Favourite Demon (The Entire Bloody Boring Fourteenth Century Part I)

December 1311 CE, Berfrestone, England

December, 1311 CE, Berfrestone, England

A few hours later, Aziraphale had apparently forgotten all his new good intentions and was thoroughly sloshed. Crowley, relying on the low light from the fire and candle on the table, had pulled a hood up over his head to hide the tattoo and eyes which might mark him as the hated Favourite, having discarded the circles of tinted glass. That was partly in case anyone remembered the disgraced Earl of Cornwall had light sensitive eyes even in the dark, and partly to better watch the angel gradually mellow and become more of his own self.

Aziraphale was absently devouring surprisingly excellent salted fish pie on a stale bread trencher and—laughing. His teeth flashed white in the candlelight, his faint glow seeming to radiate from his smile as much as from his eyes. It was as if the stiff, sombre Aziraphale of the last decade had melted away under the light and wine.

"Well, I wasn't to blame about the Bishop of Lichfield, really," Crowley said. "I mean, he'd just been back from the Papal court after facing charges of witchcraft and Satanism."

"He was cleared of all charges!" Aziraphale protested.

"As if a Pope could recognise a Satanist when he saw one. Anyway, half your Bishops are ours. Or, rather, devil worshippers," he added, a bit awkwardly. All those ridiculous rituals and orgies were a bit of a sore spot, especially when Aziraphale was in a scathing mood. That was without getting into the infanticide and baby eating, which Crowley quite frankly couldn't bear to think about, as if any demon could come up with such a grotesque idea. Completely pointless for the Great Cause, sending spotless souls to swell Heaven's ranks. Even Prince Lucifer tended to be pissed off about that one.

Humans.

"Anyway," he said, changing the subject quickly. "I thought it was possible. He had the kind of self-righteous unpleasantness that usually means he is one of Ours. Or a particularly devout one of Yours." Aziraphale glared reproachfully and a little unsteadily at him. "So I checked in with Dagon. That bloody bastard of a paperwork queen mistook the name and said the Bishop had offered a pact with Satan but no one had the time to turn up and get it signed and sealed yet. You know how lazy our lot can be. They procrastinate until the candidate up and dies of old age."

"I could have told you he was one of Ours," Aziraphale said reproachfully.

"You weren't answering my missives," Crowley said, trying not to let the hurt show. "Anyway, he was a complete pain in the arse as the Royal Treasurer. Edward had all these plans for masques and horses and tourneys and clothes—oh, the clothes, angel—and he wouldn't loosen the purse strings.

"So I thought I'd help things along. I turned up at his bedchamber with a bottle of wine and my most tight-fitting hose" Crowley rose to his feet for full effect, tossed back his hood and thrust one hip suggestively forward. "You've successfully summoned a demon, heart's gleam. What do you want to do with me?" He seductively batted yellow eyes at Aziraphale, leering.

Aziraphale stared at him a long blank moment, and then tittered. A small titter that spread across his face and chest until he was shaking with laughter, and Crowley collapsed in his chair, laughing too.

"Fortunately he decided it was one of the Prince's practical jokes, and I was just exiled from Court for a bit rather than being exorcised. Although Dagon probably would have found it a bit of a joke and signed off on a new body pretty quickly."

"Crowley, that was really very foolish of you," Aziraphale protested. "What if he'd had holy water? He would have destroyed you, my dear."

"In his bedchamber? In case he wanted to do a baptism in the middle of the night? Nah, worth the risk."