Chapter Text
They found one of the German gangsters dead in Mundson’s office. Stabbed beneath the chin. Alan had defended himself, presumably.
No body was found among the plane wreckage. Unsurprising, considering the blast, and the water. A death certificate was signed, and they waited for Mundson’s will to be read.
Crowley got it all. And Aziraphale was named the sole executor.
The fake marriage thing came up over drinks, as most of their plans tended to. People were making assumptions about the two of them—the nature of their relationship—a fact Aziraphale brought up.
“I think they think the ah… affair… was legitimate.”
And they were both acting like it hadn’t been that, an affair—or legitimate—so.
Crowley shrugged. “It might be easier if we let them believe it is, since you can’t leave yet.”
“You don’t have to stay here.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.” He didn’t look away, and he smiled.
At least they were being honest about that, finally. That they were friends. Actually friends.
And a marriage (it wasn’t even the first time they’d pretended to be married, or a couple, though it was the first time it had gone beyond a party or an outing—it had smoothed the way sometimes, during particularly close-minded eras) solidified interests, made people less likely to interfere. Crowley knew she was weeks away from dinner invitations and tedious inquiries. Aziraphale was having to multitask maintaining his authority over Mundson’s various lines of business and operations as he tried to give it all up.
After the night of Mundson’s death, Aziraphale had, begrudgingly, chosen to cooperate with the local P.D. Obregon was relentless, and while Aziraphale and Crowley shared in their distaste towards the idea of helping the police—they had their individual reasons for each finding systemic corruption pretty repulsive—it was clearly the ideal resolution to this whole debacle.
So they told people they’d gotten married at the courthouse. And it did calm things down.
Obviously, it wasn’t a romance in anything other than name. Whatever was happening with them, whatever had happened, wasn’t something they were addressing yet. It was just symbolic.
Crowley had driven Mundson to ruin—or hadn’t blocked the path he’d been on, anyway. She’d done her job, could put it in the report. Despite how unpleasant of a sort he’d been, she found herself having to dismiss feelings of guilt more often than she wanted.
So, she and Aziraphale hadn’t discussed the kiss, or the conversation that had preceded it, and neither of them had been particularly keen on remaining in the same room without a Conversation Topic to seize on—or something to watch, or something to drink. They’d been keeping busy.
They’d probably revisit things eventually. She… wasn’t actually that concerned. They knew they liked each other. They were being open about it.
The sort of… domesticity that the shape their Arrangement had taken on here was… something. It was something to see Aziraphale reading downstairs in the mornings when she’d woken up and gone looking. It was something to watch him eat breakfast and talk about what they might do later.
And they spent more nights drinking or having dinner or going to shows than they didn’t. They just... avoided the quiet moments.
The police investigation took much longer than expected. Three months passed.
And honestly? It had been great.
One afternoon, Crowley was hanging upside down from the foyer’s chandelier. Her attention was on the long, thick curtains covering the huge windows. She gripped her dagger more tightly.
She had gotten bored—been thinking of Douglas Fairbanks and that pirate show they’d seen and she’d wondered… and Aziraphale was gone for the morning. Were they doing anything later? Anyway, was it possible—the curtain thing? Obviously with Fairbanks it had been a stunt. But, maybe…
So, after an hour of math and planning, she’d maneuvered upwards, ready to try.
Aziraphale walked in through the front door. He stopped abruptly—slowly tilted his head back. He looked up at her with his brows raised.
“Is this because of the Gilbert and Sullivan argument?”
“Yes, it’s because of the Gilbert and Sullivan argument.”
“A human can’t safely attempt—”
“The show needs more action.”
But whatever mood Aziraphale was in, it didn’t seem to accommodate continuing their discussion. And she couldn’t very well attempt sliding down the curtain with a dagger now—she was too likely to accidentally use her powers while distracted. And Aziraphale would be distracting.
She unhooked her knees and let herself float to the floor. “What’s up?”
“Obregon. Again.”
They made their way over to the house’s bar.
“He was waiting for me in Mundson’s office. They’ve ruled out our involvement, of course. They’re going after the organization Mundson was working with. You realize we don’t even know who it was?”
“The stuff in his safe didn’t say anything?”
“Well, I—forgot about the safe.”
Crowley laughed, surprised. “You what?”
Aziraphale inclined his head, pursed his lips. “It’s been a hectic few months.”
“Sure, angel.” They’d spent the vast majority of it on idle pursuits, which were admittedly very consuming.
“So I remembered the safe, gave him the combination. That made him suspicious. But I explained that so much had been happening, and that it had slipped my mind.”
Aziraphale was a hard person to distrust. Obregon likely stood little chance against so much earnestness aimed directly at him.
“But that’s… all. They’re going to close the whole business, finally. So, I think we’re… nearly done here.” He had a far-away look on his face.
It had to end sometime. “Okay. Hey, that’ll be nice. To get back.”
Aziraphale smiled, almost wistfully. “Yes. I do miss my shop terribly.”
“What’s left to do?”
“Gather our things. Say goodbye?”
Crowley didn’t bring anything to Argentina she cared to bring back. The Bentley was in London. She’d see it again soon, and that excited her.
Some of Aziraphale’s things were still at the casino. They decided to walk over together.
Pio was at the bar. Crowley went over, planning to explain that they were leaving. But Aziraphale said, “Crowley, Mundson’s office.”
In the window above, blinds were drifting closed.
Mundson walked out to the top of the stairs. He was dressed for traveling, a fine coat over his suit. He had his cane. He’d survived. Aziraphale felt some small bit of relief that was quickly overshadowed by concern as Mundson began to walk down the stairs.
“I didn’t intend to come back so soon. But, I want my wife.”
“Oh gosh, Aziraphale.” Crowley sounded excited. She watched a lot of human films. Aziraphale had seen some of them with her. This was rapidly escalating to that level of absurdity.
“You thought I died that night, didn’t you?”
“I mean, reasonable conclusion,” Crowley said.
“I’d murdered a man and thought it simpler to disappear for a while. That’s all. I came to the house that night. To get Antonia, to take her with me. But I found her occupied. With you, Aeneas.”
Aziraphale’s face felt very hot. He didn’t have an opportunity to reply before Mundson continued, coming down the rest of the way and approaching them.
“I had neither the time nor the inclination for an emotional scene at the moment. By the time the harbor police reached the plane wreckage, I was gone, of course, in the craft I had waiting. You didn’t see me parachute out, did you?”
He hadn't. Mundson was almost directly in front of them, maybe a few meters away.
“You weren’t seeing very clearly that night anyway, were you, Aeneas? Emotion is so apt to cloud the brain, isn’t it? I’d intended to kill you with this, Aeneas.” Mundson raised his cane, let the blade slide out. “I thought it amusing to have one of my good friends kill the other. But now, it won’t do. Because I have to kill Antonia, too.”
Crowley laughed, not at all distressed by any of this. “Is that so?”
Mundson set the cane down on a table, and drew a gun from inside his coat. He took a step forward. This was going very poorly.
Aziraphale turned to Crowley, finally tearing his eyes from Mundson. Her mouth was open and she was clearly more amused than anything.
“Do something,” he hissed.
Crowley started. “Oh—right. Sorry.” She raised her hand up.
Mundson clicked back the safety of the pistol. “I told you I’d be looking—” He stopped abruptly—staggered, and collapsed. There was a rapidly spreading bloodstain on the front of his shirt. His eyes shut. They didn’t re-open.
Pio was standing behind where Mundson had fallen. He was holding the cane sword, looking stricken. Aziraphale hurried forward. Gently, he took the weapon. He held it out to Crowley. “Do something with this.”
She took it.
Aziraphale put his hands on Pio’s shoulders, kept his touch fim, but gentle. “Hey. It’s alright. You’re going to be alright. It’s over.”
Pio’s eyes were unfocused, his gaze far-off. “He was going to—I had to,” he said, voice faint.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. He rubbed Pio’s upper arms, trying to ground the man—comfort him. “You saved our lives.”
“Detective Obregon,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale turned.
Obregon was standing there, looking shocked. Behind him, the doors leading outside were ajar. After a beat, he seemed to regain his focus. He hurried over to Mundson and crouched down, to take his pulse.
In confirmation, he lowered Mundson’s arm and stood. He took in the sight of Crowley, holding the weapon, and then turned to Aziraphale.
Calmly, cheerfully, he said, “You know, I’m a great cop, Mr. Farrell. I’m certainly a pushover for a love story. I know the combination of the safe and I don’t know where the safe is.”
Aziraphale didn’t understand. “What?”
“The safe. Where is it?”
Oh. “It—it’s in his room, back at his house. On the wall, back of the desk.”
“Thanks.” Obregon looked at Crowley. “Say, haven’t I seen the cane somewhere before?”
Crowley glanced down at it, back up to Obregon. “You really shouldn’t leave things like that laying around where I can get my hands on them.”
“Oh for—she’s lying!” said Pio, snapping to attention. He pushed past Aziraphale. “Detective, I did—”
“Oh shut up, Pio—”
“You two can quit being noble anytime you like, you know,” Obregon said, raising his voice over their protests. “Because a man can only die once. And Mundson committed suicide three months ago. Besides, didn’t you ever hear of a thing called justifiable homicide?”
He made to walk away, then paused. “Oh—we’ll be by to wrap this up shortly. You all can go. Maybe you two lovebirds should take a vacation, given that I don’t think you’ll be able to stay at home for some time. Don’t leave the country.”
Pio walked up to them, after Obregon left. “I… think I quit,” he said, finally.
“I can’t blame you,” Aziraphale said. “Take care. Be well, Pio.”
“Hey, Pio.” Crowley handed him something. “Here’s your severance package. I’ll mail you the receipts and the insurance.”
Pio looked at the bracelet, a much better sort of shocked than before. “Thank you, Antonia.”
“Y’know, for your trouble,” she said. “Really, take care of yourself. Take some time.”
The stones would find themselves undergoing a transformation—their value increasing to far, far beyond the 50,000 pesos Alan had spent. Pio would have a very comfortable life.
She turned back to Aziraphale. “Let’s go home, angel.”
“I’m sure there are some open seats on a flight back to London tonight.”
They walked away from the casino, away from the road that would have taken them to Mundson’s home. Instead, they walked East, towards the water.
Aziraphale reached down, took her hand. Crowley smiled. She flexed her hand as they twined their fingers. She felt happy, comfortable. Maybe it was temporary, but wasn’t everything?
“Is Buenos Aires our Paris?” she asked.
“You’re referencing a film.”
“Well spotted.”
“I can tell because of how self-satisfied you get, when you do it.”
They came to a railing, in front of the Río de la Plata. Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand, to face him as she leaned against the steel. He mirrored her, glancing out at the water for a moment but then giving her his full attention.
She said, “Parts of this were…”
“Important.”
Not nice. Crowley nodded.
“To me,” Aziraphale finished. He was looking at her like he—well...
“So, what do you want?” Crowley asked. “Back to London, meeting up in galleries and concerts every now and then and comparing notes?”
His expression was impossibly soft. “I like going to galleries and concerts with you.”
They were quiet, then. Crowley turned back to face the water, and Aziraphale followed her movements again. She shifted over a bit so that their shoulders touched.
After a minute or so, Aziraphale said. “We both know how we feel. It’s… good.”
Ugh. She cringed. “You got so far without saying it.”
“It is. Sorry. I love you.”—said so easily, because it was already very obvious. But, it was the first time he’d said it in those words.
Crowley sunk down onto her arms a bit more and let her head rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. She liked this.
“So…” she said, finally.
“What do you want?” He emphasized the ‘you’.
She thought about it. “I like you being around. A lot. I like the honesty. Don’t,” she preempted. If Aziraphale made a comment on virtues right now—
He didn’t. He said, “We can do that.” And he was quiet for a time.
The sky was clear, and the water was a deep, lovely blue.
“I don’t think Buenos Aires is our Paris,” Aziraphale said. “I think the world is.”
She turned to look at him. He was smiling. They both were.
They kissed beneath a star Crowley had watched form in the vault of heaven.
The sun stretched their shadows out behind them, as they walked hand in hand down the paved street.
Home.