, “Though honestly, that’s a first. Dunno how she’d feel about being called a puppy. She’s more like a moody cat.”
Dante could see it. “My brother’s the same way. They get along well. At least, as well as one can get when someone is literally burning the poison out of you.” His eyes wandered to Vergil’s sleeping form. They were pieces of work. Both of them. “He’s been gone for seven years. I wasn’t really expecting him to come back.”
“Geez, seven years?” she toyed with the silver spinner ring on her left thumb, also watching Vergil, “I can’t…” she shook her head, “I can’t even begin to imagine what seven years without Lotty would be like...I mean, if she’s gone longer than a week on a demon mission I get worried sick.”
“Well, in honesty my brother and I aren’t exactly heart to heart types of people. To be frank, I didn’t even know Vergil even had a woman, let alone a kid for a long time until I randomly dropped in during a bad time.” Dante sighed, kicking his legs to cross them the other direction. “Nero was the one that told me about the seven-year thing. We...tend to stay out of each other’s business. The only common connection we have is Nero. He’s the one that might take over Devil May Cry when I get ready to retire or some shit.”
“‘The family business, saving people hunting things’...oh my god my nerd showed I’m so sorry.” Yvette smacked her hand over her face.
“Supernatural?” Dante snickered. “You have to admit, they come up with some really interesting ideas. I wouldn’t mind fighting some of the demons they’re hunting, but I’m not too sure they can handle ours.”
“Two different worlds, that’s for goddamn sure. They’d shit themselves seeing our demons, I wholeheartedly agree.” Yvette blew her hair from her face, “What was it like? Finding out Nero was family?”
“Insane,” Dante admitted bluntly. “Vergil’s not the type that goes after women, let alone a longstanding relationship. But they seemed to have lasted...for a while. I wouldn’t blame her if she walked away. Our lives are difficult. Hard. Vergil, more so.”
“If Vergil’s not the type to pick a woman lightly, she wouldn’t have walked.” Seeing the way he relaxed under Charlotte’s touch gave plenty away, and Dante’s explanation helped solidify that idea. “What would make more sense to me is if she met the same fate as my parents because you’re right, this life’s hard. Dangerous as fuck. Dog-eat-dog world and all that.”
“Well can’t blame me for hoping that she was smart.” Dante sighed, “But you’re not wrong. Missing for seven years and coming back looking like that? He must have gone after her, or something happened in the Underworld and didn’t want to tell me about it. We have our differences about it. It’s caused us both a lot of pain.” He stretched. “Enough with the depressing talk. Nothing’s gonna get fixed if we mope about it.”
“Yeah, that was harsh. Sorry.” She eyeballed him, “Stiff?”
“Nothing I can’t handle, Yeti. You’re good. Stiff? Yeah, a bit.” Dante agreed. “It’s from sitting in uncomfortable places for too long, I’m sure.”
“I’ll give you a surprise if you never call me Yeti again.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure? I thought you were the less stuck up one.”
“Rude. Fine. Close your eyes.” When he arched a brow at her she did the same until he stubbornly obeyed. Standing up she went around and wiggled and stretched her fingers before she pounced. This was what she really enjoyed doing, giving massages. Taking into account his thick coat she adjusted pressure and slid along his muscles smoothly.
“Oh god, that hits the spot.” Dante groaned as she got right into a good knot. “Damn.”
“Take this off and it’ll get better.” Yvette’s grin went from ear to ear as she tapped his shoulder and lifted her hands long enough for him to shrug his coat, draping it back over the seat and she went right back at it. This time she even worked along his neck, back and forth creating gentle friction, then along the back neck tendons, behind his ears to his temples, back again, working his shoulders and repeating. Even though she’d been awake forever by now, doing something she loved made her giddy and woke her up.
As she worked on the knots around his neck and shoulders, he felt himself relax completely into her hold. It wasn’t often he let himself go like that, but this was a safe spot and he knew the Lysander reputation well enough to know that if they had his back on the battlefield, then they’d have his back here as well. He wasn’t even aware when he started purring deep in his chest.
Biting her lip to keep herself in check, Yvette took a breath through her nose and calmed down, instead focusing on the rhythm of it and eventually her own body rocked to the movement. She didn’t hum like her sister, so the only sound was the soft ‘scritch scritch’ when she went through his hair, his purring and soft groans when she did something particularly good. Eventually, her wrists and fingers started to cramp and she gave him a couple of pets to smooth his hair down after messing it up, “I think he’ll be fine if you wanna crash,” she whispered in his ear so not to startle him from his reverie.
It sounded like a good idea, but Dante decided against it, shaking his head minutely and then pulling himself out of the trance. “Nah, but thanks for the moment.” He told her sincerely. “It’s been a while.”
“More than welcome,” she looked at the window. Sunrise. “You cool if I do, then?”
“Go for it,” Dante assured. “I got this.”
X
It was much later in the afternoon. Nico wasn’t at all surprised to know that the apartment was still crowded as hell from the appearance of a couple of witches and Vergil coming back from wherever the hell he was. It was enough of a crowd that made her go back into the garage to fix the damn van that they used for mobile calls. She wandered out, cigarette already in her hand and ready for a lighter when she noticed a shadow coming across the garage.
Great, it was going to be Nero and Vergil all over again, wasn’t it? “Hey psycho!” Nico called to the shadow that paused. “Stop loitering! Either get yer ass in here or leave.”
Here’s the thing, Nico was expecting a demon. She was expecting someone to go under the door, weapon out and she would have to call for Nero to save her dumbass and Nero would never let her live it down for weeks. What she wasn’t expecting was a curvy goth pinup girl. She was a gorgeous piece of work and Nico could appreciate it when she saw it. “You lookin’ for something?”
“Not really a something.” The girl said, her voice soothing. Nico wondered who would out mom the other: this woman or Kyrie. “I’m looking for someone that runs Devil May Cry. Is that you?”
“Girl, you came to the right place with a bunch of us hoarding around a coffee table. Only you also picked terrible timing since one of us is down for the count and we’re all losing our heads over him.” Nico said, bringing the cigarette to her mouth to inhale and then exhale the smoke. “What did you do? Summon a demon you can’t get rid of? Pretending you’re a witch?”
The pained expression on the woman’s face told Nico that she hit some nails on the head, but not all of them. “Not me.” The girl said, and now that Nico was getting a closer look at her, damn. This girl knew how to put on makeup.
“Your eyeliner looks like it can cut a bitch.” Nico complimented. “Come upstairs. I’ll get the morons.”
“Thanks.” The girl smiled, and Nico snubbed out the cigarette before guiding her back up to the apartment.
“So, what’s your name?” Nico asked conversationally as she shoved the door open.
“Alexina.”
“How many nicknames you got outta that name?”
“I’m still counting to this day.” Alexina sighed.
Nico whistled. “Lucky I only get the one. Oi! Loser!” She called into the apartment. “I got a job for you hot shit!”
“Be more specific on the ‘loser’ part, Nico-nee,” Yvette chirped and Kyrie smacked her chest with the back of her hand. The two lighter brunettes were indeed sitting ‘round the coffee table.
“Customer?” Kyrie eyed Alexina and immediately she frowned, “What do you take? Coffee or tea?”
“Don’t know if customer’s the right word, but uh...I normally take a coffee.” Alexina said turning towards Kyrie. “Thank you.”
“OI!” Nico shouted again.
“I HEARD YOU THE FIFTH TIME!” Nero’s voice rang through the apartment and Alexina blinked as the boy in question walked down the stairs. His hair was short, and he looked...young. Younger than Alexina thought he was. Maybe they wouldn’t have a clue. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. He glanced at the girl that was standing beside Nico and gave her only a once over. “Sorry about my mechanic.” He said. “She’s usually better trained than this.”
Nico casually flipped him off. “I’m goin’ back downstairs in case the van’s needed. Y'all let me know where I need to head.” She said as she walked off without another word.
If there was one thing Nero couldn’t do, it was talking to strangers. Customer service was not his thing still. Kyrie could handle them so much better, and Dante was probably heading down here since Charlotte was taking over watching his dad.
“So,” Nero said slowly as he sat down on the coffee table, leaning a bit forward. “How may I help?”
“It’s more or less a question that I have,” Alexina said slowly. “Do you know anything about demon summoning.”
“I am not summoning a damn thing,” Nero said bluntly.
“I’m not asking you to, I’m asking if you knew anything about it.” Alexina held her hands up. “As in. Do you know to reverse a deal.”
Yvette was intrigued, but she didn’t want to steal Nero’s thunder so she simply listened. Kyrie was bustling about getting coffee in the coffee maker, but she peered over her shoulder, “We might be able to answer that better if you explain to us what happened.”
Nero watched the woman for a moment. The way she lifted her hand up to the tooth that was around her neck. How she fingered and played with it as she thought. “Someone close to you made a deal huh.” He didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out. “That sucks.”
Her lips twitched. “It was my fault.” The bluntness of the statement took Nero back a bit. “I was sick. He thought it was a good idea. The only idea. Summoned a demon and now he’s the one suffering. Apparently, his energy and demon energy aren’t...he’s not a witch. I at least don’t think he is. I don’t know his bloodline, he’s an orphan, see. Clearly, something’s going wrong with whatever the deal was.”
“How?”
“Best way to describe it is that he can force the energy to create familiars. I’ve only met two of them, but there’s three.” Alexina said softly. “Griffon’s alright. Mouthy and a bitch, but he’s alright. Shadow’s a huge cat, and I don’t have any problems but...I don’t know it’s a bad feeling in my gut that tells me something’s wrong.”
“If I may?” Yvette piped up, looking at Nero for permission. It was never a bad thing to follow Char’s rule about not sticking their noses in the business of Devil May Cry, but ‘witch’ and ‘demon deal’ in the same breath of conversation wasn’t a good sign.
“Go for it.” Nero gestured.
“Did your friend happen to mention to you that a summoning for a normal person isn’t supposed to work?” Yvette went right to the point.
Alexina sucked in a sharp breath. Nero had a feeling that the friend probably glossed over that fact, but Alexina was a sharp cookie. “I figured as much.” She said after a moment. “I study the occult for fun.”
“I bet your friend does, too,” she rubbed her forehead, “An orphan, yet you’re sure he’s not a witch. It’s rare as fuck, but not unheard of for a modern witch to start a new line. There was a lot more magic and raw force and energy back when my bloodline started. Could you tell me more about him so I can piece this together?”
“Admittedly, I’m the bookworm when it comes to the occult. He’s more of the...poet. Literally. I met him back in high school.” She sat down on the edge of the couch, smoothing out her skirt. “We have one of those friendships where you can ask us how we met and we’ll have several different stories. What I do remember was that he stood out and blended in. Quiet. Honest. But only if you ask. Only if you even try.” She rubbed her lips together, smearing the dark raspberry color around but nothing too rough. “Mom died after we graduated. We moved in together since we were the only family we had left. But then I got sick.” There was a long pause. “He thought I was going to die.”
Kyrie listened as Yvette only hummed at first as she went quiet, sinking into her chair, forefinger over her mouth and spinning the ring on her thumb. Putting together the coffee, taking Alexina in and making a good hard guess on how she liked it, she brought it over, “He had a purpose.”
“My life means more to him.” Alexina agreed as she took the coffee cup. “I called him out on it when I was in the hospital, but...he was adamant it was the only way and that he wasn’t going to...walk away. He was ready for me to. Griffon told me that later on when he wasn’t around to overhear. I know it’ll mean my death.” She looked at Nero firm. “But I’m a fighter. I’ve been around chronic illness all my life, I can do it again.”
Nero looked over at Yvette.
“If there’s a reverse I’d have to research it and ask my sister to help, but in all actuality, it may not be as much of a pressing matter as you think.” She tapped her chin, “He’s a poet so he’s eloquent. Had a strong definite purpose. Was no doubt willing to accept death if you lived. That’s the problem a lot of modern wannabes don’t have the solid willpower. A sliver of doubt at any given moment during their attempted rituals and it fails. Or they summon something and it doesn’t end well. He’s still around and here you are, healthy as all can be. Then there are his familiars. They sound kind. Protectors. What he did was profound. That’s more than a success. That’s a triumph.”
“As much as you’re singing praise,” Nero couldn’t help this part. “You’re talking about an untrained witch running around with three familiars that we don’t know what they can do. As well as, what price did he pay for it?”
Yvette smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand, “This is why Char is around. I’m hairbrained as fuck. Thanks and sorry. Yeah, a brand-spankin' new witch is sure to draw attention. Where the hell do you guys live?”
“Across town, on the outskirts of the city.” Alexina nodded her head towards a direction. “We like the quiet.”
“I bet you do,” Nero muttered. There were hardly ever any attacks on the outskirts. Not a lot of humans, not a lot of chaos. Now that there was a witch there, he could expect that to grow. “It sounds like me to it’s not much a reversal, but we can do something to help with his powers. That’s a start. While he harnesses those, it might slow down whatever price he made right?” He looked at Yvette. “Or do you think that’ll speed it up?”
“No, no, you’re on the right track. Smart kid,” Yvette beamed at him, “Training helps strengthen the spirit as well as the body. Being a poet will end up being useful if he wants to learn spells. Hell, his favorite poems could be spells if he damn well wanted them to be.”
“He’s stubborn enough I’m sure,” Alexina said dryly. “I’m not sure how to bring him here without him getting suspicious. Hell, he’s probably wondering where I’m at as we speak.”
“You didn’t tell him you were doing this?”
“He didn’t exactly ask me for my permission when he summoned a demon so I think this is more than fair.” Alexina shrugged.
“Yeah, definitely fair. You say you live crosstown? I kinda live in the middle of there and here, and if you’d like you could make up some bullshit story how you heard about my little cleansing business and I can drop by your place?”
Without another word, Alexina pulled out her phone from her purse and tossed it to Yvette. “Type in your number and I can text you the address. I’m on Seaside.” At her confused look, Alexina frowned. “You know, past the intersection of Dwight and Morningstar?” Another confused look. “You are terrible with directions aren’t you.”
“That’s why Charlotte’s my GPS.” Yvette deadpanned but she fiddled with Alexina’s phone and put in her contact information as well as her sister’s for good measure, “Pay me for gas and it’s all good. Curiosity's got me too good for me to care much about pricing.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Alexina assured as she set the half-drunk coffee cup onto the table and she looked at Nero. “I hope whoever’s injured is feeling better soon.” She said gently as she stood up. “I should take my leave before I get a phone call and Griffon squawking.”
“Yeah,” Nero said watching her leave the apartment and he turned to Yvette. “I never heard of anyone summoning a demon and living to tell about it. Either this friend of hers is a witch, or he’s part-demon of some sort.”
“I’m voting neither, but he did make himself a witch with the summoning. Believe what you want, kiddo, but I’m gunna go with my witchy instincts on this one.”
“Go for it, at least it’s not my job. I’d fuck this all up.” Nero shrugged as he got off the coffee table. “I’m going to check in on father and Charlotte. I bet she’ll be curious too. About this mysterious friend of Alexina’s that can summon a demon and get familiars out of it.”
“Might as well tell Dante there’s coffee,” Kyrie smiled at him, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it after not sleeping all night.”
“I’ll bring him a cup.” Nero agreed as he went to her side and pressed a kiss against her cheek before heading to the kitchen to grab that cup of coffee that Kyrie made and go back upstairs where people were.
It bothered him to no end really. He’d do the same for Kyrie, no question if their situation had been the same as those two. Yet, he couldn’t shake off this feeling that her friend was going to be a lot more dangerous than any demon he saw yet.
He should’ve taken the time to ask Alexina what she even knew about demons. Oh well.
X
So far, the constant pain and agony had mostly gone away. His back was the source of it, still soaking in the antidote, but his body ached. Charlotte had been kind and brought him a glass of water, so his throat wasn’t parched and feeling like a desert, either. Propped against the pillows, Vergil had his ankles crossed in front of him and his personal book in his lap Dante had retrieved from his coat. Not for the first time and certainly not the last time he was grateful for his demonic healing, though he wouldn’t be fully well for at least a few more days.
Charlotte had taken refuge in a seat, curled into a ball that looked uncomfortable but she made no noises of complaint and she barely spoke, though sometimes she’d leaned her head towards Vergil when she heard him mutter a line under his breath, but never asked to repeat it or to speak up. The door opened and she looked up. “Hey, Nero. Dante’s in the shower.”
“I figured.” Nero sighed as he handed her the coffee instead. “You get this then.” He watched her take it from his hands and curled up even more with it. “How are you doing, pops?” Nero turned his attention to Vergil.
“Being weak is not something I enjoy, but…” Vergil examined the same hand that had reached out to Nero yesterday in the garage, no longer grey and black-veined, though he was still too pale for anyone’s liking, “...I am doing well. Charlotte’s antidote is working on healing my back now.”
“That’s good,” Nero said as he looked at his father. He looked a lot better than yesterday, but the image still burned into his mind. Of the flecking skin, and the black veins. He turned towards Charlotte. “So I got a question for you. Know anything about demon summonings?”
“I’ve done a few in my lifetime.” Charlotte pulled her shirt down to show a long scar down her neck and chest. “I learned my lesson. Why?”
“You’re going to go on a wild trip with this one. Apparently, there’s a girl who has a friend, not saying names here cuz she didn’t give me any, who not only successfully summoned a demon but made a deal with it, too.” Nero clicked his tongue. “Vet’s playing detective.”
“Of course she is.” Charlotte sipped the coffee.
“A common occurrence?” Vergil turned his head only slightly to look at her, “You don’t seem at all concerned.”
“It’s Vetty.” Charlotte turned towards Vergil this time. “The only time I need to get concerned is when she bites off more than she can chew. Otherwise, it’s if there’s a big demon she’s probably near it.” She turned to Nero. “I get the feeling that “successful demon summoning” line has a story behind it.”
“Yeah. Friend’s not a witch until now.” Nero concluded.
“That’s where everything goes to hell.” Charlotte sighed. “Whoever the friend is walked over my grave.”
“That is an interesting turn of phrase.” Vergil drawled, his attention seemingly returning to his book, “So will you be off, then? Duty’s done, after all.”
“Hmmm.” Charlotte shrugged. “I’ll let my sister suffer. Give her free reign. See what she comes up with.”
“A damaged car and a broken ego.”
“See if Vetty was here to hear that, you’d be window flying right now.” Charlotte gestured towards the window using her coffee cup, grinning at Nero. She looked over at Vergil. “I’ll stay here and be back up for once.”
Nero looked between the two of them, made a soft noise and then headed out towards the door. “Tension is tension. I know where I’m not needed.”
Vergil knew everyone wanted answers, and he was secretly surprised that Charlotte had decided to stay. “I know not all sibling relationships are like mine and Dante’s. You do not have to remain here, the danger has passed.”
She turned her attention towards him and she sipped on the coffee once more. “Is this you asking me to leave, or is this you wondering why I’m staying?”
“Stay because you want to, not because you feel you should.” Vergil answered instead, flipping the page of his book even as his eyes read not the words, “I only have a problem if it is unnecessary, but I cannot stop you from doing what you please, same as I cannot stop Dante from eating pizza morning noon and night.”
“Stick pineapples on it and olives.” Charlotte unfolded herself from the chair. “I’ll go ahead and take your advice then and come by later. I’m stealing Dante’s cup of coffee regardless.”
A whisper of a smirk graced his face, “That’s more like it.”
“I can be a mastermind of evil too.” Charlotte grinned as she walked towards the door. “You owe me a page of reading though.” She grinned wider as she shut the door behind her.
X
“Xina. What did you do?” While their lives didn’t necessarily have a rhyme or reason, Vitale liked to believe he knew this particular woman like the back of his hand. The first tickbox that alerted him something was out of the ordinary was her long absence. He knew when she visited her usual haunts. Since making the deal, feeling her energy stretch at different distances had fascinated him and gave him an odd sense of comfort. Today, however, she had gone far enough out of reach it nearly set him into a panic attack and Griffon’s constant stream of words had been his only distraction. The following tick box had been her attitude. Aloof might be the best word he had at the moment.
“V almost had a heart attack because you went too far.” Griffon echoed his thoughts exactly, appearing without being commanded to and landing on Xina’s shoulder. “Shakespeare didn’t know if you were going to go be gone for good this time or what!”
“Sorry.” Alexina reached and scratched Griffon’s back, letting him ruffle his feathers before turning towards her best friend. “I went to the city.” She promised. “You know. Looking for answers.” She looked over at her friend. He looked exhausted, tired circles were gentle around his eyes and he was holding himself up well, but she could tell that he wanted to topple over. She felt guilty that she had made him worry so much. She felt her heart sink into her stomach as she watched him watch her. A long time ago, Alexina wouldn’t have to question what was going through his mind. Now, she felt as though she was reaching and feeling the air.
“Answers...about me?” V pressed his hand to his chest, brow pinching. He was well aware all of this still bothered her, even three, nearly four months later and his attempts at comforting her didn’t always work. “I’m still here, Xina. Life still goes on.”
Instead of answering, Alexina closed the distance and threw herself into a hug. Griffon let out a cackle as he flew upwards and away from the two lovebirds. At least, he knew they were. Griffon watched as V slowly brought her closer against his chest, letting her in. It’s been months since the summoning, and Griffon was starting to tell that something was on the brink of changing. Whatever Alexina did, it was either bad or good and Griffon wasn’t about to say a word. Let V figure it out.
He was still here. She could practically squeeze the life out of him since he was so skinny and bony. He always had that type of body, but with the deal, she wondered if one day he’d turn into dust and disappear on the wind. She pulled away, trying to find her courage, her bravery. He was here for now. Life would go on as normal, but she had to obey her instincts. Nothing about this was normal. Normal people can’t summon. What he did was a success, a triumph. “I won’t lie to you. I found a witch.”
Griffon let out an uncomfortable sound at that.
V’s eyes found Griffon’s, “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“It means pretty boy that she might’ve found a way to go back into that coffin in the grave you’ve been keeping her away from.” Griffon translated.
“Not yet.” Alexina gave Griffon a dark look. “What it means is that I might have found someone that we can talk to. Someone for advice.”
“Not yet means you’re thinking it.” V frowned, “Good people for advice? What advice do you believe they have for me?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? She reached for his hand and took it into hers, biting her lip as she tried to find a way to explain. “They were impressed that you were able to gain familiars and to do a successful summoning. That has to mean something, V.”
“She’s not wrong there pretty boy,” Griffon concluded. “We already established, sweetheart, he’s not a witch.”
“No, but what if he’s the start?” Alexina turned towards Griffon. “Or what if there’s a lineage somewhere that we don’t know. Yvette was pretty sure that was the case.”
“Oh boy,” Griffon shuddered. “Lysander Sisters are back. More trouble.”
Of course, Griffin would know them or know of them. V squeezed Alexina’s hand back, albeit not very enthusiastic, “Should I be concerned for you, Griffon?” He wasn’t about to give up his deal, and he would protect his familiars as he swore to protect Alexina.
“Awww Shakespeare, you’re melting my stone cold heart.” Griffon chirped. “They’re strong witches, but nothing that we can’t handle. No, I’d worry more about Hathaway over there. They can help you, pretty boy, but they’ll toss her to the fire. Try to get her to be a demon hunter or some shit.”
“Demon hunter?” V muttered. He wasn’t entirely sure how he should feel about that. Letting out a long sigh he looked down at Xina, “Did you have plans with the witch you found?”
“I didn’t say anything about them showing up but they might?” Alexina offered.
“Lysander’s don’t believe in schedules. They do what they want.” Griffon ruffled his feathers. “They’re no worse than the Sparda family. Show up, do their thing, walk away with property damage. Do you two have insurance? 'Cause you might need that. Especially if little Lysander’s going to be coming over.”
“She’s not that bad,” Alexina assured quickly. “Don’t listen to him, V. Yvette’s not...that insane.”
Unfortunately, V was more inclined to believe Griffon on that one, but he nodded to Alexina anyway. Might as well see how it would go and make his own conclusions.
Through the ages, Aziraphale found more reasons not to sleep. Lullabies and prayers from time immemorial confirmed that he wasn’t meant to sleep. He was there to watch and guard the sleepers. Imagine! Trying to cadge a nap when he was supposed to be on duty! Sleep would have really got in the way of his job. He was better off without it.
And that was fine as far as he was concerned. Yes, perfectly fine. (Perfectly fine- an almost overwhelming awfulness that he wouldn't think about until it stopped hurting so very much because, like he’d already determined, he wouldn’t think about it).
So he'd stayed perfectly fine for centuries, blandly accepting Crowley’s teasing on his work ethic. (Work ethic-staying constantly busy with helpful or dutiful tasks so that he received remote accolades from his superiors and never had to think about…those things he didn't think because he was an angel. Humans were for being. Angels were for doing!).
Then humans, bless them, had invented books.
Glorious things, books!
Humans had always told stories and Aziraphale loved so many of them. People were so inventive! But minstrels had to go to bed at some point, no matter how pleased they might be with an earnest admirer asking for more. And plays! What magic that humans could transport each other into whole new worlds with a story, a bit of paint and sleight of hand. He adored plays!
But, books? Books were marvelous.
The stories in books could take him totally outside himself. While he was immersed in a book he didn't worry, at all. When he was weary, he didn't even consider sleeping anymore. All he had to do was pick up a book at any time of the day or night and be transported to another life, another time, another place. Best of all, he had no responsibility to shape the story. It was all out of his hands.
And reading never got him in trouble with Home Office, not since he’d figured out that he could pass off his abiding love of reading as a research project on how well the Great Plan was working on Earth! How very convenient (and tidy) that he could read to get inside human heads because they’d written things down. Humans seemed to love telling their stories and ideas as much as he enjoyed reading them.
The only problem became having to transport his growing book collection around. Getting a permanent assignment in London had let him surround himself with his best friends, or so he'd thought.
***
That was before, now the Great Plan was off the rails and this new world was all unplotted territory, even if it was, probably, Ineffable. Crowley and he were unexpectedly alive and apparently on permanent leave from their Home Offices in a world rebooted by Adam that was exactly the same as it had always been and completely different. This time, Crowley seemed just as unsettled as he was, though the demon hid it well.
As beings who nearly met their ends are wont to do, he and Crowley got completely blotto to put a bit of mental distance from the whole ordeal of their near executions and all that business before.
After enjoying a gastronomic bacchanal at the Ritz they had strolled back to his newly restored Bookshop. If they were comfortably arm in arm, occasionally leaning into each other, that was just because the demon was too tipsy to walk straight.
Crowley had made directly for the recreated couch, proclaiming, “I think tha’ is the perfect spot for my firs’ nap after no Armaged-ed-on! You’re desprat’ to see if any of your pressh-ous books’r missin’. Goaone, angel!” and he’d plopped down happily on the couch, asleep in a wink.
Aziraphale sobered up while Crowley snoozed, because the demon wasn’t wrong and he needed to be able to see straight to start cataloging. All his most rare collections were intact with a few new first editions (ones more desirable to an active young person like Adam). The soothingly familiar task of cataloging his books put off thinking about what he was going to do now that they would be left alone by their Home Offices. Except that wasn’t really true (both that he wasn’t thinking about it or that their Home Offices were likely to leave them alone), the work of cataloging did let him think about it in little manageable bits.
Looking up from his task, admiring his beloved bookshop, with Crowley asleep on his sofa, Aziraphale found himself rather at loose ends. That was certainly a good phrase for how he felt after the Armage-didn’t followed closely by their almost-executions. Given recent events, he felt like he had to reassess, well, everything.
Dust motes danced in swirls over Crowley’s snoozing form, but seeing the demon once again so easy in sleep suddenly irritated him. Why did Crowley get to enjoy sleep? Crowley, rather like an overlarge shop cat, hadn't reacted in the least to Aziraphale's frustrated snort.
What was wrong with him? Aziraphale had gone without sleep for years, centuries really, well, honestly millenia if he got right down to it. Why? Because he was frightened of the consequences of having improper thoughts? That was then, but what now? After all, Armageddon hadn’t happened. Partly because he’d done things, thought things he'd never considered before.
Sighing, shaking his head a little at his confused feelings and smiling ruefully at his blissfully snoozing companion, Aziraphale got back to his cataloging.
Aziraphale had given quite a few things some thought by the time Crowley opened his eyes and poured himself up to sitting, miracling the muss from his hair and the rumple from his suit before crossing an ankle over the opposite knee and turning to the angel seated at his renewed desk with a wry smile, “Everything where you expected it, angel?”
Aziraphale looked up calmly from his neatly written list. “Yes, quite. And you were correct about the value of some of those children’s books. I believe the saying is ‘Wowee!’” he wiggled his fingers for emphasis.
The demon shook his head, smile turning indulgent. “Did you think about what you want to do now?” Crowley asked.
“Yes. I have.” Blue eyes flashed to Crowley's amber ones only to dart away, “I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Alright. Whaddaya need? Help going through your bookshop, cataloging it down to the last folio? You can’t have gotten through everything during my nap,” the demon gestured to the shop with a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lounged back into the sofa.
“Thank you, that would be appreciated, but that’s not it,” Aziraphale mustered the courage to look Crowley in the eye again.
“Well, what can I do for you then?” Crowley’s face took on a pleasant blankness. A blankness that hid everything. Even now, even here, they hid themselves.
Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale charged ahead, “I want to take a nap and I want you to help me.” It felt like he’d confessed some deep and terrible desire. Weren’t the walls of the shop reverberating with his declaration?
So Crowley’s reaction, or lack thereof, was most unsatisfactory.
Crowley’s blankness broke as his eyebrows rose, “You want me to help you …nap?” the demon said slowly, testing out the request, features unfrozen again, clearly confused.
Rather than enjoying a chance to explain his whole problem with the sleep business, Aziraphale felt a great upwelling of irritation. After all they had shared! After how easily they understood each other! Crowley was going to make him explain? The cheek!
(Cheek-in this context, a perfectly reasonable question that Aziraphale would barely deign to consider).
“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped, chest heaving, like he was making the declaration after a great effort, “It’s a basic human function I’ve never mastered! You have! I don’t have much on at the moment, so I thought I have the time to give it another try!”
With that ringing remark echoing in the dusty shop and Crowley’s eyebrows trying to reach his hairline, Aziraphale tried to steady his heartbeat. On reflection what he’d said wasn’t any sort of explanation at all. But he’d just been unable, somehow, to share that he wondered if after Adam had recreated the world, brought people back from the dead, gave him a new corporation and God Herself seemed not to be chuffed about their mucking up of the Great Plan, that he might finally be able to get his head down for a blessed bit of rest, because now that he’d acknowledged the desire, he really, really needed an opportunity to turn his bloody brain off for a bit! That was more something Crowley might say, never him, so why hadn’t Crowley already figured it out?
Aziraphale noticed that he had started fiddling with his signet ring when Crowley glanced at his hands, so the angel stilled his flitting fingers and tugged on his waistcoat instead, hitched a little smile onto his face as though this were a trivial request.
Crowley sat frozen, apparently stunned by his outburst.
Finally Crowley grunted, “Uh-huh,” then looked into the distance, silent for a few more seconds, before a quiet, considering look came to his face.
Aziraphale stopped holding his breath, he’d been half-expecting the demon to snap back or make some flippant remark. Crowley seemed to have decided to overlook his lack of decorum.
“You’ve really never slept? All this time?” Crowley asked gently.
The breath left him in a huff, and he turned the little unexpected choking noise into a chuckle, “So much to do. Well you know,” Aziraphale stood up and started to pace, feeling abashed about his fit of temper, but a bundle of nerves nonetheless.
Crowley looked at him from where he lounged, “You’ve given it a go before though?”
“Oh yes! A long, long time ago,” Aziraphale stopped with his hand on one of the illuminated Bibles in his collection.
“And?” Crowley asked, turning his hand over. A gesture that they had used to try and get each other talking without ever directly asking.
“Oh, I…I have trouble falling asleep. Can’t seem to settle my thoughts down.”
“O-kay,” Crowley glanced towards a whole section in the shop about insomnia and dreams.
Aziraphale reddened a bit. Obviously, he had read every word of every book in here. If he liked, he could quote anything he'd ever read. It only took Crowley’s glance to let him know that the demon realized all that, too.
Crowley looked back at him, while he still helplessly fidgeted, but only asked, “Angel, how can I help you?”
The relief was almost overwhelming, he could feel himself melting from it. That wouldn’t do, he admonished himself, keeping himself tightly in check.
“Would you…” Aziraphale was gripping his hands very tightly now, looking up to keep sudden tears from spilling over, “Would you sit with me, while I tried a nap?”
Crowley’s face remained soft, gentle, “Sure, angel. I’ll sit with you. Do you want to try right now?” The demon didn't move except to open his hand towards the other side of the couch.
Stepping away from the furniture, Aziraphale felt alarmed. “Now? Right now? This minute!?”
Looking around desperately, Aziraphale spied a person on the street outside, crying, “Oh, look! A customer!” miracling the confused dog walker into the shop. Rarely had Aziraphale been more relieved to put on his gentle, helpful shopkeeper persona to engage in the ongoing battle not to sell a book.
Crowley's mouth had actually fallen open at this display of nerves. He was so shocked as human and dog entered the space that he actually fumbled to replace his sunglasses, tumbling off the couch when he over-reached.
Glancing back at the suddenly disheveled demon, Aziraphale thought, Oh, that was rather abrupt of me (abrupt- a good word for asking for Crowley's assistance then running away as soon as Crowley confirmed his intention to follow through). Crowley was already headed for the door. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow?” Aziraphale begged, catching Crowley's wrist. Turning to his desk, Aziraphale scribbled onto a piece of card stock, “Call. Later,” putting the card in Crowley's hand and gesturing desperately towards the door.
Crowley scanned the card, then smoothly tucked the card into his jacket pocket, nodded politely at the perplexed dog walker and waved languidly to him. Aziraphale was relieved to see Crowley pick up his accustomed saunter as he stepped out of the shop, hands in pockets and looking around like he hadn’t a care in the world.
***
Aziraphale had nearly convinced himself to take it all back by the time Crowley called him that evening.
“Hello?” he'd answered, intending to blow it all off.
Crowley started talking without giving him the least chance, “How about a picnic luncheon? We can rent a boat and find some place ridiculously idyllic and pastoral up the Thames somewhere,” Crowley offered.
“That sounds different, but-”
“But should you only pack a lunch for one? Nah, angel. I want to try… a nibble.”
That statement totally diverted Aziraphale's spiral of anxiety about his desperate need to get out of napping. “You want to eat something!?” he couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Like you said, it's a basic human skill I haven't mastered. But I don't want you to get any mad ideas. No banquets! I just want to try a bite.”
“Anything in particular?” Aziraphale asked with the full knowledge of plein-aire-eating at his mental fingertips.
“Nothing too heavy, or sweet or, nggh, mushy,” Crowley sounded so much like a small child confronted with liver aspic that Aziraphale chuckled, mentally compiling lists of savory, crisp, and eye-wateringly sour temptations. “Pick me up at ten, I should have the hamper packed by then.”
“I'll bring the wine. Ten it is!”
Then Crowley hung up.
Aziraphale realized Crowley had never given him a chance to back out of napping, the devil. (In this context devil meant someone who knows me so well he will trick me into doing what I asked him to help me with).
Thanks for reading! You can find more Good Omens stories here
Once upon a sandstorm- Dare I Close My Eyes to Slumber
Very fluffy, rather cuddly, with some banter, and plenty of "awwww."
Aziraphale finally gets around to asking Crowley about sleep. Since Crowley is the only ethereal creature, excuse me, occult creature Aziraphale knows who does sleep. This is a sweet little Through-the-Ages piece that has a bit of gentle, canon relationship building, as well. It takes place after Job but before the Roman Empire.
Thank you to my lovely beta-readers at the Whickber St Writer's Association: @sakascal, @bohoteacher, @sixshotsinatumbllr, @playdohangel
Chapter 4: Many years later, Aziraphale asked Crowley about sleep.
One moment, Aziraphale had been walking alongside some camels in the caravan where he had been working, the next a sudden blinding sandstorm had swept upon them making it impossible to see not only the landmarks they had been navigating by, but even the camels and people all round. The daylight was suddenly blotted out and people and beasts got scattered by the tempest. Even his ethereal senses were utterly blocked, so he’d found himself alone and disoriented.
Staggering against the painful blasts of wind-whipped sand, eyes streaming, covering his face with as much of his headdress as he could, he had fetched up against another person in the murk. Stumbling before the other fellow clutched him for mutual support, he yelled at the cloth wrapped face. “I say! We’ve got to find shelter! Did you see where the rest of the caravan went?”
“Angel? Is that you?” came a familiar voice.
“Crowley? What are you doing out here?”
“Rrrgh! Same bloody assignment! Again!” Crowley shouted across the storm. “Stupid waste of effort, if you ask me.”
Expecting the demon to make the usual comment about how they’d better split up again, he was rather surprised when Crowley didn’t say anything of the sort, nor let go of him to make off alone in the punishing storm, but instead groused, “I hate getting buried in sand in these things! We passed some rocks around here a little while back. That’s what I’m making for.”
Oh. Oh! Was Crowley inviting him along? “Yes! I remember those!” Aziraphale hollered back, and quickly offered, “We could probably find it easier together?”
“Really?” Crowley said incredulously, still holding on tightly as the wind buffeted them. Aziraphale appreciated the cordial word he and Crowley shared from time to time, but they hadn’t done anything together, not since Job, it just seemed too dangerous. But so was this storm.
Hurriedly coming up with an excuse that might keep Crowley from heading off and leaving him by himself again, he said, “The paperwork involved with discorporation doesn’t bear thinking about! You?” stuffing down the hope that he’d not have to wade through this storm alone.
Crowley replied, “Nnggh, ‘s torture!” but some tension in the demon’s lean arm eased under his grip, “Yeah,” Crowley said like he was making up his mind, “Yeah! Anything to avoid the paperwork!” Facing them back the way he’d been going when they collided, Crowley yelled, “Come on! It’s this way!” and tugged them toward some landmark only he seemed to sense.
The gusts buffeted them about, making them stagger through the sand, blinded and deafened by the storm, holding onto each other to keep from getting blown over or separated. They stretched their free arms out into the maelstrom, straining to find by sight or touch or sound or sense the rocky outcrop they’d passed this morning. The whole landscape was gone in the swirling tempest that drowned and buried them in air turned harsh past enduring.
“Crowley! How much farther? We can’t stay out in this storm much longer!” Aziraphale yelled after what felt like ages stumbling about with no clear idea if they were making any progress or just turning in circles.
“Trust me, Aziraphale, I wanna get out of this as much as you do! We're nearly there!” Crowley continued trudging ahead, pulling him along.
“Yes, but if we aren't nearly there, we should think about alternatives!” shouted Aziraphale.
“We could hunker down, let ourselves be buried!” at least if he was buried he wouldn't feel like he was being sandblasted to death.
“Don't be an idiot! Do you have any idea how heavy sand is! We'd be stuck under a bloody huge sand dune! For decades!”
“Well, yes, it would be a bother but, at least…” their argument was suddenly cut short as Aziraphale’s foot landed not on the heavy shifting sands but into open space and he fell, still clutching Crowley’s arm.
As they fell together out of scouring chaos, they grasped each other desperately, robes wrapping around them like tattered wings and Aziraphale wondered briefly if he was falling down to Hell for collaborating with the demon whom he’d accidentally pulled down with him. His musings were over in an instant, for instead of the unpleasantness of Hell, they landed jarringly on sand in utter darkness, tangled together in a pocket of blessed stillness.
Aziraphale lay, shocked and panting, unmoving while he mentally checked himself for damage. Crowley had hold of his shoulder while he’d landed still grasping Crowley’s upper arm. Aziraphale’s head lay against the demon’s bony chest. A heart beat furiously in there, almost as quickly as his own heart was pounding under the demon’s palm.
After a busy moment of self-reflection, it flashed across his mind, All present and accounted for! This cavern is stable... We’re safe!
Collapsing in relief, he rested his head against Crowley’s reassuring heartbeat, heedless of the gritty, sand-crusted robe against his cheek and the musty smell of snake and sandalwood. Crowley, too, had sagged back onto the sand, letting out a long slow breath before he started breathing again, while Crowley’s grip loosened from desperate to companionable.
But Crowley did not, in point of fact, let him go.
Which was nice…
Just as he’d tensed again at finding himself so comfortable resting on a demon, Crowley moved first, eeling out from under him so quickly that Aziraphale settled onto the sand with a bump.
“A little warning next time, Angel?” Crowley had grumbled… from several feet away.
Aziraphale’s relief at being out of the storm evaporated all in a moment. He hadn’t gone to Hell but what would anyone think if they were found? Tetchily, he retorted, “You can hardly blame me for falling down in that murk! I didn’t see the opening to this cave! Did you?!” He scooted away and hurriedly stood up in the pitch dark. “At least we’re not getting sand-blasted any longer! I couldn’t sense anything out there!”
Crowley snapped, “Of course you couldn't sense anything! We’re in some blessed Great Plan storm, angel! Poor sods must've done something worthy of getting scattered to die in the desert! Why do you think I got lost and ran into you!” Crowley snarled, but, except for some guttural noises of frustration in his throat, managed to suppress any further acerbic comments.
The air fizzed with their irritation, but even over that Aziraphale could probe the awful sandstorm. Realizing Crowley was right, no one could know they were here, at least not together here, he calmed down, “Oh. Yes. I suppose you’re right,” he said, contritely. He stopped wringing his hands in the dark.
“Nyeah, well,” Crowley offered, “Nobody’s going to check in on me in one of these storms.”
After letting that settle in, Aziraphale replied, “Oh, me neither. I might get a memo. After it’s all over.” Crowley snorted but otherwise restrained himself.
The atmosphere in the darkness thawed considerably. Some sort of truce had been made.
Crowley finally broke the relative quiet, the storm still howled across the hole they'd fallen through, “Well, Angel, since we’re gonna be here awhile we might as well see where we ended up. Let there be light!” A cheery, radiant globe appeared over Crowley’s shoulder.
“Oh my!” Aziraphale said in wonder, raising his face to the light, a little smile coming unbidden to his lips. It felt like basking in a balmy spring day. Neither like Gabriel’s blinding brilliance nor the lurid glower of the Hosts of Hell. Crowley’s light was…cozy. Aziraphale looked down at where the demon still sat on the ground of the cave.
Crowley was looking at him with a pleased grin when their eyes met, blue to amber. Crowley coughed and glanced away, “It’s just some light, angel,” he said gruffly, as he picked himself off the ground and turned his back to look out at the unexpected shelter.
Looking up at the light and then over at the demon shaking out his robes and stomping over to the far end of the cavern, Aziraphale decided it was better not to say anything about the friendly little light. Shaking sand out of his own robes, he made a closer inspection of the ‘cavern’,
“Crowley, these don’t look quite like caves to me. The walls are so…regular.”
Crowley stopped hitting the side of his head to get sand out of his ear and touched the walls before he exclaimed, “Brick! These are bricks!” He looked back at Aziraphale with a gleeful smile from where he was running his hands across the worn walls, “Angel! We must've fallen into an old building! Ya know! One of those villages swallowed up by the desert! And if this was a village…” Crowley had grinned hugely before he started eagerly digging in the drifts of sand on the floor.
Aziraphale had looked around with more interest himself; the worn and partially tumbled walls were much taller than the average dwelling, but there were no traces of decoration on the brickwork. Not a temple, so maybe a storehouse?
“Oh!” He suddenly understood Crowley’s industrious searching and joined him in sifting through the sand, fingers feeling for anything that might be useful or better yet…
“Ah-ha!” His hand closed on a smooth handle and he eagerly pulled a sealed amphora out from the shifting sands. Hefting the pottery he was delighted to feel a slosh of liquid inside. He clasped the amphora to his chest and popped the lid off to smell the rich aroma of wine.
Crowley had stopped digging as the smell of alcohol permeated the space, and looked at him with surprise.
“Wot! I thought you didn’t drink wine!” accused Crowley, shaking a finger at him.
Actually, alcohol had grown on Aziraphale considerably since first tasting it under Job’s home.
Hugging the wine to himself with a little joyful twirl, he’d said innocently, “Well, my hosts would be offended if I didn’t accept the hospitality they offered,” smelling the excellent vintage with appreciation. He added, mock seriously, “And I always do my best to be courteous.”
Crowley had let out a bark of laughter at that before pulling up a matching amphora, “Let’s drink to our ‘hosts’!”
They hadn’t started boozing immediately, beyond the initial taste. First they’d searched until they’d found all the amphorae of wine and collected them together. Some of it was spoiled, but miracles improving or creating wine were standard issue at the time and weren’t going to raise any eyebrows for either Home Office. Not like keeping Crowley’s little miraculous light on. That Crowley had put out as soon as they’d gotten a fire going.
The abandoned storehouse became quite snug, protected as it was from the blinding blasts outside. When they had started sampling the various amphorae it had gotten almost convivial. Aziraphale shared an amusing anecdote. Crowley laughed! Crowley told a joke and he laughed. It was like a game! They were sharing their opinions of these wines and reminiscing about the best places they'd been drinking across the region. Even their rather different opinions about what made a good tavern, and which were the best stories they'd heard was…pleasant. A lull in the conversation had left him awkwardly wondering what to say next.
Instead of launching into another story - Crowley seemed bent on sharing ones to make him blush - Crowley yawned hugely, “This stormsss, gonna keep on goin, angel’. Ssso I’m jus’ gonna sleep here by the fire,” he patted the space between the fire and the pile of rubbish he’d found to lean against. Shaking a finger at the angel, Crowley had added, “An’ no smitin’ while I sleep!”
“What? I wouldn’t dream of it. Wouldn’t be…sporting!” he’d replied, affronted, only to see Crowley’s grin, he’d been baiting him, apparently.
“Anyway, I don’t sleep,” he’d said.
“Wha? Not at all?” Crowley had stopped clearing rubble from the sand to stare at him.
Aziraphale pulled himself up haughtily, telling Crowley, “It’s part of my job to watch over sleepers, can’t properly do that if I’m napping!”
Eyebrows raised, Crowley shrugged, “Suit yerself, angel,” and settled into the warm sand by the fire with a sigh. “Wake me up when the storm’s over.”
Suddenly, Aziraphale heard himself asking, “What do you see in this sleep business?” The question just rolled off his lips, without his conscious thought.
They were both a bit tipsy (honestly, more than a bit) so maybe that’s why he’d asked. It was some time after that jiggery-pokery with Job. (Jiggery-pokery-a word for defying the Great Plan, lying to other angels and not going to Hell while consorting with a demon who was doing the same thing). So, maybe he felt like he could ask a question of a demon ‘only going along with Hell as far as he could’.
“Whaddaya mean?” Crowley replied as he shimmied the sand into a more comfortable hollow by their fire.
“People talk about dreams,” Aziraphale said darkly, quickly finishing another full cup of wine. “Strange.”
It was strange. After that last cupful, he couldn’t get the words out properly. Never having drunk quite so much wine in the past, he wasn’t used to the feeling that his face was numb, and his tongue was unruly, but it was better than the terror such a question would cause him sober. No wonder humans called the stuff, liquid courage.
“All chaos in ‘em, in dreams. Isn’ tha’ unsettlin’?” Aziraphale asked, hardly recognizing his own voice, his words were so slurred.
A look of drunken understanding rose on the demon's face, “Oohhh, no, no, no! Nothin’ like that. Nah, i’s nice, really.”
“Nice!?” replied Aziraphale.
Crowley turned his back towards the fire, murmuring, “Sure, sure, ‘s pretty even.”
“Pretty!?” Aziraphale imagined the horrifying memories he saw when starting to fall asleep: the falling angels, the victims of the Flood, that burned town, this terrible storm. Events that were apparently part of the Great Plan, but that made him question the Great work with all his heart. Wouldn’t a demon see even more horrible things? Did Crowley like seeing horrible things? Aziraphale pulled back, preparing an angry retort if Crowley liked dreaming of people suffering.
But then he saw Crowley’s face.
Rolling onto his back, Crowley smiled gently with his eyes closed, hands resting on his thin chest, “Yeah. I always dream of stars.” Crowley stretched one hand up and waved it about, “Flyin’ thru the stars.” Crowley dozed off, right in front of him, still smiling, leaving Aziraphale staring open-mouthed at the peacefully snoring demon.
Aziraphale didn’t know what surprised him more, that Crowley could dream of lovely things or that he couldn’t. What sort of Great Plan worked like that?
Oh, bother! That’s the problem with alcohol, he thought darkly, willing himself sober, it was nearly as bad as falling asleep for letting his thoughts get out of line. Of course nowadays, he hardly expected Heaven to send someone to reprimand him just for his thoughts, he told himself sternly, chest and neck tight with suppressed fear. They didn’t care for the austere conditions down here, he reminded himself.
He shook himself and tossed another rotten balk of wood on the fire, the storm whistling across the hole in the ceiling of their retreat. There was no nightingale to keep vigil with him, just the soft breathing of a demon dreaming of stars. But he was in the habit of guarding sleepers of all sorts. This wasn't really very different, not different at all.
In the long, slow watches as the storm raged for another day, he allowed himself to notice how ironic it was that a demon could sleep soundly and an angel remained sleepless. But then, he reasoned (without asking any confirmation from the demon at hand, didn't want to wake him) demons didn’t have as much to worry about, surely? The worst had already happened to them, he thought, glimpsing echoes of the Starmaker angel he’d known in Crowley’s sleeping face. He would certainly keep watch if it meant the demon could have that little bit of peace.
Still, it tore at his heart. He corrected himself immediately, it tore at his heart that the Starmaker Crowley had been was gone.
Aziraphale chose to ignore whatever else might trouble him.
It took a minute to bring this one home, but hope you like it. 1990s, canon compliant through the ages. Crowley lost, and regained, his demonic powers with the help of more than one human, and a particular angel on Whickber street. Things have changed. But what kind of trouble will he get into if he does anything about it.
Chapter 20-finale
Anthony, the young Scottish bloke in a kilt, was finishing up his business on Whickber street for a bright new future, while Crowley, the demon, was restored as one of Hell’s ‘most effective’ operatives. Being both of them at the same time was a grift that Crowley just couldn’t run anymore. Anyway, he’d only been ‘Anthony’ so he could get back his demonic powers, right? Just as he’d never dreamed of staying on Whickber street. For someone who’d always found leaving the easiest part of any meeting, Crowley was finding himself strangely perturbed with ‘Anthony’s’ farewells.
Pulling a pile of boxes from the back of the Bentley, both of them headed in to say goodbye to Madame.
Looking up from reading in her sitting room, Madame raised an eyebrow at the boxes Anthony was encumbered under today while wearing his signature kilt and black leather waistcoat. A week or so ago, she had not been surprised when the youth arrived in a sharp bespoke suit, no tatters at all, to tell her that he’d gotten back on his feet and had lodgings secured elsewhere. She did make him show her his current bank statement and a bill with his apartment address in Mayfield before she sanctioned him moving out of Whickber Street Intimate Massage and Correction. But then, he’d stayed on. For someone with nothing but a couple of sets of clothes and a beautiful vintage car, he’d certainly dragged out the moving, she thought wryly. There had always been one more fry-up in the kitchen with the girls, taking her on one more trip to the bank, just one more little thing to fix or adjust in her house of negotiable affection, but today it seemed that he was finally sincere in his decampment.
He’d brought her a parting gift, well, two.
“I’ve brought you a computer,” Anthony stood back with hands on hips from where he’d plugged everything in, ‘booted’ mysterious things up, and left the cursor blinking to a ‘chat room.’ Looking down at a thick bundle of manuals he had handed over, she smiled as Anthony gushed, “I think you could really expand into the ‘world wide web’.” The rakish grin on his patchily shaveable face suggested what sort of services he thought she might offer. Considering the Internet Cafes starting to pop up, she considered it would be a good market opportunity.
“And you’ll be by from time to time to check on how I’m getting on with it?” she said, more a command than a question.
“I’ll be around,” he evaded gently.
Taking a wallet from his inner pocket, he produced a business card with ‘Anthony J Crowley’ and a number on it.
Enjoying the little show he was putting on, Madame waited for whatever finale he had planned. She had suspected that he had been working himself up to leave, permanently leave, for some time. What he did next certainly confirmed that intuition.
Suddenly, no longer, in some way, the unfinished youth, but a sharp man, Anthony executed the most courtly bow she had ever seen, ending by pressing his card into her hand while saying into her ear, “May your purse always hold a coin or two, May the sun always shine upon your window pane, may a rainbow be certain to follow each rain, May the hand of a friend always be near to you.”
He kissed her cheek as he drew away.
“I think you left the last line off, Anthony,” she said, holding his gaze steadily, before completing the old phrases herself, ‘And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.’”
“You’d know more about that than me, Madame,” he replied, before he turned and sauntered out of her house as the blessing settled onto it like sunshine sparkling on dew.
Out in the alley, Crowley tipped his head at the Bentley before he headed over for his last shift at the Dirty Donkey with Dave. Anthony greeted the regulars, charmed the patrons, mixed the drinks, and said his goodbyes. Viv was turning out to be a natural, eagerly taking over Anthony’s shifts, so it wasn’t so much that he was leaving abruptly. More that young Anthony was fading away.
That night as he and Dave finished cleaning up the pub together, eating one last meal, Anthony pulled his card out of his spog and pushed it across the table to Dave who picked it up and cocked an eyebrow at the lad.
No, Dave corrected himself. Anthony had changed, he wasn’t a lad anymore.
While Dave was looking at the finely engraved calling card, Anthony said, evenly, “If you need a hand sometime, call me.”
“If you fall on your arse in the gutter again, you’ve always got a job,” Dave replied gruffly, tucking the card away.
Anthony laughed and gathered their plates, taking them into the kitchen to start the final load.
As Anthony headed out the back door, Dave saw him pause to look slowly around the pub, before he raised his chin in farewell with a surprisingly soft smile and said, “Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh.”
“Uh, sláinte agatsa, “ Dave replied, but Anthony was just looking at him, something unreadable in his face. Bantering back to break the tension, Dave asked, “Are you whitening your own name there, Anthony?”
With a little self-deprecating grimace, Anthony replied, “Me? Never! Just a traditional thing to say in a pub, innit?” before heading out into the night, not glancing back to see the changes wrought upstairs. Dave and Ester would find out at her next doctor’s visit soon enough.
The Bentley waited in the alleyway outside the Dirty Donkey, ready for him to drive back to his apartment in Mayfield. Leaning a hip against her door as he looked over at the bookshop, Crowley felt her roll forward a little bit before rolling back. Patting her roof, Crowley sighed, he’d done the easy ones first. Reluctantly, he stood up and walked towards the bookshop.
They’d seen each other rarely since the Take Back the Night march, he and Aziraphale. Going to the bookshop nearly every day had been an absolute necessity during his time without powers. Crowley was willing to admit that he wouldn’t have succeeded in his Hellish paperwork fight, der Paperkrieg, without Aziraphale. So just when had seeing the angel turned into his biggest temptation?
Crowley found himself looking forward to popping over with a morsel and a story about some trivial thing he’d overheard at the Dirty Donkey or Madame’s just to watch Aziraphale’s reaction. But since Crowley had gotten his powers back, he’d shut that line of thought down, turned his treacherous feet away from walking to the shop. Hiding their meetings in the reports had worked when he was powerless. Now, though, Crowley would light up the shop like some infernal spotlight.
Old habits of mutual self preservation urged them to stay away, of course, along with the whole being on two vastly opposing sides thing. Anyway, he’d never heard the angel say he enjoyed Crowley’s company. Aziraphale didn’t come into the pub again, either.
So why was he standing in front of Mr Fell and Co.s now, well after the vindaloo places had closed? Oh, right, they…he couldn't risk leaving any evidence.
Taking a deep breath, Crowley tapped lightly on the bookshop door which immediately opened under his hand. Almost as if Aziraphale had been waiting up for the demon.
Ridiculous thought, that. Crowley pulled the door closed behind him, but did not enter further.
Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley announced, from the shadow just inside the closed door, “I’m here for the rest of my kit, angel. I’m going to be out of pocket for a while.” Digging into his spog, so as not to look at the angel’s face, Crowley produced the remaining sum he owed for laundry, mending, storage, and bathing privileges. Crowley held the money out to Aziraphale who looked from Crowley to the pound notes uncomprehendingly. After a long moment, Aziraphale visibly got himself in hand, and took the money.
Moving slowly back over to his register, Aziraphale finally said, in his carefully polite voice, “Hmm, ah. Exactly what we agreed on,” counting the notes into the till, “Down to the last pence.”
Now that Aziraphale had moved from the door to the till, Crowley could see a tray with an unopened bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses laid out. Crowley looked at the spread with an eyebrow raised.
“What’s all this?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale had closed the till, but made no further move, just stood playing with his gold signet ring nervously, not quite looking at the demon.
Crowley bit his tongue. This little bit of business was the only thing that was allowing him to stop by, so he wasn't going to rush things if Aziraphale wanted… He chided himself for the thought. Why would Aziraphale want him around? Why did he want to be around A-, an angel? Standing in the shop, still in Anthony’s form, Crowley supposed there must be more to this camouflage than just looking like a human youth. Some other influence that made Crowley miss something no demons shared, made these leave takings…different. Still, incarnate influence or not, Crowley felt a flutter in his chest that his clothing and shoes weren't waiting in a bundle by the angel's desk, which was how Aziraphale prepared for the most ill-tempered and least desirable customers. Needs anticipated and met to minimize the unpleasant contact.
Brightening, Aziraphale looked at him again, beaming like he did when one of his complicated plans worked. “Just a little send off for a young man who got a start on Whickber Street,” the angel explained, walking over to pour a generous amount of whiskey into both heavy cut-crystal glasses and waving his hand to offer Crowley a seat as he took his accustomed chair.
They looked at each other measuringly before Crowley stepped fully into the shop. Taking his normal seat on the Chesterfield with unaccustomed hesitation, Crowley picked up the whiskey, while taking off his dark glasses.
Sniffing the whiskey appreciatively, Crowley said, “This’ll go to the young man’s head, he’s not had a chance to sample much fine single-malt.”
“‘He’ worked in a pub this whole time and boarded at a brothel! I should think he was swimming in drink?” Aziraphale sat back across from the kilted demon.
“Not even a wee tipple before tonight,” replied Crowley, taking a small sip and letting the alcohol evaporate up into his nasal passages. The demon sighed, “Not that anyone would believe him.”
Aziraphale raised his glass with a gentle smile, watching as the camouflage of Anthony, the young man, melted away, leaving Crowley still wearing the kilt, spog and Doc Martens the angel had given him at the beginning of this business.
They sat sharing inconsequential gossip about Whickber Street, but more often lapsing into companionable silence, nursing their whiskeys. Then Crowley pointed to some books that looked weirdly different.
“Here, the books moved! Did you get some new stock in?” he asked, casually, moving back towards the easy, empty nattering they’d practiced for ages.
“Oh, yes! I got a shipment from some American booksellers! Always nice to bring something from across the pond,” the angel replied.
“But Angel, you don’t like to sell any of these books, so why not hide them in the back?” Crowley asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I’ve got to read them all before I do that! And just because I don’t want to sell them, doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t know they exist!” Aziraphale made to pour another measure into Crowley’s glass, but the demon put a hand over it, pursed his lips and shook his head. The whine of the peril this contact put them under, the itch of his renewed duties breaking through their little refuge, dragged out Crowley’s next words.
“I’ve got to be off. Don’t want to be driving under the influence,” Crowley said, standing up.
“You could sober up, if you needed,” Aziraphale offered helpfully, looking up at him, bottle still in hand.
“That would be a crying shame with such a fine vintage,” Crowley replied, gruffly.
“Well, then. I’ll just go and fetch your things, shall I? Then you can go?” There was only a very slight, very small question on the end of that statement. They stood in the suspension of that moment as long as possible, drawing out these last exchanges. Each paltry statement become huge like some bright refraction of light through stained glass.
“Yeah, got some projects to attend to,” Crowley dropped into the silence. When next they met, they'd be the Best of Adversaries once more.
“Then I might see you when I’m thwarting,” replied the angel, only a little hopefulness evident in his voice.
“Might. If you catch me,” replied the demon, hands in pockets, scuffing his shoes on the rug, looking at the angel from the corner of his amber snake-eye.
“I just have to nip upstairs,” Aziraphale swung his hands at his sides, “To get your laundry,” he turned to walk up the stairs
“I’ll still be here when you get back, Angel,” Crowley promised softly.
Upstairs Aziraphale walked into his butler’s space where Crowley’s remaining clothing and polished shoes were neatly packaged where they’d been waiting to return to the demon at a moment’s notice these past few weeks. Passing his fingers over the soft black silk shirt at the top of the bundle, Crowley’s favorite, Aziraphale was reminded of all the hours they had spent together while Crowley was inconvenienced by hellish bureaucracy.
Oh! The food! Watching Crowley devour so much food to keep himself incorporated! Feeding him up had been such fun!
Having Crowley about the place, every day! But rather than being an intrusion, how Aziraphale had enjoyed the clatter of Crowley typing on the new computer keyboard! Even the particular buzzing noise of the dot-matrix printer brought a smile to his lips (tho’ he’d blessed the machine into best behaviour after it had printed every word of a thirty page document onto a single line of paper and Crowley had nearly gone apoplectic).
Even Crowley’s creative invective rants set off by Usher’s requisition denials were amusing. The times Aziraphale had been able to interject his own little digs at the demon manager surprising a great laugh from Crowley had been the best.
Bantering with the demon over their very different aftershave and unmentionable preferences as Crowley continued to bathe over at Aziraphale’s would be missed (as would the demon’s charmingly affronted innocence about how often his solitary ablutions at Madame’s had been ‘accidently’ interrupted). The lack of those daily interactions since Crowley regained his demonic powers were harder to bear than the angel had expected.
Respecting Crowley’s privacy while the demon figured out what sort of Hellish oversight he’d have to operate under with his powers restored meant that Aziraphale found himself waiting patiently. For what, though? Crowley didn’t owe him anything, they’d kept the accounting scrupulously even. After all, Crowley had only been spending so much time with him out of necessity.
They weren’t… They couldn’t be…
It had been…
Squaring his shoulders, clearing his throat, Aziraphale put on his pleasant face before picking up Crowley’s things and heading back downstairs.
While the angel puttered upstairs, Crowley wandered restlessly around the new book displays. This place had been a sanctuary, but the feeling of that time irrevocably ending was percolating up in how the small changes of the displays irritated him. Riffling through the new books, he sneered at the annoying novels, but found a largish book over to the side, tucked under a silly low-fat cookbook. Taking it up in his hands, Crowley’s eyes drank in the red and yellow swirls of a nebula on a black background. The book! The one he’d been searching for! Here! Hardly stopping to consider, Crowley slipped the book into the small of his back, under his kilt and leather waistcoat before replacing the cookbook in the display. Steps from upstairs signaled that he’d managed his shoplifting just in time.
Aziraphale came down the stairs to find Crowley already waiting by the door. “I’m sorry it took me so long upstairs! I had to find what I’d done with your shoes, and some other things got scattered about, but here’s the whole lot,” Aziraphale said with barely forced lightness as he handed the bundle into Crowley’s arms, slipping the shoes to hang on Crowley's left hand, fingers sliding along the demon’s, but they had to, didn’t they? to manage the exchange. One being’s hand closed into a fist to preserve the fleeting feeling while the other clutched the shoes reflexively.
“See you around, then,” Crowley backed towards the door, looking at the angel and the cozy shop like he was memorizing it all. Something to keep by.
“Do take care, Anthony,” Aziraphale moved by to open the door for the encumbered demon. Outside the shop, over the click of the lock, Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the angel say, “It’s been a pleasure.”
***
In his apartment, Crowley gently tucked the bundle of hand washed and mended clothing into one of the empty dresser drawers. The clothing still smelled of the bookshop. Crowley wondered how long he could preserve that scent so that every time he opened the drawer he could be transported back to that brief time he’d shared with… his friend, his oldest friend. Closing the drawer, he turned off the bedroom light and headed back out to his austere office.
At his great black desk, Crowley pulled the “Hubble Vision” book out from where he'd tucked it in the back of his kilt under the waistcoat. Some sharp shopkeeper, the angel was missing him pilfering this right under his nose, Crowley thought with only a little pang. Stealing was allowed, wasn't it?
Snapping his fingers, a bottle of Talisker whiskey and a glass appeared on his desk to silence the pang.
“Let there be light!” Crowley commanded. A circle of daylight warmed the desktop.
Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Crowley flipped back the cover and stopped.
Written on the end papers in the angel’s unmistakable copperplate was an unsigned inscription:
“Look at it! It's gorgeous!”
Chuckling fondly, Crowley shook his head. Just like the bastard to get the last word in.
Standing up to walk over to his couch where he might admire the pictures more comfortably, a postcard-sized advertisement fell out of the book. Stooping, Crowley picked it up, disregarded the self addressed stamped side and flipped it over to the back, ready to chuckle at the little temptation sure to be waiting there. His confident smirk melted away as he stood, arrested by the words printed on the little card.
“Speak up, speak out, get in the way. Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.” –John Lewis, American Civil Rights leader- from a collection of quotes and essays of the American Civil Rights movement.
In Crowley's hand the card burned to ash, but it was too late, much too late, the dangerous words were already seared into his battered heart.
***
They said there was a knight in Soho during those years. A kilted Galahad with a hand crank in one hand and chain in the other. Though some spoke of a flame-haired Bodicea, her chariot a black vintage car. Accounts varied, these were urban legends after all.
Legend or no, years later, women talked of a red headed woman turning up to give them a ride at the intersection of Hope and Despair. Men and their husbands spoke of a benefactor sauntering in front of a pack of toughs with a grin, standing over his fallen enemy screaming to the rest, “Come on! If you think you're hard enough!” Shopkeepers from far-flung parts of the realm didn't have to pay protection or live fearful for their family’s safety in that neighborhood at that time.
And Crowley made trouble up there, good trouble.
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If there was one thing Vergil was thankful for, it was that even when he was severely poisoned he could not only feel the presence of the Yamato but also his son. He was also thankful they were in the same place, making it so much easier to focus. Wrapped up in his cloak, shivering even when he was dripping sweat from excursion and fever, he picked his head up when he heard the voice of a sweet girl.
“Hey you two! Dinner’s ready!”
Vergil’s brows pinched together. Was that Kyrie? It echoed from the garage up ahead, the door halfway open. He’d be able to duck under it. That was where the source of the energies was, too.
He wasn’t one to swear, not like Dante or even Nero, but fuck his whole body was shooting white-hot pain all over every step he took...Goddamn Stolas’ for sicking his poisonous plants on him, going after him from behind...All because of Abaddon...
“You, uh...you need somethin’?”
When had he gotten across the road?
“What...hungry? Heh...in luck...food’s ready and Kyrie...too much.” As his vision doubled, most of the sentence was distorted. The sound of clanking reached his ears. That was definitely his son’s voice, and that had been Kyrie after all. Nero had said her name so sweetly...had their relationship developed further? How long...had he been away?
Vergil slipped under the garage door and slowly stepped closer, breathing heavy. His mind was wavering...Focus! He needed to tell Nero...he needed to admit he...needed help.
“Hope...loud talkers...a pair of those...” Nero had stood up and paused whatever he was saying, but now he was closer Vergil heard him more clearly, “...see somethin’ ya like?”
A blue glow alerted Vergil, feeling the energy of the Yamato spike. When had his son’s arm become demonic?
“You a demon?” Nero growled, obviously on edge now.
That wasn’t what he wanted and he lifted his hand, skin showing grey and veins black in the light. Suddenly desperate he worked his throat and rocked on his heels as he lost his balance, “Nero…”
“Nero! The food’s getting cold! What’s-” Kyrie was immediately cut off.
“Call Dante!” Nero shouted as he swung himself forward. The voice sounded...but it couldn’t. When the robe fell from his face, Nero’s eyes widened and then narrowed. His father looked as though he had aged terribly. The black veins were sucking the very life out of him, and it looked like it was slow acting. Nero knew not a thing about poisons. He only knew how to point and shoot. Kyrie might have something in the home to help slow it down further, but an actual antidote would have to come from Dante, if the demon hunter even knew what the poison was. If this could be cured. “Hey. Father.” His skin was flecking at his very touch, as though he were crumbling to dust.
He slowly pulled the robe back on, trying not to let it rub too much on his father’s skin and hoisted him up. “We’re going to get you upstairs.” He told him seriously. “Kyrie’s calling Dante, I’m sure and we’ll get you better.” As better as they possibly could. “Alright? You gotta stay with me ol’ man. That’s your job right now. You got that? Stay with me.”
His voice needed to work goddamn it but all he got for a second was a chest-rattling grunt to show he was listening. Any other circumstance he would consider this humiliating, and every jostle, as accidental as it was, hurt like a bitch. When he was finally set down on a bed - at least it wasn’t a couch - he reached and grabbed Nero’s arm, choking out, “Yamato...the...power will...” he hissed as his whole body shuddered in a shiver yet a bead of sweat went down his temple, “Slow..it...down...” he finished, feeling incredibly weak and he hated it.
Slow it down? Nero looked at his arm where the Yamato was sealed away. Dante was going to fry him. The Yamato would practically call out every demon from their hiding spots, but what choice did he have? He reached into his palm and pulled the sword out, “What do I do?”
Instead of wasting breath, Vergil took it from him and promptly pressed it to his chest where it pulsed with energy. It felt good to have his sword back in his hands, and it when he was able to finally suck air through his teeth and into his lungs instead of fighting for every breath, he relaxed into the bed. Eyes fluttering back open, they were a lot clearer now. Everything still hurt, the poison was still creeping, but he didn’t look or feel like he was going to die in the next heartbeat. “In answer to...your question,” he swallowed hard, throat dry, “Check with...Kyrie. The poison is...from Stolas’ plants. Another demon.” Not being able to articulate his words properly irked him to Hell and back. At least he got his point across.
Nero got up onto his feet. “I got it.” He told him as he walked out of the room. The girls were around the kitchen table looking grim.
“What was that about?” Nico asked clicking her tongue and folding her arms.
“Poison from Stolas.” Nero looked over at Kyrie who was holding the phone. “If that’s still Dante tell him that. I bet he had a few ideas.”
“Do you know who Stolas is?” Kyrie asked the seasoned hunter on the other end, her hand pressed over her heart in worry, “Nero learned that’s where the poison’s from.” Noticing he was holding his arm and it wasn’t as bright, she tilted her head, silently asking if he was alright.
Nero nodded and gave Kyrie a trade-mark smile but he listened for Dante’s reply.
“Looks like I gotta call Lysander. Now to hope that one of them picks up the phone. I’ll be there shortly afterward. Not sure if it’ll help, but holy water might ease it a twinge. He’ll be in a hell of a lot of pain but it’s better that than to bite his tongue and die.” Dante sighed on the other end before hanging up.
“Holy water until help arrives. Do we have any?” she looked at Nico who tended to keep stock of their supplies, then to Nero, “Somebody named Lysander’s going to hopefully be here.”
Nico shrugged, “I might have some but you might wanna make another batch Kyrie just in case. I’ll go down to my van. Be back in a sinch.”
X
“Yo! Sis!” the younger Lysander sister shouted to the void that was her apartment with Charlotte, “The world must be ending, Dante’s called! Asking about plants. That’s your shtick.”
Charlotte blinked from reading. Quietly the older sister closed her book and dig into the mess of papers where her own cellphone was. Three missed calls. All from Dante. Oops. “What about plants?!”
Yvette came from the hallway, phone to her chest so she could talk without getting mixed signals, “Some douchebag demon named Stolas?”
“Ugh. Where?” Charlotte asked as she got up from her desk and went over to her closet. Better drag out the big guns. She reached up and pulled a large oak case that jiggled and clinked ominously. “We’re gonna have to go fast meaning you drive Vet.”
Pale green eyes lit up and she put the phone back to her ear, “Text me the address, would you? On our way now.” If she had the address then that’d make it easier for Charlotte to input it into her GPS and give her directions. Honestly, she was giddy with the thought of getting out of the house and driving. Sure it was dire circumstances, but meeting new people was always fun, and if it was Dante asking for help then part of her knew they were a few steps shy of having a hunt.
“Sure thing,” Dante said, “Tell your sister she’s shit at having a phone.” It was a nice little jab. “See you.”
Not even five seconds went by before Yvette’s phone dinged with a text for the address. Charlotte hauled the big case up and over her shoulder. The rattling increased tenfold. “Following you out the door kiddo.”
X
Honestly, falling asleep was a horrible idea. Vergil was lucky as hell to even open his eyes again. All he remembered last was little concerned Kyrie -my how she’d grown- soothing him while Nero not only made him drink a shot of holy water but apply it to some of the wounds from his skin flaking.
What brought him to consciousness he wasn’t quite sure. All of a sudden he felt Dante’s energy, and drawing near was the presence of what he could only guess was a witch. A rattling noise echoed in the hallway before the door was eased open. Reflexively he gripped his sword, but the sight before him threw his guard off. Straight strands of brown hair spilled over the woman’s shoulders, and as she turned on the light to see what she was doing he was sucked into deep green eyes that reminded him of staring into a forest.
Heaven and Hell combined, he must be really off his game, poison be damned.
Charlotte didn’t miss how he reached for his sword. A part of her wanted to be cheeky about how that sword wouldn’t do much against her and he was delusional, but she kept her mouth closed. This poor man was going through hell. She placed the big case on the ground and kicked it open. It unfolded itself to show so many different kinds of vials in many different colors.
She carefully sat on the edge of the bed and slowly telegraphing her moves to pick up his arm and looked at the black veins. “Holy water?” She mused. “Fast thinking.” She looked up at the man who was on the bed.
“Can he be saved?” Dante asked, folding his arms against his chest.
“He can be,” Charlotte said soothingly and turned to Vergil. “Stolas did this? It’s a new kind of poison. Taking demonic energy and transforming it into literal poison.” She turned away and started to sift through the vials. She hummed a tune softly under her breath.
Such a lovely sound...Vergil closed his eyes briefly before he shifted, “Dante, Stolas got me...in the back. Starting at...the source...might help.” Which of course meant he had to take off his cloak, jacket, vest, and possibly his shirt. “Normally wounds...heal closed. This one...did not.” Which of course meant it had been festering.
Dante walked around the bed and helped Vergil turn around once they got him out of the complicated outfit. The odor was terrible and Charlotte clicked her teeth.
“What the fuck, dad.” Nero hissed when he saw the damage that was on his father’s back. He hadn’t wanted to leave his side, but holy…
“Stolas didn’t really know the safe word here.” Dante grimaced.
“Lets…” Charlotte started to pull her hair back into a makeshift bun. “Yvette I need gauze and warm wet towels.” She lowered herself so Vergil could hear her. “How steady is your grip? I can give it to you orally and you take it yourself or I find a different method.”
“Either holding the Yamato...in a death grip...or not at all,” Vergil admitted with a sigh, feeling even colder than before but at least the cool air on the back of his neck where he was drenched in sweat was relieving. He heard the creaking of the door as this ‘Yvette’ left the room to get what was asked of her. “What other methods?”
“One method is that I administer it through a kiss, another is that I open that wound of yours and try to see if I can’t get it to take through the bloodstream. I can even have you sit up and I pour it down your throat if you’d prefer.” Charlotte listed.
“Won’t even consider taking you out to dinner Verg.” Dante teased, though the worried edge on his voice betrayed his feelings.
Nero rolled his eyes. He’s been there. He’s done that. “I’m going to help Yvette find the towels. It’s crowded in here.” He knew his father didn’t want to display too many weaknesses to too many people. At least the Lysander woman was trying her best.
“I was thinking...the same thing,” Vergil nodded to Nero in appreciation and he released a long breath when his son was out of the room, leaving the three of them. Even the Yamato pulsed a little bit when he thought about her kissing him and he shook his head in spite of the ache, “Sit up...pour it.” Lifting his hand to his brother he grit his teeth when Dante grasped his wrist and hauled him up, his body lurching to the side only to be caught by the woman. Her touch set him on edge, but not out of distaste. “My shirt. I’ll bite it.” Whatever it was she gave him to cure the poison was going to make him scream.
“I can knock yo-Okay then.” Dante had to admit it was nice that Charlotte didn’t even try to persuade Vergil to do the other thing. She uncapped the vial. “Brave man.” She set the cap to the side and she scooted a little closer to Vergil. She knew this was going to hurt. He was going to drink it, it was going to taste vile, he was going to hate it and when it was also poured on his wounds with the towel and gauze he was either going to pass out or scream loudly enough to wake up the neighborhood. That shirt of his was going to get torn, undoubtedly. She swirled the vial three times in either direction and looked at Vergil squarely. Like two warriors on opposite sides of a battle. “You can swear at me, I know I’m the bitch in this scenario.” Without further ado, she helped him drink it.
Vergil expected the taste and covered his mouth as he tried not to cough and spit it out, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing down the bile and the liquid. In the nothing that followed he grabbed his shirt, twisted it and when the first pangs of something made him double over he shoved the cloth in his mouth in time to feel burning.
Yvette returned with the items Char asked for in time to see Vergil slam his body back onto the bed which creaked ominously at the abuse. Screaming into the wad of his shirt while his hands gripped the edges. Yup. That shirt would be pieces by the end of this. “Lotty,” she whispered to get her sister’s attention, holding up the wraps and towels, “Anything else you need help with? Holding him down when you wrap him?”
Charlotte looked at Vergil who was panting, Dante was gripping his brother tightly and they both looked at each other before Charlotte shook her head. “No.” She said after a moment. “I think once we get this done, we can take watch. Make sure it doesn’t get worse or continue to spread.”
“Sounds like a plan, how long does it take?” Dante asked, carefully loosening his grip on his brother so that he could reposition himself. Charlotte carefully took the things from Yvette.
“Twenty four hours, if not a little less since he’s half-demon.” Charlotte determined. “The wound on the back is what I’m worried about most. It’s been infected and reinfected. Actually, Yvette, shove my case a little closer to the bed.”
Huffing mostly at the weight of it, Yvette did as she was told and cocked her head when Vergil screamed again, back arching and if it wasn’t for Dante she’d fear he’d snap his back in two, “I’ll get you another cloth for his forehead, a basin while I’m at it. He’s drenched.”
“You sound like a peach,” Charlotte said as she shifted through the vials a little quicker this time before picking one up. She unrolled the gauze and started to drip some onto cloth and leaned in uncomfortably close to get the wrapping around. “At least,” Charlotte said dryly, “I’m wearing a bra for this.”
Dante appreciated the humor. She was as much in an uncomfortable position as his brother and he was grateful that Charlotte knew how to work swiftly as she did carefully. His brother still writhed in pain and agony, but he still kept a firm grip so he wouldn’t ruin more of her handiwork. “This is going to take all night.” He sighed.
“I’d much rather he scream and punch than to go still and iced,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Yvette can hold him down as well as you can, but I’m pretty sure I’m pushing limits as I am.”
“You know his pride.” Dante huffed a laugh. “I didn’t realize that was infamous.”
“I have my own honor code I abide by. It drives Vet up the wall. Ask her. One time she legit threatened to shoot me over it I kid you not.”
“Oooh boy, you’re his type.” The younger twin snorted, but then had to double his grip again at another wave. “I’m a little worried about putting him on his back or even on his stomach.” He admitted. “I don’t feel like he can handle that.”
Charlotte didn’t blame him for that line of thinking. But Dante couldn’t hold him all night long and while Yvette did offer to help, Charlotte wasn’t sure if it’d make things better or not. “We have to. We’re better off keeping him from rolling off the bed than we are to restrain him. That’s wasted energy and effort.”
“Logical and precise.” Dante let out a breath. “Okay then.”
They helped each other to get Vergil to lay down, but the moment that they got him back onto his stomach, it was a hell storm. It was agony for touch, for the skin to be pulled and soon enough that antidote would stop burning and it would be numbed, hopefully drugged. Hopefully. His back needed to heal, and him writhing around wasn’t helping. She didn’t doubt that after the first hour, she’d have to change them again.
“I’ll tell Nero we’re taking watch shifts and let Vet know that too. If you’re hungry, I’m sure Kyrie can heat up whatever dinner they were having.” Dante offered as he slowly got himself untangled from Vergil’s grip and body. “She feeds an army and then some, it’s no hassle.”
Charlotte sighed, “Sure. I can’t work on an empty stomach and if there’s room to share, I’ll take it.”
“Awesome. Keep an eye out, you get first watch,” Dante patted Charlotte’s shoulder before heading down the stairs to let the group know what was going on.
“Should’ve let ‘im punch me,” was the barely audible whisper when he was well out of earshot, voice too hoarse and literally cotton-mouthed after his tattered shirt was gone.
Charlotte looked down at Vergil. “At this point in time, I don’t think you’d even know what a punch feels like.”
All he did was hum and Yvette came back in with the cloth and basin she promised a while ago, “Dante told us. I’ll bring your food up when it’s ready, yeah?”
“Sure.” Charlotte looked over at Yvette, “By the dresser thanks.” She let out a low sigh as she started to make herself comfortable on the side of the bed. “I’m good here.” She assured her sister.
“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” Yvette gave her a sly wolfish smile and easily danced away when a pillow was thrown at her, ‘kekeke’ing and tossed it back before leaving her alone with Vergil until she brought food.
“Should’ve shot her, but I don’t know if that’s worth a bullet or my sanity,” Charlotte muttered darkly as she pushed the pillow against her stomach, glaring heatedly at the door. She waited for a moment, in case her sister decided to come back. When it was clear, she set the pillow to the side and went to the basin. The water was lukewarm, which was nice. She dipped the cloth in, and wringing it out before going back to Vergil and gently swiping it across the back of his neck and his forehead, humming soft.
Sleep had nearly claimed him before he felt her gentle touches and picked up on her sweet humming. It was the same tune from before and something he didn’t cater to often, curiosity, nagged at him. Perhaps later he could ask. Instead of releasing another little hum to answer hers, Vergil heard a different noise. With his body so numb, it took a second to realize it was coming from deep, deep in his chest. Not quite human, either. If he had any strength left to care, he would be embarrassed as hell his demon was purring and trilling.
Charlotte heard it. She heard it and it made her pleased. She didn’t know much about hybrids, let alone half-demons. Yet she knew that the demons had their own little purrs and noises that they made. Animalistic as they were, they were sometimes more human than humans. To know that hybrids and half-demons could do the same thing as a regular demon, well...that was going to be her secret to keep. She hummed in tune with the purring and trilling as she wiped away the sweat, and cooled his body down. She didn’t stop humming when she put the cloth back into the basin and went back to settle on the side of the bed. She certainly didn’t stop humming until he was nice and knocked out.
