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10 JULY 1995 - 3:06 AM
TADFIELD, OXFORDSHIRE
In the light of a full moon, a tall, slender figure saunters through a wheat field. The night is quiet except for the susurration of the stalks and the distant sound of an owl hooting in a far-off tree. A dark farmhouse lingers in the distance. Either everyone who lives there is asleep or no one is home.
The figure is dressed all in black, except an orange, reflective patch on the upper back and shoulders and bands around the arms. Looking around as if making a decision, the figure removes the jacket, draping it over their right arm.
Left arm out to their side, the figure snaps their fingers. All around them in a perfect circle, the wheat bends until it’s flat against the ground. Branching out from there are several paths of bent wheat, and six other circles of varying sizes. The pattern resembles a sigil, a strange, almost alien symbol.
From a great distance, perhaps the next-nearest neighbouring home, a dog barks.
With one more snap, the figure disappears.
12 JULY 1995 - 8:57 AM
WASHINGTON, D.C.
As soon as Scully smells the coffee wafting down the basement hallway, she sighs. It would be nice to get coffee from her partner without an ulterior motive of some kind behind it, but free coffee is free coffee. Either the case he’s about to present will be completely out of left field, even for him, or it’ll be something he doesn’t want getting back to Skinner. More than usual, that is. Possibly both. God, it better not be both.
The slide projector is already set up when she enters the office, although for now it’s projecting a blank white screen. Mulder peers down into a paper bag with his brow furrowed. When he hears her walk in, he glances up at her and smiles. Against her will, his warm, happy gaze nearly makes her blush. He has such a lovely smile, and Scully doesn’t get to see him smile nearly as much as she’d like. Something tragic always snatches his happiness away.
That smile means this is going to be an absolutely huge request, no doubt about it. Still, she’d give almost anything to see that grin more often. Not that she’ll allow herself to think too deeply about that.
“Good morning, Mulder. What’s all this?” she asks, letting the skepticism soak into her voice. He’ll be expecting it, after all. That’s their routine. She’s the non-believer, and he gets to follow every flight of fancy that catches his eye. It’s a system that works for them. They get more cases solved this way than they would if they were mindlessly agreeing with each other all the time.
“Coffee,” Mulder says. Then he holds up the paper bag. “And donuts. They forgot my apple fritter, though.”
Scully picks up the paper cup with two hands, smelling the coffee but not drinking it. It’s likely still too hot, and she doesn’t want to burn her tongue. “What’s this about, Mulder?”
Mulder pulls a glazed donut from the bag and takes a big bite. “Why does it have to be about anything?” he asks, talking with his mouth full. “I can’t do something nice?”
“You can,” Scully says slowly. God, how does he manage to be so adorable and completely lacking in manners at the same time? “You just don’t actually ever bring me breakfast unless you want something. What is it? Don’t tell me it’s another flukeman.”
After sitting down, Scully removes the flimsy lid from her cup and blows on the surface of the coffee, watching the ripples. Tentatively, she takes a sip. Mulder pops the last piece of donut into his mouth and stands up, remote control in his hand.
“Crop circles,” Mulder says, clicking to his first slide, which is an aerial photo of a farmer’s field. There’s a large circle in the middle, and three smaller circles around it. He clicks again, and the view gets farther away. There are several more clusters of circles forming a pattern. “No apparent paths to get to the center of the field or in between the individual circles. Almost as if they’ve been made from above.”
“Or by people who are skilled at not leaving a trail,” Scully argues. “As long as you’re careful—”
“I thought you might say that, Scully, which is why I have more. None of the plants have actually been harmed. None of their stalks are snapped like they would be if they were flattened by some sort of tool or equipment. It’s like they just…laid down nicely, like someone asked them to.”
“Someone. What are you suggesting? Aliens?”
“Or someone trying to communicate with aliens, maybe. Can’t rule out an attempt to talk to ghosts either.”
“Are you honestly suggesting that these fields are haunted by ghosts who…like circles a lot?”
“All right, maybe not that. There might be a new cryptid—”
“Some variation on Bigfoot, maybe? Seems unlikely. No, I think you have to assume it’s a hoax, a prank, a bunch of bored teenagers with nothing better to do on a Saturday night.”
Mulder squares his shoulders. “What about the occult? Witches, or—or, demons! It could be demons, or even the devil himself.”
“So, Satan ordered these symbols in the fields, but he didn’t want to hurt the wheat? Doesn’t seem very evil of him. Why not do something that would really hurt people? Like blight the crops?”
“That’s a good question, Scully. Now I have one for you.”
Scully narrows her eyes. “What?”
“Why is this phenomenon happening all over the world? Is there a conspiracy of bored teenagers with nothing to do on a Saturday night?”
It’s her turn to square her shoulders as she sits up straighter. “There could be a group doing it. I’ve been hearing a lot about these internet message boards.”
“Computer nerds? I don’t think so, Scully. What would they be doing out in a farmer’s field at night, making circles?”
“I don’t know, Mulder, laughing at the rest of us? Or what if it’s the farmers? Have you thought about that option? Maybe their crops aren’t doing well, and they’re hoping to bring in tourists. Charge five bucks a head to see the alien crop circles! Another ten to get your photo taken in the field. Anything to make a living, right?”
“It could be, but why all over the world? Isn’t it better if you’re the only one with crop circles? More of a draw, I mean?”
“Of course, but it could be copycats trying to capitalize on all the hype going around.”
“One way to find out,” Mulder says, smiling and holding up two plane tickets.
“Mulder, you can’t be serious.” Scully leans back in her chair. She’d been expecting this, of course, but there’s a dance to be performed.
“When have I ever not been serious about a case, Scully? Do you think I bought tickets to Iowa because I’m not serious?” Mulder smiles as though he has never been serious in his entire life, as though he doesn’t spend day and night being entirely too serious, too single-minded and focused on the work.
Scully groans. “Iowa? I don’t want to go to Iowa.”
“Not just there. We’ve got stops in Nebraska, Illinois and Indiana, too.” Mulder points at these places on the map affixed to their office wall as though he’s talking to someone unfamiliar with geography.
“Oh, boy,” Scully deadpans. “All of my favorite states.”
“Let me finish, Scully. You’re gonna like this. After we look at the crop circles here in the American Midwest, we’re going to hop a plane to the United Kingdom.” Mulder adds a certain flourish to his words. It’s not quite an accent, but more like he’s imitating someone wealthy.
Now Scully really has to scowl. This better not mean what she thinks it means, or Mulder is in hot water. “We’re not going to see your friend, are we?”
Mulder holds up his hands, playing innocent, acting like he doesn’t know exactly who she means for a moment. “Who, Phoebe? Nah…unless you girls want to kiss and make up?”
Scully glares, hoping that Mulder can see the pure murder in her eyes. The last thing she needs is to be third wheel to Mulder and his flirty ex-girlfriend with the bad haircut. Again.
“And Skinner approved us flying across the pond on the FBI’s dime to investigate a case where we have absolutely no jurisdiction? Is that what you’re telling me right now, Mulder? That we have Skinner’s blessing to travel across the Atlantic to make fools of ourselves with the local farmers?”
“Well, not exactly,” Mulder hedges, looking down and away for a second. Then he turns to her with pleading in his eyes. If only she could say no to those eyes, Scully’s life would be very different. There’s no doubt in her mind that she’ll follow him anywhere—not that she’d ever tell him that.
Scully holds up her cup. “I knew this came with a price.”
“Ah, come on, Scully, it’ll be fun,” Mulder says, perching on the end of his desk. Why does he have to be so adorable all the time?
“If we get away with it,” Scully says.
Mulder tilts his head down, smirks, and crinkles his eyes. “Oh, we’ll get away with it. Maybe even see a UFO while we’re at it.”
Scully shakes her head even as she’s about to agree. “As long as there’s no Phoebe. You promised.”
He hasn’t actually promised, though, has he?
17 JULY 1995 - 2:15 PM
SPRINGDALE, IOWA
“The wife said it was probably the cows that did it. Can you believe that? Cows. I should’ve married Betsy Gallahan after all. Maybe my kids wouldn’t have been so stupid,” the farmer says. “Nothing I can do about it now.”
“Wow, Dad, we’re standing right here,” the farmer’s teenage daughter says. It’s clear from her grin that she’s only teasing her father.
Mulder nods, even though none of this is even remotely useful for the case. Scully has wandered off somewhere, probably analyzing stalks of corn or testing the water for some chemical that makes wheat keel over with for no apparent reason. She’ll do anything to ensure that Mulder works for his conclusions. If, years ago, someone had asked him what it would be like having a partner that contradicts him at every turn, Mulder would’ve said beyond annoying. He wouldn’t have imagined that he’d like it, that he’d crave it and miss it when she wasn’t around.
There’s no lead to follow here, and she’ll let him know right away. He’ll never hear the end of it. Honestly, that wouldn’t be so bad either, as long as she’s still talking to him.
Maybe I’m wasting everyone’s time after all. Aliens. What the hell was I thinking? It’s not always going to be aliens. This time it really did seem to fit, though.
He breaks off a long piece of grass and chews on it. That’s much better. Now he can think. But inspiration doesn’t strike. He’s gotten no new hunches since landing in Iowa. None in any of the other states either. From all he can tell, the grass, wheat, corn, and sometimes even soybeans just lie down overnight and don’t get up again. It looks like they do it completely of their own volition, and only in particular spots, spots that make patterns when seen from the sky.
If aliens are behind it, he can’t see any evidence of that fact. But there’s no evidence that it’s humans either.
That’s great, just great. Maybe he should cancel their flight to the UK, pack it in, and go back to tracking down the next monster. There’s always a new monster, and monsters are a fun way to shake up the old routine.
“Let’s pack it up, Scully. Go back to the hotel, maybe order some pizza. I’m wiped.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Scully says, brushing his hair back off of his face and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling all right?”
Mulder wants a witty comeback; he needs a witty comeback, something to distract from the glee shining out from his heart like a beacon. Scully is touching him, and he’s not even injured. Her hands are soft and warm, and he’d love for them to travel to other places.
“I’d be feeling much better if I had some pizza and a beer,” he says. Damn, that wasn’t witty at all.
It looks like Scully wants to roll her eyes, but she restrains herself.
In the car, Mulder steers them back toward the highway and the best motel his expense account could afford. It is, of course, the worst motel in the tri-county area.
“Mulder, look at this pattern,” Scully says, pointing to one of the photographs of the farm they were just visiting. He can only glance briefly before turning back to keep his eyes on the road.
“What about it?”
“I’ve been looking up various sigils, and I think this one is extremely old. It could be from the supposed language of the angels, which has mostly been lost. Maybe it’s a cult we’re dealing with. A bunch of wackos who think they’re going to summon an angel or a demon.”
Mulder should be more excited that Scully is open to considering extreme possibilities, but he’s suddenly very, very tired.
20 JULY 1995 - 4:10 PM
TADFIELD, OXFORDSHIRE
The pub is hundreds of years old, and it looks like it. It’s not dirty, but it’s dark and decidedly not modern. From the outside it looks like somewhere an American werewolf might go to wreak havoc. Except it’s four in the afternoon. They’re sitting with the witness, a Mr. R.P. Tyler, at a table near the front door.
“My dog saw something that night, I’m telling you. Hasn’t been the same since.”
“Your…dog. Your dog is the witness?” Scully asks. Then she tries to lead him down a more reasonable path. “Were you there as well? Are you the witness, Mr. Tyler?” It’s been a long trip, and she does not have time for this. She’s offering him one chance to not sound like a complete crackpot.
He doesn’t take it.
“My dog, like I said. It was the same bark as when she saw that young man whose car was on fire. The exact same bark. I’m telling you. And—wait. That hasn’t happened yet.”
“Hasn’t happened yet? Mr. Tyler, what do you mean by that?” Mulder asks, leaning forward with renewed interest.
“Exactly that. We haven’t seen the young man or his flaming car yet. My dog is a bit of a psychic, you see.”
“I’m not sure I get your meaning, sir,” Scully says slowly. What a waste of time this is turning out to be. “You’re saying your dog recognized someone at the scene of the crime? Can I ask what you were doing at the scene of the crime?”
“Neighborhood watch.”
“Right. And this sighting. This thing your dog witnessed. How is it useful to us?”
“Saw the same chap in Soho when I was visiting my cousin. Barked at him then, too. Outside of a bookshop. A.Z. Fell & Co. That was the name of it.”
A lead! At long last. Scully throws back the last bit of her pint in triumph. Time to get the hell out of here and away from R.P. Tyler.
21 JULY 1995 - 10:13 AM
SOHO, LONDON
The next day, Mulder suggests they split up. He loves to do this when he thinks that he’s giving Scully the boring job while taking the fun one for himself. At least, that’s how it looks from where she’s standing.
This is normally something they’d do together, however, canvasing the area for anyone who might have seen the man that R.P. Tyler described. Skinny, dark sunglasses, red hair, all black clothes. Of course, she can’t rely on him wearing the exact same outfit he was wearing when the witness saw him. Who wears the same clothes all the time? It’s not like he’s a cartoon character.
That would be absurd.
When Scully asks the woman behind the counter of John Coffee, the cafe across the street from A.Z. Fell & Co., she recognizes the description right away.
“That would be Mr. Fell’s friend,” Nina says, and the way she emphasizes the word “friend” puts a certain suspicion at the forefront of Scully’s mind. Like the suspect and her Uncle Charles who never married and lived with his best friend for forty years might have something in common. “He’s always wearing black.”
Maybe a bit like a cartoon character after all.
“So you’ve seen him? Any time recently?” Scully asks. After finding the shop closed and locked, and being completely unable to parse the sign explaining its hours of operation, she’d spotted the cafe and decided to sit there and wait to see if the proprietor of the book shop opens the doors anytime soon. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.
“It’s been a week or two,” Nina says, “but that only means he’s due to turn up any time. They’re very close, the pair of them.” Ah yes, exactly like Uncle Charles, then.
After sitting at the cafe for almost an hour, Scully wonders if the book shop is ever going to open. Then, miraculously, the sign flips from Closed to Open, and she rushes out of the coffee shop.
The first thing that hits her as she opens the door to A.Z. Fell & Co. is the smell. It’s old paper and dust, it’s tea and a cologne that smells oddly familiar. The second thing is that the building is absolutely gorgeous and completely packed to the gills with books and tiny trinkets. It looks completely unorganized, and yet somehow she feels entirely at home, like nothing bad could possibly happen to her as long as she stays within these walls.
It’s dusty and cozy, and she gets the sense that if she tries to spend any money here, she’ll be politely escorted out. So far she has been left completely alone with her thoughts. Whoever opened the door must have immediately disappeared into the back room.
“Hello?” she calls out as she pats the head of a horse statue on her way around the room.
“I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
It’s longer than two shakes, but Scully is happy to peruse the books while she waits. Given enough time, she’d like to curl up on the sofa and while away the afternoon reading. It would be nice to have a real vacation sometime, rather than run around doing work all the time.
There are antiques everywhere. The newest thing is probably his computer, which appears to be around ten years old, give or take.
But nothing looks to be for sale. There are no price tags or signs anywhere.
“Hello,” says a cautious voice, one not convinced it should ask her to stay. “How can I be of assistance?”
Scully pivots toward the sound. The man—she’s pretty sure it’s a man—is standing in front of the window, lit from behind by the sun. He looks almost ethereal, and yet so very of the Earth at the same time. A walking contradiction, her mind supplies.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ag—Dana Scully,” she says, remembering she probably shouldn’t let on that she’s here on any official business, especially since this is all so unofficial. A wild goose chase would be a better description, but she isn’t about to say that.
“Aziraphale Fell,” he says, tugging the hem of his vest down. His clothing looks well-loved, and Scully wonders if he’s a cartoon character, too.
“Mr. Fell, I was wondering if you could help me,” she says, doing her best to sound like she could use all the assistance she can get.
“Please, call me Aziraphale. What do you need help with? You don’t look like you have a book you’d like me to restore. I do hope you’re not expecting to purchase—”
“No,” Scully says quickly. She decides that, based on all of her observations so far, he isn’t in the business of selling books, only buying or restoring them and adding them to his massive collection. He looks like he might come from old money, like he’s the eccentric uncle in his family. If there are any of them left. Something about him seems rather…solitary.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Aziraphale says. His shoulders relax slightly, and he stops fidgeting.
Scully smiles. “Aziraphale, I’m hoping you can help me find someone. Nina from the cafe said you might know the person I’m looking for.”
“That’s entirely possible,” Aziraphale says, although his tone of voice suggests he’d rather not give up a friend. “I know most of the people in this neighborhood. They’re not in any trouble, are they? This person you’re looking for? I’d hate to think something I say would spell hard times for a friend of mine.”
Ah, so she’s still putting off cop vibes after all. Scully really needs a vacation.
“I’d just like to see what he knows. Nina said she thought he was your friend,” Scully puts the same emphasis on the word that Nina had, although it does sound a bit different in her American accent.
“Oh dear. What has Crowley done now?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands.
Interesting. Does he only have one friend? Or only one friend who gets into trouble?
“Is that the man with red hair and sunglasses?” Scully asks. This is almost too easy.
“That would be him, yes. Crowley and I go way back.” There’s a touch of fondness in his voice that Scully can’t miss, and a complicated expression washes over his face for a second. Scully would bet good money that he and Crowley have a long, fascinating history. There’s so much unsaid that Scully isn’t sure how he’s bearing the weight of it.
“I want to ask him a few questions about the crop circles that have been, well, cropping up all around the world. A witness in the area puts him at the scene of one of the events, and my partner and I are looking into it.”
“Your partner?” Aziraphale wanders around the book shop as he talks, moving books from place to place, but he doesn’t seem to be doing it in any organized fashion, as though he’s not tidying up as much as acting busy.
“I didn’t say before, because as Americans, we have no jurisdiction here, but we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Although, it’s more of a personal quest for Agent Mulder.”
Setting down the books he’s holding onto an already too-high stack, Aziraphale looks her in the eye with what she can only describe as intense kindness. It’s the first time since she entered the shop that he has really looked at her, rather than focusing on their surroundings.
To be perceived by Aziraphale is a completely unique experience, so much so that it’s lucky Scully’s investigative mind is operating at all times in the background taking notes. First his eyes travel up and down over her, but not in a sexual way—he’s potentially the gayest man Scully has ever met—more like he’s assessing her. It’s like he’s seeing through her, down deep into the recesses of her immortal soul. But that’s silly. He’s nothing but a man, isn’t he?
Still, he clearly sees something in Scully that he likes, because he smiles, his deep focus melting into hospitality. He’s not only the gayest man she’s ever met, but potentially the most intelligent as well, and that’s saying a lot. Mulder has firmly held that spot in her mind since they met on her very first day with the Bureau. There’s a deep well of wisdom at the back of Aziraphale’s eyes, like he’s seen and learned more than anyone else on Earth. Perhaps it’s experience not intelligence that sets him apart, then.
“What would you say to some tea?” Aziraphale asks, and Scully decides, even though she probably shouldn’t—professional distance and all that—that she likes him, that it’s potentially impossible not to like Aziraphale.
“That sounds wonderful,” she says.
Aziraphale beams, as though offering her this small courtesy has made his day, as though he was created to spread happiness and good. “Back in a tick. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to a couch near his desk.
Scully sits down, immediately sinking into a comfortable divot. It’s going to be difficult to stand up, both because it’s so soft and because her feet don’t exactly touch the floor when she leans back. She wants to rest her eyes for a moment, that’s how at home she feels in the shop, but there’s information to glean.
There don’t appear to be any customers browsing. It’s quiet except for what must be the sounds of Aziraphale putting the kettle on in the back room, a cup being placed on a saucer, perhaps, and the sound of running water. Dust motes dance through a weak beam of sunlight shining in over the desk. There’s an ancient cash register that looks like an art piece rather than a functioning means of taking payment, but she can’t see any other place to sell goods or services. The desk is overflowing with stacks of papers and books and…an inkwell?
Scully makes a mental checklist of the things she knows about Aziraphale. He’s English, highly intelligent, and extremely gay. Add to that that he’s very old-fashioned, and probably independently wealthy. He certainly doesn’t seem to make a lot of sales from books. Even so, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn he owned half of the block, having inherited it or something like that.
Although she can’t quite figure out why, Scully feels safe here, probably safer than most places in the world, besides, perhaps, her mother’s home. Even her own apartment doesn’t feel this secure, especially in her line of work. Dangerous things happen to people like Scully, but not in a place like this.
While he waits for the kettle, Aziraphale hums to himself. What a relief that Miss Scully isn’t, in fact, a patron. While he can easily send customers away, he doesn’t like to. Aziraphale is happy to visit with people as long as they don’t want to purchase anything and don’t overstay their welcome.
There is the matter of her asking about Crowley, although he suspects there won’t be any danger from her or her partner, at least not directly. In addition to that, she seems more curious than anything. Aziraphale quite likes curiosity. It’s one of the best traits that She decided to bestow upon her creations on Earth, in Aziraphale’s opinion. Scully has it in droves, and as long as he can keep that from being any threat to Crowley or himself, he sees no problem with having a pleasant chat over tea.
When the tea has steeped, he adds a splash of milk and one sugar to the cup for his guest and miracles a few of his favourite biscuits. They’re best when acquired the human way, as far as he is concerned, but this will have to do, as he has nothing else to offer.
What mischief has Crowley been getting himself into these days? he wonders.
Aziraphale puts on his brightest smile before walking back to the front of his shop.
“I wasn’t sure how you take your tea,” he lies as he hands her the teacup and saucer.
“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this,” Scully lies. “Although, it is a business, so I figured that as long as you weren’t busy, you wouldn’t mind an unexpected visitor. Do you sell a lot of books?”
Aziraphale tilts his head and his smile softens. “Oh, my, no. It’s really more of a place to showcase my collection than anything else.”
“Does book restoration make you much money?”
“I do perfectly fine.” Aziraphale seems miffed that she’s asked about money, but then he brightens even more at her interest in his craft. His presence is so warm and welcoming. “I don’t restore books for the money. It’s all for the love of literature.”
Scully hums to show she’s listening, but Aziraphale doesn’t continue. She sips her tea in the quiet moment, and it’s the most delicious tea she’s ever tasted. She hums again, but at a higher pitch to show her appreciation.
“This tea is wonderful, thank you. We can’t get anything like it in America, at least not that I’ve ever tasted.”
“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale says. He takes a bite of one of the cookies.
Scully is about to begin questioning him about Crowley when the shop bell jingles.
“Completely ridiculous!” someone grumbles behind her. “Angel, can you believe—oh, hello, who’s this, now?”
The man sauntering toward Aziraphale must be Crowley. The clothes are right, all black jeans and blazer, silver necklace, dark sunglasses. His red hair is about the same length as Scully’s, although much more wavy.
“Agent Scully is just visiting from the States with her partner,” Aziraphale says. “They’ve apparently been investigating crop circles.”
“Oh, you don’t say,” Crowley drawls, smiling smoothly at her. How is his expression so fake and yet so genuine at the same time? Trying to put me at ease, most likely.
“That’s right. I was just telling your friend that Nina from across the road said I might find you here.”
“And what would you want to find me for?” Crowley asks. He’s clearly putting up emotional walls all around himself, trying to hide something.
“You’ve been spotted near one of the farms in Oxfordshire where the circles appeared,” Scully says, setting her empty cup down on the saucer.
“Have I? Isn’t that curious.” Crowley sits on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair and leans in. “What’s she on about, angel?”
He’s hiding something by being playful and flirty. Aziraphale clearly loves the attention. His entire body leans toward Crowley, and for a moment they look at each other all doe-eyed and sappy. Then they both seem to remember she’s in the room, and they turn their attention to her in unison.
The combined focus of their attention sends a shiver down her spine. She gets the sense that they’re much stronger than they look, whatever that means.
“Dr Scully only wants to know if you have any information. You wouldn’t know anything about the strange symbols, would you?” Aziraphale asks, still watching Scully. “Agent, do you have any photographs of the crop circles, by chance? I would love to see them.”
In fact, Scully kept one in the pocket of her giant trenchcoat just for such an occasion. She pulls it out and passes it to Aziraphale, whose eyes go wide for a second, and then his mouth becomes a thin line, as though he’s either irritated or amused and trying to hide it. A combination of both, perhaps?
“Word with you, angel. In private,” Crowley says, standing and walking toward the back room.
“I was hoping to ask a few more questions,” Scully says, wondering if she should stay or go. She doesn’t want to go. Things are just starting to come together.
“We’ll just be a moment, if you’d like to wait,” Aziraphale says, and disappears into the back.
It’s only after he’s gone that she realizes she never told him she’s a doctor.
“Crowley, you can’t spell out ‘Gabriel is a wanker’ in symbols in a field!”
“Why not? Might be the only way Upstairs will see it, angel,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale huffs, balling his hands up at his sides. How is he so adorable all the time, even when he’s frustrated? Especially when he’s frustrated. Makes a demon want to be annoying, just to see that.
“You’re attracting a lot of unwanted attention doing a thing like that,” Aziraphale says. “Even the Americans—”
“One American.”
“Even two Americans have taken notice of your nocturnal activities.”
“Pfft. I’ll take notice of your nocturnal activities,” Crowley mumbles.
Aziraphale plants his hands on his hips. “Are you even listening to me or just repeating back parts of what I say?”
“I can do both,” Crowley says, specifically not answering the question in an attempt to be even more annoying. It appears to be working, and he smiles to himself.
“Can’t you do something other than mock Heaven by way of the landscape? Like get a hobby? I’m surprised you even remember the ancient language of the angels.”
“I haven’t always been a demon, and it’s all over the Internet now.”
Aziraphale scrunches up his face and sputters in irritation. “It is not—I don’t even know what that is, but it is not on the infernal net, Crowley. It’s an ancient language only known to angels. Could you at least take this seriously for a moment? Heaven could smite you.”
“If they were going to do that, they would’ve by now, don’t you think?”
“Well, that hardly follows, but that’s neither here nor there. If the humans have taken notice of your actions, so might have our respective sides.”
“Seems unlikely, angel. Forgetting all that, the humans haven’t really figured anything out, have they? To them it’s just pretty pictures, a novelty that will wear off when they realise it’s not aliens or Nessie.”
Aziraphale’s brow crinkles and his lips purse as he levels his gaze at Crowley, ordering him around with a look. I hate when he does that, Crowley thinks, relaxing his entire spine in an attempt to appear unaffected. His muscles all burn from clenching as soon as those eyes landed on him.
Crowley doesn’t have to do anything Aziraphale tells him to do, and that’s the thing. Aziraphale isn’t ordering, not really, and Crowley can always say no.
Only he doesn’t want to say no. He never wants to say no to Aziraphale.
“You want me to go back out there and make this go away. Make her go away,” Crowley says, checking if he’s right.
“Without harming her, of course. I like her.”
The implications of that. “And if you didn’t like her, angel?” Crowley places himself firmly in Aziraphale’s personal space, nose to his cheek as he stands at Aziraphale’s side. “What then?”
Aziraphale sighs. “Of course you know I would never ask you to harm anyone, Crowley. I’m an angel.”
“Oh, is that so? You’d never suggest I take care of someone because I’m the bad guy? Never say that you’re the good guy, and you can’t do it yourself? Never that?”
There’s the look again, the one that says Crowley had better stop whatever it is he’s started before Aziraphale gets even more cross, the look that says if he doesn’t do as the angel says his life will become a little less bearable, probably because a certain angel will be unavailable for lunch.
“Ugh,” Crowley grunts. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“...a complete dead end, Scully. How’d it go here?” Aziraphale doesn’t recognise the man’s voice, but assumes it must be Scully’s partner. He’d like to eavesdrop on more of their conversation, but Crowley storms past him and into the front of the shop.
“Right. Shop’s closed; nothing to see here,” Crowley says. “I’ve been framed or whatever. Time to leave, right angel?”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?” He holds out his hand to shake.
“Agent Mulder.” The man, who is far too attractive to be wearing such an atrocious necktie, turns to Crowley as he shakes Aziraphale’s hand. “And you are?”
“I’m Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”
“Would those be your first names or last names?” Mulder asks as he takes his hand back and puts it in his pocket.
“I could ask the same of you and your partner. Are those your surnames?” Aziraphale says, smiling. He projects his aura of harmlessness more brightly than usual to calm the newcomer, whether he needs calming or not.
“Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, but don’t call me Fox. Not even my parents call me Fox.”
Aziraphale can see from the expression on Agent Scully’s face that his last statement isn’t literally true, but Mulder would like it to be.
“Very good then,” Aziraphale says. “My name is Aziraphale Fell, and this is Anthony Crowley.”
“Great,” Mulder says. Then he smiles, a smooth, slick grin that reminds Aziraphale very much of Crowley, who has gone rather quiet next to him, as a matter of fact. “Now that we’re acquainted, would you like to tell us what you were doing in the middle of a field of wheat last week, Crowley?”
Crowley expels air from his nose, and it’s nearly a laugh. “Nice try, but I don’t have any idea what you’re on about. This is the first I’m hearing about any—What was it, angel? Crop circles?”
Crowley is laying on the ignorance a little thick, but not supporting his claims isn’t an option. Still, Aziraphale can tease him a bit. “You recall, of course. Agent Scully showed us the photograph not five minutes ago.”
The crinkle of Crowley’s nose, communicating his amused annoyance, goes unnoticed to the two who haven’t known him for thousands of years.
“That’s right. How silly of me. You meant to imply that I was involved with the creation of those crop circles. Well, Aziraphale can confirm I was with him all night. Couldn’t have been me.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up. Crowley wouldn’t be implying—in front of—
“Is that so?” Agent Mulder asks with a playfully suspicious lilt to his voice. Aziraphale doesn’t like the sound of that. “You and your…friend were together from dusk until dawn?”
“That’s right,” Crowley says, crossing his arms defiantly.
“Scully, did you happen to mention to the gentlemen which night last week the crop circles appeared?”
Uh-oh.
“Not gentle or a man,” Crowley mumbles, but the agents don’t seem to hear him.
“No, I didn’t, Mulder,” Agent Scully answers. There’s a flicker of a fond expression on Agent Mulder’s face. His partner doesn’t appear to notice it.
“Neither did I. How did you know which night we were referring to? Are you in the habit of spending every night together?”
“What are you, a cop?” Crowley snaps, and Mulder raises his eyebrows. There’s quite a lot of that going around today.
“Yes?”
Despite the fact that it’s helpful in this case for Aziraphale to be Crowley’s ally, it’s certainly not wise overall. If Heaven or Hell were to hear that they spent every night in each other’s company, well, that would sound a lot like…
Like something an angel should never want, let alone do.
“Of course not,” Aziraphale says before he can overthink it too much. “I mean, I hope you’re not implying anything inappropriate, Agent Mulder.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lead you to believe there’s anything wrong with that. I just want to know who or what is creating the crop circles. Whoever it is hasn’t damaged a single plant.”
Don’t look at Crowley. Don’t look at Crowley.
When Aziraphale’s eyes twitch almost imperceptibly in Crowley’s direction, Mulder knows he’s onto something. It’s time to push.
“Except at the most recent site in Oxfordshire, on the night in question,” Mulder lies. “Several stalks of wheat snapped and died in the center of this circle,” he adds, tapping the photo quickly. “I think that’s where the culprit stood to survey his work. Sloppy, really.”
Crowley’s hands ball up into fists, and Aziraphale’s left arm flutters in Crowley’s direction, nearly landing before Aziraphale retracts it at the last moment.
Ah ha!
“Maybe a copycat, an amateur trying to leech some of the attention for himself.”
Crowley’s mouth pulls into a taut, thin line. “Show me,” he says through clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry?” Mulder asks. He hadn’t been expecting this. He’d expected the anger, a reasonable reaction for someone who takes pride in his work. But this?
“The damaged crops,” Crowley says. “I’d like to see them.”
Under the gruff exterior, the sharp edges and dark clothes, lurks an unexpected sincerity.
“We can go right now if you have transportation,” Mulder says.
When Crowley smiles his first genuine smile of the interview, Mulder regrets his suggestion immediately. There’s a dark mischief to the curl of those lips, and they part to reveal too-sharp teeth.
“We can take my Bentley,” Crowley offers, all too eager. Then, he directs an exaggerated wink at Scully, one that even his dark sunglasses can’t hide. Slick as snake oil.
Outside, Crowley makes a show of opening the door and bending the seat forward so that Scully can climb inside, while Mulder is left to fend for himself, folding his long legs at odd angles. Luckily, it’s actually rather roomy once he’s seated.
Mulder turns to Scully and rolls his eyes, but she’s looking out the window. When she nods and raises her eyebrows in the direction of the passenger door, Mulder sees that Crowley has sprinted around to open the door for Aziraphale. He even goes as far as to protect Aziraphale’s head and then closes the door gently. The car and the man in the front seat are clearly both precious to him. Mulder files this information away for later. That knowledge is something that he might be able to use to reason with Crowley, if he needs to. It’s always good to know what’s important to someone.
One of the first things Mulder notices once they get moving is that the antique car has no seatbelts. Of course, it wouldn’t have been designed with any, but as they approach ninety miles an hour he wishes someone would have added some. The scenery is only a blur, but they’re still in central London, and there must be pedestrians nearby.
Scully’s nails dig into the seat, but she doesn’t say anything. Always so brave and stubborn.
Crowley’s nose crinkles as though he’s in pain or irritated or both. “Don’t scratch the upholstery!” he growls. There’s no way he could have even seen her doing that from his vantage point.
After loosening her grip, Scully mouths what the hell? and Mulder shrugs. He has no idea, but he damn well plans to find out.
When they arrive, Crowley saunters out to the field, making a beeline for the crop circle as though he knows exactly where it will be. Of course he does. Mulder jogs to catch up, leaving Scully and Aziraphale behind.
“So, Crowley, if you had nothing to do with the crop circles, what’s your interest in this case?” Mulder asks. “And don’t try to tell me it’s nothing.”
Crowley slows down, although not much, and tries to cram his hands into his pockets. His pockets aren’t very deep, though, and they don’t really fit. Crowley’s long arms are akimbo as he struts. Now that Mulder looks closer, it seems like all of Crowley’s clothing is from the women’s section of the department store.
Mulder isn’t one to judge. There’s a dress or two at the back of his closet, not that he’d be able to easily find them these days, what with all the file boxes blocking the way. His life is the X-Files now.
“I like plants. That a problem?”
“So it’s the crops themselves that you’re interested in? Not the strange symbols or the paranormal aspects of the case?”
“Didn’t say that. Big spooky fan, me.”
“You’re in luck,” Mulder says, suppressing a smile. “Spooky is practically my middle name.”
Before they walk into the wheat, Mulder turns back to check on Scully. She’s walking at a leisurely pace and talking to Aziraphale. Good.
Of course Mulder jogs ahead. Those two and their freakishly long legs, Scully thinks. Taking her cue, she hangs back to talk to Aziraphale.
“I do apologize for Crowley’s driving. He can be a bit of a speed demon,” Aziraphale says, clasping his hands in front of himself.
“So he always drives that recklessly?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t—I mean, actually…yes,” Aziraphale says with a dry chuckle. “I suppose he does. It doesn’t matter how often I ask him to slow down, he won’t listen.”
“You don’t seem the type to stop asking, though,” Scully suggests. Aziraphale nods and shrugs. “I thought you’d be the kind of person to speak your mind.”
“Not always,” Aziraphale says, and a complicated series of expressions dances across his face. She doesn’t catch them all, but she sees surprise, guilt, sadness, and a few others.
“But when it’s important,” she offers.
“I try,” he says in a tone that implies that he either thinks he fails or that his efforts do no good. Someone has certainly done a number on him in the past. Scully makes a note to herself to see what information she can dig up about his past.
“It’s complicated. Got it,” Scully says.
Aziraphale smiles, and his face softens. “You do understand. I thought, perhaps…well. In your line of work you must see a lot of awful things and feel powerless to stop them. No matter how much good you do.”
Scully sighs, thinking of every victim she and Mulder were too late to rescue. Sometimes the weight of that responsibility makes it hard to breathe, and she scrambles to push the feeling away.
“Of course,” Scully agrees, grounding her emotions by focusing on the work she’s doing in the here and now. She reminds herself that it’s good interviewing technique to relate to the suspect—not that Aziraphale is a suspect. More of an accomplice, maybe, if he knew anything about it at all. In any case, it’s a good idea to make connections. Yeah, that’s all she’s doing. Building trust.
“Sometimes,” she says, “it seems like no matter how many bad people we lock away, there are still so many more left in the world.” She lets the mix of sadness and defeat she feels show on her face for a moment before shutting it back down. Yes, she understands.
Aziraphale nods.
Up ahead, Mulder and Crowley walk into the field, and her partner turns to peer over his shoulder at her before moving on. More than anything else, she appreciates the way he checks in with her. He’s considerate, and he wants to do the right thing. Scully smiles.
“Your partner,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head to nod sideways at him. “Are you close?”
“I trust him with my life,” she says without hesitation. Then she figures if he can fish, so can she. “What about you and Crowley?”
“Crowley and I are…old friends. He always comes through for me.”
It’s so much more than that. Scully can see it in the way Aziraphale gazes at Crowley while he meanders through the field, in the crinkle at the corner of his eye, in the way Aziraphale spins the ring on his pinky finger when he’s clearly worried about Crowley. She can see it in the way Aziraphale always watches Crowley out of the corner of his eye when they’re in the book shop together, as though he’d always rather be looking at Crowley than anything else in the world.
“You should tell him how you feel,” Aziraphale says.
“What?” Scully asks, confused.
“Agent Mulder. Don’t let the fact that you work together get in the way of how you feel about him.”
“Have you and Crowley ever worked together?” Scully asks, pulling on a thread that she hopes unravels a deeper truth. So much of her job is tugging on strings and seeing if anything comes apart. Not that she expects Aziraphale to come apart, exactly. He seems too strong for that. His walls are built up too high. But if she can chip away at the bricks a little, maybe…
“Not officially,” Aziraphale says.
Unofficially, then. Scully nods, feeling strangely like she’s just connected with Aziraphale in a way that most people never even get close to doing.
Mercifully, Agent Scully turns and follows Crowley and Mulder into the field. As much as he likes her, she’s far too intelligent, digging into his personal feelings for Crowley. And he’d gone and given away too much! Aziraphale considers using a miracle to wipe the embarrassing parts of their conversation from her memory, but he decides that if she notices that gap that will only make her more suspicious of him.
Crowley is making a show of inspecting the stalks of wheat near the edge of the large circle. Could he be any more ridiculous? How can he make subterfuge so attractive? It’s the question that has plagued Aziraphale throughout the centuries, and honestly he may never answer it to his satisfaction.
Mulder is watching Crowley, and Scully is watching Mulder. What a tangled web.
“Oh my,” Aziraphale says. “The photographs really didn’t do it justice. It’s quite a large formation!”
Crowley hums. “Gotta be big if you want it to be seen from space,” he says. “I mean, I’d guess that’s what the artist was going for.”
“Artist?” Scully asks.
“Yeah. Didn’t you two consider that it could be art? A bit like graffiti, isn’t it?”
“You mean vandalism,” Aziraphale says. “Leave it to you to consider vandalism to be art, Crowley.” Sometimes when it comes to maintaining professional distance, one must point out the misinterpretations of one’s intended foes.
“One man’s art is another man’s vandalism,” Mulder says. “Would graffiti be considered wrong if it weren’t illegal?”
“See? He gets it. Pretty anti-establishment for a federal agent,” Crowley says, pointing at Mulder. Then he stomps out to the center of the circle and crouches down. The rest of them follow, waiting to see what Crowley does. He mumbles to himself, touching the flattened wheat. “I thought you said the plants were damaged.”
“Well…” Mulder says.
Crowley struts over to where Mulder stands and pokes him in the chest with a finger. “These plants are in pristine condition. They could stand back up right now if I told them to.”
“If you what?” Mulder asks. He glances to his side and down, checking that his partner heard.
“Hypothetically, I mean. They’d be fine. Could they be stronger? Better?” Crowley asks, peering down at the ground with disappointment. “Of course they could. But they’re not harmed. Whoever did this was extremely good at it.” He crosses his arms, challenging anyone to disagree with him.
“You really do have a thing about plants,” Scully says. “Do you see anything here that would lead us to a suspect?”
“One that isn’t you, anyway?” Mulder asks, smiling like the cat who ate the canary.
Aziraphale frowns at him. “Why would you think Crowley was responsible for this?”
“The shapes of the formations, for one thing,” Mulder says. “Tell them, Scully.”
“We did some research on the symbols in the fields, and they almost match a language referenced in some ancient scrolls discovered in a cave. They were thought to be important religious texts at first, but the church declared them fakes. The thing is that they’re not forgeries. They are as old as they’re claimed to be. It’s just that the church rejects them.”
Aziraphale thinks he might remember those caves, might remember drinks by the fire with a certain demon, might remember intending to come back for some scrolls and never doing so. He exchanges a quick glance with Crowley.
“Some scholars think,” Scully continues, “that the scrolls are written in the original language of the angels. These match those almost exactly, with a few minor differences. Almost like an accent or like they’re slightly…misspelled. If you can misspell a symbol.”
Demons have never been the best at spelling.
“So?” Crowley challenges, jutting his hip out to one side. “What’s your point? What does that have to do with me?”
“Maybe nothing, except that you’re the one who sold those scrolls to a local collector several years ago,” Mulder says.
Aziraphale tries to keep his face neutral, although he wants to scowl at Crowley. So he’d taken the scrolls when they left the cave. Or at least gone back for them when Aziraphale hadn’t. He didn’t remember the ancient language of the angels at all. He’d learned it from the scrolls.
“Eh, probably another bloke with my name,” Crowley says.
“You also match the buyer’s description of the one who sold him the scrolls,” Mulder adds.
“Lotta people look like me,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can’t help that his eyes go big. “What?”
“You think a lot of people look like you?” Scully asks, and Aziraphale doesn’t like the way her eyes rake over his backside. “Tall, lanky, bright red hair, and those hips?”
“Were the hips specifically mentioned?” Aziraphale asks. He can’t help it. Crowley’s hips make his mouth water. They truly are hypnotic.
“You’re kidding, right? Of course they were,” Mulder says. Aziraphale doesn’t like the lust in his eyes either.
Crowley growls in frustration. “All right. Time to go. Everybody back to the car.”
The drive back to the hotel where Mulder and Scully are staying is quiet, although it feels like Scully can hear how loudly everyone is thinking. Not what they’re thinking, just that everyone has a lot on their mind.
“Thanks for the lift,” Mulder says as they get out of the car. He pats the roof of the Bentley and Crowley winces, gripping the wheel tighter.
“Best of luck with your investigation, agents,” Aziraphale says. “Mind how you go.” Then he waves a hand in their direction before Crowley drives away.
Scully feels a wave of pleasantness, serenity, and comfort wash over her. It tingles the base of her neck. The only other time she’s felt something like that is in church as a child. She feels frozen to the pavement until the car turns the corner. Scully looks down at her hand, which is over her heart.
“Mulder, did you feel that?”
“A feeling like someone walked over my grave, you mean?”
“More like… I don’t know. Like a blessing.” Scully recalls the overwhelming feeling of being seen when she was alone in the book shop with Aziraphale.
“What is it, Scully?”
She doesn’t want to tell him now, because of all the things Mulder believes, he can’t seem to accept when she brings up the topic of God. He’s not religious. All she wants is to be alone in her room, to sort through everything that happened today and unpack it. Scully always needs that at the end of the day, some time to herself to process everything, to unwind. Solitude.
But Mulder has hold of the topic now, and he won’t let it drop until she tells him.
“You didn’t get weird vibes from them?” Scully asks.
Mulder shrugs. “Maybe a little.”
“I think Aziraphale blessed us as they were leaving,” she says. It sounds silly to say it aloud, but the feeling is strong. It feels like there’s nothing in the world that will keep them from arriving home safely. She also felt a suggestion that they should make that journey soon, like a nudge.
“Blessed us?”
“Mulder, do you think angels exist?”
“Angels?” Mulder looks around like he’d rather be having this conversation in one of their rooms, but Scully has to get it all out now, or she’ll convince herself she imagined it.
“It was an angelic language in the field. What if angels made the crop circles. They could be a sign from God. A message, maybe. What if those two are angels?”
Mulder chuckles. “You’ll have a hard time convincing me that Crowley is an angel.”
She has to admit that’s fair. “What about Aziraphale, though? He’s the one who waved his hand at us as they were leaving. He has a…presence about him. Calming, good, kind. I agree, Crowley didn’t have that, but there was something off about him, too.”
“Maybe he was a demon,” Mulder suggests, chuckling. “No, Scully. They’re nothing more than humans. Are they involved? Maybe. I’d believe Crowley would go out to a field at night and flatten some wheat as a prank. And I’d believe his good friend Aziraphale wouldn’t want us to find out about that, that he’d protect Crowley. I think we found out everything we’re going to. Back home tomorrow.”
Scully relaxes. It will be good to be home. She expects to lie awake late into the night, thinking about everything that happened today, but as soon as her head hits the pillow, Scully falls into a deep sleep.
She wakes up exactly on time the next morning, no alarm required.
21 JULY 1995 - 7:30 PM
A.Z. FELL & CO.
SOHO, LONDON
“Did you really have to bless her, angel?” Crowley asks as they open their first bottle of the night.
“I wanted to be sure they arrive home safely,” Aziraphale says, “and that they see no reason to investigate you further. Crop circles, Crowley? Really?”
“All right, I’ll stop. But just so you know, they weren’t all me. I was just following along with a trend the humans started on their own.”
“As usual,” Aziraphale says fondly. He raises his glass. Crowley mirrors him and they both take a drink.
Crowley pulls power from Below and snaps his fingers. “There. No more demonic crop circles. Happy?”
Aziraphale smiles at him. “Yes. Thank you.” He takes a sip then purses his lips, and Crowley waits patiently. Aziraphale is obviously building up to asking him something. “Crowley, did you—I mean, you don’t have to answer if it’s too painful…”
Crowley feels cold suddenly—and like he’s missed the last step on a flight of stairs. They don’t talk about painful things. Best to rip off the plaster, or whatever humans say.
“Out with it, angel,” Crowley grumbles. The only thing worse than Aziraphale asking whatever he’s about to ask would be wondering what he held back. Leaning back in his chair, Crowley cranks up his mask of demonic indifference, which helps a little. Corporations are weird, getting clammy for no reason whatsoever.
“I found myself wondering,” Aziraphale says, “if you remembered the old language or if you learned it from those scrolls.” The angel stares at his wine glass like it might hold the answers.
Crowley gulps down the contents of his glass with the same hope.
“It felt…” Crowley starts, remembering the dull ache behind his eyes when he saw the scrolls for the first time. “I didn’t remember it, not exactly, but it was familiar. It was frustrating. I kept seeing the symbols in my sleep, so I went back to the cave. I don’t know why, because I knew you were planning to come back for the scrolls. But they were there, and that time when I unrolled one, it made sense. Felt like I should do something with that knowledge.”
Crowley shrugs, hoping he comes off as cool and unbothered. He doesn’t mention how long he spent reading them with tears in his eyes or the fact that he has the scrolls memorised. Then there was the paranoia of being caught with them that meant he’d needed to sell them quickly. Maybe he should’ve given them back to Aziraphale, but that would’ve led to a conversation much like this one.
“That something was insulting the Supreme Archangel,” Aziraphale says. The corner of his mouth twitches up before he hides it by finishing his wine.
“Naturally,” Crowley confirms, filling their glasses. It’s too quiet, so Crowley changes the subject. “Now, onto the important question. Are Mulder and Scully sleeping together?”
“If they aren’t, they sure want to be!” Aziraphale says. “Did you see the way she looks at him?”
“That’s nothing compared to the way he gazes at her!” Crowley says.
They laugh for a moment, until the mood changes. Crowley can feel it in the air. Sometimes when the topic of love and relationships comes up, Aziraphale turns a touch maudlin. Crowley wants to reach out, to make it better, but he isn’t allowed. His muscles burn with the tension of restraining himself, not allowing himself to reach out and touch.
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. “It’s complicated when two people work together. No matter how much they both want it, it’s probably better not to take that step, better to keep it professional. Imagine if their bosses found out.”
“They seem like smart people,” Crowley says. “Careful people. So yeah, maybe they don’t do anything about it now. But being careful never gets you what you really want. And someday, if they’re still there together? All those feelings will build up. They’ve got to go somewhere.”
“Do you think so?” Aziraphale asks, eyes on his shoes. Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting side by side on the sofa together. When did that happen? Crowley should remember. They haven’t had that much to drink, not yet.
“Yeah, I do. How much do you want to bet? We should check up on them in about ten years, see if they’re together.” Crowley shuffles his foot a little closer to Aziraphale’s, so they’re almost touching.
“Loser buys lunch?” Aziraphale suggests, the tiniest smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
“It’s a bet,” Crowley says. He touches the sides of their shoes together, and Aziraphale doesn’t pull away.
22 JULY 1995 - 11:55 AM
OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
The flight home is long, and there’s only so much sleeping Mulder can do. There’s only so much reading and only so much paperwork. When Scully sighs, Mulder turns to face her. She’s watching the clouds, and her expression is far too serious. Time to fix that.
“Do you think they’re together?” Mulder asks. “Crowley and Aziraphale, I mean.”
“They’re practically married,” Scully answers, smiling. Her hand slides off of her lap and lands casually between them, palm up. It could be an invitation. It could be nothing. Mulder stares at it for a moment.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Mulder says. “Plenty of married couples don’t have sex.”
“Well…”
“Wait, Scully, do you still think they’re an angel and a demon?”
“I never said Crowley was a demon.”
“You never said he wasn’t,” Mulder counters. “Can an angel and a demon be married?”
“Can they have sex?”
“Anyone can have sex.”
“Oh really?” Scully asks, turning to face him. “An angel and a demon? Probably explode.”
“That’s the idea, right?” Mulder snickers. “But no, really. I got a weird vibe from them.”
“That would be their occult and the ethereal energies,” Scully says. “And the fact that they’re totally married.”
“Nah, they’re definitely just a couple of gay guys. I could see Crowley out in the field with a long board, flattening the crops as a prank or a way to get attention from Aziraphale.”
After a beat of silence, Scully’s arm starts to move away, but Mulder slips his hand into hers and squeezes. He keeps his eyes trained out the window, watching the clouds.
“Totally,” he says.
25 JULY 1995 - 1:30 PM
WASHINGTON, DC.
Mulder stops dead in his tracks as they’re about to pass a newsstand.
“Scully, look at this!” he exclaims, picking up a copy of Weekly World News. “I guess Crowley told the wheat to stand back up.”
He holds it so she can see the cover.
“Crop circles disappear overnight,” Scully reads. Then she sighs and rolls her eyes. “Well, if it’s in the Weekly World News, it must be true.”
“Well, if he’s an angel—”
“I never said Crowley was an angel, Mulder.”
“His partner made him clean up his vandalism, then. That I would believe.” Mulder pays for the tabloid, no doubt intending to clip the article for the case file. “His human partner.”
“You’d believe in anything, Mulder,” Scully says, her voice fond. “Except angels.”
“I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, don’t I?” Mulder asks, lightly bumping his elbow into her bicep. As they resume walking, he flips through the magazine. “Look, Scully, another sighting of Bat Boy. This time in Texas.”
“Mulder, no,” Scully protests. “We are not going to Texas.”
Mulder pouts. “You’re no fun,” he says, but his smile gives his happiness away.