Chapter Text
Stop me if you’ve heard this one: Long, long ago, in a land far, far away, there once stood a tower guarded by a mighty dragon. Hidden within the tower was a princess—maybe kidnapped, maybe locked away for her safety, maybe fast asleep—but always awaiting rescue. Sooner or later (usually sooner) a prince turns up to climb the tower, by hair or by vine. Perhaps he even fights the dragon and lives to tell the tale. The tale he can’t tell you—the one that’s rarely told—is the story of how the dragon and the tower first came to be.
If he’d heard three days ago that there would be a coup, he wouldn’t even have thought himself important enough to chase, but here he is, running through the woods and trying desperately to keep ahead of his pursuers. Red hair had never seemed like much of a blessing until now, but the gloaming and the autumn foliage work well together to keep him obscured when he stops to breathe. He can still hear them, not far behind, and he knows he has to keep moving.
He’s not running for very long, though, before the foliage runs out and he finds himself exposed in a massive meadow. The expanse is surely too long to cross. His fear, previously calmed to a dull roar, flares up at the realization that he’ll be caught, and then he is no longer running but slithering.
There’s nowhere to go. There is low grass as far as he can see. He can’t hear the crowd behind him, but the ground shakes with their footsteps. They can surely see him, a massive dark shape caught in the rising moonlight.
He changes direction, hoping they’ll all just keep going in a straight line, and then he sees it: a tall tower half-covered in vines. His body seems to carry him there instinctively, and once he’s circled the tower, the only way he sees to go is up.
He finds the side that, as far as he can tell, is the farthest from where he started, and he begins his clumsy, wobbling climb up the rough brick. His haste makes it chafe against his sensitive belly, and he has to remind himself to keep going every time he realizes he’s left the ground entirely—how do snakes even work? He’d have paid more attention to them if he’d known he’d be in this position someday—but he makes it to an open window and slithers inside.
He drapes himself across the cool floor, exhausted. Just as he begins to fall asleep, he feels his body change back to its usual form, and he hears someone tut at him. “Silly creature. I do have a front door, you know.”
When he wakes, he’s in a bed. It isn’t his bed, but it’s soft and warm. It probably isn’t where he would be if he’d been captured, he muses, remembering the chase the previous evening.
Though he’s tempted to stay there indefinitely, the unfamiliar surroundings and the lack of any chatter from other rooms are too unsettling. He stretches, sneezing as a faceful of dust rises off the duvet to meet him, and plants his feet on the lush carpet of the sunny little room. A tartan gown brushes against his ankles.
“Ugh. Tasteless. Least I have feet again,” he grumbles, standing up and stretching once more for good measure. His spine pops, probably because of all the thrice-damned slithering he had to do the night before. “Hope I don’t have to do that again anytime soon.”
And then, tired of talking to himself, Crowley heads into the hallway in hopes of finding out whose space he’s ended up in.
The hallway is just as silent. Crowley cocks his head, hoping to pick up the sounds of people working nearby—the villa was always bustling—but there’s nothing at all, and nowhere to go but down the spiral stairs before him. Even theyare carpeted. Whoever lives here is someone with the means and the desire for great indulgence.
“Richer’n me,” he remarks, running a hand along the wall as he walks down. His family was close enough to well-off to put them on someone's shit list—apparently—but too distant from the royal fortune to live like the upper nobles. Or like whoever lives here. Carpeted stairs. Pfff.
He almost thinks he hears a breath, but there’s no one behind him and nothing ahead but more stairs.
After what feels like an eternity, he comes to a landing that opens to reveal a tall room stacked high with books. It’s just as dusty as the bedroom, and the furniture looks just as comfortable, but there’s no one inside.
“Gonna make me walk all the way down this blasted tower, are you?” He’s certain that he heard a voice as he drifted off, and an unfamiliar one, at that. And someone must have tucked him in and clothed him. He’d like to have words with them about suitable clothing for one of his station. Or… for anyone, really. Tartan. Honestly. Not even any of the local patterns.
The next room he finds on his descent appears to be some sort of laboratory, and he lingers only long enough to peek his head in looking for occupants. Despite his recent brush with magic, the thrum of it within that room is alluring. It’ll be something to check out once he’s solved his first mystery, that’s for certain.
The final stretch of stairway brings him to a small kitchen and vestibule on the ground floor. It’s homey and warm, a fire burning in the hearth and a pot of something savory and aromatic bubbling away over it. Vegetables and bread litter the heavy cooking table in the center of the space.
Crowley shakes his head. If whoever helped him isn’t here, either, then where are they? Outside? In the cellar? Why leave something cooking in such a small space with no staff to watch it?
He wrenches open the heavy door to peek outside, but there’s no evidence of anyone there, either. “Weird” he complains, shutting it once more. “Cellar, maybe? Hope they don’t mind if I help myself.”
“Not at all, dear boy. Please, eat your fill,” someone says, and it sounds like it comes from everywhere.
“Ngk!” Crowley articulates, and he falls to the ground in dark coils and a pile of tartan.
He can’t hearthe laughter from whomever it was that startled him, but he can feel the floor vibrating beneath him in a way that seems somehow jovial. It's a far cry, anyway, from last night's pounding footsteps on wet grass.
When he manages to get himself back under control, he starts frantically pulling the robes back on even before he attempts to clamber to his feet. “Generally polite to talk face to face, y’know,” he accuses, still half-crouched as he looks around again.
“It’s also polite to knock before entering. And to use the front door, for that matter.”
Crowley stands at last, fully covered again, and whirls around. How can the voice possibly be so clear without anyone being in the room? “I was desperate, if you must know. S’what you get, anyway, leaving the windows open.”
A gusty sigh makes the fire flicker. “I opened it for you, you ungrateful fiend. Anyway, as I was saying, please feel free to help yourself to something to eat. Anything you like. I certainly won’t be eating any more of it.” The sigh this time is wistful.
“All right, look. Whatever you’re doing? Very good show. Color me impressed. But I’d really rather be able to see who I’m talking to.”
“Why, my dear, you’re looking directly at me.”
“Grk?” Crowley wonders, blinking.
Laughter again, and at least he can hear it this time. It’s light and melodic, and it’s hard not to smile in response even though he knows it’s at his expense. “I’m Aziraphale,” the voice says. “Also known as The Tower in the East, I’m told, or That Fussy Stack of Bricks, if you ask certain others.”
“You—sorry, what? You’re telling me you are the tower?”
“That’s right.”
“And you… I mean, you are the tower.”
“Yes.”
“Right. Great. So who else lives here?”
“Oh, no one at all right now. You just so happened to catch me on the right evening.”
“...Riiiiight,” Crowley drawls. “So I'm, what. Food?”
“Goodness, no. You must have noticed you were free to leave. Besides, why in the world would I eat you when I'm perfectly capable of cooking such an exquisite stew?”
“Humble, aren't you?” He can't help but feel a bit insulted by the quick dismissal. He'd be plenty suitable as monster food. Probably.
“You’ll notice I never claimed to be,” Aziraphale says primly, and Crowley grins. At least the company isn't boring.
He ladles out some of the stew into a bowl and watches, transfixed, as the fire immediately burns lower.
“I'll heat it up again, should you want seconds.”
“Thanks,” Crowley rasps, taking the bowl to the table and tearing off some bread.
“You’re leaving the best part,” Aziraphale chides.
Crowley jumps guiltily. “Don't like the heel,” he complains. “Too much work to chew. Wait… you can see that? Or are you gonna tell me the bread is you, too?” He blanches.
“You are a suspicious thing, aren't you, er—did I get your name?”
“Crowley.”
“Crowley. Excellent. In order: Yes, I see everything that happens within this tower and outside it. It's how I knew you needed me. No, the bread is very real and very delicious. I have it delivered by a dear friend who knows my tastes.”
Crowley, who hadn't considered the possibility that a building could have a friend, only says, “Huh.”
He dips a bit of the soft bread into his stew and takes a bite, and then another and another as he realizes just how hungry he is. “S’good,” he says when he's finished.
“I know,” the tower preens. “Would you like some more?”
“Nah. Don't eat much, me. S’pose I ought to thank you.”
“It would be polite.”
“Better not, then. Wouldn't want you thinking I'm a good houseguest.”
Aziraphale laughs again, and Crowley likes the sound even better now that he's a little more certain he's safe.
“So how does a tower get to be a good cook?”
“Ah! That is a fascinating story, and one best told in a more comfortable setting. Perhaps you'd like to retire to the reading room?”
“Yeahhh, climbing a fuckton of stairs is my favorite thing to do after a meal.” He rolls his eyes.
“Terrible houseguest indeed, I see. Very well. I'll give you the short version until you're ready you're ready to behave like a proper… gentleman?”
Crowley shrugs. “Close enough. That what you are, Aziraphale? A proper gentleman?”
“I am a magical construct, my dear,” Aziraphale asserts, but his voice softens as he adds, “but that's close enough.”
“See? Common ground.”
“Indeed.”
“Wait. You can see everythingin here? All the time?” That sounds uncomfortable for both of them. He’ll have to bathe at some point, among other things, and some tasks simply don’t require company.
“I do know when to look away. You needn’t worry.” Aziraphale sounds huffy about it even though Crowley hadn’t really accused him of anything.
“Get that one a lot, don’t you?”
“Every time I meet someone new. I can’t say I quite understand the concern, myself, but I have learned that it’s important to people, so I respect it. If you need me to, ah, blink, as it were, at an unexpected time, you can always just ask.”
“Oh,” Crowley says, feeling oddly touched. “S’really nice of you. Say, y'know what? I'll come upstairs after all. Never been too good at leaving well enough alone with the short version of anything.”
“Well, that sounds like a story of its own. I'd be delighted to hear it sometime.”
Crowley makes a face—there is no story about him that's possibly half as interesting—and then hauls himself back up the stairs to the third floor. He falls dramatically into the chair, watching in alarm as a plume or dust takes flight. “You really ought to clean this place up from time to time, Aziraphale.”
“I’ll thank you not to comment on my hygiene. I do only get about twelve days per year, you know. I'd much rather spend them reading than cleaning.”
“Yeah, it shows. Right. Tell me about you and your twelve days a year. M’listening.”
“It would have been about three centuries ago now. There was a witch—you might recognize the name: Agnes Nutter—”
“Oh, yeah, the one who exploded.”
“Do try not to interrupt. Yes, that Agnes Nutter. You may also know she commissioned four towers, one each at the furthest cardinal points of the Kingdom of Eden when it stood.”
“We-ell, if I <em>did</em> know that, I wouldn't say anything about it, ‘cause that'd be interrupting.”
“You’re infuriating,” the tower booms, but Crowley could swear there's amusement underscoring the display. “The tower she built in the north fell during a skirmish in her lifetime. The one at the west crumbled in a flood shortly after her death. The southernmost tower was technically completed but was never outfitted with the equipment she requested. Only I still stand. She foretold as much, of course, and so focused the bulk of her efforts here. She lived thirty years in these rooms, spilling magic in all directions, and a further fifteen years in the village nearby. Well, it's more of a city now, from what I hear.”
“And what was it exactly she was trying to accomplish?” Crowley asks, trying not to think about how lonely it sounds to be the only one left standing. Trying, too, not to think about the fact that he might be the same among his family.
“Some say she was trying to conduct lightning. Others say she wanted to reach God. But I was there, and I can tell you the definitive truth.” He sounds like a mummer Crowley once saw, or the old woman who told stories for coin to occupy children at the market. He'd be wide-eyed and gesturing with open palms, Crowley is sure, if he had a form with eyes and hands.
Crowley is clearly meant to say something to encourage him, but he finds that it’s satisfying to let him wait it out for a while. He had said he didn’t want interruptions, after all.
The silence stretches, and Aziraphale huffs, sounding impatient. It’s such a very human sound that Crowley suspects he must have lungs somewhere.
He gives in, too curious to carry on pretending he isn’t. “And what might that be?”
“Absolutely nothing at all.”
“...What.”
“She was an innovative and talented woman, and she could make an airtight plan when it suited her, but when it came to her magical experiments, well, she often said it was as if someone else's hands took over with no reason or rhyme. She simply did whatever crossed her mind and kept record of the results. I was, for a time, a part of her consciousness. A way for her to observe her experiments here when she had to be away. Then, at some point… well, I'm unsure whether my separation from her was intentional or simply a result of too much runaway magic, but I became my own entity just a few years before her death. She was a good friend. She helped me acclimate and find my limits. She encouraged me to find a purpose. I often wish I'd had the opportunity to tell her that I have.”
“Probably knew, didn't she? Probably… foretold it and everything,” Crowley suggests, wiggling his fingers in a way that feels like the kind of thing a witch would do when receiving a prophecy. Not that he'd know.
“Perhaps she did. That's a lovely thought. Thank you, Crowley.”
"Sure. So what is it? Your purpose.”
“To offer safety to those in need. For as long as they need it. I can see a great distance, you know, and anyone I can see, I can…”
“Tempt?” Crowley offers, remembering how he'd felt drawn to run in this direction. “Like some great mimic? A massive stone siren?”
“I prefer the term ‘encourage,’ thank you. And for the last time, I am not going to eat you.”
“Well, I guess I wouldn't mind too much if you did. Better than getting caught by Sandalphon’s goons. They already went and hit me with a curse.”
“They shouldn't be able to find you here. You were very careful in making your way inside. Clever to use the snake against them.”
Crowley snorts. “Wasn’t on purpose. Just happens when it feels like it, best I can figure.” There’s an inkling of a pattern forming, something about being terrified the night before and genuinely startled this morning, but…
“Well, I'd say it worked in your favor! And you are more than welcome to stay until you're rescued, of course.”
“Oh, I doubt anyone's coming for me. I'm small potatoes. Was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, be nice to stay and rest for a few days. F’you’re sure you don't mind.”
“Oh, not in the slightest. One doesn't get many princesses fleeing marriage these days. They used to be my primary guests. Recently… well, you know. Your average runaways, politically motivated folks like yourself, the occasional witch dodging attention. Though you’re certainly the first serpent.”
Crowley hums, smiling. “Regular Guardian Angel of the East, aren't you?”
Aziraphale says nothing at all, but the temperature seems to warm just slightly, and Crowley decides he must be pleased.