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I.
Sometimes even the flight of an angel hits turbulence.
-Astrid Alauda
Before this moment, Aziraphale had never considered the personality of fonts. The name typed at the top of the report, however, had a mocking slant to it. In fact, the name radiated smugness, much in the same way a migraine was currently making its way down Aziraphale's neck.
"Crowley, sir?" he said, a little hopelessly.
The chief inspector sighed. "I know, I know, you two don't get on." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers and lowering his voice to what he probably thought was a confiding whisper. "You'll have to make it work. We're still trying to figure out how deep the corruption in Sandford goes."
"But, sir--"
"We both know that Crowley's the best hand at discovering anyone we've missed."
"Yes, sir," Aziraphale said. He resigned himself to his fate like most drowning men resigned themselves to the sea. This case was going to be messy and bothersome, and include far too much paperwork (and Aziraphale generally enjoyed paperwork). Plus, the case involved Crowley, which would make all those irritants ten times worse.
He jumped a little as the chief inspector clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll tell Crowley to lay off you, eh?" the man said with an encouraging smile. "Put his nose to the grindstone, so to speak."
"I--"
"Send Crowley in for me, would you?"
"Yes, sir," Aziraphale said, stifling a sigh. He closed the door firmly behind him.
Crowley was leaning against a desk, waving his hands and regaling his listeners with an apparent joke, because everyone was laughing or looked ready to snicker. Aziraphale shouldn't have been surprised. Crowley was always surrounded by people, whether it was his fellow officers or the seedier sort during his covert work. He seemed to draw them in, like flies to a Venus flytrap.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, ignoring the dirty looks Crowley's audience directed at him. "The chief inspector wants to speak with you."
"Does he?" Crowley asked, without much interest. "I'll head over in a bit, then."
Crowley and authority figures had never got on well, not even during his days as a cadet. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered how Crowley had ended up a police officer instead of a crime lord. He cleared his throat. "I believe the chief inspector meant right away," he said.
"Course he did," Crowley sighed. He pushed away from the desk, earning a few disgruntled groans from his audience. "I'll finish the story later, boys."
"You always say that and you never do," someone protested.
Crowley grinned brightly at that, looking almost pleased. "I was wondering how long it'd take for someone to notice," he said, and then swept by Aziraphale.
Aziraphale noted, without much surprise, that Crowley didn't bother to knock on the chief inspector's door, just walked on in and slammed the door after him.
There was a pause. Then someone said, "Does that mean he isn't going to finish this story either?"
It was a two and a half hour drive to Sandford from London. Judging by Crowley's gloomy expression, though, those hundred and fifty minutes might as well have been twelve hours. He drummed an impatient beat out on the steering wheel as Aziraphale put his bags in the boot.
"Can we go?" Crowley asked when Aziraphale checked that his belongings were secure for what was admittedly the third time.
"I'm ready," Aziraphale said, and got into the passenger seat. He went through his mental checklist one more time. He'd brought enough clothes to last at least a month, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a few books--
"Good," Crowley said through gritted teeth. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, but Aziraphale knew they were narrowed.
Awkward silence reigned for about ten minutes before Aziraphale cleared his throat.
"What do you know of Sergeant Angel?" he asked. He had only met the man once, after the shooting incident during Operation Crackdown, but Angel was...memorable. Aziraphale remembered his unsmiling mouth, the intensity of his eyes, the way he quoted the law like it was sacred. A man who did his duty, of course, a man certainly to be admired, but a man you wouldn't want much as a friend, if you happened to have hobbies or an actual life outside work.
Crowley snorted. "Besides the fact that he had a 400% higher arrest rate than anyone else in the Met?" he said. "And that he's as big a stickler for the rules as you are?" Crowley shrugged. "I never saw him to actually speak to. I wasn't the one in SCD10 handing over information to his lot in SO19."
"He'll certainly be helpful once we get to Sandford," Aziraphale ventured optimistically. "Probably have most of the paperwork done."
The second sentence actually garnered a grin. "We can only hope," Crowley drawled.
There was silence again, but Aziraphale thought it was more comfortable than before. He gazed out at the scenery as it flashed by, marveling a little. He didn't get to venture out of the city very often, too busy with work. Somehow the vitality of the countryside constantly startled him-- he always forgot how green everything was, vibrant with a different type of teeming life from the one that filled the city.
"It's beautiful," he said quietly.
Crowley answered with a grunt, but whether it was agreement or disagreement, Aziraphale couldn't tell.
"Maybe we could listen to some music," Aziraphale began, reaching for the cassette player and idly wondering what tapes Crowley kept in his car. He'd liked classical music as a cadet, so maybe some Tchaikovsky--
"Don't!" Crowley shouted. He grabbed Aziraphale's wrist, hard, white-knuckled, so that Aziraphale's fingers froze in mid-air and twitched in discomfort.
The pain radiated up Aziraphale's arm, until he saw stars and his breath caught in his throat. "C-Crowley," he said at last, trying to pull his hand out of that iron-tight grip. "Crowley."
"I-- the cassette player's broken," Crowley said, releasing Aziraphale's wrist. "Sorry," he added belatedly as Aziraphale rubbed at the white indentations where Crowley's grip had left its mark. They would certainly be interesting bruises.
Then Crowley's words sunk in.
"Broken?" said Aziraphale, the word dripping with disbelief. He looked at the 1926 black Bentley, every bit of it gleaming like new. In all the time Aziraphale had known him, Crowley had cherished the Bentley like it was his firstborn. There was no way anything in his precious car would be broken.
"Yes," Crowley said defensively. "It'll eat up any tape you play."
"And you thought that meant you needed to grab my wrist like that?" Aziraphale muttered crossly, still rubbing gingerly at his wrist.
"I said I was sorry!" Crowley snapped. He turned the wheel savagely, and Aziraphale yelped in alarm before he realized that Crowley was pulling over. Crowley parked and then whipped off his sunglasses, amber eyes looking almost yellow. "Let me have a look."
Hesitating a moment, Aziraphale extended his hand. Crowley's fingers were surprisingly gentle as he examined Aziraphale's wrist, but even the lightest touch made Aziraphale wince. "Can you move your fingers?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale wiggled them obediently.
Some of the tension around Crowley's eyes eased. "Not broken then, just a bit bruised," he announced. "We'll get you some ice when we get in to Sandford."
"You don't have any Paramol or anything?" Aziraphale asked, and sighed when Crowley shook his head. "I remember you always had some painkillers when we were cadets." And various other contraband, he didn't add, because that would most assuredly be taken the wrong way.
"And I remember you--" Crowley said, and then stopped. Before Aziraphale could try to decipher his expression or tone, Crowley looked away. "We should get going."
"And you remember me what?" Aziraphale asked curiously.
Crowley grimaced. For a moment, Aziraphale thought he wasn't going to answer, but then Crowley slid his sunglasses on and cleared his throat. "I remember you trusting me," he said, very low. A bitter laugh filled the air. "Funny how that changed the first time we met as constables."
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably at that. "I was only doing my job," he said. "You'd been accused of corruption. What was I supposed to think?"
"I'd just been hanging around with the wrong people!" Crowley protested. It was the same line he'd given during the corruption investigation, one that had earned him some raised eyebrows and rather disbelieving looks. "Besides, I was doing covert work-- you have to get your hands a little dirty, undercover."
Aziraphale stared at him. "Be glad you didn't say that during the investigation," he said slowly. "Otherwise you'd have been let go, rather than given a black mark."
(He wasn't about to admit that the higher ups had wanted to make Crowley redundant anyway, just on the principle that Crowley was constantly stirring up trouble and asking embarrassing questions; only Crowley's relative innocence and Aziraphale's pointed reminder that Crowley had caught an impressive number of criminals during his time in SCD10 had kept Crowley in the service at all.)
"Can we drop this?" Crowley started the Bentley and pulled it back onto the highway. "Well, unless you want to apologize. That'd be fine."
"Apologize? I have nothing to apologize for!"
Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's eyes, but he was fairly certain Crowley had rolled them. "Of course you don't. You were on the side of law and order and justice and all that lovely stuff," Crowley drawled. "Never mind that you were so keen to tar and feather me along with the others--"
"There was a corroborating witness saying you took bribe money," Aziraphale said stiffly.
"A corroborating witness who was lying through his teeth," Crowley said. "Or just blessed blind."
"I couldn't know that at first!" Aziraphale protested even as guilt for doubting Crowley twisted his stomach into knots. He faltered, feeling heat warm his cheeks. "Besides, I--I followed through on that. The witness withdrew his statement, didn't he? Didn't stick to the same story. That's why you're still in the service."
"You figured out the witness was lying," Crowley said. Once again, Aziraphale couldn't guess at his tone.
"Yes," Aziraphale said, certain his face was flushed. Even his ears felt hot. "After that, it was easy to prove your innocence." Easier than convincing the chief inspector to keep Crowley on, anyway.
Crowley didn't say anything more, and Aziraphale, hyper-aware of all the awkward years between them, kept his silence. Instead, he looked out the window and watched the world go by.
After the unfortunate incident with the landmine, the Sandford Police Department had set up temporarily in what had been the library. It still was, but seeing as how Amanda Paver had been a member of the NWA, the village was currently without a librarian.
Aziraphale was briefly distracted from his wrist by the pain that lanced through him at the disarray the library was now in, even in the entrance room. "Oh," he said, a little sick, as his gaze moved over the mess. Books were on the floor, piled awkwardly in corners of the room to make room for the towering piles of paperwork, and-- and someone was using a book as a coaster for their still-steaming cup of tea.
He made a little pained noise in the back of his throat and started over to the cup, picking it up and looking frantically around for an actual coaster. There wasn't one, so he stood there awkwardly, ignoring Crowley's smirk.
"Anyone here?" Crowley called.
They both jumped as a man popped his head around one of the paperwork piles and squinted suspiciously at them both. "Yeah?" he said, tone belligerent. Then he took in Aziraphale holding the tea, and brightened a little. "Ta. I was wondering where that'd gone to," he said, taking it from Aziraphale's grip. "Who're you, then?"
Aziraphale made their introductions absently. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the cup. Was the man going to put it down on another book?
But no, the man kept it in his hands, sipping at the drink and nodding. "Sergeant Angel said to expect you. He's back there, second door on your left." The man waved his cup toward one of the doors leading away from the entrance.
"Thank you," Crowley said, and then took Aziraphale by the elbow. "C'mon. We're here to help Angel with his investigation, not rescue the books," he muttered, mouth warm against Aziraphale's ear.
"But--" Aziraphale protested, trying to look over his shoulder to see what the man was doing with his tea, but Crowley squeezed his elbow and he subsided. "All those poor books," he said mournfully.
Angel was much as Aziraphale remembered him, although with perhaps more strain around his tense mouth and eyes. His makeshift office was at least in better shape than the entrance, with neat piles of papers that didn't look ready to fall at the slightest notice. He didn't quite smile, but offered a polite hand to them both, frowning a little as Aziraphale winced.
"Hurt my wrist," Aziraphale said, not looking at Crowley. Already the red marks were shifting to dark bruises on his wrist, bruises which would soon be obviously someone's fingers. He pushed his sleeve down to hide the marks.
"I'm Inspector Crowley, and this is Sergeant Aziraphale," Crowley said. "We've read the reports--" Aziraphale couldn't help but flick a quick, surprised glance at Crowley at that, because Crowley never read reports. "--but do you have anything you want to add?"
Angel shook his head. "No, except to reiterate, politely, that I really don't see the need for you two here. No offense to you both, but we've got things well in hand. I feel certain that we've arrested all the culprits. Right now, we're just dealing with the aftermath." A bleak note entered his voice at the last, and some of the fatigue deepened in his gaze.
"No offense taken," Crowley said. He was still wearing his sunglasses, so it was impossible to tell if he was being sincere. Judging by the set of his shoulders, though, Aziraphale rather thought he was amused. "We'll do our best not to bother you with the chief inspector's agenda."
"Crowley," Aziraphale hissed.
"What? Not like the sergeant here is going to report me to the chief inspector," said Crowley, unperturbed. "From what I hear, Sergeant Angel pretty much told the chief inspector to put his tail between his legs and go back to London." He tilted his head in Aziraphale's direction. "Let me guess, you're also here to convince Sergeant Angel to return to the Met?"
"There's something called respect for rank, Crowley, and I really wish you'd remember it," Aziraphale said. He ignored the question, uncomfortably aware that that much was true; the chief inspector had asked him to coax Angel into taking his rightful place back in London. "The chief inspector has earned--"
"Right, right," Crowley said, waving a hand in Aziraphale's face. "You can save the whole speech about how wonderful the chief inspector is. I've heard it."
Aziraphale flushed, all too aware of Angel's carefully blank expression as he watched them argue. "If that's the case, then let's try and be professional and do what we were sent here to do, please," he said through gritted teeth. Why had he liked Crowley when they were cadets? He cleared his throat and turned back to Angel. "We will do our best not to disturb your department. We'll have to conduct the interviews with your officers, of course, but we'll try not to be a burden and perform them as quickly as possible."
"Interviews with my officers?" Angel echoed, genuine surprise on his face. "Why would you--" He stopped, mouth compressing into a thin, hard line. "I told the chief inspector that only Inspector Butterman was involved in the NWA. All of the other officers are innocent."
Aziraphale tried for a conciliatory tone. "We understand you made that point to the chief inspector, but--"
"He thought it was a load of shite," Crowley said. He shrugged at Angel's frown. "Twenty years of murders, and you're the first one in the service to notice what was going on?"
"No," Angel said quietly. "Sergeant Popwell, my predecessor, noticed. But the NWA murdered him before he could voice his concerns to London."
Both Crowley and Aziraphale paused at that. Popwell's death had been in the report, of course, but it hadn't really sunk in, the murder of their fellow officer, until Angel had spoken in that flat, resigned voice.
"Besides," Angel continued, "all of the current officers, excepting PC Walker, were trained under Inspector Butterman. They grew up knowing him as the head of the local police. How could they even begin to suspect him and the local Neighborhood Watch Alliance of being a gang of murderers?"
Aziraphale cleared his throat once more. "Nevertheless, we were given orders," he said, and pointedly ignored Crowley's muttered, "As stupid as they are."
"I understand," Angel said. From the resigned note in his voice, Aziraphale thought he actually did. "Is that all?" He glanced at the clock, and his forehead creased. "I have somewhere to be."
"Yes," Aziraphale said. There was no point in trying to persuade Angel to return to London, not when Crowley had already made their intention obvious and especially not when Angel radiated this level of protectiveness for his officers. They were his department, his men and woman, not Inspector Butterman's; Angel would not leave now. "If you'd point us in the direction of the inn, we'll put our things away and take a look around the town. We can start the interviews tomorrow." And in the meantime Aziraphale could take some painkillers and put some ice on his wrist.
Angel nodded. "Once you leave the library, turn left. The inn's two blocks over on your right. Can't miss it." He was already gathering his things as he spoke, words brisk. "If you want a guide, I'm certain PC Thatcher would be happy to help."
Aziraphale and Crowley followed him out.
"Sergeant Turner, I'm taking my lunch," Angel said to the man at the entrance.
"Right. One thing before you go, Sergeant," the man said even as Aziraphale squinted at him. His hair seemed different than it had five minutes ago. "Staker called. His swans are missing."
"Again?" Angel said without much surprise. Then he frowned. "Wait, all of his swans? Did he say how long ago they disappeared?"
"Dunno," Turner grumbled. He cast a baleful look at Aziraphale and Crowley. "Nobody tells me nothin'."
Angel sighed. "Send PC Walker to speak with him."
"Yessir." Turner slouched in his seat. Aziraphale could feel the glare against his back as he left the library.
"If you need anything, contact Sergeant Turner. I'll have my mobile turned off for the next two hours or so, so you won't be able to reach me," Angel said.
Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look-- Aziraphale's puzzled, Crowley's intrigued. What sort of lunch involved turning off your mobile?
Angel's expression tightened. "Then have Turner contact me. He'll know how," he said stiffly, and stalked off before Aziraphale could press him for an explanation.
Crowley shook his head. "Are you getting the feeling that Sergeant Angel doesn't like us much?" His expression was one of astonishment, as though he had no clue why the sergeant would dislike them. It was not one of Crowley's better attempts at innocence.
Aziraphale folded his arms gingerly against his chest and frowned, watching Angel's car pull away from the curb.
II.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
The interviews started out badly, and only got worse.
First up was PC Thatcher, the only female police officer in Sandford. She also seemed to have something wrong with her eyes, because they kept batting at Aziraphale during odd moments.
"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked in concern after his third question provoked a bout of fluttering eyelashes.
"All right, love?" Thatcher leaned across the desk and beamed at him. "I'm more than all right, with you two gentlemen around. Are you sure you'll be headin' back to London, once the investigation's through? Be nice to have a bit more manflesh around the office." She chortled.
"Uh," said Aziraphale, and looked over at Crowley. Had that been a joke? Crowley seemed to be amused by it, at least judging by the upward slant to his mouth. "We're still assigned to London, so--"
"Send us a few more like Sergeant Angel then," Thatcher said. She leaned even further forward, until they were nearly eye to eye. Her breath smelled, oddly enough, like licorice and apples. Then she winked and said in a conspiratorial tone, "You agree with me, eh?"
"Sergeant Angel is an exceptional officer, I agree," Aziraphale said.
Thatcher snorted. "No, love, I'm talking about his arse," she said, slowly, like she was beginning to think he was stupid or blind or maybe both.
Heat rushed to his face even as next to him, Crowley began to smirk. "I-- I don't think that's an appropriate topic for this interview," Aziraphale stammered. "Besides which, Sergeant Angel's...rear...has nothing to do with his skills as a police officer."
"Sure it does," Thatcher said, looking a little surprised. "An arse like that means he's in shape, don't it? Probably works out like mad." She hummed a little under her breath. "Lord, I'd like him to work me out."
Aziraphale's face felt like it was on fire. "I think that's enough questions," he said, hearing his voice waver and almost squeak. "Thank you for your time." He ignored the quiet sniggering coming from his left.
Next up was Sergeant Fisher, who was sullen and uncooperative, answering in scathing monosyllables and glaring at them. It was a long, grueling interview as both Crowley and Aziraphale tried to coax more than yes or no or maybe from the man.
The only time Fisher's reticence eased was at the end of the interview, when Aziraphale complimented him on his work during the siege of the supermarket. Then he puffed up and beamed like Aziraphale had given him a gold star.
"You two aren't half bad," he said, clapping Crowley on the shoulder as he left.
"We should have complimented him at the start of the interview," Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale sighed.
After that was "the Andies." Both DS Wainwright and DC Cartwright had insisted on a joint interview; with grave misgivings, Aziraphale had agreed, if only to get this whole ordeal over with quicker.
Cartwright interrupted him halfway through his first question. "Are all you London sergeants bloody queens then?" he demanded. "Sergeant Arse-wipe and Sergeant Arse-Bandit."
Aziraphale paused mid-word and stared. "Excuse me?"
"Queens," Wainwright echoed, and giggled. "Maybe that's how they pass their exams, Andy. Take a final one on being gayer than a tree full of monkeys."
"I--" Aziraphale began, and then closed his mouth on what he'd been about to say. His head pounded a little; he resisted the urge to rub the tension away. "My sexuality is not up for discussion. We're here to talk about twenty years worth of murders and how you managed not to notice the incredibly high murder rate in your village." The words came out low and sharp.
This time, Crowley leaned forward and smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile, too full of teeth to be pleasant. "I wouldn't press your luck," he advised them. "Sergeant Aziraphale here might look like an angel, but you won't like him when he loses his temper."
"Ooh, I'm scared," Wainwright said scornfully, echoed by Cartwright's equally sarcastic, "Scared."
Aziraphale stood. "You might not be scared of me," Aziraphale said quietly, "but you should at least respect my power. I report directly to the chief inspector. Do you think he'd hesitate a second over taking your badges if I told him you weren't cooperating? This is a murder investigation. What part of this aren't you two taking seriously?"
Cartwright and Wainwright's eyes narrowed. After a moment, they both snorted and leaned back in their chairs.
"Can't take a fucking joke," Wainwright said, and Cartwright nodded even as he tossed a coin into the nearby swear jar.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, aware of Crowley's lingering gaze even through the sunglasses. "Now, as I was saying," he said, and began his list of questions once more.
"Dunnonofin," PC Walker muttered.
Aziraphale exchanged a bewildered look with Crowley. Had that been English?
"Could you repeat that?" Aziraphale asked. He shuffled through his papers, but there was no note on Walker having a speech impediment of any sort.
"Dunno--" Walker began, and then stopped at the sound of raised voices outside the makeshift interview room (formerly the book sorting room). "Whasat?"
Crowley got up and opened the door in time for a woman to yell, in a tone of voice that suggested stomping her feet and pitching a fit wasn't far behind, "Isn't anyone going to find Evangeline?"
Sergeant Turner sounded a little weary. "We'll do our best, ma'am. But first I need to know when you last saw her."
"Over by Staker's pond. She does so love frogs and grubs."
Aziraphale and Crowley stared at each other again. Grubs? Crowley mouthed, and Aziraphale shrugged.
"Right, by Staker's pond. I assure you we'll look into it, ma'am."
"Look into it? Like you're looking into Staker's missing swans, I suppose?" The woman huffed. "No sign of his swans at all. It isn't normal, I tell you. At least one should have caused a problem by now!"
"That's true," someone else-- it sounded like Fisher-- agreed. "One of his swans should've bitten somebody by now." He chuckled. "Remember the time one bit Old Man Parker's--"
"That is precisely what I am saying! Someone's obviously stolen them away, and now the thief has stolen my darling Evangeline!"
"We'll get right on that, ma'am," Turner assured her. Judging by the woman's disdainful sniff, she didn't believe one word.
Aziraphale listened to her retreating footsteps. Silence fell after the slam of a door, and then Fisher snorted. "First swans, now a badger. Seems to me someone doesn't like wildlife."
"Ha!" said Turner. "If the badger was smart, it probably ran away from her." The two men laughed, the sound cut off halfway as Crowley closed the door.
Aziraphale turned back to Walker, looked at his blank expression with something like despair. He thought about the rest of this interview, and how he and Crowley would have to decipher this man's garble into something resembling English. His head pounded. "You know what?" he said. "I think we'll finish this interview tomorrow, PC Walker, if you don't mind."
"No," Walker said with a shrug. Well, at least that much had been understandable.
Once Walker had shuffled out of the room, Aziraphale rested his head in his hands. "I need a drink," he said, voice muffled. He thought Crowley laughed, but didn't look up to confirm his suspicions.
Crowley's hand rested briefly on Aziraphale's shoulder, then pulled away before Aziraphale could so much as twitch in surprise. "Come on. You might as well be drinking piss at the inn. I've got something better in my room."
"I dislike everyone here," Aziraphale confessed after the third drink. The scotch Crowley'd pulled from his desk had gone straight to Aziraphale's head, as scotch always did. Truth spilled out of him every time he opened his mouth. "Everyone." He paused, frowning. "Well, perhaps not Sergeant Angel. But even he's acting suspicious. Taking two hour long lunches with his mobile phone turned off, during an investigation! What's going on there?"
Crowley shrugged. "Probably got a girlfriend," he said from where he lounged on his bed.
Aziraphale took another sip, feeling the burn in his throat as he swallowed. "And why does everyone think I'm homosexual? Thatcher, the Andies, probably Walker, though you'd never know by the way he mumbles."
"Aziraphale, everyone who's ever met you thinks you're gay," Crowley said matter-of-factly. He grinned a little. "Even people who've only met you enough to say hello to."
"But--" Aziraphale frowned and shrugged, giving into the inevitable. Besides, he supposed he was, when you came right down to it. Not that he was ever really interested in that sort of thing-- books and his work were more engaging by far-- but the few flickers of actual interest had always been directed at men. "It's that obvious?"
"Oh, yes," Crowley said. He'd actually taken off his sunglasses after his second drink, leaving his expression unguarded. Aziraphale could see the amusement gleaming in his amber gaze, the surprising softness in the quirk of his lips.
"I'm not seeing any signs of corruption, myself," Aziraphale said, quickly steering away from the topic even as his face warmed. His fingers, as he gripped his drink, trembled a little. "Truthfully, this group seems easy enough to manipulate. I can see them agreeing to every excuse Butterman gave them without so much as a flicker of doubt."
"I think you're right," Crowley said after a moment's pause. He nodded, and then added, "There's no way Angel will come back to London, you know."
"I do," Aziraphale said. He was not looking forward to making his excuses to the chief inspector. Then he laughed a little. "Besides, he's needed here. Can you imagine someone like Fisher or Walker or, Lord, one of the Andies, in charge of the department?"
Crowley grimaced. "Let's not even think about that."
Aziraphale tapped a finger against his glass, thinking. "So, tomorrow we'll finish the interview with PC Walker, then the sergeants Turner. Angel's already been interviewed personally by the chief inspector, so I don't think we need to do that again."
"And we'll have to interview Danny Butterman. The hospital says we can question him, if we don't press too hard."
"Oh yes," Aziraphale said. He'd almost forgotten about Danny Butterman, tucked away in the hospital recovering from the shooting. They'd have to interview him, as the son of the man responsible for the whole horrible thing. He frowned. "Do you think he knew what his father was doing?"
"I have no idea," Crowley said with a shrug. "But Angel seems certain of his innocence."
"Very," said Aziraphale, a little dryly. A good deal of Angel's original report had been spent on declaring that Danny Butterman had had no idea of his father's murderous intentions, and had, in fact, proved himself an excellent and devoted officer during the apprehending of the various NWA members.
"Weird about those swans and that-- what was it again?"
"Badger," Aziraphale supplied, and almost laughed. A badger named Evangeline. Sandford was such an odd place.
"Weird about those swans and the badger going missing." Crowley brooded over it for a moment, and then shrugged. "Nothing to do with us, though."
"I suppose not," Aziraphale agreed. "Besides, unless Angel asks us for our assistance, we should focus on our investigation."
"Even though it's bollocks," Crowley said pleasantly.
"Yes, even though it's--" What Crowley had actually said sunk in, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "It's not bollocks, Crowley. We're doing our jobs."
Crowley didn't argue, but he didn't agree either. Aziraphale decided not to press it.
Instead he held out his half-full glass and said, "To tomorrow. May those interviews be less frustrating than the others."
Crowley snorted, but a second later, his glass clinked lightly against Aziraphale's.
Surprisingly enough, the next few interviews did go more smoothly. Aziraphale didn't know if Angel had spoken to everyone about behaving, but both Sergeant Turners answered their questions without (much) hostility.
Walker's responses were still untranslatable, but Aziraphale wasn't much bothered. There'd been no sign of corruption among any of the officers, and he highly doubted Walker would be the exception to the rule.
Now the only interview left was Constable Butterman, the only one towards whom Aziraphale felt the slightest suspicion. After all, Frank Butterman was his father. He had to have known or at least suspected what was going on! (Aziraphale, admittedly, did not know much about families. His parents had died in an accident when he was young, and he had lived in various well-meaning foster homes until he'd been old enough to become a police cadet, but still.)
Aziraphale had always rather enjoyed hospitals, in his heart of hearts. They were places of healing. The nurses and doctors always walked with purpose, like they knew their places in the world and were well-satisfied with them.
Crowley, judging by his scowl, didn't share his enthusiasm. "Let's get this over with," he muttered, casting a baleful look at a nurse in a lovely duck-adorned smock.
"Miss? We're looking for Constable Butterman's room," Aziraphale said, catching the nurse's eye and offering her a polite smile.
She smiled back. "You'll be the two officers? Danny's in Room 128." Before Aziraphale could thank her, she put her hands on her hips and looked stern. "Now, try not to get him over-stimulated with your questions. He was so excited when he heard more officers were coming in from London, but he's still recovering from surgery and needs to rest."
"We'll do our best," Aziraphale assured her.
Constable Butterman started grinning as soon as they entered his room. His entire face, while still haggard from his injuries, fairly glowed with delight. "You two must be the policemen from London!" His low, hoarse announcement was filled with excitement.
"Police officers," Aziraphale corrected automatically.
Butterman laughed. "Cor, are you friends with Angel?"
Aziraphale frowned, wondering what had brought that on. "No, just colleagues."
"Oooh, tell me about London!" Butterman started to struggle upright, and then went pale and subsided against his pillows. "What part of the forc-- the service are you two in? Something interesting, I bet, or else they wouldn't have sent you. Have you both fired your weapons? In the line of duty, I mean, not at a firing range, course you've fired--"
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Perhaps we can answer your questions after the interview?" he suggested.
"Right, right," said Butterman, unabashed. His curious gaze flickered between them. "Still, which one's Azerfel and which one's Crowley?"
"Aziraphale," Aziraphale corrected after his initial wince. Really, was his name that difficult?
"Funny name," Butterman said.
"Funnier than Butterman?" Crowley was heard to mutter, but when Aziraphale glanced at him, his expression was innocent. "I'm Crowley. He's Aziraphale."
"Course," Butterman said with a nod. "Should have known, really, from the way Doris described Sergeant Azira--"
"Anyway," Aziraphale interjected hastily before Crowley could start smirking, "Constable Butterman, we were--"
"Danny," Butterman said. "None of that Constable or Butterman stuff, please. Everyone calls me Danny."
Aziraphale managed a smile. "Danny, we have just a couple questions for you."
"All right," Danny said cheerfully.
The questions went slowly-- not because Danny wasn't willing to answer them. Danny was too willing to answer them, and prone to rambling non sequiturs or anecdotes about living in Sandford. Still, every answer was imbued with a cheerful sort of honesty; Aziraphale was quickly seeing why Angel had argued so fiercely about Danny's innocence. Danny was the sort to take things at face value-- if his father had told him he was simply encouraging people to leave town, Danny would have nodded and thought nothing of it.
"And then Doris says to me, she says, 'Danny, love, you're in--'." Danny stopped mid-sentence as someone knocked on the door. "Come in!" he called before Aziraphale could move to the door and tell the nurse or doctor to give them a few more minutes.
"Danny, I brought-- oh." Angel's face emptied of all expression as he stared at Crowley and Aziraphale. His grip tightened on the DVD case he'd brought along. After a second, he cleared his throat and smiled awkwardly. "I didn't realize you were having the interview now."
"Nicholas!" Aziraphale had thought Danny was excited to see them, but that delight was nothing compared to the look on his face as he beamed at Angel. "Didn't realize it was already lunchtime. What'd you bring?"
Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a look. Two-hour lunches indeed. A few things clicked in Aziraphale's head, and he had to fight an amused smile. And that certainly explained the Andies' comments as well.
Angel shrugged, stepping closer to the bed and showing off the DVD. "The nurses said you shouldn't get too excited, so I thought we could just watch some audio commentary for Point Break. When you're finished with your interview, of course. I wouldn't want to interrupt."
"We're almost finished," Aziraphale said. "Danny, when exactly did you realize what your father was up to?"
Danny's expression clouded. Aziraphale felt almost badly about dredging up uncomfortable memories, but he had a job to do. Danny licked his lips. "Only when the NWA tried to kill Nicholas, and Nicholas told me what was going on. Like I said before, Dad always told me he was running troublemakers off, telling them to go to Buford Alley, that sort of thing."
"And you believed him?" Crowley asked.
"Course I did!" Danny snapped, angry for the first time. "He's my dad, isn't he? You believe your dad when he tells you things. You--" Danny stopped, closed his eyes. What little color had been in his face was now gone. He was as pale as the bedsheets. His hands, where they rested on the bed, shook. "Sorry," he said after a moment, voice thick. "Just-- don't like thinking about it. My dad, a murderer."
Angel rested his hand on Danny's head, ruffling the hair there for a moment. "We know," he said, voice gentle.
Aziraphale couldn't help but stare. This was not the Nicholas Angel he'd met during Operation Crackdown. This man had a softness to his voice, an empathy in his gaze, that Aziraphale had never seen. Feeling rather like he was disturbing a private moment, he looked towards Crowley.
And found himself startled once more. He'd seen countless emotions on Crowley's face, mostly half-hidden by his sunglasses, but this expression Aziraphale couldn't read at all. There was tension, there, though, in the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders.
"I think that's enough," Crowley said. "Thank you for your time."
Aziraphale blinked at him. They still had a few questions to ask-- but Crowley was already telling Angel they'd see him back at the library.
"Will you come back and tell me a bit about London, before you leave?" Danny asked. He looked young, with that earnest, hopeful look. Color was slowly returning to his face. One hand had come to rest against Angel's hip, where it pressed against the bed.
Aziraphale wondered if either of them noticed the gesture. "Certainly, my dear," Aziraphale said, offering him a warm smile. "Although some of it is classified, I'm afraid."
"Ooer!" Danny said, eyes going wide. He gawked at Crowley. "Did you do some covert stuff, then? That's bloody amazing, I bet you did!"
Crowley began to smirk.
"Like I said, another time," Aziraphale said, and then looked up at the sound of the door opening without so much as a knock. The woman who entered was neither a nurse nor a doctor, instead wearing a plain blue dress and determined expression. She looked familiar, though Aziraphale couldn't quite place her. "Excuse me," he said stiffly, hiding his puzzlement. "Can we help you?"
Behind him, Danny made a strangled sound. "Mum?" he whispered.
Aziraphale frowned. Irene Butterman was dead. That had been the catalyst for all this, by Frank Butterman's own admission. Still, as he looked at her, he recognized Danny's features, Danny's eyes.
"Ma'am," he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "We were told you--" His hand went through her shoulder, her entire body flickering in and out. He leapt back with a startled cry, his entire hand gone pins and needles.
Irene Butterman looked past him as though he didn't exist, her eyes steady on her son. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. After a moment, she shook her head in frustration and extended her hands, mouthing something. This time Aziraphale could read her lips.
Danny, Danny, Danny.
"Mum," Danny said, and then groaned in agony, followed by Angel's sharp, "Danny! You'll tear your stitches!"
Danny, Irene Butterman repeated, expression urgent. Then she vanished, like a flame snuffed out.
When Aziraphale turned, numb hand dropping limply to his side, Danny was curled into a ball, his expression white and sweat pouring down his face. Angel hovered next to him, one hand on the flat of Danny's back, the other pressed against Danny's shoulder.
"We need a nurse," Angel snapped, then bellowed towards the open door. "Nurse!"
The nurse in the duck smock raced in, took one look at Danny, sweating and shaking on the bed, and snarled, "Everyone, out!" When Angel started to protest, she leveled him with a glare that would have made even the chief inspector flinch. "Including you, Sergeant."
They all filed out. The nurse all but slammed the door shut behind them.
"Ghosts," Crowley said after a moment. There was a breathless quality to his voice, like he was about to laugh. He shook his head. "I take it, Angel, that wasn't normal?"
"No," Angel said. His gaze was fixed upon the door. "Something very odd is going on."
III.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
-Edward Young
Crowley, it seemed, was prone to hysterics after he experienced the supernatural.
Hysterics being laughing under his breath and muttering, "Ghosts are real. Ghosts!" three or four times before looking at Aziraphale and saying wryly, "Wonder how we're going to put this in the report."
"We aren't," Aziraphale stated. Truth was all well and good, but the chief inspector would take one look at their report and make them both redundant, just on principle. He looked at Angel. "I don't know what is going on, but we'll help you any way we can."
"We?" Crowley said, faintly disbelieving. "What makes you think I'm going to stick around and deal with ghosts? I'm taking the Bentley and going straight back to London."
Aziraphale ignored him.
Angel frowned, finally tearing his gaze away from Room 128. "Would you go back to the library? Check with one of the Turners, see if anyone else has reported seeing ghosts."
"Of course," Aziraphale said. He took Crowley by the arm with his good hand and tugged him towards the exit.
"Why are we staying to investigate ghosts?" Crowley demanded. "That's not part of our job! Our job was to investigate possible corruption, not possible hauntings!"
"Our job," Aziraphale said in the same pleasant tone Crowley had used last night, "is bollocks, remember? This isn't. This is helping Sergeant Angel and the rest of the Sandford officers."
Crowley shook his head. Then he frowned. "What's wrong with your hand?"
"Oh," Aziraphale said, looking down at the hand he'd used to touch-- or at least try to touch-- Irene Butterman. It was the same hand that Crowley had grabbed in the Bentley, he realized. The pins and needles feeling still lingered, his fingers curled like talons and sluggish to respond when he tried to move them. "It went numb when I tried to touch the ghost. Still is." He shook his hand, wincing as the pins and needles spiked into a dull, deep ache that spread up his arm.
"Here," Crowley said, taking the hand in his. His hands were cool and cautious, slowly unfurling Aziraphale's fingers and rubbing away the pins and needles.
Gradually the ache eased, and Aziraphale clenched and unclenched his hand without pain. "Thank you."
"Forget it," Crowley muttered, dropping his hand and walking out the exit.
After a startled second -- why did Crowley always fidget and dash when someone tried to show some gratitude? -- Aziraphale followed after, blinking and squinting against the bright sunlight.
Fisher hailed them as soon as they came into the library. "Oi! What do you two know about the ghosts running about?" he demanded. "I've gotten five calls in the past hour, all of them claiming they've seen a dead bloke!"
"My cousin's boyfriend's brother's niece saw the ghost of Leslie Tilman in her garden shop," Thatcher said. "With the clippers stickin' out o' her neck and everything!" she added with a relish Aziraphale thought inappropriate.
Wainright stuck his head out of one of the back rooms. "Everyone's sayin' Sandford's haunted," he reported.
Cartwright's giggle reached Aziraphale's ears. "Filled with ghouls an' ghosties. My ma saw Ben Fletcher wanderin' around Staker's pond, with that pitchfork stickin' out o' his gut."
"Do we know when the ghosts first started appearing?" Aziraphale asked.
"Past half hour," Fisher said slowly. "Like I told you. Nobody was saying nothing about ghosts before then."
"Stories spread quick in a village," one of the Turners said. "It'll have started a half-hour ago, no more than that, else we would have heard about it."
'Like you all heard about the NWA murdering a good percentage of the village?' Aziraphale didn't say. "All right, I think we should go out and interview the people who saw the ghosts, get their statements."
"Funny thing, that," Wainwright said. "Leslie Tilman died in her garden shop, but Ben Fletcher died in his barn. What's his ghost doin' at Staker's pond?"
"Good question," Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale hesitated, debating privacy issues, and then asked, "Where did Irene Butterman die?"
"Her Datsun went into the Sandford Gorge," Fisher said promptly. He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"We...saw her at the hospital. In Danny's room."
A silence fell over the room. Even the Andies look subdued.
"Is Danny all right?" Thatcher asked.
"Sergeant Angel's with him now."
Thatcher tsked and shook her head. "He must be shook up."
"Get a statement from everyone who saw a ghost," Crowley said. "We need to see if the majority are like Leslie Tilman and sticking to where they were murdered, or wandering around like Irene Butterman or Ben Fletcher."
As though on cue, a phone rang. One of the Turners made a face and went to answer it. "Let me guess, you've seen a ghost," he said into the receiver. "Right. Tim Messenger at the church. We're investigatin'. No, ma'am, so far there's no sign of the ghosts being dangerous."
"But don't try to touch them," Aziraphale said.
Wainright snorted. "Who'd be enough of a silly bugger to try an' touch a ghost?"
Aziraphale felt his face warm. "Irene Butterman didn't look like a ghost, not at first. Then she started...well, flickering," he said, hearing the defensive note in his voice too late.
Thatcher eyed him while the others smirked or shot him intrigued looks. "What did she feel like, then?"
"Nothing," Aziraphale said with a shrug. "But my hand was numb for minutes after."
"Right, ma'am, just don't try and touch any ghosts you see," Turner said. He paused. "No, ma'am, I don't think you're daft enough to try and touch a ghost. Just a, er, standard warning. Yes, ma'am, we'll see what we can do."
"Anyone have a map of Sandford?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale tried not to scowl.
"There's probably an atlas somewhere," Fisher said, gesturing around the room.
A half-hour later, atlas found and thumbtacks procured, everyone gathered around the map and watched Crowley mark the places where ghosts had been seen. There were now fifteen confirmed sightings. "Red for if they're in the spots where they died," he explained. "Blue for if they're not where they're supposed to be. And green if they're spotted in a place where they might've been murdered but no one but the NWA knows for certain."
Everyone studied the map for a moment.
Walker mumbled something that sounded like a question.
"What, that most of the blue sightings are right around Staker's pond? Yeah, I think everyone noticed that," Fisher said, frowning. "Hey, isn't that where the swans and badger disappeared?"
Most of the group nodded.
"Once Sergeant Angel arrives, I'm going to suggest we set up a 24-hour watch on the pond," Aziraphale said. "I have no idea how the disappearance of a few animals is tied in with ghosts appearing all over your village, but it's hardly a coincidence."
"I'm not watching the pond at night," Fisher said immediately.
"Andy and I sure as fuck aren't," Cartwright said, and added, "Thanks," as Wainwright threw a coin into the swear jar.
"Nomenowayinhell," Walker stated.
Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley and I will."
"Right, go ahead, volunteer me as well," Crowley muttered, not quite under his breath. "I'd love to watch a ghost-infested lake in the middle of the night."
"It's a pond, actually," Thatcher corrected. "Not big enough to be a lake."
"Let's get going then," Angel announced, and several of the officers jumped and turned to goggle at him as he stood in the doorway, looking a little tired. "We'll put everyone on four hour shifts, starting now. Fisher, you and Walker do the first shift, from four to eight. Doris, you and I'll be on from eight to midnight. Aziraphale, Crowley, you'll be midnight to four, so go back your rooms and try to get some sleep. Andies, you'll be four to eight. Turners, you'll be eight to noon. We'll figure out the rest of tomorrow's schedule in the morning."
"Yessir," Fisher said.
Meanwhile, Thatcher looked decidedly pleased with her assignment. "See you at eight then. I'll go and interview Staker again, see if he saw anything odd before his swans disappeared."
"Good idea," Angel said, giving her an approving look. "See you tonight, Doris."
"I'll be lookin' forward to it," Thatcher muttered, quietly enough that only Aziraphale caught it.
"You do realize midnight is the witching hour, right?" Crowley asked as he pulled the Bentley up to the pond. His headlights briefly illuminated Thatcher's patrol car, from which she waved at them. "The hour of suicides and bad dreams? The--"
"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. "But I want to know what's going on."
"Well, I for one want to be far, far away from here. I'm not dealing with the witch that shows up at half-past, clutching a bloody knife and a book to summon ghosts," Crowley grumbled. "You can try to arrest her and get turned into a frog."
As Aziraphale bit back a smile, trying not to picture Crowley transformed into an amphibian, Angel opened Thatcher's door and stepped out onto the grass. It was a full moon, or nearly; Aziraphale could almost read Angel's expression in the moonlight as he approached them.
Crowley rolled down his window and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought I'd stay this shift as well," Angel said. Even the moonlight couldn't hide his obvious exhaustion, and the windless night only revealed the ragged edge to his words.
Crowley stared. "What? Why?"
Angel shrugged. "I want to give Danny an explanation as soon as possible."
"Right," Crowley said awkwardly. "Well, I don't know if you noticed, but the Bentley only holds two people."
"That's all right. I'll do the rounds around the pond," said Angel. Before either of them could say a word, he walked back over to Thatcher's patrol car.
"Well, if anyone's turning into a frog, it's him," Crowley said, watching Angel go.
Aziraphale laughed before he could stifle it. The soft, amused sound filled the car. "Crowley, no one's getting turned into a frog."
"That's what you think," Crowley said.
Aziraphale squinted as Thatcher's headlights temporarily blinded him. She waved as she drove by, presumably headed home. He waved back, too late-- she was already past, the noise of the rumbling engine quickly fading from his hearing.
Colored silver by moonlight, Angel made his way around the pond at a slow, steady pace.
Aziraphale shook his head and focused his gaze on the pond's shore and Angel's movements. "I wonder what happened to the swans," he said after a moment.
"Probably sacrificed," came Crowley's muttered answer.
"Crowley, why would anyone use swans as a sacrifice," Aziraphale began, and then frowned. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but ripples seemed to be spreading across the pond's surface, ripples from a nonexistent wind. "Do you see that?"
"See what?" Crowley asked, and then squinted towards the pond. "Yes. What the--"
At the edge of the pond, Angel had seen the movement too, and ran towards the Bentley.
The pond's surface began to bubble. Aziraphale watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as an enormous tentacle rose from the depths and seemed to test the air. Another moment, and more tentacles disturbed the pond. Finally a head, octopus-like, emerged. The starlight cast shadows on the creature's frame, revealed the large, wicked-looking teeth.
Not quite able to help himself, Aziraphale whispered:
"Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth."
"Well, he's not sleeping anymore," Crowley said, voice shaky. "What the hell is the kraken doing in Sandford's pond? How can it even fit?" A smaller disturbance was rippling the pond now, and Crowley groaned a little as a much smaller tentacle broke the surface. "Don't tell me it has a baby."
"No," Aziraphale said after a moment, squinting at the new creature. "No, it's...a squid?" Despite his shock, he frowned. "That can't be right. Why would--"
"Aziraphale, if you're going to say that a squid hanging out with the kraken is what tipped you over into disbelief, I'm going to hit you," Crowley said very slowly. He waved wildly at the pond. "That is definitely the kraken, and that is definitely a squid. Now, what the bloody hell are we to do about it?"
"There are no regulations about this," Angel said, leaning against the Bentley's hood and sounding only slightly breathless, "but I think we should try to make contact."
"Right, let's talk with the monster," Crowley drawled. "That's brilliant, that is."
"Perhaps we should," Aziraphale said. "Either it's the one causing the ghosts to appear, or it's also been awakened by the person summoning the ghosts. Maybe it can help us."
"Or it could eat us," Crowley said, but Angel was already walking towards the pond's edge. "You two are mad, you know that?"
"Probably," Aziraphale agreed, opening his door and following Angel. His heart pounded unsteadily in his ears. He had visions of those tentacles reaching out and snatching him up, those gleaming teeth closing around him.
Still, he bit his lip and went on. Like a prayer, he found himself whispering the oath of attestation. "I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved and prevent all offences against people and property; and that while I continue to hold the said office I will, to the best of my skill and knowledge, discharge all the duties thereof--"
"Faithfully according to law," Crowley concluded, with only a hint of irony. He matched Aziraphale's pace, having abandoned his sunglasses in the Bentley. He bared his teeth in what was probably meant as a grin; it looked sickly. "If the kraken eats me, I'm coming back as a ghost and haunting you."
"The feeling is mutual, my dear," Aziraphale said dryly.
"Hello?" Angel called. He stopped at the edge of the pond, staring up at the kraken. "Do you understand English?"
"No, he doesn't," another voice calmly answered from out of the shadows.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, trepidation clutching at his heart. He knew that accent. Knew it far too well, and somehow that voice speaking on behalf of the kraken did not surprise him at all.
"Who are you?" Angel demanded, startled and suspicious.
Crowley sighed. "He's Adam Young."
"Who the hell is Adam Young?" Angel asked, now sounding more puzzled than anything else.
"Please, call me Adam," Adam said, stepping out of the shadows. He smiled that familiar, exasperating grin and extended his hand. Angel hesitated, and then shook his hand.
"Adam is a vigilante," Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. Had Adam followed them to Sandford? The last he'd heard, Adam had been visiting his family in Lower Tadfield. Or was he somehow responsible for the kraken? Knowing Adam, anything was possible.
"A suspected vigilante, Sergeant," Adam corrected mildly. "All your evidence was insubstantial, remember?"
"I know what I believe," Aziraphale snapped. "Whenever you or one of your people come round one of my cases, impossible problems get solved, most likely by illegal means."
"Like Jerry McDonald," Crowley said, nodding. "Murdered three people, right? Gets off scot-free because someone messed up the warrant. But then McDonald suddenly has a heart-to-heart with his mum and makes a full confession to the police-- after Adam's paid him a visit."
Adam smiled but said nothing.
Angel glanced between Aziraphale and Crowley. "So why are you here?" he asked Adam. "Did you wake the kraken?"
"No, of course not," Adam said, affronted. "Why would I do that?" He looked up at the kraken, and something like sympathy darkened his expression. "Poor thing just wants to sleep. It was your ghosts screaming that woke him up."
"But why are the ghosts showing up now? We've finally apprehended the murderers!" Angel said.
Adam shrugged. "Ghosts don't actually care about justice. They just want to be heard." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Unfortunately, humans can't hear them, no matter how much the ghosts howl. So instead, they woke up the kraken."
"How do we get it back to sleep? And deal with the ghosts?" Crowley asked while Aziraphale scowled. He still didn't trust Adam, but he had to admit, his words had a ring of truth to them. That was the problem, really. Everything Adam said sounded logical, until you had a moment later on to think about it and realized no, it was actually the exact opposite.
"I'll handle that," Adam said. He tilted his head, looked at Aziraphale and Crowley thoughtfully. "You two can help, if you like." There was an odd note in his voice, almost tentative.
"Oh yes, we'll just sing the kraken to sleep," Crowley said sarcastically.
"No, I--" For the first time, Adam fumbled for words, frowning and looking his actual twenty-three years, young and a little self-conscious. "I could help you remember," he said at last. "If you wanted. They might not want you to, but I reckon you've been punished enough."
"Remember what?" Crowley asked at the same time Aziraphale echoed, "Punished?"
Adam licked his lips. "Remember what you both are."
"We're police officers," Aziraphale said, frowning.
"Not exactly," Adam said. "Well, you are, but that's not what I meant. That's not what you're meant to be, what you are, deep down. I-- how's your wrist?" The non sequitur was directed at Aziraphale, who blinked.
"My wrist? It's fine, I suppose, but--" Aziraphale stopped and then looked, really, truly looked at his arm. Where the black and green bruises of Crowley's fingers had been, there was unblemished flesh instead. Aziraphale's head swam. "What did you do?" he whispered, turning his hand palm up and staring at the smooth whiteness of his wrist. Bile rose in his throat, and his vision blurred.
"I didn't do anything. I guess the ghosts triggered a memory."
"A memory? How can a memory heal bruises?" Aziraphale asked, throat tight. He couldn't stop staring at his wrist.
"Well," Adam said, and cleared his throat. "Well, that's what angels do. Heal. Perform miracles."
That drew Aziraphale's disbelieving gaze away from his hand, but Adam's expression was earnest. Searching his face, Aziraphale couldn't detect a single hint of guile.
"You're saying we're angels," Crowley said flatly. Then, to Aziraphale's surprise, he began to laugh. It was ragged and harsh and hysterical, but there was also relief in the sound.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, and touched his shoulder.
Crowley flinched away from the touch, but at least he stopped that awful laughter. "I'm not mad then," he said.
"No," Adam agreed.
Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "My cassette player. I told you it was broken. It wasn't. After a few weeks, all my tapes turn into Best of Queen albums. I didn't-- I thought I was mad." He laughed again, this time the sound short and sharp.
"What's going on?" Angel asked.
Aziraphale jumped. He'd forgotten about the other man entirely.
"These two officers are...rather unusual," Adam explained. He smiled crookedly. "Course, I'm one to talk."
"So you're saying they're angels," Angel said, disbelieving.
"No. Aziraphale's an angel. Crowley's a demon."
The matter-of-fact words didn't sink in, and then they did, filling up Aziraphale's brain until he thought his head would burst. "I don't understand," he said, even though he did, a little. Adam wasn't normal. This situation wasn't normal. Was it any wonder he and Crowley weren't normal either?
Still, an angel and a demon. Aziraphale wanted to say it sounded impossible, but it didn't. His head ached, memories of his foster parents and his cadet days blurring and turning insubstantial, like a vapor trail of false memories that were being discarded by the wind. Instead, other memories began cluttering his head, over six thousand years worth, too many to handle all at once.
"Well, that went over like a lead balloon," a snake whispered with Crowley's voice--
"I didn't think it would be like this," Aziraphale said miserably, choking on the ashes of Sodom and Gomorrah and, while not doubting the ineffable plan, not liking it very much at the moment--
Crowley's expression went blank, but not with the attempted blank look of innocence he often wore. This look was one of actual bemusement. "Spain? An inquisition? Oh, er, of course I know all about that," he said airily, but Aziraphale knew he was lying--
"I'd just like to say," Aziraphale said, staring at the Adversary, "if we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."
"That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."--
"Easy," someone was muttering into his ear. Strong hands gripped his elbows, kept his legs from giving out from under him. He recognized Angel's voice. "Easy, Sergeant."
Aziraphale blinked, and realized he was half-bowed under the weight of all those memories. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes. He leaned into Angel's grip for a moment more, trying to quell the trembling of his legs. "What happened?" he whispered. "I-- I was a police officer. I remember Crowley as a cadet, bringing out the scotch to celebrate becoming constables. I remember sitting across from him in the interview room, certain he'd taken that bribe money--" His throat closed up on him again.
"Yes," Crowley said, in answer to a question Aziraphale hadn't voiced yet. "I did accept bribe money. Just not from the witness you questioned. Demon, you know." Aziraphale could see his weak smile, set in his ashen face, hear the attempt at bravado, but it fell short.
The Antichrist (retired) looked steadily at them both. "Heaven and Hell weren't too happy about your siding with me," he said. "Thought you were too keen on mortals, I guess. They figured a lifetime or two thinking you were mortal would cure that."
Crowley laughed a little hoarsely. "I'm almost impressed. That's imaginative, for Hell."
"I meddled a bit, let you two remember each other," Adam continued. He frowned and looked almost apologetic. "I would have stopped them doing it at all, or tried to. I probably should have. I just...I was twelve by then. I wanted to try and be normal. Human."
"But now you've changed your mind?" Aziraphale asked.
Adam nodded. His eyes unfocused briefly, like he was thinking hard on something (or tweaking reality to suit him, Aziraphale thought with a shiver), and then refocused on them both. He almost smiled. "There. You can go back to your old Arrangement now, if you want. Or just keep on pretending you still think you're mortal. I reckon Heaven and Hell won't figure it out for a century or two. You can enjoy yourselves."
"That sounds...." Crowley trailed off, and shook his head.
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, because he knew Crowley would choke on his gratitude. His head still hurt, but it was an easier thing to bear, now. The false memories were fading, fragmenting like dreams. He stepped away from Angel's grip, taking a deep breath as the ground seemed to spin beneath him. "Let's take care of the kraken, and the, er, squid."
"His pet," Adam explained helpfully. At their blank looks, he shrugged. "Racing horses have cats, right? The kraken has a squid."
"Right," Angel muttered.
Aziraphale straightened to his full height and looked at the kraken. Now he could see the distress in his large, dark luminous eyes, the agitation in his tentacles. "Poor dear, it's been a hard few days," he said softly. "Let's get you back to sleep, shall we?"
"Yes," Adam agreed, but it was no longer Adam's voice. Instead it was a power speaking through him, something older and wiser and far, far wearier. "Rest. Dream of...the world covered all over in water, with no humans to be seen."
The kraken made a low, rumbling sigh. His tentacles waved, this time as though in farewell, and then he sank beneath the pond's surface. The squid remained motionless for another moment, and then it too submerged.
Adam stared at the water, squinting fiercely, and then nodded. "They're back at the bottom of the ocean, where they belong."
"And the swans?" Crowley asked.
Adam made a face. "The kraken was feeling peckish when he first woke up."
"Poor Staker," Angel muttered. "And the ghosts?"
As though summoned, a good twenty, thirty ghosts flickered into being on the shore, surrounding them. Aziraphale didn't quite jump, but he did take in a quick, startled breath as Irene Butterman's ghost stood before him.
"I'm sorry," she said, and Aziraphale was only a little surprised that he could understand her. Her voice was faint, like a voice calling from a long ways away, and sad. "That's what I wanted to say to Danny. That I was sorry."
Aziraphale wanted to take her hand, squeeze it in sympathy. He settled for smiling at her instead. "Oh, my dear, it wasn't your fault, what happened. You couldn't have known what your husband would do."
Irene shook her head. "Please, tell Danny...tell Danny I love him, and that I am so very, very proud of him." She looked past him then, towards Angel, and her expression softened. "And that I hope he's happy."
"I'll make certain of that, ma'am," Angel said softly. At Aziraphale's look, he shrugged. "You never know when lip-reading will be a useful talent."
"Thank you," Irene said. She stepped close to Angel, whispered something that Aziraphale couldn't hear, but which made Angel's face flush. Then she vanished, framed by the moonlight one second and gone the next.
Angel stared at the spot she'd stood, frowning a little.
"You'll be heard," Adam said to the assembled ghosts. They gathered around him, flickering expressions hungry and hopeful. "I'll listen to you, and then you'll go." He nodded towards Aziraphale and Crowley. "If you two need me, I'll be in Lower Tadfield, at Pepper's house." He walked away, his ghostly retinue following after.
Aziraphale watched him go, only distantly aware of Crowley saying, "Good luck explaining all this to your department, Sergeant."
IV.
I love good and pleasure, I hate evil and pain, I want to be happy and I am not mistaken in believing, that people, angels and even demons have those same inclinations.
-Nicolas Malebranche
"You two are really heading back to London, then?" Thatcher asked, disappointment plain on her face. "I thought your investigation would take another week at least."
"Yes, we've got everything we need. And we must get this report back to London, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said. He held up the highly edited report and shot her an apologetic look. "Perhaps we'll come to visit on hols."
"Ooh, I'll hold you to that, Sergeant!" Thatcher said, beaming. She swatted him on the shoulder, hard enough that he winced a little, and added in a lower voice, "I'll make certain Danny and Angel send you an invitation when they decide to make it official, eh?"
Aziraphale laughed at that. "Thank you. I love weddings," he said. He did, really. Weddings were one of those marvelous, life-affirming experiences. Across the room, Crowley skulked by the door, obviously ready to leave. Aziraphale patted Thatcher's hand. "It was lovely meeting you all. And do send our apologies to Danny for leaving before he could have visitors again."
"Of course," Thatcher said. Her gaze flickered towards Crowley then, and she added, "And if you need any advice, love, you send me a letter, all right?" She leered a little. "I've got plenty of experience, knowin' how a man's head works. Both o' them."
"Oh," Aziraphale said, flushing a little. He took the offer in the spirit it was intended, one of friendship. "T-thank you." He eyed Crowley, and noticed his impatient look. "Good-bye, my dear."
Angel stopped Crowley and Aziraphale at the door.
"Thank you for your help, Sergeant, Inspector," he said, extending a hand. His gaze was direct. If he was still amazed by the fact that both Crowley and Aziraphale were not quite human, he didn't show it. "The department will be sorry to see you go."
"Yeah, Doris'll have two less men to ogle," Wainwright snickered, and then yelped as Thatcher calmly picked up a bin and threw it at his head. "Fuck!"
"Good-bye, Sergeant," Aziraphale said. "I wish you luck."
Angel smiled a little. "I suppose you won't be recommending my return to London, then?"
"The chief inspector will have to find someone else with a 400% arrest rate," Crowley said dryly. He seemed to take that as a good-bye, walking out of the library.
Aziraphale smiled at Angel one last time. "Farewell then."
The ride back to London began in silence.
Aziraphale gazed out the window, gathering his thoughts. Adam had given them a choice, he'd said. Aziraphale tried to imagine going back to his and Crowley's old Arrangement, the tempting and the thwarting, and only felt tired at the idea.
He thought about the past ten years, spent wandering London and patches of England thinking himself mortal. He could keep on working as a police officer, turn in reports, fight minor battles against evil rather than major ones. It was almost appealing, until he thought of Crowley continuing on as a member of the Met. That would never do.
His thoughts turned to Crowley then, and he remembered the fondness tinging Crowley's words, the surprising softness in the quirk of his lips when he smiled, how he looked without his sunglasses. Crowley had enjoyed being human, able to pin his mistakes and issues on human failings rather than the pride and flaws of fallen angels.
Something twisted in his stomach, a jumble of positive and negative emotions, and he bit his lip.
"So, what are we going to do?" Crowley asked, drawing Aziraphale from his musings.
Aziraphale shook his head. "Well, first we'll give this report to the chief inspector. Then...." He closed his eyes, sighed a little. "Then, I suppose, we'll see."
There was silence once more, and then suddenly the sound of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C minor filled the car. Aziraphale opened his eyes in surprise to find Crowley grinning, rather sheepishly, like a boy who wasn't certain whether he had done something brilliant or ridiculous.
"I bought the tape in Sandford. Thought you might like some music on the way back," he explained. "It's still got a fortnight before it switches over to Best of Queen."
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, and smiled.
After a moment, Crowley smiled back.