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1348
It was the 14th century, and Crowley had found several rats in his bathroom.
The fact that in-house bathrooms weren’t exactly commonplace was beside the point— the idea of outhouses and chamber pots rather disgusted him, the fact that he didn’t need to take care of his business like a human most of the time irrelevant, so Crowley had simply miracled himself a flush toilet two centuries ahead of its time.
The point was, there were several rats in Crowley’s bathroom, and it was the height of the Black Death.
“For Satan’s sake,” Crowley growled, staring down at the cowering rodents in front of him. He ought to just kill the blasted, disease-ridden things, oughtn’t he? Less vermin to scurry about the world and infect more humans with the plague. Hell below, he hated the 14th century. And besides, he was a demon, killing helpless little things was supposed to be his bread and butter.
Crowley gritted his teeth, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he stared down at the little rats’ nest in the corner of his bathroom, where the larger rats curled protectively around several babies and bared their little incisors at him. “I hate absolutely everything,” Crowley grumbled, and then snapped his fingers before tasting the air with his tongue to make sure his demonic magic had worked.
Sure enough, the scent of the plague was lessened— his miracle, to make these specific rats and all their offspring absolutely immune to the Black Death and that any infected fleas to touch them would die instantly, had taken effect. He had been performing this miracle on every rat that crossed his path, a number that was surprisingly high given his snakish nature. It was for entirely demonic purposes, of course— if the humans were dying right and left, they were hard to tempt to Hell. That was the only reason.
“You had better not tell anyone,” Crowley hissed, flashing his snake eyes at the rats. One of them squeaked, and then they all scurried off. One of the babies stumbled over the toe of his boot, tumbling onto its back, and Crowley carefully reached down to turn it back right side up. The baby rat paused for just a moment, blinking up at him with surprisingly intelligent eyes, before scampering after its parents.
Crowley huffed out a beleaguered sigh and straightened. “I’m getting soft,” he muttered, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t know the exactly reason why— it started with A- and ended with -ziraphale.
Crowley sighed again, louder and more dramatic, and then turned on his heel and headed out. This godblessed century sucked, to put it mildly, and he was in the mood to get fabulously and uproariously drunk. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could even tempt a certain angel of the lord into joining him.
1676
Technically, Crowley was more than capable of getting himself out of the pirate ship’s brig. If he snapped his fingers, he could undo the thick manacles around his wrists and ankles and at least sit down.
He didn’t much want to get discorporated by angry pirates, though, the paperwork to get a new body was dead boring. Last time he had been in Hell, sometime back in the 1480s to deliver a report on the Inquisition he hadn’t caused, Hastur had smelt exquisitely of feces.
Crowley sighed heavily, shifting a little uncomfortably in his awkward, crouching position in the brig. There was a small squeaking sound from behind him, and a moment later a rat squeezed out of a large knothole in the ship’s hull.
Crowley wrinkled his nose and then hissed threateningly at the rat— he was in a bad mood already, didn’t really have the energy to be dealing with vermin looking for crumbs. The rat stood up on its hind legs and squeaked at him, nose twitching, before scampering off.
Crowley rattled his chains pensively, leaning his head back against the wall. He had been stuffed in the brig in the first place after a temptation gone sour, but maybe if he turned into a snake and hid on the ship until it landed he could get out without walking the plank. Hell would kick his ass, though, if he didn’t accomplish his assignment. Damned Beelzebub, had to assign him to tempt to mutiny the one loyal pirate crew on the seven seas.
Crowley groaned out loud, shutting his eyes and thumping his head against the wall. All the rocking back and forth in the smelly dark was making him sick to his stomach, and demons most definitely did not get seasick.
There was a squeak by his foot, and Crowley cracked one eye open to see the same rat from before sitting in front of him, now clutching a small, tarnished key in its mouth. Crowley blinked.
“Huh,” he said, and then slowly reached out with his occult senses. Sure enough, the rat was speckled with traces of Crowley’s anti-plague miracle from centuries before, the demonic magic all but written into its DNA, passed down from the ancestors Crowley had saved.
“Huh,” he said again. He was used to his schemes coming back to bite him in the ass, but this was the first time something demonic he had done seemed like it would actually end up helping him. The rat squeaked and then scurried up his arm, depositing the key to his manacles into his hand before returning to the floor.
“Well,” Crowley murmured, an idea forming in his mind as his fingers curled around the key. He snapped his fingers, freeing himself, and collapsed with a grateful sigh to sit properly on the floor. “Now,” he said, looking at the rat in front of him with a sharp smile. “How many friends might you have on this ship?”
It turned out that mutiny against the captain was a lot easier to inspire when the prisoner from the brig was accompanied by an army of dozens of rats.
1793
Crowley strolled through the Bastille with his hands in his pockets, humming under his breath. Outside the crowd roared and cheered, and Crowley winced at the schick of a falling blade.
He hadn’t even been very aware of the madness going on in France until he had gotten a commendation for it— he had been hanging out in North America, entertaining himself with watching explorers in Canada and meddling with whatever the new United States government was trying to do.
It was a good thing he had come to check out what was going on, though— as soon as he was back on Continental Europe, his Aziraphale is in trouble instincts began to tingle. A squeak by Crowley’s foot drew him from his thoughts, and he looked down with raised eyebrows. Two rats scurried up in front of him, and Crowley smirked.
“I’m looking for an angel,” he said, crouching a little. “Wears a lot of white, probably smells like biscuits and old moldy books. You seen him?” One of the rats squeaked, and then they both scampered down the hallway.
Crowley smiled and followed after, his hands tucked unconcernedly in his pockets. Every guard and jailer he passed suddenly had the brief and inexplicable urge to turn and smush their faces into the wall, so he was miraculously unnoticed as he strolled through the prison after his rat helpers. They led him to a cell in the depths of the prison before scurrying off, and Crowley paused outside the door.
Inside the cell, a distraught-looking angel was being talked at in French by the executioner. Crowley stifled a grin. Even after centuries, the angel had never bothered to learn the language of the country that produced some of his favorite foods. It was oddly endearing, in an Aziraphale sort of way.
Crowley shifted into the form of a snake to slip through the bars before rearranging his human corporation for a perfect dramatic reveal. The executioner was blathering along about his guillotine or whatever, Aziraphale listening to him with a frustrated expression.
Crowley lounged back, smiled.
And then he snapped his fingers to pause time.
2007
Crowley sat on a bench he had miracled into being across from London’s BT Tower, considering it thoughtfully. He had been thinking of a particular demonic scheme for a while, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to execute it. The promise, though, of the low-level frustration and evil he could spread by knocking out all of London’s mobile lines? Far too tantalizing to give up without a fight.
The only problem was how to get inside the tower and do it.
Sure, to be fair, he could just miracle himself in. But that wouldn’t be any fun. Not very sporting, as Aziraphale would say. The challenge of the mischief he assigned to himself was half the fun— the whole M25 thing wouldn’t have been nearly as meaningful if he had just snapped his fingers and magicked it into happening. None of the other demons seemed to understand the value of hard not-work and getting your hands dirty.
Crowley realized he was pouting and straightened, staring up at the tower with his arms crossed over his chest. On the sidewalk in front of him, two businesspeople walked quickly towards the door, both clenching briefcases in hand.
“—swear I saw a bloody rat in the loo Monday,” one of them said, and the other clucked sympathetically.
“They ought to get an exterminator in,” she said before they were out of Crowley’s earshot.
Crowley perked up, suddenly interested. There was a pest problem in the BT Tower? That... sounded like something he could exploit. Especially if he called in a few favors and pulled a few strings.
With a smirk Crowley stood, vanishing the bench again before sauntering down the street to find a proper alley. It was essential that all of his business be taken care of in dark alleys— both to maintain his image, and to best find his associates.
Crowley found a suitably dim and damp alley after a bit of wandering, and ducked into its mouth. “Oi,” he called, his voice echoing strangely off the walls, and a moment later three rats scuffled out from behind a trash bin.
Crowley crouched. “I’m calling in a favor,” he said. He didn’t know every rat in London, of course— that would be ridiculous! But they all seemed to know each other, so his message would definitely get passed on to a rat that owed him. The rat in front stood up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching.
“I need, oh, maybe two hundred rats?” Crowley guessed, taking off his sunglasses so he could glare at the rats. “Up in the BT Tower by Friday. You can have the run of the place, I’ll make sure of it, just no biting people or whatever. Yeah?”
The rat squeaked, and almost seemed to nod, and then it and its friends disappeared back down the alley. Crowley smiled, slipping his sunglasses back on as he straightened. Now all he needed to do was infiltrate an exterminator’s company and get a badge to grant himself access to the BT Tower. It was brilliant.
“Now,” Crowley murmured to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets as he strolled out of the alleyway. “Where did I put my jacket from the whole M25 adventure?”
2013
“I just don’t know what to think,” Aziraphale said, absently scratching at his sideburns. “Warlock seems so, well… normal. I would have expected more indication that he’s of demonic stock at this point, don’t you think? He is six, after all.”
Crowley paused where she was carefully taking the pins out of her curled hair, and looked critically at him in the mirror. Aziraphale was still in his awful Brother Francis disguise, looked terribly out of place sitting on her black silk sheets, and had probably tracked dirt all over her carpets, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Besides, it was much more convenient if they met up in her rooms to conference, rather than her having to trek out to his cottage all the way on the other side of the grounds. And if anyone talked about the gardener visiting the nanny late at night? That gossip would cause the kind of discord Crowley reveled in.
“He’s only six,” she replied, placing a long, sharp pin on her dressing table. “He’s still got five years to start showing his origins.”
“Jesus Christ was already talking about Her by the time he was six,” Aziraphale fretted.
Crowley snorted. “Yeah, well, evil’s a little more subtle than Jesus Christ,” she said, taking out the last pin before fluffing her hair. She turned, pulling her dressing gown around herself. “Besides, you should have seen the way he kicked me in the shin yesterday when I wouldn’t let him have a fourth cookie. Right little devil, he is.”
“I’m worried that’s just because he’s a bit… spoiled,” Aziraphale said reluctantly.
Crowley smiled slightly, coming to sit beside him on the bed. “It’ll be fine, angel,” she said with an easy shrug. “He’s not too normal, he’s just the right amount of normal. It means we’re doing our jobs right.”
“I suppose,” Aziraphale sighed.
Crowley scoffed. “C’mon, angel, I dropped the kid off at the hospital, I’d know,” she said.
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth, but a tentative knock on the door interrupted him. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other and then then Crowley got up to answer, slipping her sunglasses on as she went. She found Warlock standing in the hall outside, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and a small frown on his face.
“Nanny,” he said, looking up at her. “There’s a mouse in my room.”
Crowley’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, is there,” she said. “Well, I’d best take care of it, then.”
Warlock looked past her to see Aziraphale sitting on the bed, and waved. “Hi Brother Francis,” he chirped, annoyingly cheerful and alert for the late hour. Aziraphale waved tentatively back, blushing behind his sideburns.
Crowley sighed, and then grunted as she picked Warlock up. “Alright,” she said, adjusting her grip as Warlock wriggled before settling his head on her shoulder. “Let’s see about this wee mousie.”
“Oh, dear,” she thought she heard Aziraphale muttered, but Crowley ignored him as she carried Warlock back to his bedroom.
“'S behind the toys,” Warlock told her, poking at her loose curls, and then stuck his thumb in his mouth.
Crowley smiled grimly. “I see.” She set him down on his bed and then stalked to where several stuffed animals were lined up on the shelf, her tongue flicking out of her mouth to taste the air. “There you are,” she murmured, catching sight of the rodent hiding behind a stuffed bear. She was delighted to find that it wasn’t a mouse, but a baby rat, and when she put her hand out it crawled into her palm.
“Problem solved,” Crowley said in satisfaction, gently cupping the small creature with both hands. “I’ll just get rid of this little one.” She paused by Warlock’s bedside to tuck him in again, carefully keeping hold of the rat with one hand, and then kissed her charge on the forehead. “Sleep well,” she instructed. “Dream of ghouls and fiendish demons.”
“Thanks, nanny,” Warlock mumbled, snuggling under his blankets, and Crowley allowed herself the luxury of a small smile as she turned off the lights and shut the bedroom door again. She found Aziraphale in the hall, nervously wringing his hands.
“Oh, Crowley,” he said quietly, spying the rat cupped in Crowley’s palm. “What are you going to do with that?”
Crowley smiled sharply, and walked briskly down the hall. “I’m going to take care of it,” she said significantly, her slippers far less satisfying than the click of heels on the stairs.
Aziraphale hurried after her. “Oh, Crowley, you mustn’t,” he said, catching her arm just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Please, don’t eat the poor thing! Just give it to me, I'll bring it outside or something.”
Crowley gave him an unimpressed look over the rims of her tinted glasses. “Eat it, angel?” she repeated incredulously, jerking away and heading for the garden door. “What do you think I am?”
Aziraphale hesitated, surprise clear on his face as he watched Crowley open the door and crouch before gently setting the little rat down on the stoop of the back steps. “Well, you are a snake, my dear,” he said uncertainly.
Crowley flashed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. “And don’t you forget it.” She shooed the rat down the steps. “Go on, go home,” she scolded. “And best stay out of the way, Mrs. Dowling isn’t as merciful as I am. She puts down traps.”
The baby rat squeaked gratefully before scampering off with a cheerful little flick of its tail. Crowley brushed her hands off as she straightened. “Foolish thing,” she muttered. “Too curious for its own good.” She stifled a smile.
“That was very kind of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured behind her, and she spun around. In all honesty, she had mostly forgotten he was there.
Crowley scowled at him, shoving her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose before breezing past him and back up the stairs. “Shut up, angel.”
Without even looking, Crowley could tell that Aziraphale was smiling sappily as he followed her back to her room.
2022
Crowley was out in the garden of his and Aziraphale’s cottage, disciplining his gardenias, when an angel showed up at their front gate.
A sudden, unwelcome flash of celestial energy ruffled his feathers unpleasantly, and Crowley looked up as a vaguely familiar voice said, “This is where you’ve been?”
Crowley slowly stood and pulled his sunglasses off to find one of the angels that had been at Aziraphale’s attempted execution (Sandalphon, he thought? Probably. It’d be best to pretend he had no idea) standing just outside the garden. “What do you want?” Crowley said coldly.
He knew he didn’t cut the most intimidating figure, sweaty and tired from gardening all morning, his palms caked with dirt and his long hair tied back in a messy ponytail, but hopefully the snake eyes helped a bit. His reputation as the Serpent of Eden used to really get him places after all, and besides, Heaven still thought he was immune to holy water.
Sandalphon smiled unpleasantly. “I’m here for the little traitor angel you’re harboring, Crawley,” he said, and then shoved down their gate.
Crowley snarled wordlessly as it ripped off the hinges and squished some of his daffodils. “Oh, yeah?” he snorted, drawing himself up. “You can fuck right off, then. Or do I need to remind you what we can do?” He stalked forward, raising his trowel threateningly, and to his pleased surprise Sandalphon flinched back a little. Good. There was a little fear in this angel’s soulless corporation, something he could exploit.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called tentatively from behind him, and Crowley glanced over his shoulder to see his angel poking his head out of the kitchen window.
“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley replied, baring his teeth in a grin. “I’ve got it handled. Sindolphin was just leaving.” He turned his glare on Sandalphon, who glowered back.
“That’s not my name,” he snapped.
“You hear that?” Crowley mocked. “That’s the beautiful sound of me not giving a singular shit.” Protective rage swelled in his chest as he remembered the way this angel, all the angels, had treated the being they thought was Aziraphale.
“Alright, dear, if you say so,” the real Aziraphale said mildly, and a moment later the kitchen window squeaked closed again. There was a brief flare of familiar holy energy in the cottage behind him, and without looking Crowley could tell that his angel was standing just inside the front door with his flaming sword all ready, more than prepared to burst out and assist if Crowley needed it.
Crowley fought back a smile and focused on the threat in front of him. Sandalphon’s fists were clenched at his sides, but for whatever reason he didn’t seem daring enough to step over the threshold of the garden.
Crowley swaggered up, and poked him hard in the chest with his trowel. “Scram,” he growled. “Before I change my mind and fry your hair off with hellfire.” He looked around significantly. “You’re alone, I see, no stronger angels to back you up. So fuck right off our property before I send you to Heaven in pieces.”
Sandalphon sneered at him. “You’re bluffing, it’s painfully obvious,” he said, the gold in his teeth flashing in the bright sunlight. “I’m here to fulfill Her plan and bring the traitor Aziraphale back to where he can be… taken care of. Besides, I don’t listen to Fallen vermin.”
Crowley’s eyes widened as a sudden, brilliant idea occurred to him. “God’s plan,” he said slowly, his lips curling into a nasty smile. “You think you know God’s plan? You obviously don’t. Aziraphale and I are alive and well, so obviously everything we did was in Her plan. Obviously, She approves of everything we’ve done. In fact…”
He threw his head back, glared up at the sky. “Hey!” he shouted, squinting into the sun. “If You like what Aziraphale and I have done, show this angel some real vermin!” And then he whistled between his teeth, too high-pitched for any human corporation to hear.
Sandalphon took a hasty step back.
There was a beat of silence.
Nothing happened.
Sandalphon slowly began to smile, cruel and self-satisfied. “There’s your answer, you—“ he started. Behind him, the grass rustled. There was a small squeak. And then a veritable flood of rats surged out of the high grass in the field next to Crowley and Aziraphale’s cottage, headed straight for Sandalphon.
The angel uttered an embarrassing, high-pitched scream, and vanished in a flash of celestial light just before the first rat reached him.
Crowley laughed, absolutely delighted, and dropped his trowel to pick up a few of the rat leaders. “Thanks!” he exclaimed, and the rat in his right hand squeaked, batting at his thumb. “Yeah, yeah, I owe you,” Crowley said, too pleased to be gruff with the rats surrounding him.
The front door creaked open and Aziraphale tentatively edged out, carefully not to step on any of the hundreds of rats gathered around Crowley. “I suppose it’s good that we live next to a field,” he said with a small smile, the flaming sword in his hand vanishing with a small shimmer of bells.
“Yep,” Crowley replied, popping the ‘p.’ The rat in his left hand flicked its tail and squeaked.
“What did it say?” Aziraphale asked curiously.
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I don’t speak rat,” he replied. “But I suspect we’re going to be miracling a lot of cheese this afternoon.”
Aziraphale laughed quietly. “That sounds more than fair.” He bent, letting a small brown rat sniff his fingers. “Thank you very much, dear,” he murmured, and then looked up at Crowley. “And thank you, darling.” He stepped carefully forward, the rats parting before him like the Red Sea, and planted a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. “My knight in shining armor.”
Crowley grinned, chuckled. “Not that you needed it.”
“No, but it’s nice anyway,” Aziraphale replied, and then reached out to gently pet a rat that had scurried up to sit on Crowley’s shoulder. “Now, shall we start the feast for these brave little creatures?”
Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale kissed him once more on the tip of his nose before heading inside, muttering something about bread and cheese and whether or not rats liked brussel sprouts.
Crowley nodded to himself, satisfied. He was absolutely secure in the knowledge that Heaven, especially Sandalphon, likely wouldn’t come for them for quite a while. After all, that had been quite an impressive display, even if it hadn’t actually come from Her.
Crowley grinned and then followed Aziraphale into the cottage.
He had never been more glad to have such a loyal rat army.