A Nice Day in Australia

Victoria, Australia, 1906

Crowley had dedicated much care to the growing of a proper beard, neatly parted in the middle. Perhaps the parting had been a mistake, or the brilliantine, or the black riding leggings. Humans here tended to snigger a bit and ask him if he was here for the colonial experience.

Or perhaps it was because he kept falling off his bloody horse. He glared after the cloud of dust heading to the horizon. Time to look into one of these autocar inventions. At least it wouldn't whicker at him as if it was laughing.

He heard the rumble of a cart, and raised a hand. Bit of luck, someone happening along in this benighted dirt track, although it wasn't the fellows he had arranged to meet. They would be in the next township still.

"Want a lift, sir? Oh. Oh dear."

Crowley stared up at a pink and white face under a broad felt hat, soft blonde curls plastered against it by sweat, bright blue eyes. "Aziraphale, is that you?"

To Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale clicked his tongue and the horse started up again.

"Oh, no you don't!" Crowley lunged forward and swung himself up beside Aziraphale just in time. "You're not leaving me here in the middle of the bush. Something might happen to me. Or I might happen to someone. It's your job to thwart that."

"It's not as if you're stuck," Aziraphale said snippily. "Miracle yourself back to London."

"Why, what have I done wrong?" Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale sighed. "I mean, lately. Look, angel, I won't bring up wanting that stuff again. I'll fraternise all you want. Come on," he wheedled.

Aziraphale looked away guiltily. "I am sorry, my dear boy. There's really nothing up ahead, though, and I doubt you'd be comfortable back at the Mission with me. Too holy. Much, much too holy. So if you'd like to be on your way..."

Crowley stared suspiciously at him. "If I remember correctly, the Mission is several hours behind us. Where are you going?" He craned over his shoulder to see what was in the back, but there were only a few heaps of blankets. "What are you doing in Australia anyway? I thought you hated Australia. Too hot, and too many snakes."

"I don't mind some snakes," Aziraphale said softly. "I might even miss having them around."

"Now, don't try to get around me like that, angel," Crowley said, trying not to notice his battered soul suddenly singing in suspiciously celestial notes. "What mischief are you up to?"

"I should be asking you that question. Mischief is in your line, not mine."

Crowley shrugged, trying not too obviously to taste the air with his tongue. There was something up. Some scent that wasn't the menthol of the eucalyptus trees or the dusty baked earth under the sun or an overheated horse. There was the scent of fresh rain with a hint of incense and--oh, no, that one was Aziraphale. But confused by these other strong scents was something warm and human, that seemed too recent to be just residual human contact.

"Last bushranger was hanged a few year ago. Seems a waste of a poetic concept. There's a few likely lads in the next township, was going to suggest to them how very, very nice the Squatter's horses are, and how he would hardly miss some. Now, your turn."

"I suppose you wouldn't believe I came here to thwart your evil wiles?" Aziraphale asked hopelessly.

"Considering you didn't know I was here, not likely. Come on. You can tell me."

A blanket moved, and Crowley's hand snaked out to twitch it aside. Aziraphale's plump hands moved fast, far faster than he looked capable of, and replaced it. It was too late. Crowley had spotted a pair of big brown eyes, and was making sense of the shapes in the back. "You've got kids in the back! You have, haven't you? What are you playing at?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Come on, children, you can come out now," he said, in a language that was neither English nor Latin. "He's a friend."

Four small figures crept out. One, the smallest, with the biggest eyes, gave Crowley a wary look, then slid between him and Aziraphale, taking the angel's hand in her tiny one. Crowley readjusted his dark glasses and tried not to look too terrifyingly demonic by comparison to Aziraphale, who was radiating avuncular affection down at her.

"I'm just taking them home to their family," the angel said, a little defiantly.

"Oh," Crowley, remembering things he'd heard about kids of mixed heritage brought to the Mission. He hadn't paid much attention, far too busy listening for rumours of potential bushrangers and sampling the beer from around here. "I'm assuming you didn't get permission first."

A small boy was giving him a suspicious glare. Aziraphale, abandoning the reigns altogether, reached back to give him a reassuring pat. "Heaven gave me a commendation, Crowley!" Aziraphale's outrage bubbled up. "Uriel had decorated it with little gold stars herself. Loads of heathen savages brought up as good little Christians."

"So you thought you'd pop down to see what you had supposedly achieved?"

"Naturally." Aziraphale's usually generous lips were set in a firm line.

Crowley sighed. The three older human children had settled down properly. He recognised the expression on their faces. Trust. He was supposed to take advantage of trust, and corrupt it. But not so young, surely. The eldest had to be six. "You realise you're interfering with their religious education? All this is part of your lot's plan, right? Get the Good Book into them young and early, avoid any conflicting influences."

"I know," Aziraphale said, miserably. "But they need their mother, and I just thought--" He was so sweetly wretched in his guilt, so reminiscent of millennia ago, an angel in white robes admitting to having given away a sword, of being more decent than obedient.

Crowley couldn't resist tormenting him more. "And I'm sure their mother can always have more children to replace them." He regretted it immediately when the little girl burst into tears. "Oh, hell."

"Watch your language," Aziraphale said automatically.

"Never mind my language. You're the nice one, cheer her up!"

Aziraphale produced a sweet from somewhere, and the child reverted to happy sucking, her brothers shyly holding out hands for their own treats, giving blinding smiles of thanks. Aziraphale beamed like a small golden sun god, dispensing sweets. Crowley helped himself to one too. It tasted of mint, and strangely reminiscent of heaven.

"They need their mother," Aziraphale said, quietly and stubbornly. "And their father, and their cousins, and their people."

"You can't save them all."

"I know."

The cart travelled on, the heat becoming more and more smothering. Crowley was glad the children didn't have to get back under the blankets. Humans were so vulnerable to heat.

He wondered where they were going, and how far. He'd dismissed the thought of meeting up with the O'Leary brothers and tempting them to horse rustling. He was far more interested in what the angel was up to. Small rebellions, small sins that somehow seemed to come from goodness rather than righteousness. Things that somehow added up to his Aziraphale.. His personal angel.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale's brow creased under his hat.

There was the sound of horses behind, still out of sight for now. Much faster horses than the one pulling the cart. "I was afraid this would happen."

The children were sitting up now, rigid with terror. The eldest one asked, timidly, "Mr Fell?"

"Everything will be all right, sweetie," Aziraphale said, with false cheerfulness. "Oh dear."

Crowley made a sudden decision. "Yes, it will." He turned to the angel. "Look, you've done some pretty big thwarting today. Prevented two young lads falling into a life of crime and horse stealing. Start composing memos in your head. No one could blame you for being kidnapped by a bushranging demon, and having your cart stolen, when you were just taking some kids for a ride."

"But Crowley--"

"I'm all right. I managed to prevent three kids being brought up as good Christians. Three little ticks on my record."

"How?"

"Hold my hand."

"What?"

Crowley turned to the fascinated kids, and pulled off his glasses. They stared, unblinking and curiously unafraid, at his golden eyes and slitted pupils.

"Mr Fell here and me, we're going to do some magic. Want to see?"

They nodded, their own eyes wide.

"Good." He turned back to Aziraphale. "Look--hold my hand. And think of good memories of me." Aziraphale's face was rigid. "Oh, come on. You must have some good memories."

"Yes," Aziraphale said carefully. "Yes, I suppose I do, really."

"Then concentrate." He seized Aziraphale's hand before he could lose courage.

By Satan, it *hurt*. Pain lanced up his arm. Aziraphale was wincing. Crowley ignored it and focused on his memories. Aziraphale, laughing guiltily on the western wall of Eden. Putting his wing up to cover him. Smiles--a thousand smiles. The way his eyes lit up when he discovered a new taste, new music, a new sensation in this glorious human world. The way he would glance sideways and shuffle a bit when he was feeling really, really tempted. The way he would lick the last crumb from his lips, savouring every experience that came his way. The way he would sometimes look at Crowley as if he, a demon, was something revelatory and beautiful...

He could feel his body changing, softening, filing out, his beard vanishing.

"Gosh," said a yellow eyed demon with a stylishly parted beard.

"Fuck," Crowley agreed cheerfully. "Oh yeah, your skin is like velvet, angel." He ran his fingers over his newly plump forearm, wondering what other delights he was wearing.

"Stop that!"

The kids were grinning with delight. "You swapped!" said the middle kid. "Deadly."

"That's right. Now, my scaly friend here is going to take you home," Crowley said. "I don't know the way." He passed Aziraphale his gun. "Me, I'm going to walk for a bit. I was held up by a bushranger, you see."

Aziraphale was hesitating, fiddling with the gun in his hands. It was odd, seeing such complicated feelings on what Crowley's mind registered as his own face.

"They'll send trackers."

"Don't worry. By the time I've been at the Mission for a while, they won't remember the children or nice Mr Fell. No records."

"Oh, I do hope you don't do anything too dreadful to them," said Crowley/Aziraphale, without too much fervour.

"Memory wipes and fiddling with the books only," Crowley promised.

"Crowley..."

It was a strange sensation, seeing his own sharp face transformed by that gentle adoring glow, by Aziraphale's trick of looking at someone as if they were the most beautiful and magical person in the universe. Almost unbearable. Crowley reached forward and placed his dark glasses on his--Azira--someone's face to block the gaze.

"Look, you owe me. No more sulking and refusing to talk to me for years. You can get me me a beer." Aziraphale shuddered. "It's quite good beer here! All right. Wine. Back in London. But we need to meet up soon to switch back. I can't be risk being seen as an angel too often. And it's your treat."

Aziraphale nodded happily. "Crowley, my dear, this is such a nice--"

"Don't you dare say it. Bye, kids, behave for Uncle Crowley. Say hi to your mum." The children gave him bewildered, but enchanting, smiles, which totally didn't warm the cockles of his demonic heart. He swung himself off the cart, listening it rumbling off, and prepared himself to look properly despondent and defeated.

Even though his treacherous heart was leaping. Maybe it was because, for the first time in a very, very long time, his heart was technically that of an angel.

Notes:

1) This is the final flashback/breather before the occult/ethereal boys pass the point of no return. I need them to get together just as badly as Crowley does, by this point.2) The last Australian bushrangers were the Kennith brothers. Patrick was hanged in 1903.3) The Victorian Aboriginal Protection Act (1869) gave authorities the ability to take Aboriginal children, primarily of mixed heritage, and place them in church-run missions before Australia as a country had even federated. It's one of the most shameful parts of our history, and continued into the 1970s.4) Deep thanks to my friend Tabs for checking I got this chapter right.