Chapter Text
Aziraphale sat on the wobbly stool in the dark prison cell. Dim streaks of light from the hallway lamps shone through the barred door and wall in front of him, but he mostly sat in shadows. His dark-vision meant he didn't need as much light as humans and other beings to see. Besides the prison cell wasn't much to look at it with its damp stone walls.
His family would have an absolute fit if they saw him now. For twenty-three years, he'd managed to keep a low profile and stay out of any major trouble. Local childhood incidents and pranks didn't count, though he'd mostly kept those a secret from his parents anyways. But on his first solo trip as a free adult, he'd landed himself in prison for the most foolish reasons.
The young Aasimar pulled his plain brown cloak around his shoulders. The cell was damp and cold. He wanted to stretch his wings around himself too, but he kept them held back in fear. No need to draw more attention to his peculiar body feature marking him as an odd magical being. The guards had called him a freak when they arrested him.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He stood quickly, knocking over the stool in his haste, and rushed to the bars.
"The lot of you have a pretty hefty price on your heads. Wanted for stealing horses, robbing travelers, attacking caravans—"
"Excuse me, Sir. There's been a large—a rather large—misunderstanding or error. I'm not with them. I was just trying to help. The man was bleeding," Aziraphale pleaded with the jailer.
The stern robust man glared at him, "No mistake. You were with 'em. You stay here until the city Lord decrees his judgment and punishment."
The jailer suddenly turned to scowl at another prisoner who was shouting obscenities at him.
Magic sizzled in the air. The hairs on Aziraphale's arm and back of his neck stood up with the sensation.
The jailer made a choking sound as he froze, finger and arm still raised to admonish the offending prisoner. The hum of magic swirled around him. Aziraphale could almost taste the power in the spell. Abruptly the man collapsed, paralyzed and unconscious, onto the stone floor.
"Well, well, well," a warm voice spoke from the shadows. "This is new."
Aziraphale watched as a swaying figure sauntered into view in the prison hallway, seemingly from the shadows and thin air. An elegant hooded cowl covered his head, matching his black and crimson attire fit more for a noble than a bard-in-training. The golden buttons and trim on his long coat and vest flickered in the dim lamp-light. Dark tinted glasses covered his golden eyes, but Aziraphale would recognize that cocky smile anywhere.
"Oh, good lords," the Aasimar rolled his eyes at the sight of his oldest friend, but internally his heart leapt into his throat nearly choking him. It had only been a handful of years since they had parted, but it felt like a lifetime. "Crowley—"
"It's a rare sight seeing you behind bars, Angel." The tiefling cocked his head to the side as he gave his friend a once-over look. "Usually it would be you bailing me out of a jail cell. Interesting how the tables have turned…"
"Crowley, please—"
"Got yourself in a spot of trouble, sweetheart. Must have done something awfully special to earn yourself a private cell." The sultry bard wrapped his long fingers around the bars. His forearms rested against them too, supporting his outwardly relaxed position. His fine lips curled into a sneer. "Or is his highness simply too good for the likes of the local riffraff, deserving—"
Jeers and insults erupted from the other prisoners.
"Oi, shuddup!"
The tiefling growled at the noise behind him. Aziraphale could feel his friend's fire magic simmering beneath his skin, even with his cell's magical containment spell.
"This cell has a magic blocker on it," he replied as dryly as possible. He turned his back to the barred door and stepped away. The tiefling's words prickled under his skin. Burning tears formed in his eyes.
"Hmm, I can feel it. Cautious bastards. Wings gave your abilities away, huh?"
More jeers, insults, and now threats spilled from the other cells. Crowley growled lowly, but merely lifted a hand to snap as he uttered a phrase under his breath.
Silence immediately enveloped them.
Aziraphale could just make out the faint shimmering bubble surrounding him and the cell. Sound Bubble Illusion. "Impressive."
"I've learned many impressive things since the last time we meet."
"Is that so?"
"You would know so—if you'd read any of my letters."
The tears threatened to fall from Aziraphale's eyes. He had read every single one, but he'd never written back. Refused to risk the pain…
He kept them all safe in a lockbox within his desk. Wrapped together in a bundle with a black silk ribbon. A ribbon Crowley once wore in his hair when they were boys. The tiefling thought he'd lost it all those years ago.
"What are you doing here, Crowley? I thought you went off to study at that infamous Bard College of yours. Make a name for yourself already, have you?"
Aziraphale didn't mean for his tone to hold such bitterness to it.
"I was in the area," Crowley's voice hissed. "On assignment—for my infamous Bard College."
The Aasimar refused to turn back towards him. To be bated by his words. "Did you have anything to do with the bandit attack earlier? The reason I'm in this mess it would seem."
"No," the reply came with a harsh growl. Aziraphale knew without looking how much disdain was evident on his friend's face from his voice alone. "That lot is too lowly for my concern. My assignment is regarding more affluent parties."
"Of course it is," Aziraphale couldn't help his scorn. "I still don't understand why you chose to become a bard. Your innate magical skills would have easily earned you access to the Eden Wizard College or even the Sorcerers Guild."
Crowley scoffed, "My style is more flash and bang. I wouldn't have survived the rigid ways of the Wizard College or the strict guild rules for Sorcerers. My magic may be an innate, but my true talents lay with my music and performance skills. Dazzling and enchanting people around me. Pulling out their secrets and coin while wooing them with my words and instruments. I chose my professional well—the Bard College was the best choice for me. You know it as well as I do, Angel."
Aziraphale wrung his hands at his waist. He knew Crowley was right. They had discussed all this before many many times. His friend's musical talents and passion would be wasted if not for his current life path. But it still hurt that his choice also ripped him from the Aasimar's own life path.
"Yes, fine—you're right, but I still don't see why you had to go to the Acheron Bard College. It has such a sordid reputation. Eden's college was a respectable option…" the words faded as he heard Crowley's heavy-yet-all-too-familiar groan.
"Acheron was the reputation for the best spies and elite connections. Best chance I've got at making a name for myself. Of getting a better life. Of earning the kind of life we dreamed—" the tiefling inhaled sharply, interrupting his own speech. "We've been over this, Aziraphale. In Eden, I would just be the poor weirdo who played his instruments, sang at local festivals, and stolen apples. Everyone would know me, judge me. I needed to start over somewhere new."
"But Acheron is so far away—"
"I asked you to come with me. I pleaded with you! Begged—"
"You know I couldn't come with you. My family—"
"Damn your family!"
The simmering fire magic rose with Crowley's emotions. Aziraphale could feel its familiar tingle blaze against his ethereal senses. Flickering and fighting to burst out. He longed to reach out and soothe it. A gentle touch, a soft word, or a sweet look. Anything to calm his best friend's fiery nature.
"I don't wish to have this argument again," the Aasimar sighed, fighting back his tears.
"Wish we'd never had it in the first place," Crowley uttered under his breath. But Aziraphale's supreme hearing still caught the sorrow in the quip.
"We said what we said. We made our decisions. Different purposes, different paths—"
"Angel—"
"Will you stop interrupting me?!" Aziraphale swirled around to face the bard. Tears now freely slid down his boiling cheeks. A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father's told him grown men did not cry. But he no longer cared what his parents or their voices in his head thought. His heart was breaking all over again. "Why are you here, Crowley?"
"Rescuing you," the words were spoken softly through clenched teeth.
Crowley reached a hand through the bars towards Aziraphale. His fingertips barely brushed the damp skin along his jaw. They were rough from years of playing his musical instruments and manual labor. The sensation was the jolt Aziraphale needed to break his emotional daze. He stepped back, further into the cell and out of the warm fingers reach.
The tiefling's expression fell and he straighten his posture, drawing his arm back. "Heard an Aasimar had been captured in the aftermath of a robbery. Figured I'd check it out. Good thing I did, huh?"
"I don't need rescuing, Crowley. It's all a big misunderstanding—"
"So I should just leave you locked up then?" Crowley gestured with a flourish towards the cell. A crooked grin spread on his lips.