Chapter Text
An angel’s touch burns.
He should have known, theoretically. He’s a demon; there’s an angel; they’re supposed to be. Incompatible. Conflicting. Spiritually, cosmically, they are not supposed to be in close contact with each other and they certainly are not supposed to touch each other.
He just didn’t realize there would be a physical component to it as well. Had no reason to suspect it, not in those early days.
He will learn soon enough.
---
He starts to learn it in Mesopotamia, where the skies are darkening and the distant hammering takes on a frantic edge, so loud it is drowning out the bleats and roars and bellows of the hundreds of panicked animals surrounding them. The angel is standing next to him, blabbering on about ineffability and it’s just the locals and rain-bows and Crawly is reeling, an unfamiliar anger and even stranger grief flaring hot inside because:
‘There’s kids here, Angel! Kids! You can’t kill kids!’
The angel’s face loses its doubtful chipperness and his eyes fills with sorrow instead. ‘It’s the will of the Almighty, Crawly. I can’t…’
‘Well, you have to do something! For… for pity’s sake, you’re supposed to be the good guy!’
‘I can’t.’
The angel’s voice is wretched, but Crawly doesn’t listen. He stalks past, meaning to turn around and yell at the top of his lungs to the crowd, yell, shout, swear at them, call the dogs of hell to get them moving, do whatever it takes to get all of this blasted humans on that f*cking boat.
He never gets that far. Before he’s taken two steps, there’s a burning, searing hotter than hellfire, around his wrist, along with an insistent tugging. ‘Crawly, stop.’
He stops. Looks down at his wrist, where his skin is already blackening and smoking underneath the angel’s grasp. The smell of roasted meat fills his nostrils and makes him gag. He supposes it hurts; he doesn’t feel anything, weirdly enough. He only sees the raw, oozing wound when the angel releases him, the flesh almost seared away right to the bone. He hears the angel’s voice, heavy with pity but still filled with heavenly righteousness and authority.
‘Crawly, go. There is nothing worse you can do here than what is already going to happen and I don’t think your bosses would like it if you tried to do something… something un-demonlike. Go.’
He is standing very close now, almost but not quite touching, so close that Crawly can smell him, over the burning and right over all the muck and sweat and animal stench. ‘Go, Crawly.’
Crawly looks down at his arm. Within seconds, the vivid wound is closed, the blisters and cracked skin have healed and it’s like nothing ever happened. The angel clears his throat. ‘Sorry about that, dear fellow. But you really should leave. I do think that’d be for the best.’
Overhead, the clouds that have gathered are almost black. There is a faint rumbling, a heavy gust of wind and then, one by one, the raindrops start to fall. The people around them look up, confused but not dismayed; in this dry land, rain is always welcome.
Crawly looks back at the angel. A picture of misery in his white clothes, the angel makes a faint ‘shoo’ motion with his hands. Crawly sighs and turns back, just in time to see one of the animals make a break for it.
Well, he thinks bitterly as he stalks away. That’d be the end of the unicorns, then.
---
He doesn’t see much of the angel, after that. The angel, true to his duties as ever, spends most of his time trailing after one of the many Middle Eastern tribes. It appears to involve a lot of wandering around the desert and fielding complaints about not having enough water, food, water, food again, a bunch of poisonous snakes manifesting in their tents because they’d complained about not having any food too much, and the fact that there’s already people in the land that was ‘promised’ to them.
Crawly had to laugh at that. If these really were the Chosen People, he thought, then the Almighty had her work cut out for her.
Instead, he heads to Egypt. Close enough to Aziraphale’s desert tribe to look like he’s keeping an eye on things (not unlike that person in PE who always hovers at the far end of the soccer field and insists they’re still playing) but much more fun. He ‘helps’ them invent politics, which earns him his first commendation from Downstairs; and then, just to stick it to both Up- and Downstairs, he decides to help them speed this thing called civilization up a bit.
He’s very proud of the result. So proud, in fact, that he can’t help but drag the angel over all the way from Babylon to come and see.
---
Alexandria, 268 BC
‘Crawly, I do actually have some important business to take care of, you know. I have to…’
‘Yeah, I know. Deliver good tidings, smite the wicked, bless all the dear children, whatever. Come on.’
‘Where are we?’
Aziraphale looks around, the loose end of his white garb held protectively over his mouth and nose. They are standing in front of a large, no, huge building. Larger than anything the angel has seen before, standing smack dab in the middle of one of the largest cities he’s seen until now. Babylon, yes, that’s a great city too, but Babylon has grandeur. It has temples and hanging gardens and it’s beautiful and smells of flowers and spice (and it’s also a den of iniquity that Aziraphale should not spend so much time in, not when there’s the next part of the Ineffable plan is a mere three centuries away although Gabriel seems to have that one covered); this city on the other hand, is a teeming ant’s nest filled with people and the stench takes his non-existent breath away.
‘Alexandria,’ the demon says proudly. ‘You remember that lad Alexander? Called himself the Great?’
‘Ah, yes. One of your pet projects, I take it?’
‘I liked him,’ the demon grins. ‘Shame he got a bit carried away. Still, A for effort I guess. Anywho. Come on, get inside.’
The jostle of the crowds propels them forward, up the steps and through the door. It also makes Aziraphale stumble and, on an instinct that comes out of nowhere, Crawly reaches out. ‘Whoa there… sh*t.’
‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’ the angel says, looking bashfully down at the red blisters and welts forming on the demon’s hand. ‘Better keep my distance, I take it.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Crawly mutters, blowing over his hand. The skin calms down at once, angry red turning back to healthy pink. ‘Although when we’re inside… yeah. Better not stand too close. Not too keen on hot things inside, big no-no.’
‘I can see why,’ Aziraphale says once they’ve made their way inside. They are standing in a large, cavern-sized hall, dim and dusty with the smell of ink and paper and sweat hanging thickly in the air. All around them are shelves, shelves and shelves and shelves creating a maze that would give Daedalus a run for his money. And the shelves all around them, they are filled with…
‘Scrolls.’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘A lot of scrolls.’
‘Yes.’
Hundreds, thousands, millions of scrolls, papyrus and parchment all lined up neatly in their own little cubbyholes, or spread out on the tables in between the shelves, or tucked away haphazardly to be reshelved later; they are everywhere, ranging from near white to yellow to almost brown with age, and every single one is covered in pictures, letters, texts, all the ways humanity has found so far to express itself and make it last.
The angel looks around, his face a puzzled frown. ‘Why, exactly? I mean, I’m sure it’s very impressive, but I fail to see…’
‘Because it’s not the scrolls,’ the demon says with a grin that shows off all his teeth. ‘It’s what’s on them. It’s knowledge. Everything they’ve managed to learn so far, it’s all right here in this building. Everything they need to get themselves out of the mud and into… into the stars if they want to! Don’t you see?’ He barks a brief laugh that echoes through the gloom. ‘The Almighty’s made a Tree of Knowledge, but I’ve got an entire f*cking building full of it. Let’s see who’s more effective, huh?’
‘First of all, you know I cannot condone blasphemy,’ Aziraphale says primly.
‘Oh, stuff it, angel.’
‘Second of all,’ the angel continues, ‘quick question: how is this supposed to be evil?’
‘What?’
‘You made something that humans can use to better themselves. You made something to help humanity, Crawly. I’m not sure that’s something you’re supposed to be doing.’
Aziraphale’s face beams with something that is almost unholy glee. ‘You did something good, Crawly. Well done.’
Oh no.
Oh no no no non no.
That is not going to fly. One, two steps is all it takes to grab the angel by his tunic and shove him up against one of the shelves. ‘Don’t ssssmirk at me like that, angel,’ the demon hisses, his face inches from Aziraphale’s. ‘It’s called sssscience and I’ve got plans for it. Big plans. We’ll ssssee who’s laughing in a hundred years, sssshall we?’
‘I think you’d better let go,’ Aziraphale manages, a little worriedly. ‘You said they weren’t too keen on hot things inside?’
Small tendrils of smoke are rising from Crawly’s hands, tickling his nostrils right before the (by now familiar) smell of scorching flesh hits him. ‘Aw, f*ck.’
‘But I take your point,’ Aziraphale says as the demon jumps back and starts blowing down his hands again. ‘Erm. Just out of interest. What do you call this… this kind of knowledge building?’
Crawly stops rubbing his hands together to glare at the angel. ‘It’s a library.’
‘Library,’ the angel repeats, tasting the word and suddenly looking thoughtful. ‘Hm. I like it.’
---
Rome, 41 AD
‘I say, dear fellow, you don’t look too chipper. You can’t have gotten into trouble with Downstairs, have you? Not when you’ve got that lad Caligula all…’
‘’s not him.’
‘No, I didn’t think it would be.’ Aziraphale puts down his oyster and looks at Crowley. The demon knows what he looks like, and what he looks like is misery incarnate; dark rings underneath the snake eyes, a toga that hasn’t been washed in days judging by the wine stains and hair that’s only failing to be a bird’s nest because it’s as greasy as Petronius’ frying pan. ‘Care to tell me what’s bothering you?’
‘What, like one of those confessions? Nice work on that, by the way,’ Crowley sneers. ‘Getting humans to tell each other all their secrets. That’s never gonna backfire.’
‘It’ll be good for their soul,’ Aziraphale says calmly. ‘And you’re avoiding my question.’
For a moment, it doesn’t seem like Crowley is going to answer; he just stares at the far end of the bar, unblinking and unseeing, his throat working until he lets out a heavy sigh. ‘You remember that library I showed you?’
‘Oh, yes. I still think it was a great idea, which I’m aware was probably not what you were…’
‘It burned down.’
‘It what?’
Aziraphale actually has the good grace to look upset, which shouldn’t warm the black co*ckles of Crowley’s heart (or whatever passes for it these days), but it does, ever so slightly. ‘Oh, my dear fellow. I am so sorry to hear that.’
‘Didn’t even notice,’ Crowley continues, pouring all the bitterness of the past eighty years into his voice. ‘Wasn’t even there. Too busy. Too busy faffing about in Judea looking after your f*cking carpenter guy! Never even heard about anything happening, then one day I go ‘oh hey let’s see how they’re coming along over there’ and boom. Big empty hole in the ground, that’s all that’s left of it.’
‘Oh, my dear fellow.’
Aziraphale reaches out. Probably only to pet Crowley’s toga since he surely must know by now that actual touching is no good, but Crowley still flinches and the angel’s hand comes to a rest at the edge of his chair. It stays there, stubby fingers curling as if they are looking for something to hold.
Crowley stares.
Aziraphale’s hand stays where it is.
Crowley blinks, then hisses a swear word that glows faintly in the dim light of the inn. ‘Bloody Romans. It was that Caesar fellow, you know.’ He takes a swig of wine, making a face as it goes down his throat. ‘The fighty one. Got him back, in the end. But still.’
‘Ah.’ Aziraphale ponders quietly for a moment. ‘You know, I heard about that. I did think that stabbing someone twenty-three times was a bit excessive.’
‘Not nearly enough.’ Crowley takes another swig and swears again, releasing an ominous red shape that hovers over their table for just a second. ‘Not nearly enough.’
---
When Aziraphale leans over the table to attract the barmaid’s attention and pay for the oysters (honestly. He’s an angel, Principality of Heaven, part of the Hosts of the Almighty and he pays for his oysters), his bare hand brushes against Crowley’s for just a second.
The angel doesn’t notice. There’s no fretting and pouting and stammering excuses or ‘oh dear fellows’, which, frankly, Crowley is grateful for.
But it does leave a mark. A small, red welt the size of a berry, just below his thumb. It hurts a little when Crowley flexes his hand, or presses the thumb of his other hand against it to feel the too-smooth skin. It stings, sending a small flare of heat up his arm as a small, pathetic echo of the first time he tasted hellfire.
He could miracle it away. Easily enough.
---
The welt dries out in under a day. The scab, which Crowley has not been picking, falls off after a week, revealing shiny brand new skin. And for the next twenty centuries, he walks around with the faintest little discoloration on his hand, a small pink circle just below his thumb.
Barely noticeable, you only see it when you know it’s there.
