Work Text:
England, 1660
Crowley was feeling rather pleased with himself. King Charles II was enjoying his coronation after-party and going heavy on the hedonism. Sin and debauchery filled the royal court while Heaven delighted in the return of a God-anointed ruler. Both he and Aziraphale had taken credit for it, though neither had managed to influence the humans in any meaningful way. But, Crowley mused, at least the ostentatious fashions looked fetching on him.
Crowley knew Aziraphale hated his moustache whenever it made an appearance throughout the centuries and now he had a devilish little goatee to match. He couldn’t wait to see the angel’s eye twitch and his valiant efforts to not mention it. Crowley just needed to keep his horse under control and get to the village ahead, which was glowing with divine energy. Whatever Aziraphale was up to, it smelled like demonic catnip and Crowley was the only demon allowed to torment this facial-hair-adverse emissary of God, thank you very much.
His demonic steed gave an angry snort and slowed to a walk. Crowley considered the shiny silver spurs on his boots but the horse turned an evil, white-rimmed eye on him and he quickly thought better of it. Another snort and a sudden lurch had Crowley on his back in the muddy lane and the stars winking in amusement overhead. His feathered hat and a soup-plate sized horseshoe lay in the ditch. Not quite the grand entrance he’d planned. Crowley was now on foot and in dire need of a farrier… he didn’t dare attempt a miracle on the great hairy brute. He led it through the darkening streets, the ethereal energy intensifying until he stood outside the blacksmith’s forge.
The doors were open and warmth billowed out onto the main thoroughfare. Crowley tied the grumbling beast to a ring in the wall outside. Inside he was met with a scene that replicated the exact sensation of being thrown from his horse. Aziraphale, it transpired, was working as the village blacksmith. He was filthier than Crowley had ever seen him and from the stretch of the rough shirt over his shoulders, a good deal more muscular too. He was wielding a frankly enormous hammer and beating out glowing crimson metal in great showers of sparks. Crowley just stood and tried to keep his jaw closed. The iron flying from the anvil was hitting the metaphysically complex area where Aziraphale had folded his wings away. Like living fireflies, the sparks danced and settled themselves amongst the angel’s feathers, rendering his invisible wings outlined in glowing gold.
Crowley shivered with the divine energy stinging his eyes and skin. Eventually he was able to take in the piles of broken swords, muskets and pikes lying in rusty heaps. Then there were the stacks of gleaming new farming implements, carpentry tools and building materials. Aziraphale still hadn’t noticed him, working on the metal in front of him with single-minded focus and a relentless motion of his arms.
“What would Heaven think about the principality Aziraphale, Warrior of Heaven, beating swords into ploughshares?”
“Crowley!” The angel turned and Crowley was treated to a full frontal attack of Aziraphale in an open shirt. His eyes were shining, his smile was full beam and there was a beard. A truly magnificent beard.
“Guh,” said Crowley.
“I thought you were in London.” Aziraphale wiped his brow as another line of sweat ran down his throat into his chest hair. Crowley was going to die, not just discorperate but melt into a puddle of painfully aroused demonic goo.
“I was,” Crowley choked out. “Came to find out why you’re missing all the fun. They’ve reopened the theatres... some really quite exceptionally scandalous plays being produced.” He tried valiantly for a playful wink. “Your old chum Milton is pretty pissed off but I reckon it’s only improved his writing.”[1]
“Yes, I had thought I’d better look in soon but I’ve just been so busy.” Aziraphale dropped the glowing iron into a bucket of water with clouds of steam and violent hissing. Crowley stomped on the urge to hiss back.
“You’re certainly creating an ethereal fug.”
The angel huffed and fluffed his feathers. Crowley was mesmerised, so rarely did they ever see their wings in this plane of existence.
“I’ve just had so much to repair, I suppose I have rather lost track of time. There’s just so much work Crowley and nobody left to do it. All this iron is soaked in blood. I’m trying to bless as much as I can… to influence the tools I make to good... have you ever tried it?”
“Demon. Iron doesn’t like me much.”
Aziraphale blushed into his beard and looked down at his beautiful sooty hands. Crowley desperately wanted to kiss him.
“Oh. Yes of course, apologies my dear.” He flicked his eyes back up to Crowley’s. “It certainly requires a lot of power when the iron is alloyed like this. The metal acquires a lot of ethereal static.”
“Mmn hm” said Crowley, whose eyeballs were starting to feel sunburnt.
With a sigh Aziraphale shook his wings free of their adornments, returning them to invisibility once more. “I suppose that’s really why you’re here, in a muddy, ruined village, dressed like that.” It was Crowley’s turn to blush as the angel regarded him archly from head to toe.
Crowley was saved from replying by an ear-splitting whinny and an impatient stomping of hooves.
“You do much farrier work angel? I may have a little job for you.”
Crowley watched helplessly as Aziraphale took one look at the savage black stallion that had bitten Crowley the first time he’d ridden him and melted as if he’d been handed a kitten.
“Oh darling boy, let's get you in here at once” Aziraphale cooed as he moved gently to greet the animal.
The horse snorted aggressively but then lowered its head and relaxed its ears as Aziraphale stroked the enormous velvety muzzle. He then proceeded to execute a very professional shoeing of a steed of hell, while the words “darling boy” rang in Crowley’s ears. The horse stood meek as a lamb in the warm glow of the forge and obligingly lifted its foot to be held between two leather-clad angelic thighs. Crowley stared hypnotised as the pale forearms flexed with the rhythmic rasp of the file and the tapping home of a neat line of nails.
“Angel,” Crowley’s voice was alarmingly breathy, “I could give you a lift back to london. If you’d like.”
Aziraphale smiled up at him, released the horse's hoof and straightened up, running broad hands over the shining sable fur beside him.
“I think,” the angel mused, “that it might be a good idea for me to keep an eye on the new shoe, ensure that it’s comfortable and stays in place. I’m not a particularly experienced farrier I’m afraid.”
Crowley begged to differ but he kept his mouth shut and swept his ridiculous hat off his head and bowed with a flourish.
“Well in that case, I happen to have a few excellent bottles of wine in the saddlebags… and you can explain at your leisure what in Heaven that thing is on your face”.
Footnotes
1 Milton had encountered Crowley very drunk one evening and they had bonded over their mutual appreciation of Galileo. Shrewdly sensing a font of untapped celestial knowledge Milton had probed Crowley mercilessly with questions about angels; the nature of which had the demon’s face burning scarlet while his heart beat thick with longing. [return to text]