A Matter of Convenience   von Hekateras
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                        Kapitel 1: Dancing on eggshells
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The Crusades were a messy time for everyone.
In one of the many   forts surrounding Jerusalem, the usual messiness was
punctuated with a   side order of the kind of gory bloodshed and impalement that
comes when   scores of armored men try to force their way past scores of  
spear-wielding men behind barricades by pretending to be something   they're
not, namely a giant, armored human centipede.
The   barricade had already been broken through in some places. Up on a tower,  
a rather violent confrontation was taking place that nobody seemed to   be
paying much attention to.
In very short notice, the two figures   both tipped over the edge, and although
it seemed like gravity might   look the other way just this once, a moment later
there was a solid   crunch down below.
Downy feathers exploded in a small mushroom cloud all around them.
For a long while, the night was silent but for the very loud screams and
clanging of swords.
“You   know,” Crowley rasped as he struggled to scrape himself off the
ground,   “I can't shake the feeling that there must be an easier way to go
about   this.”
“What... what do you mean?” Aziraphale gasped as he pulled himself into a
sitting position with an audible cracking of ribs.
“Er...   I dunno.” Crowley stopped. He was lying flat on his back in a
shallow   crater of the shape you get when someone decides to play 'snow angels'
  in mud and gravel, and the night sky above was a very strange mass of   smoke
and shifting twinkling. A numbing pain in his wings suggested he   wouldn't be
leaving the ground any time soon.
He lifted his head   to see Aziraphale sitting in the dirt, looking around with
a slightly   dazed, vacant expression. The angel was similarly battered, wings
and   feathers bent out of shape, the white robes stained red in places.
“I   think your sword landed in that ditch over there,” Crowley said  
absently with a vague jerk of his chin. His head was spinning and he let   it
drop against the ground again.
The angel looked at him   blankly, then over to the ditch in question – which,
judging by the   smell, had not been constructed for defensive purposes, per se.
A   silvery hilt protruded slightly from where it was stuck in the slope.
“That   is... rather far away,” Aziraphale said hesitantly. He looked back
at   Crowley. “Er. I think your scimitar is on the other side of the wall.  
Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“Uh-huh,” Crowley said, not bothering to open his eyes.
The   angel kept talking. “Don't you think we should be... er... getting on  
with it? I suppose I could lend you a dagger for, er, fairness's   sake....
where did I put it...”
Crowley listened to the angel   patting down his robes and armour and belt in
search for the elusive   dagger for a minute before saying, “Um. The one with
the small ruby, was   it? I couldn't help noticing. I think I, uh, stabbed you
in the foot   with it.”
There was a brief silence as the angel looked down at   his outstretched legs,
wiggled a toe. He whimpered in pain. “I see. And   then what?”
“Must have dropped it.”
“Oh. Well, that's... We could do it without weapons, then, even if that is
somewhat barbaric-”
Crowley lifted his head and fixed the angel with a look. “Can you stand?” he
demanded.
Aziraphale's face twisted. “...Probably,” he said.
“Yeah, thought so. Just... give it a rest for a minute, will you?”
The angel frowned slightly and straightened up a bit. “You will not tempt me
into complacency, demon.”
Crowley groaned in frustration and twisted in an effort to face away from him.
“Whatever, angel.”
Eyes shut, he listened to the sounds of battle for a while. It was not a
particularly comforting ambience.
“Say,” the angel said after a while, “Are you sure you don't remember
where you dropped my dagger?”
Crowley   frowned and briefly opened an eye to peek at the angel, who was
peering   at the ground around them listlessly. “I think it was up on that  
tower,” he said. “Could've fallen off, though, I suppose. Why?”
The   angel hesitated. “It has... sentimental value.” At Crowley's lifted  
eyebrow, he specified, “A gift from the Pope a few years back for my  
assistance with some ancient scrolls and the bit of trouble he had with  
attempts on his life...”
“Don't you just have friends in   high places,” Crowley whistled. “You do
realise they're all just   money-grabbing, kid-sodomising, corrupt bastards
these days, don't you?”   he grinned twistedly.
Aziraphale bristled. “They manage to do good work, many of them. In spite of
your fiendish influence,” he added acidly.
Crowley snorted, “I think you'd be surprised at how little influence there is.
They come up with all the really good stuff all by themselves, you know.”
Aziraphale sniffed skeptically.
“Demon's word,” Crowley insisted. “I mean, look at them right now. I'm not
doing anything. Neither are you.   They've got it all figured out.” As if to
punctuate his words, a   soldier fell off the tower with a scream, hitting the
ground not far   from them with a sickening crunch. Aziraphale shuddered.
“You started this,” the angel said.
“It takes at least two to start a war, angel.”
“I didn't do this,” Aziraphale huffed, affronted.
“No, probably not. They make their own messes. We just help a little,”
Crowley muttered, pulling his arms up behind his head.
Aziraphale stared speculatively up at the fortress again. He could just spot
somebody getting their head bashed in. He sighed.
“It all seems so rather pointless, doesn't it?” he mused quietly.
The demon gave him a curious look. “What does, angel?”
Aziraphale   was silent for a while. Finally he spoke, “I should be putting an
end   to this, you know. All this needless bloodshed, and all because they are  
so caught up in their beliefs that they feel only hatred for others.”
The demon looked like he might say something but stayed silent, watching the
angel unwaveringly.
“We could stop this,” Aziraphale continued. “It would perhaps be a tad too
conspicuous, but it would be within our ability.”
“And by 'we' you mean...”
“My side,” the angel said absently.
“Oh,” Crowley said, something in his face closing up.
The   angel kept talking. “Influence a few minds, calm a few hearts in  
decisive positions. We're supposed to care for humanity. Surely   preventing
such mass-scale slaughter would fall under that.”
Crowley snorted. “So what's sstopping you, angel?”
“Heaven,”   Aziraphale said, then looked mortified. He lowered his voice to
a   guilty whisper. “They seem to... er.... prefer a little... clearing the  
air, as they call it. Resolving tension, that sort of thing.”
“Oh yeah, I'm sure living without global wars for decades is some real   wear
and tear on those poor human nerves,” Crowley drawled. “They could   use the
relaxation of some good old religious squabbling over whom   Daddy loves
best.”
Aziraphale looked at him sternly, forgoing   comment. “They view it as
something of a publicity stunt,” he admitted   meekly. “Cultivating a more
solemn, intimida-... er, awe-inspiring   image. It is... confusing,
sometimes,” his voice trailed off, growing   more and more quiet, “I mean,
not to question the ineffable plan or   anything, but sometimes I wonder if I
mightn't have missed a memo or   two, what with everything that's going on
nowadays..... Er. What?”
Crowley   was staring at him unabashedly. “You're telling you've got orders to
  have these people keep fighting each other,” he finally said, shaking   his
head in exasperation.
“Er, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but I suppose s-”
“Would you like to hear what my orders are, angel?” Crowley's voice whined
like a cheap fiddle.
Aziraphale looked at him blankly.
“My orders,” the demon began dramatically, then slipped into an overwrought
baritone, “Good   news, Crowley. You are to instigate as much conflict as
possible up   there, Crowley. This crusade shall give His followers a bad name
and   turn people away from him, Crowley. This is a great opportunity,
Crowley.”
“Er.” Aziraphale sat back in discomfort. “Do they really talk like
that?”
“Yes,” Crowley said flatly, dropping the tone. “Did you actually pay
attention to what I said?”
“Well,” the angel looked away sheepishly. “I suppose it does sound a bit,
er, similar-”
“It's the same bloody crap in a different package,” Crowley snapped. “If
you can't see it, take a look around.”
Aziraphale   did so, worriedly. Up on the fort and around them, Saracens and  
Christians alike were locked in bloody skirmishes. Occasionally someone   would
glance in the direction of the two winged figures sprawled in the   dirt and
very quickly dismiss the sight. A panicked scream from the   walls above drew
his gaze and he saw fire catch hold of the wooden   scaffolding that supported
the half-ruined guard tower hanging   menacingly above them.
“Well...” he began, not knowing for certain   what to say, when he looked
back to Crowley and saw him struggling to   his feet with a wince. “What are
you doing?” he asked.
The demon   shot him a look. “Getting out of here,” he said. “I've stuck
around for a   bit, done my part, I'm off to greener pastures for now. Ciao,
aloha,   and all that.”
“Wait,” the angel said impulsively, then paused in   embarrassment as
Crowley waited for him to continue, eyebrow raised.   “Er. What are you...
erm, where are you going?” he said lamely.
Crowley   scratched his arm thoughtfully and slapped away the dirt on his  
clothes. “Not sure yet. Haven't really thought about it. Just... away   from
here.”
“I, er, I know a Christian monastery near here,” the angel volunteered.
“They have quite good wine.”
Crowley stared at him.
“Well, I suppose, I just think, we've both done   our part for the day, so to
speak, and your people and mine are   probably busy enough, what with everything
going on, that they're not   paying much attention to us anyway, and of course
I'm not suggesting   anything traitorous, as it were, but maybe we could...
um... talk,”   Aziraphale finished feebly.
The demon kept staring at him, dark   eyebrows climbing higher and higher above
his golden eyes. Aziraphale   felt himself going red. “What?” he sputtered.
“...Talk,” Crowley repeated dully.
“Er... Yes?”
“You do remember what happened the last time we 'talked', angel?”
“Well.... Yes, but I thought-”
“And the time before?”
“Things   are rather different right now, don't you think?” Aziraphale
snapped   indignantly. “We don't have conflicting orders, for one. There is no
  pressing reason to try to get the drop on each other right at this   moment,
is there?”
“And you know that by going off what I told you?” Crowley said with
something like awe. “Have to admit, didn't really see that one coming.”
“Are you implying that you've lied to me?” Aziraphale frowned.
Crowley hesitated. “...No,” he said, shifting. “Not about that, anyway.
Honest.”
Aziraphale   looked suspicious but said, “In that case, I give you my solemn
word   that I shall not try to smite you in the immediate future unless given  
good cause. Will that do?”
Crowley grinned. “And I promise I won't   try to bite through your neck or
pluck out your wings without giving a   healthy advance warning, yeah? Demon's
word.”
“...Very well,”   Aziraphale said hesitantly. He was beginning to doubt the
wisdom of it,   but backing out now after he'd been the one to suggest it would
be most   unseemly. He started to struggle to his feet, keeping his weight off
his   injured foot and propping himself up with his wings, and so missed the  
ominous creaking above him and Crowley's quiet 'Oh crap' and change in  
expression.
“Hurry up, you lazy- Move!” Crowley snapped, and   half-shuffled, half-ran
towards the angel, grabbed a handful of robes   and hurled them both away just
as the burning tower above them completed   its ponderous acquiescence to
gravity and crashed to the ground where   they'd been moments before.
They hit the dirt, narrowly missing   the undesirable ditch, and covered their
heads with their arms as   burning shafts of wood and dislodged slabs of stone
rained down around   them.
“Come on,” Crowley hissed, pulling them both back up again.   They shuffled
forward until the fortress was at a somewhat safer   distance.
„Er, thank you,” Aziraphale said awkwardly. Crowley   realised he still held
a death-grip on the angel's robes and let go with   a wince.

“Don't mention it,” he said flatly.
He waved a   grimy finger clean, lifted it to his lips and whistled sharply,
making   the angel jump. In obedience to the universal laws of narrative  
convenience, two saddled, fit horses came cantering out of a nearby   copse. The
animals came to a stop in front of them, rolling their eyes   warily at the two
winged strangers, calmer than they suspected they   ought to be.
Crowley approached the tall black one and whispered   menacingly, “Now, we can
do this the easy way or the hard way. Either   way, you are going to do your job
and do it well  , you overgrown sheep, is that clear? No funny business, or
there will be, quite literally,   Hell to pay.”
The horse nickered.
“I'm   glad you see it that way,” Crowley said graciously and scrambled onto
  its back, awkwardly half-folding his injured wings around him. “Well,   this
is going to be just fun,” he muttered to himself, hissing in pain as he
shifted his posture in the seat. He looked down at Aziraphale. “Coming,
angel?”
Aziraphale   frowned up at the intimidatingly tall bay gelding, who watched him
with   overly intelligent brown eyes. “...Yes,” he said meekly, and
awkwardly   climbed into the saddle after two attempts. He heard the demon sigh
but   ignored him.
Aziraphale sat in the saddle absent-mindedly, wincing and shifting his weight to
reduce the strain on his injuries.
“Well?” Crowley asked.
“Er. What?” the angel peered at him quizically.
“The   monastery, angel,” Crowley rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You
were   going to show me to the monastery, right? Or have you changed your mind  
already?”
“Oh, no, no, it's quite fine,” Aziraphale said primly.   “This way,” he
said, after getting his bearings for a moment, and took   off toward a stripe of
road on the horizon at an umcomfortably bumpy   trot. The demon followed suit.
“Mind you,” Aziraphale mused some   time later,” I'm really not sure I
should be doing this, truth be told.   You're not an altogether bad sort of
fellow, Crowley-”
“Gee, thanks.”
“-But you are, after all, a demon, and as such not to be trusted...”
“And you're an angel, and yet here I am, apparently, following you into holy
ground like you're the bloody Pied Piper.”
“Erm. Who?”
“...Forget it. How much farther, angel?”
“It's about four hours' ride from here, at this pace, I would say.”
“You're kidding, right? I'm not drunk enough for four more hours of this.”
The angel looked vaguely affronted. “What are you implying, pray tell?”
“Why   would I imply anything, angel?” Crowley asked irritably, his elbows  
flapping uncomfortably as the horse took the rough terrain. “I'm just  
saying, if I'm to spend any stretch of time with one of you winged  
sanctimonious gits – nothing personal, you understand – I'd damn better be
well and truly drunk first.”
There was a silence.
“That was rather unnecessary,” the angel said coldly after a while, staring
straight ahead.
There   was another silence that might have seemed embarrassed if it weren't  
too busy trying to fold itself into a corner somewhere.
“....Maybe,” Crowley admitted uneasily.
Aziraphale   gave him a hesitant, sideways look of appraisal. “You could
always try   to get intoxicated now, I suppose,” he said cautiously. “I
imagine it   might somewhat dull the discomfort of the injuries, as well,” he
added   with a very careful omission of any guilt from his voice.
The   demon stared at the space between his horse's ears, hands clutching  
tightly at the reins. “Nah. Then I'd just be drunk and trying to stay in   the
saddle in the middle of nowhere, instead. I've all but burned   myself up
getting the horses, anyway. Wasn't too shabby, though. I mean,   as ideas go,”
he added, politely enough.
They rode in silence for   a while. The moon emerged from the clouds, lighting
their way, even as   it crept ever closer to the horizon.
“The weather is nice,”   Aziraphale said desperately, then caught Crowley's
incredulous look.   “Very clear,” he elaborated. “For this time of year,
especially.”
Aziraphale   looked at him in silence, then carefully steered his horse closer, 
 close enough for him to reach out and tap the demon on the shoulder, so  
casually that he barely saw it coming.
“Ow!” Crowley flinched as   Aziraphale's hand withdrew. “What did...
you... Huh.” He looked down at   himself, feeling, now that the unpleasant
stab of divine heat was   fading, a lot less pain than there used to be.
He turned sharply   to Aziraphale, who had retreated to the usual distance and
was watching   him with a carefully innocent expression.
“It's only fair,” the angel said reasonably, before the demon could level an
accusation. “You, er, did provide the horses, after all.”
Crowley   looked at him, then turned away, resuming his contemplation of the  
patch of horizon between his horse's ears with even greater zeal than   before.
“Fine,” he ground out. “Just don't do it without warning, will   you?
Um,” he added snappishly, then stopped, mortified by how he'd made   it sound
like a habit.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” the angel's face clouded over, disquietingly sincere. “I
didn't think...”
“Forget about it,” Crowley grumbled, feeling his face going red. “Where
are we going, anyway?” he asked desperately.
Aziraphale's   face lit up, eager for the distraction. “Oh yes, I don't
suppose you've   had cause to visit before. Which is, er, just as well, I
suppose, if   you'll pardon me. It's a reasonable little place on a hill, walls
and   such. Well-fortified, considering. Would you like to hear more about  
it?” he asked with the ill-conceived glee of enthusiasts and lecturers   since
time immemorable.
The demon gave a noncommittal hum and kept sulking, swearing under his breath at
the horse every so often.
“The   monastery is over six hundred years old,” Aziraphale continued in a  
bout of inspiration. “Built on the burial site of a saint, though it's   been
captured and passed along between different splinter factions and   religions so
often that no records have survived of which saint   it had been, exactly. The
current holders are a pleasant enough bunch,   for fundamentalists. Scribing and
meditating and retracing old   manuscripts, and sometimes they come together at
dawn, for prayer, and   give their thanks to the Lord, and underneath there's
the most wonderful   caverns with wine cellars and great casks of this
nice-smelling dark   wood...”
Aziraphale rambled on and on, and Crowley listened, and   if the horses found
the ground beneath their hooves hurtling past   somewhat faster than one would
expect, they were in no position to   complain.

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