Chapter Text
The year is 3021, the month is September, and the day is Thursday—but not for much longer. A certain pair of husbands are winding down from another day managing the London Archive, one of several large information access centers across Europe. The building is located where once an odd little bookshop stood, only instead of occupying the corner slot, it now spans the full block.
Organized chronologically, it’s filled with massive digital databases containing information covering nearly all of human history—and who better to maintain it than two beings who were present for most (if only paying close attention to some)?
Aziraphale has taken a guest to his favorite lounge in the back—not unlike the one he kept in his old bookshop. He’s furnished it with plush sofas and antique bookshelves, still holding his personal collection of paper books, only available to a select few visitors.
One such person is Father Thomas Malcolm, an Anglican priest who has become a regular researcher at the archive, and who rather fancies chatting with a certain blonde archivist. He also rather fancies the blonde archivist, far more obviously than he realizes.
“Shall I fetch us some tea, then, Father Malcolm?” Aziraphale is saying as the two of them enter the lounge.
The quiet solitude is refreshing.
“Oh, certainly,” Thomas says, promptly captivated by the bookshelves. “Wow. I had no idea you kept such a wide variety back here.”
“Ah yes, my private collection. Do feel free to poke around.”
“May I? How generous of you,” Thomas replies, overly flattered.
After a while, the two of them take their places—Aziraphale in his favorite chair and Thomas on an adjacent sofa. They fall into easy conversation about old texts, and Aziraphale is certainly enjoying the company, but he’s all too aware of the priest’s growing fondness for him. Thomas must believe he’s found a rare kindred spirit, and Aziraphale empathizes, as they have much in common and can converse about religion and history without missing a beat. Surely, this can be a civil friendship despite a run-of-the-mill crush.
“My gratitude for the drink, Mr. Fell,” Thomas says, setting aside his empty teacup. “And the company.”
“Oh, my pleasure.”
“Shall we continue this conversation over a meal, perhaps?”
He’s managed to speak the words casually, though he’s desperately hopeful, Aziraphale can feel.
“Oh, I do appreciate the invitation,” Aziraphale starts, gently, “and I’ve certainly enjoyed your company, as well. I’m afraid my husband and I have plans for the evening, though. Perhaps all three of us another time?”
It feels like an odd way to deflect, but Azriaphale can’t be certain if Thomas is hoping he’s interested in an affair—or perhaps in an open marriage—and perhaps all three of us feels like a way to satisfy all curiosities at once. Thomas takes a moment to process and blink, and Aziraphale trusts that the message is received as he detects a non-subtle tinge of disappointment.
“Certainly,” he says with a too-friendly smile. “It would be lovely to dine with you both.”
As though on cue, Crowley appears in the doorway. He’s wearing his favorite kimono robe—sheer navy fabric embroidered with intricate gold constellations, a gift from Aziraphale a few months back. He’d seen it in a shop window and swooned, but he hadn’t expected it to fall into his husband’s regular rotation. Crowley looks stunning as ever, with his auburn curls falling over his shoulders and a simple sleeveless top and black trousers under the robe.
“Oh, Anthony, there you are,” Aziraphale says, standing and welcoming him in, a bit relieved for the interruption. “I was just speaking of you. Come and meet our guest, dear.”
Crowley glides over on heeled boots, robe fluttering a bit as he walks. Without even sparing a glance at Thomas, who is now radiating far too much envy for a man of the cloth, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and greets him with a kiss.
Aziraphale’s cheeks flush at once at the boldness, knowing exactly what his husband is doing, and he has to suppress a happy giggle. Poor Thomas.
Crowley is glowing post-kiss. Aziraphale clears his throat.
“As I was saying, this is Father Thomas Malcolm. We’ve had a most fascinating chat this evening.”
Crowley holds out his hand and then belatedly remembers to turn his head along with it.
“Anthony Crowley.”
Thomas only shows the smallest surprise at Crowley’s eyes before he takes his hand. “A pleasure.”
There’s a lie if Aziraphale has ever heard one.
“Dear,” Aziraphale goes on, perhaps allowing his ego to relish this interaction a bit too much, “he’s invited us to supper sometime.”
Crowley hums and smiles with mock-cordiality. “Has he? Splendid.”
He sounds so smugly sarcastic, it’s no wonder why Thomas’s envy has given way to blatant bitterness. Nevertheless, the three of them agree to meet for supper sometime in the following week, and Thomas makes his farewells.
When he’s gone, Aziraphale very nearly pins his husband to a wall, kissing him with renewed fervor.
“You scoundrel,” he mutters, smirking.
“Me?!” Crowley asks, feigning shock. “Not the priest pursuing a married man?”
“Oh, he’s not pursuing. It’s just a harmless crush.”
Crowley squints. “Did he or did he not invite only you to supper the first time?”
“Heard all that, did you.”
“Might have waited for the opportune moment to make my entrance.”
“What am I going to do with you?” Aziraphale asks in a way that comes out more coy than sultry.
Crowley looks him over with hungry eyes. “I’ve a few ideas.”
Aziraphale is fucking him from behind a few moments later—with Crowley bent over the same spot on the sofa where the priest was sitting. It’s not often that they do it this way, except in what Aziraphale calls “moments of intense spontaneity.” And well, the view is sort of nice. For a change.
The fleeting idea of the kind, envious priest turning back in only to find them so quickly occupied flashes through Aziraphale’s mind, making his face burn red hot, and he can’t decide if he’s mortified or further aroused at the thought. Maybe both.
“Ah, fuck,” Crowley mutters through his teeth as he comes across the sofa cushions—deliberately, Aziraphale is sure.
His amusement is swiftly forgotten as he reaches his own peak. They’re both panting for a moment afterward while Crowley gets his trousers up, and then Aziraphale whirls him around to pull him to his lips again.
He holds the kiss for a long time, and Crowley’s bracelets jangle as he wraps his arms around him. When Aziraphale pulls back, he finds his husband rosy-cheeked and happy, and he hums as he admires him.
“Ah, I love you,” Aziraphale breathes.
“That’s good; we’re married,” Crowley says, bumping their noses together. “Love you, too.”
He turns as if to leave, and Aziraphale scoffs.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says, gesturing with his expression toward the sofa.
Crowley shrugs, a devious smirk playing on his lips. “I think it looks nice.”
Azriaphale glares at him, fighting laughter, already looking forward to taking him to bed later.
///
One Week Later
Father Thomas Malcolm fixes an antique brooch to his evening jacket in preparation for supper—an intricate, beautiful little dragonfly dating all the way back to the mid-1900s. Taking in his form in his mirror—traditional white collar and combed hair perfectly in place—he feels Ezra will be certain to notice it and nods in satisfaction.
With a glance at his holoclock, he confirms that it’s nearly time to set out for the restaurant. He has just one more item to secure: a small vial of holy water, which he slips inside the edge of his jacket sleeve—snug enough not to fall out by accident, but easy enough to retrieve with a flick of his wrist.
Thomas’s step-sister, Moira, is an occultist and his opposite in nearly every way, but he typically prefers her company to his other relatives. She, at least, doesn’t judge his faith as “archaic nonsense” or question his commitment to it—she has her own unwavering beliefs, and in that way, they understand each other. When he asked her to view the aura of one Anthony Crowley at the London Archive, she raised an eyebrow, but he could see straight away that she’d agree. He kept things vague, giving her no information whatsoever about Ezra Fell and only explaining that he’d had an “odd feeling” around Anthony. It felt petty, certainly, to dislike someone enough to send a witch after them, but he wasn’t lying—something about this man struck him as deeply strange. Still, he allowed that he was likely grasping at straws.
Until Moira sent word a few days later. Her message had been the last thing he’d expected to hear: According to her, Anthony was not human. She wasn’t able to get more specific, but she impressed upon him her certainty that this person was not a person at all—if he were evil, she could not say, for no witch in recent history had ever seen a demon’s aura.
Thomas’s ears had pricked up at the word, he had to admit. Just as he heard it, a theory formed in his mind: Perhaps this being had Ezra under some sort of mind-control, or had tricked him into thinking they loved each other. It was merely one theory, of course, and Thomas had come up with a plan to put it to the test. He’d find a way to expose Anthony to the holy water—which, historically, was always toxic to any Hell creature—and if he wasn’t a demon, no harm would come to him. But if it did harm him and Ezra witnessed it, well, that could hardly be more damning.
Thomas smiles and crosses himself before making his way out the door.
His train from Oxford zips him into London in just under ten minutes, and he’s well on his way to the charming old restaurant Ezra has selected for their meal. The algae lamps are just starting to brighten in the early evening, creating a lovely sight against the rosy sunset. London is always most beautiful at this time of day, he muses, but the thought does little to calm his nerves.
Outside the restaurant, he finds the two of them just arriving, as well. Ezra is as smartly dressed as usual, in his lovely cream jacket and vest. Anthony’s modern outfit could hardly be more in contrast and very nearly looks like a parody of current runway fashions: Fiery hair swept to one side, he’s in a slender, asymmetrical black dress under a pointless “jacket” constructed of loose gold chains. Thomas prides himself on his extensive knowledge of cultural history, and therefore recognizes that the look would have been decidedly “feminine” several centuries ago, but in modern times, it’s a formal, gender-neutral look. And a gaudy one, at that.
Truly, anyone who sees the pair of them must wonder, Thomas rationalizes.
As they take their seats at the table, Thomas can’t help but wish Ezra had been able to accept his invitation to join him without his husband—the thought is selfish, yes, but Thomas can’t help but wonder if Anthony keeps unusual tabs on Ezra’s company.
It would certainly be an interesting meal.
“Tell me, Thomas,” Ezra says sweetly as they receive their drinks and appetizer. “If you do care to share. What inspired you to pursue priesthood?”
With anyone else, he might dread answering, but he’s glad Ezra has asked.
“Oh, well,” he starts, clearing his throat. “From a young age, I was fascinated by historical and religious texts. Couldn’t get enough of them. I can’t really say where my faith came from, but the pursuit of knowledge was endless. And in religion I found messages about uniting and saving all humanity, and I just loved the tradition of it all. It feels like an important part of human culture to keep alive. I discovered that I had an ancestor in the twenty-second century who was also a priest, and it felt like a sign. And well, here I am.”
“Ah, a true calling,” Ezra remarks with his signature warm smile. “How wonderful.”
Still in stark contrast, Anthony sits coldly beside him, taking a sip of his—God above. Thomas’s polite smile slips a bit when he catches sight of Anthony’s hand. He’s had what young people would call a “sex manicure,” with long, pointed nails on all fingers except the pointer and index, which are filed short, all gleaming glossy black.
Thomas would never begrudge anyone enjoyment or celebration of sex—he’s Anglican, after all—but such a flagrant display of it lacks class. He can’t help but feel a bit sad at the thought of dear, sweet Ezra passing evenings at home with this vain, snobbish creature...
Anthony has noticed him staring and cocks an eyebrow.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Thomas says, slipping into an easy, polite smile, “what made you decide to change your eyes?”
Facial modifications are not uncommon, but the thought of having his irises rebuilt with synthetic threads of color is unnerving. Clearly not to someone so preoccupied with turning heads, however.
“What makes you think I changed them?” Anthony asks dryly.
“Anthony,” Ezra chides, patting his husband’s arm. “Don’t tease him, dear. He’s just curious.”
Anthony gives Ezra an odd smile and then faces Thomas again, saying, “I like snakes.”
The words come out in the manner of a sarcastic child who has been coached to respond politely.
“The color is natural,” Ezra goes on, still smiling warmly and rubbing Anthony’s shoulder. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
A globulb goes off over Thomas’s head. Of course! Of course they’re natural. He’s probably not had a procedure at all.
“Indeed, quite lovely. That’s why I asked; I didn’t mean to pry.”
Swallowing the remainder of his wine—already—Anthony seems slightly surprised by the semi-apology. He glances at Thomas again, letting his yellow eyes linger.
“Lovely dragonfly,” he says, once again with an odd insincerity to his tone.
“Oh. Well, my gratitude. It’s vintage—mid 1900s.”
Anthony nods for a second, his brow furrowing and eyes abruptly unfocused, as though he’s a thousand kilometers away.
“Fuck,” he says, suddenly, turning to his husband. “That’s over fifteen hundred years ago, isn’t it?”
Ezra gives him an amused look at touches his cheek. “You’re drinking too quickly, my dear.”
If Anthony Crowley is not a demon, he is by far the strangest human being Thomas has ever encountered. He’s trying to work out when and how he’s going to try the holy water. In fact, he’s starting to second-guess the plan a bit—but no, he must pay mind to what Moira saw. Surely that, combined with the man’s appearance and strange behavior mean he’s hiding something.
The server comes by and takes their meal orders—although Anthony requests only more wine and no food.
“He’s fine,” Ezra reassures, apparently having noticed Thomas’s curious glance, “he doesn’t eat as much as I do, but he’s perfectly healthy, I assure you. And we both so love dining out. Don’t we?”
“Cheers,” Anthony says, raising his refilled glass.
“How long have you two been married?”
At that question, Ezra beams an absolutely radiant smile, and Anthony actually smiles alongside him.
“We’ve actually celebrated a milestone anniversary just last year,” Ezra says. “Twenty years. Can you believe it? He surprised me with a private capsule on the Eye.”
“Ah, how lovely,” Thomas responds earnestly. “Married at the turn of the millennium, then?”
“Oh … yes, that’s right. A private ring exchange in the park. Very lovely day.”
Anthony takes Ezra’s hand and kisses it. The gesture appears genuine and affectionate, Thomas hates to admit. Then again, that may simply speak to how skilled a deceiver Anthony is.
He had toyed with the idea of waiting and trying the holy water another day; springing it on him at the archive would certainly be easy enough, but the point would be moot if Ezra wasn’t there to witness it. No, it has to be tonight.
The key step is catching him by surprise, of course. He’ll have to act so fast that Anthony has no time to react. Preferably when he’s already slightly distracted. The copious amounts of alcohol he’s consuming should certainly help.
The opportunity comes mid-meal, when Ezra is telling an animated story about a curious incident at his grandfather’s antique bookshop, with Anthony facing him to listen.
Seizing the moment, Thomas pretends to drop his knife and makes his best how-foolish-of-me face before leaning down to “reach” for it. Just as he’d hoped, Ezra goes on with his story without pause, and while his arm is concealed beneath the table, Thomas slides the vial into his palm and works the cork out.
Then, as swiftly as he can, he stands and upends the tiny bottle directly over Anthony’s arm. His heart is pounding, but truth be told, he’s relieved. He’s finally done it. He’ll know the truth.
Only, the water never touches Anthony. Because, somehow, in the space between his action and the drops landing, something has shielded him.
Inexplicably, it looks like white feathers.
Thomas blinks and takes a step back in confusion, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing—white feathers can’t be right. And yet. Yes, indeed, there’s a full wing there before him, fully obscuring Anthony in his seat.
It’s only when Ezra stands up straight that Thomas realizes: the wing belongs to him. And there are two of them, of course. Two white wings.
But that would mean.
“Are you alright, my love?” Ezra is asking softly. “Are you hurt?”
Thomas can’t see their faces, but he thinks he hears Anthony say I'm fine, and it seems that Ezra dips down a bit before straightening again.
Just as he’s beginning to accept the presence of the wings, they’re gone. When Thomas sees Ezra’s face, he takes yet another step back—every hint of warmth has faded from him, and on a level Thomas would have previously found difficult to imagine, Ezra looks genuinely furious.
A bit lost for words, Thomas shakes his head. “I— Ezra— You’re an—”
“Indeed. And you have just tried to harm my husband.”
Thomas expects some clever remark from Anthony about now, or a sly smile perhaps, but when he glances down, he finds him still seated and focused only on his husband, tightly clutching Ezra’s hand in both of his.
“You— You knew!” Thomas cries, connecting the dots. “I didn’t know holy water would be harmful to him, but you did! I didn’t think you knew. I thought… Well, bugger what I thought! You’re an angel! And he’s a—he’s from Hell! He doesn’t belong here!”
The words have no sooner left Thomas’s lips than he’s tumbling backwards onto his arse for no discernible reason. Ezra is towering over him, then, glowing eyes full of fury, and the restaurant lights overhead flicker. Thomas realizes that his hair has started to stand on end—as though in the presence of static electricity.
“Aziraphale,” comes Anthony’s voice, and Thomas has to repeat the word in his head a few times before he realizes it must be the angel’s true name.
Anthony embraces him, whispering his name once more, and speaks softly—Thomas can only hear bits: “Love, don’t ... you’ll regret ... only a priest … he meant to save you ... see? Let him go. It’s alright ... It’s alright.”
At his husband’s words, Ezra’s stormy expression calms, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him close and stroking his back.
“Fortunately for you, my husband is more forgiving than I am,” Ezra says coolly. “Go. Don’t let me see you again.”
Thomas is frozen for a moment, trying and failing to process all he’s just seen, and then scrambles to his feet, making haste for the door. When he’s reached the threshold, he turns to look back and finds that the angel is still watching him over the demon’s shoulder.
As he steps out into the London evening and makes his way back to the train, his hands are shaking and his mind is eerily silent. Like he’s forgotten how to think.
When he reaches his flat, after a journey he cannot recall, three things are weighing heavily on him at once: He befriended an angel and then ruined that friendship. He was right about Anthony being a demon. He was very wrong about everything else.
///