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1941's nazi 'loyalty' & the 'un'holy water

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LONDON

1941

 

Air raid sirens echoed the dark, tense night, mixed with the chiming of a clock. The world was in the midst of Word War II, with fear and tensions high. (It's a demons wet dream, and they're all hard at work so it seemed.)

Crowley was walking down a dark, gloomy, and cold Church. He had a large, brown, leather bag and tucked under his arm was a brown pot, with a large plant growing in it. He wore a white fedora, and was in a white, fitted suit, and white shoes, a grey toned shirt, and a slighter darker grey toned tie, with a black handkerchief in his top pocket, his red hair combed back and under his hat.

There, at the end of the aisle sat two men in black suits, and angel statue between them, and candles on either side. The two men, are German, and are the men he's 'working' with, he took his hat off and clutched it to his chest, "Mr. Glozier, Mr. Harmony." He greeted, a friendly smile on his face.

"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley." Mr. Glozier greeted, looking down to his pocket watch he brought from his blazer. "You are late." He was rather chubby, with a grey receding hairline, "but not to worry." He assured.

Mr. Harmony stood up, and gestured to the large plant, and the bag, "you have the plants for the Fuehrer?" He was tall and rather lanky, also fairly slimy looking too, like a woozle, (is that the name of that animal?)

"Yeah, I do." Crowley set the bag down on the small wooden table, and the plant pot next to it. He opened the bag, allowing the two Germans to look through the bag. "Plants through prophecy. Otwell Binns used Arum Lilies, Robert Nixon used White Bryony, and Mother Shipton used Cow Parsley." Also known as Devil's Parsley, but for obvious reasons didn't use that name. "All grown from the original soil source, as asked."

Mr. Harmony looked to Mr. Glozier, and the two looked over a few with close inspections.

"What about the other plant we told you to bring us?" Asked Mr. Harmony. Crowley tensed, and swallowed. Mr. Harmon continued, "the Fuehrer was most definite that he needs it. It was used to help gain prophecies that are true. With the plant used for the true prophecy book, the War," he laughed, "is as good as won." He explained, though the problem with this is; there is no book.

Crowley never liked books, he preferred plants himself, someone else liked books... Someone he doesn't think about, or tries to. The Germans had asked for these specific plants as they believed they could held tell the future, but for this last plant... He has no idea what plant it was. Honestly, books would have been more useful to them, but as far as anyone knew, these books no longer existed, (though they do, it's just not known), and the books that did exist, were fake and frauds. And so, the German's settled for plants, so they could use them to figure out the future.

"The plant used, and supposedly specified in the book, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch." Crowley said, nodding. "No luck there." Mr. Glozier looked up. "That's Holy Grail of prophetic books, and plants." The book has no copies, and therefore, he has no idea what plant he could use. Even they had no idea, they were just vague. He'd give anything to have the plant used by Ms. Nutter, even to hold the book! That would be amazing in of itself!

"The Fuehrer also wants the Holy Grail, both book and plant." Mr. Glozier said, as he gentle touched the plant pot of the Arum Lilies. "And the the plant for the Spear of Destiny, should you run across them." Crowley nodded, tensely as he swallowed.

"So, there are no copies of Agnes Nutter's book, and therefore no plant?" Asked Mr. Harmony, as Crowley's gaze fell to him. "We have made it clear that money is no object." He said, holding the White Bryony, small reading glasses on his face as he looked over the label. "You will be a very rich man." He assured the angel.

"The unsold copies of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies were burned by the publisher." Crowley explained, he had done research to find the plants she used, with no such luck, just a lot of information about the unsold books and went into a deep dive of information to find out more. "That was all of 'em, never sold a copy, and so, no plant." He sniffed, a frown on his face. His eyes lit up, "oh! I found the publisher's record for 1655, and it listed one of Ms. Nutter's prophecies." Like he said, he did his research! He found the witch interesting, as did... Another person, the same one he's tried to forget about over recent years.

"What was it?" Mr. Harmony asked all giddy, seemingly more excited then Crowley - the angel was more interested in the plants, then the prophecies itself, but he would still love to read the book!

"A prophecy for 1972. 'Do not buy Betamax.'" Crowley quoted, amazed he had found one, as he looked between the men.

With a frown, Mr. Glozier looked to his partner then the angel, and asked, "who is Peter Max?"

Crowley shrugged, slouching, "haven't a clue."

"I will pass it on to the Fuehrer." Assured Mr. Harmony with a nod, turning away.

Mr. Glozier looked over the larger plant, "these plants of prophecy will be in Berlin by the end of the week." He said, placing the plants they had taken out back into the bag, "the Fuehrer will be most grateful."

Crowley nodded, a bright, yet sharp, watery, snake-like smile on his face.

"You have been exceedingly helpful, Mr. Crowley." Mr. Harmony said.

Suddenly, the clicking of a gun sounded, and Mr. Glozier stood, the gun now out and pointed at the angel. "Such a pity you must be eliminated, but take heart, just another death in the Blitz."

Crowley's nose scrunched up into a sneer, "that's not very nice."

Mr. Glozier scowled, "you do not appear worried, my friend."

"He's not worried." Called a female voice, making the two Nazi's confused, and Crowley grinned, 'ha!' 

Mr. Harmony frowned, his eyes landing on a female at the beginning of the aisle. She was in all black, with a hat on top of her head, and a gun pointed at them. "Who is she?" He asked.

"She, my double-dealing Nazi friends, is the reason why none of those plants are goin' to Berlin," smirked Crowley, as the woman walked forward, gun pointed at them. "And why your spy ring will be spendin' the rest of the War behind bars!" He called out, his eyes gleaming in joy. He couldn't lie, he took great pleasure in watching Mr. Glozier and Mr. Harmony raised their hands in surrender. "This is Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence." He introduced, with a slight bow of the head to her.

Rose smiled, "thank you for the introduction."

Crowley was practically dancing in excitement, as he smiled a dazzling smile of welcome to her. His eyes were all sparkly, and gleaming in victory. He was feeling all giddy, and his stomach was doing all kinds of flips, "our side know all about you two." He admitted rather cockily. "Rose hired me to work for ya." He nodded, smugly. "And now she's gonna tell you that this building's surrounded by British agents." He was getting excited all over again, adrenaline shooting through his veins. "And that you two 'ave been played for suckers!"

"Yes, about that—" Started Rose, face no longer smiling.

"Right. Everyone!" Called Crowley, his voice echoing the very empty Church. "Come on! Get them!" He yelled, and when nobody came in, his smug smile slowly disappearing. He didn't notice Mr. Glozier and Mr. Harmony's fearful faces turn into coy smirk. Crowley looked to Rose, his sharp smile a little more nervous now, wavering, "Rose, where're your people?"

Mr. Harmony laughed, and shrugged, dropping his hands, "we are all here." He smiled, all smiley as he gestured to himself and Mr. Glozier.

Mr. Glozier smiled, and moved forward, his hands down, "allow me to introduce Fraulein Greta Kleinschmidt."

Fraulein turned, a scowl on her face, and she pointed her gun directly at Crowley's face, and his eyes widened in shock and horror, and he gasped, backing into the Church bench seat.

"She works with us."

Crowley's eyes were trained on the barrel of the gun, and he gasped in shock, glancing to the men, and he felt his heart thundering against his chest, threatening to escape.

Mr. Glozier looked to Fraulein, and said something in German. "You fooled the shithead florist. Good job, darling."

"It wasn't hard, darling." Fraulein said back, in German.

The two were sharing loving looks between each other, and the pet names, which Crowley could understand, sent a wave of sadness through his chest. He has tried for so long to forget the nickname he gave to a certain male, or at least, presenting male last he saw, the same one he's been trying to forget for years.

She looked to a sad, and shocked Crowley. "He's very gullible."

He looked between all three German's, he hates how gullible angels are, himself included! They trusted a bit too easily sometimes, and he gave people the benefit of the doubt.

"'Played for a sucker'." Mr. Harmony said, turning to the plants. He seemed rather entertained with the idiom he had just learned, "I must remember that. I am played for a sucker, you are played for a sucker, he, she, it..." He chuckled, "will be played for a sucker." He picked the bag, and big pot up, turning back to the scene.

"Now, where were we?" Asked Mr. Glozier, before calling out with a smile, "oh, yes! Killing you."

Crowley groaned and looked to the ceiling in anger, "oh! Give me a break! Why am I in danger, again?! Always me! I bet your havin' a good ol' laugh up there!" He yelled, voice echoing in anger and sadness, "'oh! Look at the Archangel Crowley! Trustin' humans again, I'll show him!' Bet you're watchin' with popcorn! Huh?!" He frowned, "give me a little break..." He begged, but nothing happened, no Divine help, no light, no nothing, "please?"

Mr. Glozier said, "no use praying, Mr. Crowley."

"You can't kill me." Crowley said, finally looking to the humans now, with his eyes wide looking between them. "There'll be paperwork." Always about the paperwork, but he didn't want to deal with that right now, he might cry if he has to! And, there'd be so much! How could he explain this? He lost his body due to 'working with' Nazis?!

Creaking echoed the Church suddenly, and the double doors opened and closed with a bang, the sound bouncing off the cold walls. All four of them turned, and Crowley couldn't fight back the smile that made it's way to his lips. There, turning the corned and now at the beginning of the aisle was a figure, in black. He wore a long, black jacket and a grey toned undershirt, with a dark grey waistcoat, and a black and dark red tartan bow tie, with a black fedora hat, black shoes and black sunglasses.

He was gasping in pain, and hopping from one foot to the other, as if walking on something hot and sharp, and he hobbled down the aisle, "oh! Ah! Ow! Eh! Ow!" He called, with each bounced footstep, and other noises that were more goat then human.

Crowley couldn't help himself as he let out a breathy, "darling..." He's eyes were soft; it was his darling. His demon.

The German's looked at the scene confused, and at a loss of what to do.

Azirafell was hobbling along in pain, "ah! Apologies, consecrated ground." He apologised, getting closer to the group, he shoulders were tense, and up to his ears, and his face was contorted to one of pain. "Oh! It's like... Being at the beach in bare feet!" He grumbled out, arms swinging, trying to ignore the pain, and distributing it through his body.

Crowley shook his head, he's supposed to be fighting with the demon, as oppositions! And... It hit him all at once, Azirafell shouldn't be here! In a Church, with guns trained on him, well both of them now! This was the worst situation the demon could be in! Would would Below say when they found put he was here, working against the Nazis?! "What are you doing here?" He hissed out quietly from both anger and worry. He began moving forward to get to Azirafell, but froze as the gun pointed by Fraulein now closer to his face, and he froze.

"I'm stopping you getting into trouble!" Azirafell snapped back, his eyes narrowed at the German woman, though his snapping was mainly from the searing, burning pain in his feet. He sounded breathless from the hot sizzling, and was still skipping from one foot to the other.

"I should'a known. O'course!" Crowley sighed, annoyed at himself. "These people're working for you!"

Azirafell's eyebrows shot up, annoyed and seemed rather offended, "no! They're an assemblage of half-witted," he waved his hand, "Nazi spies, scampering around London, blackmailing and slaughtering people!" He stamped from one foot to the other again, leaning on a bench slightly, face in a horrible wince, as he kept one foot up longer then the last each time. The Nazi spies just looked horrible confused and thrown off from the whole ordeal. "I just didn't want to see you embaa-arrassed!" He baa-ed out in pain. He suddenly winced, and wriggled yet still somehow swayed, hopping in a circle, head thrown back in pain, as he flicked his ankles, kicking his feet out.

"Mr. A. Z. Fell." Mr. Glozier said, "your fame precedes you."

With a frowned, Crowley looked to Azirafell, "A. Z. Fell?" He asked, nose scrunched up in confusion, and his eyebrows knitted together.

"You don't like it?" Mumbled Azirafell, hobbling in pain. He'd change his name instantly if Crowley didn't like it, and that only scares the demon, but he wouldn't admit to it.

"No, no, I didn't say that!" Crowley denied, eyes wide in shock. His face fell, "I'll get used to it!" He admitted, caving to the truth as a promise.

"The famous Mr. Fell?" Fraulein asked, eyes wide in interest. "That's such a pity you must both die." Though she didn't sound like it was a pity.

It suddenly occurred to Crowley that; Azirafell might have a small business on the side of being a bookshop owner, such as his own spies, as this was something the demon didn't enjoy; War's and people dying...

Azirafell tipped his black hat to her in greeting, a coy, sexual smirk on his lips, still hopping on his feet.

Another thought came to Crowley, less worried about the Nazi's now that his... ex-friend was here. "What does the "A" and "Z" stand for?" Crowley asked, looking back to the demon, face full of confusion.

Azirafell kept jumping from one foot to the other, and hummed, "the first two letters of my name." (In truth he came up with it when he was drunk, and he was not about to admit his full name to the humans was; Azirafell Zirafell Fell.)

"Oh, yeah." Hummed Crowley, nodding.

"Look at that!" Gasped Azirafell, his eyes landing on a stone bowl, with intricate designs carved into it, and it was on a pedestal, with more carved designs. He was still leaping from one foot to the other. It was filled to the brim with clear, rippling water. "It's a whole fontful of Holy Water!" He turned, hobbling away, moving around to ease the pain. "It doesn't even have guards!" He was hatching another plan, one to get Holy Water. Honestly, neither the angel or demon wanted to have this conversation again, and Crowley sighed, clearly Azirafell was still sore about the topic.

"Enough babbling. Kill them both." Mr. Glozier said, waving a hand and turning around.

Azirafell turned around, and tripped back, one foot in front of the other, "in one minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here." He warned, pointing his index fingers to the ground, bobbing on his feet. They all looked to him in confusion. "If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die." He said, looking at them, "you will not enjoy dying, especially what comes after."

Sirens wailed louder, and louder in the distance, filling the sky.

"You expect us to believe that?" Asked Mr. Glozier, a smirk on his face, one of disbelief. "The bombs tonight will fall on the East End." He looked out, proud of himself.

"Correct." Agreed Azirafell, who was now swaying and cavorting against the bench on the church, one foot behind his leg and pressed against his calf. "It would take a spontaneous, last-minute demonic intervention to divert them off course, yes." He continued.

Crowley's head snapped to him, and looked to him in shock, "darling, you didn't..."

He looked to him, eyes soft, before looking to the Germans. "You're all wasting your valuable escaping time." Azirafell called, backing up, jouncing from one foot to the other, arms out and hands raised. He stood, swaying and looked to the angel, "and if, in 30 seconds, a bomb indeed does land here, it would take a fervent miracle for my friend and I to survive it."

Crowley tensed, locking eyes with Azirafell's, whose eyebrows were raised, "a-a fervent miracle?" He asked, nervously, "Azirafell..." He moved to him, but paused again, the gun closer to him.

Mr. Harmony waved a hand, "kill them. They are very irritating." 

Azirafell paused in his limping, and pointed upwards with his index fingers. The siren was heard louder, as air whistling echoed the quiet Church, as the German's and two celestial beings looked up. The sound of bombs exploding echoed the area, as did screaming, and crying, the shattering and quaking of stone filled the fear.

The German's cursed, and went to make a mad dash, and the celestial beings tensed up. Crowley scrunched his nose up, and clenched his glowing eyes, and squeezing his hands, nails digging into his skin, his fingers glowing, trying to use his Healing abilities to keep both himself, Azirafell and anyone good in close proximity safe, and unharmed from the bombs.

Finally, a bomb fell.

There was a violent, red, hot and loud explosion, the world shook and crumbled.

An angel and demon stood in the fire, and rubble of the Church, with no scratch on them, but their shoulders were covered in dust. Air sirens sounded in the distance, as well as screams of terror, and feet scattering. The place was full of destruction, and fear, as well as a few building that were now collapsed and caved in.

Crowley looked around, eyes soft, realising he was alive and the German's were gone. He was safe. "That was kind of you." He smiled, looking at the demon.

Azirafell shuffled on his burned feet, swaying and feeling awkward as he cleaned his dust covered glasses, "put a sock in it." He sneered, unknowing of Crowley's admiring gaze his goat eyes. He slid his glasses back on, wondering if he said the idiom right.

"It was. There's no paperwork." Shrugged Crowley, and suddenly his eyes turned to one of horror. "The plants! I forgot the plants!" He called sadly, eyes filling with golden tears, "they'll be blown up..." He trailed off, seeing the demon move.

Azirafell had moved to a pile of rubble cobble and stone, and lifted the large plant pot up and gave it to Crowley, and then gripped the bag, snatching it from the dead body's hand, and handed that over too, "a small demonic miracle of my own." He shrugged, and looked away, "would you like a lift home, angel? I have a car..." He asked, staggering away.

Crowley held his plants close, his eyes wide in shock as he watched Azirafell stroll away. He smiled softly, realising two things; 1) He was still very much in love with Azirafell. And 2) The feeling was very much mutual.

He rushed after the demon, and took his arm, "I'll drive." He knelt down and looked up to Azirafell as if he was some God, some form of Holy being, and the demon flushed bright red, finding the whole thing to be scandalous. He took Azirafell's feet gently, and the tips of his fingers glowed gold, and a pleasant tingle soothed his feet. Standing, the Archangel smiled, "we're going to mine, and we're healing your feet properly..." As in; water and a washcloth, with a bit of magic. He is an Archangel of Healing, after all. And, if Azirafell thought him kneeling down to him was bad, he was going to hate his feet being washed.

"But, you—" Started Azirafell, ready to deny the Archangel. Oh, yeah! He knew what the Archangel was going to do.

Crowley pressed his finger to the demons lips, his eyes soft and adoring, "come along, darling."

 

 

SOHO, LONDON

1967

 

Azirafell sat at a circular table, wearing a long, black jacket of sorts, with circle black sunglasses. He wore a dark grey undershirt and dark red, tartan bow tie, with black shoes that bent in at the front, like a goats hoof. His pants seemed, furry of sorts, puffy at the top, and tight at the bottom. Next to him sat a man in an oversized coat, across from him sat a woman in red. They were his hired workers; Spike and Sally.

The room was dimly lit, with one light hanging over head and he interlaced his fingers, back straight, his guests all slouched and leaning.

"Spike, you're the muscles." Azirafell said, running a had through his curled hair. "You will be hauling on the ropes." He licked his lips, hungrily.

Spike nodded his head to Sally, "and she'll be going down on the ropes then?"

Azirafell smirked, and went to make a sexual remark back, but paused, hearing a noise.

Something clicked, and rattled, and creaked, and Azirafell mumbled, "wait a minute." He looked over, tense. He had locked the door, and even used a demonic miracle to keep it shut, and yet someone was unlocking it, picking the door. There at the door stood a sandy blond man with in a black coat, and black jumper, over a colourful shirt, "who are you, darling boy?"

"I-I understand you need a locksman." He said in a... Welsh accent, is that? He was flushing, as he pushed a contraption behind his ear. The flush on his cheeks told Azirafell everything; straight, and not used to flirtatious remarks.

"I was expecting Mr. Narker." Admitted Azirafell, looking over the man with lustfully hungry eyes. What he could do to this man...

The man tensed, seeing the gaze, and he nodded, gaining some bravery to walk over, "well, Mr. Narker's passed on to his reward. I've taken over the business." He explained not noticing Sally give him a look as he walked behind her. "He was my cellmate." Spike glared at him. "He taught me everything he knew. My name's Shadwell."

Azirafell smiled coyly, so far impressed with Mr. Shadwell, "well darling." He purred out, a flirty smirk on his face, and relished the panicked look in his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow cockily, "do sit down, Mr. Shadwell."

"Lance Corporal Shadwell." Shadwell said, swallowing, "if you don't mind."

Azirafell stared at Shadwell with a confused frown on his face, when Sally asked, "so, what's so valuable that they're going to leave it in a Church at night?"

Shadwell took a seat next to Spike, tense and watched everyone, it was clear he didn't fit in with this lot.

"We shall go over the details of what you will be obtaining for me when we get there." Assured Azirafell, messing with his golden circular pocket watch. A watch that had the date, and time of every country and time zone of the world. "You will all be extremely, and well compensated." He reached into his trench coat, and fished out an envelopes full of money. He began to go through the notes, setting them down.

Shadwell raised his hand, and Azirafell looked up. His goat eyes gleamed, and seemed rather interested in this Shadwell fellow, "you have an inquiry, darling, Lance Corporal Shadwell?" He paused in dishing out the money.

Spike and Sally looked to the Lance Corporal, annoyed and tense, and sent him glares, as if warning him to not screw this gig up for them.

"Stealing from a Church." Shadwell repeated, his cheeks a bright red, mortified from the sex fiend that is Mr. Fell. "There's nae Witchcraft involved here, is there?"

Spike frowned, and glared the man, as if he was threatening this caper, yet was also confused.

"No." Assured Azirafell, "completely Witch-free burglary." This man was focusing on all the wrong issues, and he waited to see his response. He too was extremely confused as to where this question was coming from, and how he came to the conclusion.

Shadwell hummed, "pity."

"Any other queries?" Asked Azirafell, slowly, his eyes dancing around the room. He rather just get on with it now, and went to continue, but paused, swallowing as the same voice broke through the room.

Again it was him, Shadwell spoke up, making the demon sigh. "You are not yourself a Witch, Warlock or someone that calls your cat funny names?" Sally looked to Shadwell, confused, as did Spike.

Azirafell didn't seemed to mind now, if anything he was now rather impressed and curious. Who exactly was this man? "I am not a Witch. I have no pets." (Not counting his angelic Archangel of Healing snake, Crowley... If people wished to include him.) "Anyone else?" He continued putting out the money, to show he was now done with the Witch-talk.

"What are we getting paid?" Sally asked, her elbow resting on the table, and Spike nodded fondly at the question.

"A hundred now, and another hundred when the deed is done. A hundred more to keep silent." Azirafell explained, and the three mortals smiled in excitement, and let out chuckles.

 

 

Azirafell strolled out into the night, his eyes squinting in the bright neon lights from the street lights, and bulbs. He adjusted his glasses slightly, as music filled the air. He was going back to his bookshop to settle for the night, and read a book or two, with a cup of hot chocolate.

"Mr. Fell!" Called a voice. Shadwell... The demon turned to see him standing in the entrance of the building. "May I have a moment of your time?"

"Yes... My darling, Lance Corporal Shadwell." Azirafell said, strolling up to him. "What are you a lance corporal in, dear? You don't seem like an army fellow."

Shadwell tensed up, and his eyes darted around in a straight, no-homo panic, "well, that is precisely the matter upon which I planned to talk to you." He said, waving a hand nervously. "You might remember earlier this evening, I asked a rather pointed question about Witchcraft."

Azirafell was glaring in confusion at him behind his black, tinted glasses, "correct, my dear." He raised an arm, trapping the human between himself and the wall.

Shadwell squeaked, and shrunk down in fear, "I-I'm not g-gay..."

"Well, I am." Responded Azirafell, with sexual smirk, but then frowned. "Most of the time..." (It should be noted, that at times, Crowley changes gender and experiments, and so, when Crowley doesn't use he, or him pronouns, Azirafell is not gay. He is whatever sexuality allows him to Fall for Crowley, over and over again.)

"I-I am a proud member of an enormous organisation. Vast." Shadwell looked around nervously, either from the man or in case people heard, he was unsure, but he was desperately moving on with the conversation. Taking what he classed as a big risk, leaned into the demon to keep their discussion more private. "A secret Army that battles the forces of Witchery."

Azirafell nodded, glancing to his lips, and shook his head as if impressed, "how pleasant for you."

"The Witchfinder Army. Perhaps you've heard of it." He said, giving a glance over of the demon, swallowing.

The Witchfinder Army? It's been years since he heard of these jokers, and he hid his annoyance. This Army had killed hundreds to thousands of people who were not Witches, but to act like a human, he asked, "what? I thought you said it was secret." He sounded like he was dumbfounded, and confused, when in actuality, he wanted to strangle him, or have fun... Maybe both if the man was into that...

"Well, you never know when a fine gentleman such as yourself might have need of such an organisation." Shadwell shrugged. Even though Azirafell knew they were useless, and moronic, it was a good point, this organisation would come in handy at some point. "A man with hundreds of pounds to throw around." He nodded, "if you need us, the Witchfinder Army are here for you."

"An entire Amy, darling?" Asked Azirafell, in doubt yet wonder.

"Yes." Shadwell agreed.

Azirafell nodded in thought, "huh... How interesting. How very noble of you, dear boy. A man such as yourself, working for such an honourable cause, it must be very... Rewarding." He purred out, his hand gently on Shadwell's shoulder. He hasn't had a good night in a while, and maybe he could with this fellow.

Shadwell blushed, his eyes wide in horror, and he shuffled, swallowing, "w-well... I-I don't think this is r-right..."

"I do believe you're supposed to respect with your Commanding Officers, correct?" Asked Azirafell, rhetorically, scowling.

Shadwell's back straightened, "yea! S-Sorry my Lordship, sir, Lord, uh Mr. Fell..." He swallowed, blushing more.

Azirafell stopped playing with him, and smirked, moving away, "you're a fine fellow, my dear."

"Think it over." Said Shadwell, taking a deep breath, "y-you know where to find me." He shakily pulled away, and walked off, putting a cigarette pick between his lips.

Azirafell smirked, it was always easy to mess with the panicked no-home males. He walked away, and down the busy and loud street. He strolled, looking at the shops down Soho, most of them were locked up and closed, and a few were open, and mostly empty, and as said, neon lights lit the road. Luckily, it was quick to get to his bookshop. There his red shop was on the corner of the road, but he paused, noticing something was off.

(It should be noted, that while Azirafell didn't like the newer of technologies, he did have a few things. But the main one was a car. He may or may not have been rather fascinated by them, and bought a black 1929 Mercedes-Benz SSK, with a pull back roof atop - which costed more, but it was really beautiful and fast, good for him as he drove at high illegal speeds. The leather seats were red, and he would always get stares of envy. He didn't drive it often, it was more for show, as always preferred walking.) There, next to his car, was a lovely white Bentley with black leather seats, one that was driven constantly, as the angel didn't like when Azirafell drove at life threatening speeds.

He frowned, and moved to his still locked shop door. He opened said door, and the antique bell rang for his greeting, and swayed into the dust, and dark shop. He paused, something white catching his eyes. There slouched on his beige, antique sofa, sat his angel, his Crowley. He was in a white turtleneck, and white, flared, bell pants, and a fitted, shoulder padded blazer. His red hair was in a mop, as it was in style right now, with healed shoes, and... And, he seemed to have taken a page out of Azirafell's tainted book, and was wearing pink tinted, round glasses.

Crowley smiled, tensely at him in greeting.

"What are you doing here?" Asked Azirafell, a frown on his face, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

"I wanna talk you." Admitted Crowley, swallowing.

"Yes?" The demon asked, crossing his arms.

Crowley sighed, "I pop into Soho. I hear things." He explained, "I hear that you're going to rob a Church." He could see the moment Azirafell tuned out, as the demon turned away annoyed. "Azirafell, it's too dangerous." He pleaded, a frown on his face. (A frown that shouldn't be there, in Azirafell's opinion.) "Holy Water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you!"

"You discussed with me what you conjectured a hundred and five years ago." Azirafell said, shaking his head looking to the man.

"And I haven't changed my mind!" Crowley retaliated quickly, not letting go of his belief. "But I won't let you risk your life." He shook his head, eyes soft as the demon looked away. "Even for something dangerous." He said, desperately holding back sobs, and his voice now wavering. "So..." He stood up, and shakily walked to the demon, suddenly holding out a white and black, tartan thermos flask, the lid of it black, with a small handle on it. Azirafell turned and stared at it, as Crowley held it out to him, "you can call off the robbery." He gripped the bottle gently, swallowing back bile. The demon looked between the thermos and Crowley. "Don't go unscrewing the cap." He begged, shaking.

Azirafell stared, and slowly, he took off his glasses and set them on one of the book shelves. "It's the real thing?" The demon asked, as he took hold of the flask with such care, and gentleness, one hand on the base and the other on the cap. He heard the liquid splash, and slosh in the plastic, and he felt the dull burn beneath his fingertips. He looked to Crowley, who now also had his glasses off, and was fiddling with them. They locked eyes, and the demon's grip tightened slightly.

Crowley could read the silent question in the demons gorgeous goat eyes; Did you make this? Or, did it come from upstairs? Or, even a Church? "The holiest." He answered, softly; I made it.

Azirafell stared in shock, and looked to the thermos, "after everything you said." He gasped out, voice soft. "Am I to... damn you now?" He asked, believing this to be a 'give something, get something back' routine, like a deal.

"No, I'm happy you didn't." Admitted Crowley, eyes soft and a sad smile on his face. "I like being an angel, makes it easier for things like that." He said, jerking his head to the flask. "And, I like doing miracles, helping people..."

"Should I express my sincere gratitude, then?" Asked Azirafell, relieved the angel was past the point of damnation, relieved he was happy as an angel.

Crowley stiffly shook his head, swallowing, eyes filling with golden tears, "better not."

"Well, would you like a drink?" Asked the demon, voice soft, as he gestured to his sofa again.

"Nope." Crowley smiled, tense. Azirafell frowned, his eyes sad and his shoulders sagging, swallowing. He seemed like he wanted to spend time with him, be with him... Almost desperate. With a frown of his own, tense, Crowley said, "oh, don't look so sad. One day we could... Go for a picnic. Eat at the Ritz."

"You prefer alcohol." Azirafell said, all soft, and sad.

Crowley gave a wavering smiled, "you prefer food."

Swallowing back a lump of dejection, Azirafell said, "I'll get you a drink. Anything you like."

It fell silent for a second, tense and somehow it got more sad in the bookshop. Slowly, Crowley looked to his demon. His own soft, hazel eyes filled with gold tears, meeting blue eyes, with rectangular goat pupils, filled with bloody tears.

"You go too fast for me, Azirafell."

Azirafell couldn't lie, that hurt. But, he knew where his angel was coming frown, and he looked down to his shoes. Crowley walked out of the shop, and shut the door, sauntering off to his Bentley with a sniff, and he rubbed his golden tear filled eyes, sliding his glasses back on on his face before anyone saw.

Azirafell looked to the flask in his hands, and turned the bottle with his fingertips, looking it over in shock, he slid his fingers down it, feeling the dull burn, and he sighed, reassured.