Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Johnson walked through the woods alone. The air was damp, sticky, unseasonably warm for late August, or that's what his mum had told him. He wouldn't know. To him, it felt as though every single one of his last fourteen birthdays — or the ones he remembered, anyway — had been oppressive. He didn't like to sweat, but it did seem as though his body was predisposed to start oozing the second the thermostat ticked above nineteen degrees. So his birthday was always… wet.

His classmates hadn't failed to notice, either.

Greasy Johnson.

The name started in kindergarten and clung like a stubborn piece of popcorn lodged between his molars. Kids were cruel, and even the ones he considered friends had gotten into the habit of calling him Greasy for short, assuming — because he hadn't said anything — that he didn't care. But he did care.

He cared very much.

He'd found his mother's book one sticky afternoon when he'd gotten bored. Tucked in a box deep in their basement, the green leather cover and golden lettering seem to almost sing to him, call him, and the page it fell open to could not have been an accident. An offering, long forgotten — or so it seemed — of how to summon someone who could make people forget. Change people's minds.

Impact reality.

Or so it claimed. And who was he to question it when the words themselves seemed to flicker on the page, changing as he tried to gather the details of what was needed. There had always been rumors amongst the town, of covens centuries ago, of witch hunts and people going missing during the night, but those were just stories. As he stared at the book, his concern and even memories of those stories seemed to melt away to the dark recesses of his mind, and all he could do was think of what this power could grant him.

What he was able to gather from the shifting words was that an offering was needed, and the ritual had to be done on his birthday, for the bargain to be made. And if accepted, the pact would grant the summoner one wish. The book contained some warnings of consequences of one's actions and the like, but Johnson couldn't understand how making it so anyone who ever called him Greasy again would be struck with an explosive need to use to loo could result in negative repercussions for anyone outside of the perpetrators.

And that lot deserved it.

The specifics of the offering weren't clear: something important to the summoner. The Johnsons owned an apple orchard outside of Oxfordshire. It was modest, at best, and with the harvest growing thinner with every passing season, he'd not been allowed to pick from the trees in years. But today he'd sneaked out, nipped a bagful of the ripest Egremont Russets he could find — his father's favorite — and headed off, armed with a packet of crisps, into the woods on Hogback. Where the summoning happened didn't matter, as long as it was in a deeply wooded area. And while Hogback wasn't particularly dense — about five kilometers long — it was all a fourteen-year-old could do alone, on a bike, in a single afternoon.

But he noted how much bigger it seemed today, for some reason. The trees, thicker and taller than he remembered, were casting gloomy shadows along the grass in front of him, giving the forest an almost foreboding air. He wasn't nervous, per se, but he had been reciting his request over and over in his head as he walked, and very likely could have gotten himself turned around. He glanced down at his watch — his stupid parents had commandeered his mobile last week as punishment for not taking out the rubbish bins. It was later than he'd realized. Maybe he shouldn't have stopped for a crisps break an hour earlier. At this rate, he'd have to walk back with only the moonlight to guide him.

"What you got there?"

Johnson turned around, shocked, to find a lanky boy lying with dirty blonde curls and sharp green eyes, staring at him. Johnson blinked. He'd noticed a boulder as he walked up the hill, but there'd been no kid on it. And there definitely hadn't been a kid lying on his back — one leg dangling off the side of the rock, his foot shoeless, lazily grazing a patch of ivy that covered the ground, looking as though he owned the whole bloody forest — on it.

Johnson gripped the bag of apples against his chest. The boy sat up, dead leaves sliding easily off his crisp light blue shirt and beige shorts. For a moment, a glint of golden sunlight shone off the crown of his head.

"You're going to mush them all up." The golden-haired boy pointed towards the apples. "What's your name?"

Johnson swallowed, ready to answer the question before launching into his practiced pitch, when another voice came from behind.

"I wouldn't tell him that."

Johnson whirled around, his eyes landing on another boy leaning a shoulder against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. The boy's pitch black hair matched his clothes. The only hint of color from him was the bright blue of his eyes.

"Erm…" Johnson mumbled. Tadfield was a small town, and he'd known every kid in his grade. These boys looked about his age, but he couldn't be sure. What he did know was he'd never seen either of them before.

And it was growing increasingly difficult to remember how to speak; something about the two of them felt… off. A stinging electricity from the golden one on the boulder and a smoldering heat from the broody one leaning on the tree, the energy colliding into Johnson, making his head fuzzy.

The one in black continued, the air around him rippling as he spoke, as though light and colour were being pulled into the abyss of him."Not unless you want to be his pet for all eternity, that is. And, rumour has it, his family doesn't like to clean the kennel very often."

The stinging intensified, and Johnson turned toward the golden boy, the green of his narrow eyes cutting deeply into the boy in black. He turned his attention back to Johnson and smiled cheerily. Johnson’s head fuzzed some more.

"Don't worry about him." He turned his attention back to the boy in black. "He came here for me. Piss off."

The other boy shrugged. "Free country."

The golden boy groaned. "I hate sharing a birthday with you."

"Feeling’s mutual."

Johnson blinked, suddenly feeling as though he'd stumbled into one of his parents' hushed arguments they somehow convinced themselves he couldn't hear. The familiarity of it made him more comfortable. "It's your birthdays too?" He wasn't sure which of them was making his voice sound so small. Maybe he was doing it to himself.

The golden boy chuckled, a little more bite to his smile than before as he said," Yeah. Happy birthday."

Johnson straightened himself out, realizing he was taller than both of them. He stepped toward the golden boy. "I came to make an offering." He raised the apples with shaking hands.

An audible sigh came from behind as the golden boy's eyes brightened hungrily. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted-"

"Don't," the other boy warned, appearing out of thin air to lean on the tree closest to the boulder. Johnson stumbled backward. "I mean it. Whatever it is, it's not worth it."

"Can't you just mind your business, for once?" the golden boy growled as he reclined back onto the rock, rubbing his face in his hands. "Don't you have any friends?"

The sun continued to set, and Johnson noted how the electricity seemed to fade and the heat, grow.

The golden boy sat up sharply. "You dick," he said, looking up at the sky. "Oi" — he snapped and Johnson felt as though his eyes were tethered on his green eyes, unable to look away. A faint terror rose in him — "the favor. Be quick. What is it?"

"Er…" Johnson looked at the dark-haired boy — watched as he shook his head — and all the worries that had faded away about people going missing and witches burned at the stake came hurtling back to him, as though some kind of spell had been broken. He nearly dropped the apples, his hands were shaking so badly. Maybe Greasy Johnson had a nicer ring to it than he'd given it credit for? Maybe… it wasn't so bad?

Suddenly, the ground rumbled, a distinct hissing coming from the soil as the golden boy groaned, dropping his head back as the other simply smiled.

The forest spoke.

"Adam."

Falling on his rear, Johnson yelped, his apples tumbling away from him as he watched the trunk of the tree the boy in black had been leaning on turn into a face. The golden boy's shoulders slumped.

The tree's leaves shook as it growled. "What are you doing?"

"Crowley, it's my birthday."

"And that allows you to walk amongst the humans, not strike a bargain with them. You are not of age. Get back here. Now."

"No." Adam stared at his hands as he spoke.

The boy in black was backing away slowly, clearly enjoying this.

"Warlock!"

"Sssssshittt…" he mumbled before turning as Adam and the talking tree continued to bicker. Warlock looked over Johnson's shoulder, who turned to have his eyes land on a badger. Standing upright. On two legs.

Johnson blinked.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe these things had just killed him, because he could have sworn the badger was raising a stern eyebrow at the boy it had just called Warlock.

"Hi, Aziraphale," Warlock said, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking the dirt in front of him.

"We've discussed this."

"I know."

"You are not allowed to venture into the material plane while the sun is out."

"I know."

"You are the Prince of your court. It's far too dangerous-"

"For fuck sake, Aziraphale, I know! Shit. You sound like my mother."

The badger growled, straightening itself out to its full height. But before it could reply, the tree's voice broke into a shout.

"Do not make me come up there and drag you back myself, Adam." The eyes of the tree were suddenly glowing.

Johnson began to scuttle backward; the anger coming off of Adam had begun to sting his skin.

"I forbid you." His voice sounded bigger now, older. "I am the Prince. You work for me, remember?" He turned away from the tree, looking once again a boy of Johnson's age. "You're not my dad."

And with that, the vines of ivy that lined the bottom of the boulder slithered up the rock and wrapped themselves around Adam's wrists. He didn't fight them, simply continued to glare at the vines as his shoulders grew tense at the effort of remaining still. The air grew thick before a pop of pressure, and he was gone in a swirl of dried leaves. Johnson turned. The other boy had disappeared as well.

The badger, however, continued to watch him.

"A word of advice, dear boy. Don't venture out into the woods alone. Don't believe everything you read in a book. And, definitely, do not give your name to strangers you meet in the forest."

A gust of wind and the badger dropped down to all fours, chittering and rubbing its face in its paws before scurrying off.

Greasy Johnson didn't pick up his apples before he ran, full-speed, all the way home.

Chapter Text

Rushed footsteps echoed off the cave walls as Aziraphale marched Warlock into the throne room.

"Warlock!"

Queen Deirdre met them in the threshold, immediately wrapping her son in a vice-like grip that quickly began to turn the poor boy's face a deepening shade of purple as he bent awkwardly in her grasp. It took a strangled sound from her son for Deirdre to release him.

"What were you thinking!?" Her voice was more gentle than urgent. She searched his eyes, which shifted as often as his feet. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

"Yes," he mumbled, annoyed. At fourteen, Warlock had only recently begun to bristle against his mother's fierce protectiveness. Deirdre eyed him. He shrank to her height. "Sorry."

The Unseelie King, Arthur, watched from his throne, his eyes lit with a combination of worry and anger as he silently struggled to find comfort in the rigid chair. The Unseelie throne was forged from shards of polished black jet threaded together using the fallen branches of the Ancient Oaks — enchanted trees that lined the entrances to the caves the Unseelie had come to call home. The stones themselves had been smoothed to a shining finish, flickering with the flames of the torches that lined the walls of the throne room, giving the entire chair the look of embers bubbling in a dying fire. A crown of leafless branches sat atop his head, appearing heavier than it should, as his eyes remained fixed on his son. 

After some more scolding, and even more hugs from the Queen, Warlock stepped in front of his father, his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Father."

"Son." The curtness of the King's reply was forced. Aziraphale could almost see the inner struggle Arthur was fighting to keep himself from embracing his son as his wife had. But Warlock nearly a man, and the King had taken to distancing himself from his son as a way of "hardening the heart of the future Unseelie King." Something Arthur's father had done before him, and his before that. A "necessary tactic," he'd told Aziraphale when they were boys Warlock's age — feet dangling off a Dogwood branch under the moonlight — to remain mentally astute and protect against Seelies' wily temptations. 

Aziraphale didn't know if the Seelie possessed any actual wiles, not of the sort Arthur's parents believed, anyway. Yes, their beauty was stunning, that much was undeniable, but they were also cold, and calculating, and objectively cruel. Glamours were something the Unseelie had been forced to use to aid in trickery. But not the Seelie, too prideful in how humans reacted to their physical superiority to bother with such trivialities. But self-preservation was important to Arthur, and his father. So Aziraphale swallowed his doubts and did as his King commanded.

Arthur let out a long sigh. "Was he alone?"

"No." 

"A human?"

"Yes."

At that, a bit of anger seeped through the cracks of Arthur's forced stoicism. "Do they have proof of your existence? Do I need to remind you the danger that places the Court in?"

Warlock looked up at his father, stung. "No!" He leveled his voice. "Of course, not. He wasn't carrying a mobile. I made sure of it before I showed myself." He quickly glanced at Aziraphale who offered an imperceptible nod in return. 

Arthur ignored them. "I fail to understand what would compel you to risk so much to venture onto the material plane during the day and show yourself, openly. What concern of is it of yours what the Seelie Prince does with a human soul? You know the law."

Warlock frowned deeply. "I do. And I'm sorry." He worried at his lip before adding, "But the human was a kid. Who knows what the Seelie would have done to him if-"

"He is your age." Arthur stared at his son. "More than capable of understanding the consequences of his actions." 

Warlock's eyes dropped once again to the floor between them. 

At the sight of that, Arthur allowed himself to soften slightly. "Son, the Seelie are allowed one human soul per year. We are not to interfere, no matter how grotesque we find the tradition. It is their right."

Aziraphale gripped his hands tightly behind his back.

It had been a century since Arthur's and Thaddeus' grandfathers forged the agreement that required the Fae to retreat from human view, a result of millennia of disintegrating relations between the material plane and the Faewild. Fae magic, once fueled by human faith in the otherworldly, had steadily dwindled as human-created religions gained popularity. Demons, witches, wiccans, words charged with promises of eternal damnation and torment pulled humans from the graces of the Fae and into the man-made imprisonment of organized religion. 

The loss of power created dissent among the Fae. Lifespans — once spanning many centuries — began to shorten, causing panic to spread throughout the Kingdom. Fealty cracked, and the fissure between the Seelie and Unseelie quickly followed, with the Seelie branding the rebels who dared demand more than what was deemed their fair share enemies to the crown, and exiling them to live in the mountain caves on the outskirts of the Faewild, cursed to wander the night and oversee the material plane only during the barren winter months when human faith and power were even more scarce.

There remained pockets of believers on the Earth, covens that survived the burnings, but their faith wasn't enough to sustain the Fae. Enslaving human souls became the most reliable way to access power, with members of both Courts forming agreements with "willing" humans, offering blessings and wealth in exchange for ownership over their souls, each Court basking in the suffering they'd caused. But no matter how many souls they'd claimed, both Courts were left wanting. Because Fae power remained reliant on faith. And faith was not knowing. 

Faith was believing.

And then the Industrial Revolution barrelled across the continents, dividing human attention even further as their imaginations became fixated on the wonders their own hands could create. Who needed magic when there was the wonder that was combustible engine? 

Human greed had always been there, hidden in plane sight amongst the religious leaders, built into the foundation of the government policy and social structure, but technology — the printing press, photographs, video recording devices — those advancements gave new teeth to human greed and ambition, and the Fae's dwindling power put them at a heightened risk of exploitation. This new world had quickly become too dangerous. So the Fae retreated, stopped collecting human souls, further reducing themselves to living off the scraps of the meager faith conjured during hidden coven rituals and Ostara celebrations. 

The Seelie, bastards that they were, had written a loophole into their side of the contract which allowed them to continue to collect one human soul per year as long as the King's bloodline continued. It was pointless. One soul would add nothing to the stores of magic of the Seelie Court; nor would it do anything for faith amongst the humans. It was an exercise of power. A rude gesture in the face of all Unseelie as the Seelie continued to parade human souls down their corridors, year after year, for their own amusement.

And throughout it all, Arthur continued to preach the merits of the contract, highlighting its importance to protecting the safety of the Court and even going so far as to categorize any torturing of humans as a cruelty equal in measure to the Unseelie being cast out centuries prior. But toying with humans was in every Fae's nature, and Aziraphale couldn't help but resent his friend, and King, for the mistakes of his bloodline.

The silence between Warlock and Arthur was growing so deafening that even Aziraphale was growing uncomfortable. Finally, Arthur nodded. "Deirdre, take our son to bed." He fixed Warlock with a look. "You have forfeited your right to enter the material plane for the remainder of your birthday. Maybe next year you'll choose how you spend this precious time more wisely. And you are not to leave your quarters for the remainder of the evening, do you understand?"

Aziraphale hid his grimace. 

"Yes, sir," Warlock said to his shoes and followed his mother out of the throne room.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping as he removed his crown and placed it on the armrest of his cold throne. "What am I going to do with him, Aziraphale?"

"Let him be a boy?" Aziraphale offered. 

"He's not a boy. He's the future King, and he needs to start acting like one."

Aziraphale sighed. "Warlock is smart, Arthur. He's just… sensitive. He was protecting a human soul. Isn't that worth something?"

Arthur scoffed. "You know as well as I do that all Warlock was doing up there was meddling with that Adam." He pursed his lips in disgust. "His unhealthy obsession with that boy is going to be the death of me."

Aziraphale nodded. He had a point there. Warlock and Adam had held an unhealthy preoccupation with one other since they were very young, to the disdain of Arthur, and the pride of Thaddeus. There had nary been a birthday during which they weren't caught in some kind of near-altercation. This had simply been the first one to involve an actual human. 

But Aziraphale couldn't help think the King was being too hard on his son. Thinking back on the antics he and Arthur had gotten into with Thaddeus and his band of braggadocious lackeys, he smiled. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure if he's that much different than we were at his age." Arthur eyed him, the stoic expression of a King shielding the mischievous expression of the boy that had once been Aziraphale's best friend. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten the time we sampled every ale at that local pub? We couldn't have been older than Warlock is now."

Arthur's eyes softened. "My father locked me in my room for three weeks after that."

"Well, in your father's defense, sneaking— completely pissed — into Thaddeus' quarters to send all of his personal effects to the bottom of the Soggy Court did carry a bit more risk than simply venturing out to the material plane while the sun was still up."

Arthur pointed a stern finger at him. "That was a retaliation." He lifted his chin. "He stole my Percy."

Aziraphale's mind wandered back to the bright purple tiger that was Arthur's childhood pet. He'd taken to enchanted animals from a young age, and had begged his father for Percy for years before he'd conceded. When Percy went missing, Arthur's mother had insisted the cat had simply run away, its wild nature simply difficult to tame. But Aziraphale noted how Thaddeus had stared at the cat, almost lustfully, as Arthur sat upon him during every Equinox feast. Believing the Seelie Prince had nothing to do with Percy's disappearance was a challenge.

Arthur's shoulders slumped once again. "Maybe you're right. But this feels… different, Aziraphale. Warlock's not like us. We used to get into all sorts of trouble, with all kinds of people. He doesn't. Only with this Adam does he act rashly. He cares what that one thinks of him. It's dangerous. It's not a trait the Unseelie King can have if he's to rule effectively."

"He's tougher than he looks."

Arthur huffed. "You've always had a soft spot for him."

"Well, he is my godson, after all."

Arthur smiled weakly. "He's going to choose you, tomorrow. As his Champion. You know that, right?"

Aziraphale stiffened. It wouldn't be a shock to anyone, but nothing in this life is guaranteed. And Aziraphale had learned long ago the risks to any Unseelie that had the audacity to hope. He tried to sound casual. "Has he told you as much?"

"Come on, Aziraphale. That boy worships the ground you walk on. And why shouldn't he? What other Knight would sneak lessons on how to scan humans for mobile phones between sword drills?"

Aziraphale remained silent, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. But he'd be lying if he said it didn't make him proud that Warlock had perfected that skill, given how briefly they'd practiced. When he and Arthur were boys, they would use the ability to scan for weapons. Aziraphale was merely arming Warlock for the times.

Arthur grew serious. "But I need you to work on him. Harden him. He's only a few years from becoming of age. These childish preoccupations have got to end. He will need to marry. Sire children. Continue the bloodline." An unspoken worry crept into his eyes. "Pepper will make a fine Queen."

Aziraphale winced. The King hadn't told him he'd chosen Warlock's bride. "They're best friends. I'm not sure-"

"Did you know that Jophiel is dying."

Aziraphale blinked in shock. "What?"

"Uriel doesn't expect him to survive the week. Eighty years-old. "

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Arthur, I hadn't heard."

"No, you hadn't. Because we've worked very hard for a very long time to keep this quiet while we tried to save him." He frowned, deeply. "Our top elder, the oldest and wisest of us all, dying… at a meager eighty years-old." He sighed deeply, slumping further in his rigid chair. "How do you think the citizens will react to knowing they can now barely expect to live longer than a human?"

"One life does not mean all-"

"He's far from the first, Aziraphale." Arthur's jaw was tight in worry. "We've been working on remedies, potions, Uriel even stole some medicine from the material plane, anything to extend their lives but nothing is taking." He sat up, rubbing his face in his hands. "We can't keep hiding this from everyone." 

Aziraphale thought of Jophiel and his bright smile. He was beloved in the community, a source of comfort and joy for so many, frequently sitting with a harp and a song in his heart, filling the caves with verses that would otherwise be lost to time. He was cherished by all, and he was dying. Aziraphale was struck by a sudden grief not only for Jophiel, but for so much that the Unseelie had lost as of late.

When Aziraphale looked back at Arthur, the worry had vanished and the King returned. "This is the reality Warlock is going to be stepping into as King. And having a best friend as a partner is more than my son could ask for. The masses have been growing restless for decades, Aziraphale, and news of Jophiel's death will only fan the flames. The one thing keeping them from an all out war with the Seelie is my threat of retaliation. If my son is seen as soft, weak, they will eat him alive. I am doing him a great kindness by betrothing him to someone who will make him stronger."

Aziraphale remembered the young Arthur. Aziraphale's father had been his trusted advisor until Arthur chose him as his own Champion, as had Arthur's father had chosen Aziraphale's grandfather. Generations after generations had bonded their two families together, with the King's best friend becoming the father figure of the Prince when the weight of the crown grew too heavy. But this was different. 

Aziraphale had always been different from his ancestors. No interest in an heir — even less interest in a wife — he knew he was to be the last in his family to stand and protect Arthur's bloodline. It was a grief he'd shoved deep down; one he dared not face until old age and decline forced him to. 

And the older Warlock became — the more of himself he stepped into — it had become clear, to Aziraphale at least, that the Prince's interest in taking a wife was as insignificant as his own.

But what that meant to Arthur and his bloodline was too much for the King to admit. Arthur continued. "He will see reason. Duty is the burden of our family. Of the King. And I know my son. He will perform his duty, admirably so, regardless of his personal preferences. As I know you will, too, Champion." He glanced behind him at the deep crimson sash that was to be donned by the Prince's Champion once chosen.

Aziraphale swallowed his objection. Because this was about more than the secrets inside Warlock's heart, more than Aziraphale and his responsibility for the mortality of his own family line. This was the King asking him to serve, to shape his son, to mould the man who would be charged with leading the Unseelie through even more tumult than Aziraphale had seen in his own lifetime. And Aziraphale would not disappoint his King.

He offered a curt bow. "I will do my best, Your Grace."

Deirdre returned and waited quietly by the threshold.

Arthur stood. "Take the rest of the night off, Aziraphale. You've done well."

Aziraphale nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace."

The King walked up to the Queen and took her hand, bending to kiss it before hooking his arm in hers and walking toward their quarters. As they walked, she whispered something in his ear.

"Before you're off Aziraphale" — Arthur shouted over his shoulder — "would you mind bringing Warlock a piece of birthday cake? Just knock and leave it outside his door. He should be without company tonight." He look at his wife and smiled. "But not without cake."

"As you please."

"And take one for yourself as well. Devils food. I'm told it's quite delicious."

Aziraphale smiled. "You're too kind," he said as he watched the King and Queen walk off before turning towards the kitchens in search of cake.

Crowley and Adam glared at one another.

"Don't you dare take that tone of voice with me, young man."

"Don't you dare take that tone of voice with me, peasant!"

Crowley's eyes widened. "Peasant!?" His fingers itched with the overwhelming urge to grab his bow to nock an arrow right in the young Prince's face.

A strong clap from behind them. Adam's features shifted as he turned to face his father, the defiance gone, replaced by adoration and feigned remorse. Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought being Adam's Champion would be an easier job, but the Prince's behavior in the last year had become nearly untameable.

"Crowley," King Thaddeus boomed. He was dressed for his son's birthday: the crown jewels glinting off the white light of the throne room, his robe — that somehow shone like gold but was soft as velvet to the touch — flowing elegantly behind him. Adam wasted no time swooping in to fit right under his father's shoulder. Crowley frowned. Adam was taller than that. Crowley could see his knees slightly bent in order to fit just so. 

Arse kisser.

The King looked from his son to Crowley. "What's going on?"

Straightening himself out, Crowley clicked his heels together. "Your Grace, your son was in the material plane with the intent to bargain with a human."

Thaddeus' eyes widened. "Was he!?"

Adam looked up, suddenly the picture of innocence. Crowley wondered if this act still worked on his father or if Thaddeus was simply humoring him. 

"He summoned me, pa. He wanted some bullies to stop teasing him. I was just trying to help. Besides, he was a kid. How long has it been since we had a human my age in the halls? I thought it would be a nice trophy… for you." 

Crowley's eyes narrowed. He knew that the human boy hadn't yet shared his intentions with Adam. "And" — he said slowly, not taking his eyes off the Prince — "he's using his gift of sight on the humans. All before he's of age."

Thaddeus squeezed Adam closer, nearly beaming at him. "Well, Crowley" — he chuckled — "you can hardly expect my son to quell his brilliant natural abilities because of a few… technicalities."

"Laws are for everyone… Your Grace. Adam's behavior could have cost the Court its one human soul for the year."

"Of course! Of course they are. Son" — Adam pouted at his father. Crowley rolled his eyes — "mind your Champion. He may be overly cautious, but that's only because he loves you. Isn't that right, Crowley."

Crowley sighed. It was. He'd been Adam's Champion for nearly five years now. As with everything else in his life, Adam was ahead in this regard. Historically, Princes didn't choose a Champion until their fourteenth birthday. But Adam had insisted, and his parents never withheld something from their son. Not something like this, anyway. And, like everyone else, Crowley was mesmerized by Adam's intellect, fascinated by his intuition, astounded by his mischievousness. He was the brightest mind in ten generations, and would some day rule over the entire Seelie Court. 

The potential there was incredible. Lifespans were shortening. That, coupled with lack of human souls to torment was causing dissatisfaction to rise amongst the citizenry. Whispers of rebellion from the Unseelie lot filled the ears of the King and his Council. And Crowley watched, with a deep dread in his belly, as support for a preemptive invasion grew from all sides of the Court. It was hubris, foolish pride, a pointless distraction that would do nothing to solve the root of the issues plaguing both courts. But Thaddeus had always loved to take. Take souls. Take beloved pets. Take power. He thrived on it. And while a war with the Unseelie would not help his citizens, it would add to his legacy. And that, apparently, was all the Seelie King cared about.

Crowley looked at Adam, at his brilliance and potential, and worried at how much of his energy he placed into his Father's approval. It had been a long time since Crowley and Thaddeus had been boys, getting into, what he believed to be at the time, innocent mischief at the expense of the humans and the Unseelie alike. Only now, with the years trailing behind him, did he realize all of that were the seeds of the cruelty that had grown into Thaddeus' armor. And seeing Adam's behavior over the past year, how his disobedience and recklessness had sky-rocketed, Crowley worried that all of the potential stored within this boy would be wasted, turned sour, like his father's heart. 

And Crowley did not know if he would be able to stop it.

He looked at the King, as he expectantly awaited confirmation that Crowley "loved" his son. "Something like that," he admitted, begrudgingly.

"Wonderful!" Thaddeus let Adam go with a hard slap on the back that made the boy wince. "Now, off to your room. And stay there. You're not to leave for the rest of the week."

Adam turned. All the smugness, gone. "But!"

Thaddeus raised a finger, silencing his son immediately. "No buts. I've been away from our guests for too long."

Adam looked crestfallen. "But it's my birthday party."

"That you left hours ago to gallivant about in the material plane, leaving your mother and me to entertain them, without you." 

Crowley's jaw tensed. He hated when Thaddeus did this.

The King leaned forward, his eyes reveling as Adam shrank under his gaze. "All that for the soul of a sweaty, fourteen-year-old boy? And you think that would make me proud of you?" He sneered, leaning back. "The next time you risk embarrassing me, you better make sure it's worth it."

Tears pooled behind Adam's eyes and Crowley watched the King eye him expectantly — a silent dare for his son to allow them to fall. But Adam merely straightened out, swallowed roughly, and nodded, his eyes locked on his father the entire time. "As you wish, Father. Thank you for your leniency," he said before turning on his heel and marching off.

When Adam was gone, Crowley turned to face the King. "A bit harsh, wouldn't you say?"

Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, Crowley? If you didn't want him punished, why did you summon me away from my guests?"

"Because the boy needs discipline-"

"That I just provided-"

"Only after praising him for his efforts!" Crowley shook his head. "You confuse him." He rarely used this casual tone with Thaddeus anymore, but there were times where he couldn't help it.

The King eyed Crowley curiously, the way he'd seen Adam eye a shiny new human soul from across the room. It had been so long since they'd been friends, boys, playing in the woods without a care in the world. Picking out humans to meddle with on the material plane, before technology stole whatever remnants of wonder and awe that humanity held for the unknown. Those days were lost to time. Their friendship, apparently, swept away with it.

Thaddeus rolled his eyes as he straightened out his robes in a mirror behind Crowley's shoulder. "I know who my son is, Crowley. He thrives on praise. I know he likes to appear as though he's tough — that he needs no approval from anyone — but the truth of his heart lies far too close to the surface." He looked back at Crowley. "Because love is fickle, support is fleeting, and he needs to learn that — if he's ever going to be King and rule this Court — seeking the adoration of others will be his undoing."

"But you're his father. Can't the world teach him that on its own?"

Thaddeus scoffed. "Crowley, this is literally the only power I have over my son. My love should be the only thing he seeks so he doesn't toss his heart around seeking it from others. Doing that for anyone else is a weakness that will be exploited. I am protecting him."

Crowley thought of the Queen, her hard face, their cold alliance. Thaddeus definitely hadn't tossed his heart around when it came to her. There had been girls when they were both younger. Human girls in taverns who gave their hearts instead of their souls to the mysterious travelers passing through their town. Thaddues had grown particularly fond of one — Nina — a sweet commoner who served them ale on more than one occasion. She was hard, curious, smart. Working at the pub to pay her way through university and open her own cafe. She didn't immediately take to Thaddeus' advances. But Thaddeus, every bit the Seelie Prince, would not be denied something he coveted. And while he could have offered her fortune for her dream to claim her, he held back. Spoke sweetly to her in the corner. Tempted her heart rather than her mind. Eventually, genuine affection bloomed between them.

Even after his marriage to the Queen and her birth to Adam, Thaddeus continued to frequent the pub. Then one day, as Crowley stood to the right of his King at a feast, there Nina was, pouring wine into the King's ornate goblet. When Crowley approached her, Nina remained tight lipped, not admitting whether this was her idea or Thaddeus'. She stayed on for a few years, their clandestine meetings only known to Crowley and the other human souls that were bound to a life of servitude to the Royal Family. And then, one day Crowley watched as Queen Harriet stumbled upon a five-year-old Adam playing in the garden with the pretty lady from the kitchens. The next day, Nina was gone.

Adam asked about her a few times, but Crowley had no answers. And Thaddeus never mentioned her again.

Crowley sighed. "You know how willful your son is. No matter how hard you try, you can't control what type of King he will become."

Thaddeus' face hardened. "No. But I will make him earn that Crown from me. He'll receive no coronation until I deem him ready." Leaving no room for argument, the King started towards the door. Crowley made to follow. "Why don't you keep my son company tonight, Crowley?" he shouted over his shoulder. "He shouldn't be alone on his birthday. And I don't care to be in the same room with a someone dares question my judgment so flippantly." 

Crowley stopped walking, feeling as though he'd been struck in the face. 

Thaddeus turned when he reached the door. "You forget yourself, Champion. Don't let it happen again."

The King left.

Crowley stood for a long moment, making sure the King was well out of earshot before dropping his head back and releasing a long growl. It had been so long since he felt any kind of kinship to the man whose son he was to protect. But he — a Knight from a low family with no legacy behind him — had been chosen, once by Thaddeus as a friend and then by Adam as a Champion. And Crowley still held out hope that he could influence Adam in some way. He turned and stalked off towards Adam's room. 

When he stopped in front of the door, it was to the sound of sniffles. He knocked gently. Rustling came from behind the door, followed by a long pause. Crowley could feel faint magic being used. Magic a fourteen-year-old should not be able, nor allowed, to use. When Adam opened the door, there were no hints of tears in his eyes as he stood straight in anticipation. His shoulders slumped at the sight of Crowley. He'd been hoping for his father. He left him and returned to lay on his bed, his back facing the doorway.

"I'm not allowed back at your party, either," he said, stepping in and leaning back on the door to close it behind him.

"Good," Adam said, still not turning to face him. "Wanker," he added for good measure.

Crowley smiled to himself. "I guess I deserve that." He paused. "You know, he's always been like that." Adam's back stiffened. Crowley continued. "I've been on the receiving end of your father's mood swings for most of my life."

"They suck."

Crowley snorted a laugh. "They absolutely do suck. But they aren't going anywhere, unfortunately. You're just going to have to learn to deal with them."

Adam scoffed. 

Crowley set down his bow and quiver and walked over to stand at the edge of his bed. "May I?" He gestured toward the space near the bottom that Adam's legs had begun to take over in the last four months. Crowley was slowly coming to grips with the terrifying realization that, by this time next year, Adam was very likely to be taller than he was. Without a word, Adam pulled his legs up towards his chest, making room but saying nothing. 

Crowley took a seat with a sigh. "Have I ever told you about the time your father and I sneaked into a human wedding for his birthday?"

Adam didn't look at him, but Crowley knew he was listening. Thaddeus never spoke of his childhood, and Adam, the voracious learner that he was, was always hungry for any meager scrap of information about who his father had been before he became King. Especially now.

Crowley leaned back, resting on his elbows and allowing Adam to see him without having to move his body. "Well, we were around seventeen, I think. And your father had grown bored, as he was prone to do. And back in those days, back when passageways were a bit sturdier, we could bring friends along to the material plane on our birthdays, as long as we blended in with humans, of course. Truth be told, your Grandfather turned a blind eye to the amount of times your father went to the material plane and stirred trouble. But that's a story for another time.

"We didn't know who the humans were, but the whole town of Tadfield had been in attendance. At that time, none of us had actually seen groups of humans come together in that kind of a celebration. Sure, we'd frequented pubs, tried our fair share of ale, and had witnessed and partook in a good amount of debauchery, but this was different. This was a celebration of love. You could feel it, all around you. This bright" — Crowley rubbed his fingers together, grasping impossibly at a word to describe a feeling — "warmth, is the best way I can describe it. Faith, it would seem, could be felt by any Seelie, even if it's not faith in us. So faith in love, excitement for the happy couple — as they called them — that was more intoxicating than any ale we'd ever sampled.

"Your father saw the girl the moment we walked in. Long dark hair, chocolate eyes, coffee skin. She was a vision, if you're into that sort of thing." Forgetting himself in Crowley's story, Adam scoffed, knowing full well that Crowley was not into that sort of thing. Crowley hit his foot gently with an elbow. Adam kicked him playfully back. Crowley continued. "Your father has the sight, like you. He can see into humans' hearts. But it didn't take much to see it in this girl's eyes, fixed on the groom. Longing. How none of the humans saw it was beyond us.

"I assumed Thaddeus would go to her. There hadn't been a soul claimed yet that year, and your grandfather always let Thaddeus collect the souls once he'd turned eight." Adam exhaled sharply from his nose, his jaw working. "But your father turned to me and commanded I go to her.

"Now, bargaining with humans was never something I'd taken to, and your Father knew it. But I'd watched him do it enough over the years. Even in situations where he didn't claim the souls, he'd practiced, using his sight to hone in on the humans' desire, working it to the surface. A temptation, if you would. Something we all can do with practice, he was just an expert at it from the start." Crowley paused, for a moment, wondering if he should continue. But Adam's green eyes were locked on him now, wide, and he needed to know the truth of his father's heart before it was too late for him to defend himself against it. 

"I refused him for a time. But he was the Prince and I, the lowly son of a Knight given the honour of the company of the future King. So I conceded. The arrangement came quickly The groom's wife fell ill with a cough a week after their wedding. She died two weeks later. But, for whatever reason, it didn't stop there. The groom, deep in his grief, fell ill shortly after. And then the bride's mother. Eventually, even the girl I'd made the bargain with — the town's apothecarist — fell ill. And all I could do was watch from afar, not understanding what I'd done wrong." He laughed weakly to himself. "You know, it all happened so quickly, I didn't even have time to collect on her part of the agreement. Which, I've come to accept as a mercy. But it turns out it was just because your father didn't want her. It was never about her. It was about me, daring to refuse an ask of the Great Prince Thaddeus. And he relished forcing me to witness the bitter fruits of my own cruelty."

Adam was sitting up now, his eyes wide as saucers and his mouth hanging open. Crowley straightened out, hopeful the boy would see in this story the lesson he'd hoped to impart on him rather than something darker that his Father would have seen at his age. Adam was smarter, more sensitive, and far kinder than Thaddeus ever was. But Crowley knew how easily all of that could be turned to cruelty if left to shrivel on the vine, or worse, weaponized against him. And his parents never watered those qualities, never nurtured his more sensitive traits, already hardening and turning sharp against others. The way he treated Prince Warlock was testament to this fact. Crowley had been powerless to shape the Father, but he would do his damnedest to shape his son.

"Your father is the King, but he is cruel Adam, cold, closed off from the feelings that bring us the most joy. We are Seelie, Adam. We are meant to love. But the King wishes to teach you differently. Because your father does not know how."

Adam leaned back, serious. "That's treason," he whispered.

Crowley nodded. "I am at your mercy, Prince. If you'd have me thrown in the dungeons, I'd go willingly without denying a word."

Adam's calculating eyes narrowed. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you don't have to be your father, Adam. You can be you. And the sooner you realize that his approval is a currency he dolls out when it serves him, the sooner you will be free to discover the kind of King you want to be."

Adam's jaw worked as he took Crowley in, the weight of this new secret, how his Champion thought the King cruel, could benefit him. He was his father's son, had been raised in his court, there was no way for his mind not to wander there. Crowley waited. Suddenly, Adam's eyes brightened as he extended a hand towards Crowley, who just stared at it, expectantly.

"Teach me, then," Adam said.

Crowley hid the smile he felt tugging at his cheeks. "Teach you what?"

Adam's eyes landed on Crowley's bow and quiver that remained on the floor. "I'm old enough now. Teach me or I'll tell Beelzebub what you said today. Toss your treasonous arse in the dungeons with the humans."

Crowley lifted his chin. "Your father thinks that weapon is beneath you." Thaddeus had always made fun of Crowley for his interest in archery. 

"Piss on that. Teach me."

Crowley smirked. "Piss on that!? Now that's treason, young Prince."

Adam shrugged, the thrill of doing something behind his father's back giving him new life. "Then we'll both be in the dungeons. Who cares? Teach me."

Finally letting the full smile spread on his lips, Crowley took Adam's hand and shook. "You, Prince Adam, have a deal. But" — tightening his grip, he tugged Adam closer —"call me peasant again and I'll hang you from the treetops by your earlobes, understood?"

Adam nodded. "Understood." The binding of their agreement caused a gust of air to swirl around them, sending Adam's curls upward before settling, a little less perfect than they'd been before.

Adam dropped Crowley's hand with a smile. "Wicked."

Chapter Text

"Are you sure it's supposed to look like this?" Warlock asked, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Aziraphale watched from the entryway as the Queen straightened her son's overly voluminous cravat, her smug smile a contrast to his pained grimace.

"Yes, darling. These are the traditional dress robes of the soon-to-be-king. This is the same suit your father wore to our pre-wedding banquet."

"I look like a pirate," he said, fiddling with the black lace on his ruffled cuffs.

"Met many pirates in Tadfield, have you?" she asked, walking over to grab his jacket.

Warlock's hand stilled on a cuff. "Saw a picture in a store once, is all," he said before straightening out.

Deidre hummed teasingly. She knew her son held a less-than-common curiosity in humans and their stories. She had turned many a blind eye to the numerous books she had caught him with on his birthdays, returning from the material plane with them hidden beneath newly acquired baggy shirts or shoved deeply into his pockets.Aziraphale once found a twelve-year-old Warlock huddled in a corner reading a copy of something called Treasure Island so worn through the spine was nearly split in half.

"I don't need you to dress me, mum." He took the jacket from her and put it on as she smoothed it out along his shoulders. Despite his grumbling, Warlock looked sharp, his black shirt and trousers contrasted nicely by a silver waistcoat and suit jacket with perfectly matching buttons and elegant thread work along the lapels. Truth be told, this was the most color Aziraphale had ever seen him wear. Maybe that was the issue more than the cut of the shirt. Either way, he was the picture of young, Unseelie royalty.

"I know, darling." Her eyes were growing glassy. She stepped in front of him. "I just… can't believe how quickly you've grown up." She cupped his face in her hands, moving his stubborn hair out of his eyes with a tender smile. "I am so, so proud of you."

Raising his eyebrows, he placed his own hands gently on her wrists. "Please don't," he teased, but his eyes had started shining a bit as well.

"Oh, I know. Lots of time for that later. This is a party." She stepped away from him. "And work. The Seelies should be here shortly." She turned to Aziraphale. "I'll leave you two here and check with your father. He's likely to be in a state. I'll send Gabriel to fetch you when we're ready for your entrance."

After she left, Warlock returned to the mirror to tug at his suit some more.

Aziraphale tried to settle his nerves. "You know, the dress robes for the actual ceremony won't be so-"

"Puffy?" he cut in, trying to flatten his cravat which was defying gravity at an unnatural rate.

"I was going to say traditional, but yes, puffy is another word."

"Whoever's King next will not have to don this get up, I can guarantee that."

"Well, the Queen did offer-"

Warlock stopped, tossing his black hair out of his eyes to fix Aziraphale's reflection with a look. "Come on, Aziraphale, you know her. She was not going to let me get through tonight without wearing dad's suit."

Aziraphale relented. "You're probably right."

Warlock turned and extended his hand and, with an eyebrow raised, Aziraphale gave him his sheathed sword. "But this break in tradition? She won't mind?"

Warlock affixed it to his belt, the hilt left to peek out of the corner of his jacket just-so. "I can't in good conscience face the Seelie looking like a complete buffoon, can I?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, I beg to differ. But even in these clothes, you are twice the man their Prince is. Let's see if he even shows up today." He paused, watching how the direct mention of Adam made Warlock once again nervously fuss with his sleeves. "Your mother is right. I cannot believe we are already here."

"Me neither," Warlock said, wincing as he tugged to loosen his collar.

"Do you feel ready?"

"Not really. But" — he stilled, Aziraphale noticed a sudden glint in his eye — "after tonight I will be."

Aziraphale squinted at him. "What does that mean?"

Warlock scoffed. "Oh, shut up, Aziraphale. Not everything means something."

"Actually, my dear boy, I do believe that words — by definition — mean something."

"Right, but this isn't some sort of code. It's a big night, is all. And I look ridiculous. I'll feel better once it's over." He straightened out. "Are you ready? To be the head of my Kings Guard?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I am, indeed."

"Good. Because we have a lot of work to do," he said as a quiet knock came from the door. Expecting Gabriel, they turned to find Pepper, looking a vision in a flowing dress of crimson lace and dramatic black thread work, stepping into the room.

Aziraphale stepped forward. "Pardon, My Lady, I don't think you're allowed-"

"Oh hush, Aziraphale," she said, chuckling at Warlock as she stepped towards him. "My god you look ridiculous." She squinted, leaning closer and reaching to move his hair out of his eyes. "Are you wearing eyeliner!?"

He jerked out of her reach. "I am, actually. You might want to try it some time."

She scoffed playfully as she drew back to punch him in the ribs. He caught her hand. "Just kidding" — he teased, taking her other hand and raising them to inspect her full outfit — "you are gorgeous as ever. This dress really is something."

She took her hands back and placed them on her hips, looking down at her gown. "You think your mother will mind?"

He shook his head. "I'm traditional enough for the both of us, tonight. And she knows what she's gaining in you as a daughter." Aziraphale smiled as he watched Pepper step forward and tried to further tame Warlock's ruffles. He welcomed the assistance. They'd known one another their entire lives, and there was a calm and genuine friendship between them. Arthur had been right. They would make a fine King and Queen.

It had taken a lot of work, on both Aziraphale's and Warlock's parts, to sculpt the Prince into the man who stood before him today. Arthur had commanded Aziraphale to toughen him, and he had done so to the best of his abilities. More interested in the sword than his studies, Warlock trained relentlessly, working on his swordsmanship most days long past when Aziraphale had dismissed him. There had even been a few times where he'd gotten the best of Aziraphale. Whether or not Aziraphale had stepped a little too closely or leaned a little too far back during those sessions to create bigger windows for Warlock, he would never say. But neither here nor there; Warlock had grown into an unbelievably skilled swordsman.

Aziraphale tried to ignore how difficult it had clearly been for Warlock to silence his soft nature early on, to ignore the song of his heart for the call of his duty. Aziraphale had watched secretly from the shadows as the young Prince landed blow after blow onto the training pell, his brow furrowed beneath his sweat soaked hair, recognizing it for what it was: Warlock fighting his inner demons. That it was really some dark fear or dangerous desire that he wished to destroy, and not the chipped wooden pole that stood before him. It had pained Aziraphale in those early days to watch Warlock fight himself so ruthlessly.

But Warlock was to be King, and as lifespans continued to shorten and relations between the Courts deteriorated even further, King Arthur's words rang more true than ever: the Unseelie needed a strong leader, seated next to a strong Queen, siring a strong heir. Warlock had come a long way for his duty. For his people.

And Aziraphale was so proud of him.

Gabriel poked his head into the room, his dark black uniform adorned with a slate sash specifically for the occasion.

"My lady" — he sounded not at all surprised — "I did not expect to find you here." He turned to Warlock. "The Seelie King has arrived, my Prince. Pepper, it's best for you return to your dressing room and await-"

"No" — Warlock extended his bent arm toward her with a smile. She took it — "we'll greet him together."

✨✨✨

Aziraphale adjusted his crimson sash as he walked throughout the ballroom. Formalities had been laid, with the Seelie King weakly justifying the obvious slight of his Queen not attending the party by explaining how the darkness of the caves affected her moods. Seelie needed the sun, after all. Aziraphale watched Arthur's eye twitch before Deirdre stepped in, her calm and grounding presence a precious gift both to her husband and the Court.

Aziraphale lasted another five minutes before being excused.

He made his way to a far corner where he could keep his eye on the entire party. Arthur and Thaddeus remained seated side by side on the dais, with Deirdre returning to the crowd to mingle with guests. Warlock and Pepper stood at the threshold, greeting guests as they arrived, another unconventional turn in the evening. Traditionally, the soon-to-be Royals took their guests welcome at the dais, but Pepper insisted they go and greet to the civilians themselves. A sign of equality, she'd said, and one that Warlock had agreed to immediately. With his coronation and their union, a new era was coming. Aziraphale hoped it would be full of as much promise as they both wished it would.

Aziraphale turned his attention from the front to glance at the crowd. Thaddeus brought more guests than he was allowed, which was expected. It was unlike the Seelie to follow rules, especially those assigned by beings they deemed beneath them. Aziraphale spied Dukes Hastur and Ligur as well as Lord Beelzebub, the head of the Kings Guard, meandering about and trying not to touch their pristine ivory jackets on anything. It was common knowledge that Thaddeus had no intention of forfeiting the crown to his son any time soon, so Aziraphale had spent some time studying Beelzebub as they would soon be counterparts across the Courts. Eventually, he assumed Crowley, Prince Adam's golden-eyed and far-too-cocky-for-his-own-good Champion, would assume the title.

But Aziraphale was in no rush to see that come to pass.

There was a pause in the receiving line as Gabriel lingered longer than necessary, taking the opportunity, Aziraphale assumed, to discuss military tactics with the couple. Aziraphale watched as Warlock tossed his hair out of his eyes, a nervous habit he'd had since he was a boy to hide his growing impatience. Aziraphale made to step forward and intercede when a champagne flute was pushed towards him from his side. Long, lean fingers with nails that shined almost golden, held the stem. Aziraphale tried not to roll his eyes.

"It won't bite, you know?" Crowley teased as Aziraphale's hands remained clasped in front of him.

"I'm not entirely sure of that," he said curtly, still not turning to face the Seelie Prince's Champion and remaining focused on Gabriel as Uriel walked up behind him to gently usher him away.

Crowley chuckled, his wavy hair falling softly on his shoulders as he leaned an elbow on the black marble high top table behind them. Aziraphale tried his best not to look at him, but Seelie were magnetic like that, and amongst all the darkness in the room, it was hard not to.

He glanced quickly. Crowley wore an asymmetrical suit jacket with golden accents in what appeared to be in the shape of the sun. A golden cummerbund sat on his narrow waist. But his cape was what made an annoyed noise escape Aziraphale's throat. Golden and glimmering from the back, it hung off his right shoulder, the inside of which was etched with emerald green leaf detailing that was revealed only when he shifted ever-so-slightly.

He sensed a smile spread on Crowley's face as he said, "You know, the humans would say, take a photo, you could" — he frowned, grasping at the colloquialism — "keep it and look at it… longer. Or something like that."

Aziraphale huffed. "Hardly. Your outfit is simply blinding."

Crowley's golden eyes danced around the room. "Could use a spot of color against this dreary mess." He pushed the drink once again towards Aziraphale. "Come on, it's a celebration. A congratulations for your upcoming promotion."

"I don't drink while I'm working," he said, stiffly.

Crowley sneered, dropping his hand. "Such an Angel…"

"Where's your Prince?" Aziraphale asked, paying his snark no mind. "I didn't see him come in."

Still holding Aziraphale's drink, Crowley pointed towards King Arthur's dais, where the golden-haired prince stood — wearing a sharp, light grey suit of a much more modern cut than Warlock's — looking bored as always and shifting on his feet, a distinct contrast to Warlock, straight-backed and chin held high. Adam must have bypassed the welcome procession entirely.

"Seems as though he's coming along, nicely." Aziraphale did not try to hide his sarcasm. The escapades of the Seelie Prince were well-known across the Courts. As a youth, Thaddeus had had a reputation for mischief, but Adam had earned one for being a bit of a philanderer. Drinking, skipping council meetings, and skirting responsibilities at every pass, he seemed more a boy of thirteen than a man his age. The contrast between him and Warlock could not have been more stark.

Crowley sneered. "Well, yours is a stuck-up prick. Don't think I've ever seen that one smile." He smacked Aziraphale roughly on the back. "Good on you, for that."

Aziraphale remained unfazed. "Being a Prince isn't all fun and games, Crowley."

"No, not all. But a little fun never hurt anyone," Crowley said, dangling the drink once again for Aziraphale to see. His eyes glanced sideways as Crowley leaned in close enough to whisper. "You know, I seem to recall a young Knight who used to frequent human pubs on more than one occasion," he drawled. "Whatever happened to him?"

"He grew up."

Crowley groaned. "Grew boring, more like." Finally giving up, he took a sip of the drink and nodded in approval. "How many rules did your lot break going topside for this?"

Aziraphale waved at Uriel, finally free of Gabriel, smiling and looking sharp as they approached in a sleek black suite. He welcomed the escape. "I'm not privy to His Majesty's catering choices. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He walked away, dramatically grabbing a glass of champagne off a tray that floated by him and taking a long sip.

A garbled sound from behind followed by a sarcastic, "Cheers!" from Crowley. Aziraphale didn't bother turning around as he reached Uriel.

They glanced over his shoulder towards Crowley. "You alright?"

"Oh, please" — Aziraphale rolled his eyes — "I've been handling that one just fine for the last thirty-or-so years."

Another tray floated by. Uriel grabbed a drink for themself. "Still, can't be too careful around a flash bastard like him."

"Indeed," he said, admiring the bit of shining black markings that adorned the right side of Uriel's face. A bit of uncharacteristic flare from the healer for the occasion. It suited them quite nicely. "You look dashing, Uriel, if I do say so myself."

They smiled, glancing down at his black and silver suit, a simpler outfit than most but, Aziraphale always did prefer his own, more comfortable clothes. He'd chosen a more formal Champion sash as his embellishment, given he would soon have to turn it in for the slate sash Gabriel had been wearing for decades. "As do you, Aziraphale." Uriel gestured toward the far side of the room. "Might I have a word?"

"After you." As they walked, Aziraphale noted a bit of a spring in their step. Uriel, the Court's main healer, had been under increasing pressure from the masses to address the dwindling health of the Unseelie. It had gone so far as to require them to consort with Shax, their Seelie counterpart, despite their firm denial that they were experiencing the same difficulties. Aziraphale hadn't seen Uriel smile in months. "You seem in high spirits."

A smile from his friend.

He raised an eyebrow at them. "Uriel?"

When they reached the far corner, Uriel ducked behind some boulders before turning to him excitedly. "I wanted to wait until after the party but if I don't tell someone I might burst." They inhaled sharply before blurting out, "We may have made a breakthrough."

"Breakthrough?"

"Yes! We may have discovered a way to replicate the power created by human faith, entirely independent of them."

He stepped closer, trying to keep his voice and excitement low. After Jophiel died five years ago at eighty, the acceleration with which Fae began passing before they reached a three-quarters-of-a-century advanced exponentially, with most barely making it that far. And birth rates were dwindling, the younger generation questioning the point of spending the short lives they had raising children in an ever diminishing world. Aziraphale could hardly blame them, but he had worried for some time that the stress of it all would put the King in a premature grave.

This was fantastic news.

"What do you mean?" he asked Uriel. "How did you discover it?"

"Shax, actually. She's quite brilliant." Aziraphale frowned. His limited experience with Shax hadn't given the same impression. Uriel chose to ignore his shock, too focused on their own excitement. "It may be possible for us to extend our lives with zero human involvement. But… it will require some pretty significant changes to both courts. Which is why I sought you out."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "What types of changes?"

They exhaled slowly. "The Courts. The reason we've been bleeding power is the separation of the two Courts."

Aziraphale squinted at them. "That makes no sense. We were all one stock, and the loss of power started before the separation-"

"Yes, but lifespans back then still lasted centuries. It was only after our exile that the degradation began, and it's only accelerated since then. The separation split our powers. They control the plants, we control the animals. Nature doesn't work that way. Only in harmony can we reclaim what was lost."

Aziraphale's mood dropped. He thought back to Arthur, and Thaddeus, their tight jaws and stiff backs, the way they danced politely around their insults while still landing blow after ugly blow. They've been bleeding one another out for their entire lives. Even Aziraphale himself bristled at the idea that his people needed the Seelie, the ones who cast them out, the ones who spit on them their entire lives, to survive. And not only that, but through their own survival, they would also be rescuing the Seelie, prolonging their lives in the process. Continuing this injustice. It was unfair. The idea that they could work together seemed utterly preposterous.

He shook his head. "Arthur would never endorse such a plan."

"But it's not Arthur's call. Warlock will be crowned in five days time. He trusts you. Pepper trusts you. Help me get to them. Since it would seem Thaddeus has no intention of leaving the throne anytime soon, Shax is going to ask Beelzebub for their aid with him. Aziraphale" — Uriel placed a hand on his — "I know this is difficult, but we have to make this work or the next generation of Fae may not make it past sixty years old. We could be extinct before the end of the century."

He looked at them skeptically. He'd worried about Thaddeus' plan, how he was going to try to use Warlock's age and inexperience as a way to further press the knee into the neck of the Unseelie. But there was strength in Warlock, and in Pepper, and in their union. And no matter how much he opposed this for his own personal reasons, he owed it to them to see how they would want to handle it. Because this was their lives, and their children's and he had no right to gate keep here, no matter his personal opinions.

"You said Beelzebub is working on Thaddeus?"

Uriel smiled. "Yes."

"Then this has to be brought to Warlock by him. If Thaddeus calls a meeting, I will make sure Warlock and Pepper attend. It's the best I can do."

"And it's the most I can ask for." They extended their glass towards him. "To lives long-lived."

Aziraphale let himself smile slightly as he tapped his glass gently on theirs and took a sip.

Crowley downed the last of his third glass of champagne as he searched the room for Adam. Which was hard. The place was so bloody gloomy, and his Seelie eyes were never that good in the dark. And the champagne wasn't helping. He probably shouldn't have had that third glass, but the Unseelie Champion left him no choice. The bastard.

It wasn't all terrible. Human champagne was never found in the Faewild, and he wasn't just going to let it go to waste. But he had to be sharp. At an event like this, Adam had a tendency to wander in ways that were unbecoming of the Crowned Prince.

As soon as Crowley spotted him, he knew he'd had his work cut out for him. Adam was in the far corner, with one arm propped up against the wall above his head as he leaned over an Unseelie with short dark hair and dramatic black eye-makeup. They were smiling widely as they stared up at Adam, saying something Crowley couldn't hear.

He marched toward him.

"So, your name's Muriel?" Adam drawled as he leaned closer. Crowley clicked his heels behind him.

"My Prince, a word?"

Adam waved him away lazily. "I'm busy."

Crowley grabbed his wrist. "I'm afraid I must insist… Prince."

Adam blinked at him, his annoyance clear on his face, as he turned back to Muriel. "Well, I accept." Giggling, Muriel bit their lip excitedly, keeping Adam's gaze as the two of them lingered longer. Crowley cleared his throat.

Adam rolled his eyes. "I'll be right back."

Crowley leaned in as they walked away. "What did you just accept?"

Adam smirked. "Crowley, you know at some point you're going to have to stop trying to live vicariously through my sex life and go out and get your own."

Crowley let out a low groan. "You need to be more careful-"

"I'm fine."

"Your father is watching. What do you think he'd do if he caught you fraternizing with an Unseelie commoner?"

Adam shrugged. "Same thing he does every day? Tell me what a disappointing little shit I am?" The story Crowley had shared with Adam five years prior had jump started a rebellious phase in the Prince that had yet to end. The relationship between the King and Prince had deteriorated considerably as a result. Crowley had wanted Adam to be his own King. Adam, turns out, decided that maybe he didn't want to be King at all.

Crowley sighed. "Adam…"

Adam raised his hands in forfeit. "Fine! I'll… behave when it comes to the… fraternizing, tonight. Happy?"

"Quite."

"You shouldn't though. I saw you chatting with that white-haired bloke of Warlock's."

Crowley frowned. "What of it?"

Adam snorted a laugh. "Nothing. Just getting a little bored of watching you two do the same dance that you've been doing for years."

Crowley stopped walking. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Adam plucked a glass off a floating tray. "Don't worry about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really should rejoin my father." And he turned and walked back towards the dais.

✨✨✨

Crowley stifled a yawn as the evening dragged on. Those three glasses of champagne clearly did a number on him, because he was now, somehow, caught up in a conversation with Hastur and Ligur.

Even Aziraphale's hoity-toity eyebrow was loads better than this.

"How much longer you think we have to stay here?" Hastur asked, nearly sneering at the Unseelie that surrounded them in groups.

"Until His Grace leaves," Crowley said distantly, glancing around the room once again for Adam. He'd last spotted him on the dais, but he'd lost track somewhere during Hastur's fourth lament on the smell of the place. Dampness, he argued, did not suit him.

Ligur sneered at the green liquid that had been passed out once the champagne stores were depleted. He placed it back on a tray that floated slowly by, offering a polite smile to the Unseelie who passed behind it. Once out of earshot he returned his attention to Crowley and Hastur. "Can't believe Beelzebub foisted this on us. Where are they, anyway?"

"They had personal business to attend to" Crowley was annoyed as well, but he wouldn't let it show. Beez was way better company than this lot.

"Personal business," Hastur mocked. "What gives them the right-"

As though on cue, Beelzebub entered the hall with Shax, whispering closely. Hastur rolled his silver eyes. "Are those two a thing now?"

Crowley shot Hastur an incredulous look. Beelzebub and Shax could barely stand to be in the same room together most days, with Beez avoiding Shax's updates on the health of the masses like some sort of plague in and of itself. "Just because they're" — he pinched the bridge of his nose — "just let it go, alright? If Beelzebub has matters to attend to, you can bet it's warranted." He looked around again. "When was the last time you saw Adam?"

"Babysitting the wee Prince is not our charge, Crowley." Hastur wiggled his fingers at the green liquid in his glass, turning it a shimmering gold.

Ligur leaned forward. "How'd you do that!?"

"Little trick I learned from Dagon. You want one?" He turned to grab another glass from behind him, handing it over already transformed.

Ligur's face lit up as he took the glass from Hastur, breathing it in deeply. "I saw Adam," he said as he took a swig.

Crowley turned to him. "When?"

"An hour ago? He was talking with that surly, bullywug Prince somewhere near the back."

Crowley turned to look towards the far side of the room. "Don't talk about him like that."

Ligur ignored him. "Can you believe that prat is getting married? His father sure did push him into that one, didn't he?"

"Worried the shine his Champion polished on him all these years would wear off," Hastur added. "Everyone knows that Unseelie wench is going to be running this place the second the crown is placed on her head."

"Oi!" Crowley turned on them sharply. "Have some respect, will you?"

Narrowing his eyes, Hastur leaned back. "What's crawled up your arsehole? I thought you'd be reveling in that one's suffering. Did you see him? All pale-faced and stiff? He looks right terrified of what's coming for him. Bet he won't even know what to do with her once he's got her in his bed." Hastur chuckled into his drink and Crowley struggled not to slap it out of his vile hand. He continued. "Lucky for you though, Crowley. Adam will have no difficulty walking all over him once he's King."

"Whenever that is" — Ligur said before adding — "but the Queen, she could be trouble. Adam will need a tough lass to counter her."

"His Grace will take care of that." Hastur leaned forward, excited to share gossip. "I heard, Asmodeus was being considered."

Ligur nodded. "Now, that's a smart match."

Crowley had heard enough. He stood, spotting Aziraphale at the front speaking with both Kings. Was that his second drink?

Bastard.

"Where you going, Crowley?" Hastur shouted. Crowley waved his hand at them without turning around.

When he reached them, he took his place next to King Thaddeus. Aziraphale didn't acknowledge his arrival.

The Unseelie King appeared slightly more flushed than normal, his face a bright pink. "Considering amendments to the existing contract after a century is not unheard of."

"But there would be no benefit to my people" — Thaddeus drawled, unconcerned and barely looking Arthur in the eye — "so why would I, or my son for that matter, ever consider it?"

"Decency?" Arthur bit out. Crowley's eyes darted around the room, and for the first time he noted the cracks in the façade of the place. The cave walls were cracked, large stone-sized holes weakly hidden behind shoddily hung tapestries with frayed edges. The Unseelie, generally sullen and drab, were paler and with more sunken cheeks than usual. Crowley felt a pang of sympathy for what King Arthur must be dealing with as the silence between the two kings grew tense. But he couldn't wait any longer.

Crowley bowed low, looking at Arthur as he spoke. "Forgive me, You Graces, but may I borrow Aziraphale for a moment?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

Arthur's eyes were fixed on Thaddeus as he spoke. "Of course, Champion. It would be the decent thing to do."

Crowley stood straight and nodded, gesturing to Aziraphale to follow him. The walls had ears here, so when they reached a corner he snapped his fingers, popping them up to the material plane.

Aziraphale looked at the trees around them, disoriented. "Well, that was rude-"

"Where's Warlock?"

"What?"

"Adam's not in there, where's yours?"

Aziraphale scoffed. "Just because your Prince couldn't keep his hands to himself and felt the need to sneak off with the first common kitchen maiden that would have him, does not mean that Warlock would skirt his responsibilities on this night of all ni-"

The ground beneath them rumbled slightly. Aziraphale stilled as the trees rustled softly above them, his face dropping in realization. Because they both knew what it was. It was the feel of old magic being conjured; a challenge being accepted; an agreement between their Princes, unbreakable, and bound by blood.

Dammit, Adam.

Without a word, Crowley lifted his arm into the air, the branch of the tree next to him meeting his fingers without a thought and lifting him upward into the treetops. He stood, listening, searching, and sensed chants and cheers from the far side of the forest. The branch he stood on extended itself long as his feet moved across it, creating a bridge and allowing him to jump elegantly to the next tree whose branch met him and retracted as he kept moving.

Somewhere below him, pack of wolves was on the hunt. With a sudden yelp, he felt one lone wolf still, shiver, toss its head as Aziraphale took possession of her mind. Turning sharply, she abandoned her pack to run full speed in the direction Crowley was headed.

Crowley picked up his pace. He was not going to let Aziraphale reach the Princes first.

Chapter Text

Adam cracked his neck as he watched Warlock prepare with his meager entourage. His outfit was flat-out ridiculous, all puffy sleeves and overly fluffed cravat. He knew Warlock was malleable, had been their entire lives, but he never thought he'd let his mum parade him about in a get-up like that. Adam almost felt bad for him. 

Almost.

"He's such a tosser," Eric said, shoving a sword toward him. Adam removed his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder, smiling as he felt a branch extended itself long to catch it before it dare touch the ground. Being of age allowed him to use his powers far more freely in the material plane than he'd been allowed to before. He'd gotten into the habit of spending hours running along the treetops with his bow and arrow in tow, stalking animals for sport. Never taking any shots. That was too easy. And pointless, if you asked him. Animals belonged to the Unseelie, and he really had no need to meddle in their affairs, not when there was no one to witness, anyway. But he did love the heights, the thrill of it, the rush of air and the wind of the place, so different from the electricity of the Faewild. The material plane was crasser, grittier, but also more whole in a way he couldn't explain. He was grateful for the time he'd been able to spend there, alone.

Adam glanced down at his bow and quiver that lay on the ground and wished it were them he was wrapping his fingers around and not the cold metal of this sword's hilt.

"Yeah, be quick, will you?" Brian said, glancing around. "I tried to put a deflection charm around the place, but it's not perfect. And you know Crowley's still got bits of his trace on you, the overprotective arsehole. He'll likely be here any minute."

Shrugging, Adam smiled innocently as he glanced back at Muriel sitting amongst Warlock's group. "You forget… I was the one who was challenged.” He pressed his hand over his heart. "As Seelie Prince, it was my duty to accept."

"Actually" — Wensleydale looked worried — "I'm not sure Crowley will care who challenged who."

Adam began to back away from them and towards the middle of the circle. "Don't worry lads, be done in a jiffy," he said, playfully twirling the sword in his hand and noting the weight of it. Up until he turned fourteen, he'd trained with a sword daily, albeit begrudgingly. It wasn't difficult to master, not really. It was just stiff, with Beelzebub spending most of their time correcting his form from when he was six to eight. It came relatively easily once he stopped scowling about, and now he felt all that training rushing back as he swung it in front of him, testing the balance and planning his strikes.

But no matter how much muscle memory this weapon awoke in him, it would never compare to the way he felt wielding his bow. Something about the peacefulness of the weapon, the fluidity of it, how the focus and control required to prep a shot — to aim, to exhale, to release — quieted his sometimes incessant mind. Adam loved all of it. And receiving this challenge from Warlock had felt just like that.

Adam had spent years goading the Unseelie Prince. The little boy with black hair who used to stare at Adam in a way that made his stomach uneasy. His father had noticed how it unnerved Adam immediately, offering an expectant downward glance, a curt command to do something about it. So Adam scowled, scrunched his nose, stuck out his tongue. Anything to get the boy with the bright blue eyes to stop looking at him like that. 

And one day, that little boy was gone, and this person had taken his place. Someone who not only scowled back, but bit. Anger more befitting the future King of the Unseelie Court met Adam on their tenth Spring Equinox celebration, and the rush of excitement that it awoke in Adam was only matched by what he would eventually feel the first time he held a bow. Ever since then, Adam had been incessant, stalking his rival, baiting him, prepping his shot.

And today, at the start of Warlock's wedding celebrations, Adam was finally going to take it.

And it was not jealousy. Far from it. It didn't bother Adam one bit that Warlock's coronation was in five-days time while his father still looked down on him as some kind of blemish on his overly polished legacy. Warlock was serious, and stuffy, and so annoyingly broody. It made sense that he would ascend to the throne years before Adam would even consider it. Because Adam had stopped considering it. Hadn't spent any time in recent years considering it. At all. 

And that was just fine by him.

Warlock's side of the room quieted as Adam stepped into the center of the circle, waiting. "No! No, don't mind me. Take all the time you need." Adam shot a smile over his shoulder to his entourage, reveling in the scowls of the group of Fae in dark cloaks and colours sitting before him. The snickers from the Seelie lit a fire behind Warlock's brilliant blue eyes. Adam inhaled slowly, trying to quell the excitement that was rising in him, quieting his mind. Readying his shot.

But Adam was no fool. Warlock was the more seasoned swordsman by leaps and bounds. No one in the Seelie Court had seen Aziraphale, his Champion, raise his sword in nearly a decade, but his reputation of his early days in the Kings Guard preceded him. Even Crowley, who rarely spoke of his rival Champion, would wax poetically about his skills — but only after he'd had too much to drink and only when it was just him and Adam. Warlock would have been training with Aziraphale for at least as long as Adam had with Crowley. No, in order to win this, Adam would have to attack Warlock's mind as much as his body.

And Adam was more than up for the challenge.

Warlock made to step forward, but Pepper's firm hand on his shoulder grounded him where he stood.

"Don't," she warned. "I did not sneak away from our celebration so you could just let him get into your head before you've even started."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. Stop."

"Oh, Pepper! — Muriel giggled from the corner — "Warlock can wipe the floor with that summer pixie. Let him have some fun for once. A little anger never hurt anyone."

Pepper's eyes narrowed at the sprawled fae behind them, leaning on the ground with their head tipped backward, bored and desperate for some drama. She and Muriel were friends, but they could not be more different. Muriel was Warlock's cousin, a dark and cunning creature who prided themself in having a hand in most of the goings on in the Unseelie Court.

Pepper, on the other hand, came from a humble home. Her mother — Warlock's personal tutor — had spent the better part of his childhood forcing him to focus on history, law, and all the things he would need to master in order to be a good King. And Pepper had always been there with him. At first, she sat in the corner to hide the fact that she too was listening — knew the material better than he ever would — until one day he felt her frown at his incorrect answer and he finally turned and invited her to join him. 

From then on, they'd sat side-by-side. Warlock's father took to Pepper immediately. Children had been rare in the Unseelie Court for some time, with Muriel, Pepper, and Warlock comprising half of the children of their generation.

Looking at her now in her crimson and black laced gown, one would never know her humble beginning. She was a vision to anyone with eyes, and while Warlock was grateful she would be his partner, there was a part of him that felt tremendous guilt knowing he would never be able to love her in the way she deserved to be.

But none of that mattered now. Pepper knew who Warlock was, and she would soon be Queen. That would more than make up for the lack of the rest. 

"Shut up." Pepper glared at Muriel before returning her attention to him. "You're so stupid, Warlock, letting Muriel talk you into this." 

He raised his chin, defensively. "They didn't talk me into anything."

"No? So the idea to send Muriel over to deliver your challenge to Adam, unbeknownst to anyone else, that was yours?"

He leaned back. "Yes, actually. You know Pepper, I can think for myself on occasion." And then there were times like this, when their mutual arrogance clipped at one another, and Warlock imagined a life of arguing like brother and sister behind closed doors. He thought of his parents, of their partnership, how in their betrothal they somehow found both respect and a deep and lasting affection for one another. But the duty of a King — the need to sire children and continue his family line — had forced Warlock to part ways with the dream of ever finding something like that a very long time ago. It didn't matter. This was his reality.

And it was enough. It had to be.

Pepper softened. "Sorry. You're just so weird. What kind of a stag party is this?" 

Warlock chuckled. "Well, a stag party wouldn't include you, for starts. And" — he shrugged — "can't exactly get away with this type of stuff once I'm crowned King, can I?"

She smiled sadly at him, a bit of trepidation lighting her eyes as they both realized how different their lives would be in a few day’s time. "No, I suppose not," she said softly as she once again tried, in vain, to tame his absurd cravat. 

Another shout from inside the circle. "Are we going to do this winter boy, or are you going to let your girlfriend fight your battles for you? Thought you'd at least wait until after the wedding for that." Condescending laughter erupted from the Seelie side.

Pepper's eyes flared as she rounded on Adam.

"Mind your tongue, wee Prince. This may be neutral land, but you are challenged here by the soon-to-be King of the Unseelie. Our rules stand and, as arbiter, I can toss you out of here in an instant."

Adam nodded curtly. "Right. Not waiting until after the wedding it is, then…"

Warlock grabbed her arm before she stepped towards Adam. She turned back to him. "Wipe the floor with that son of a bitch," she mumbled, before walking past him to step outside the combat circle. 

Warlock took a steadying breath, Reaper's hilt resting comfortably in his hand. He'd had a few swords throughout his life: first was Poker, a wooden sword his mother said he'd used to gnaw on before he could walk. Then there was Slicer, Chopper, Carver, and Slasher, all of them had varying blade styles and all gifted to him by Aziraphale on his birthdays.

Reaper was his final sword, the one he would carry with him to his coronation, the one that would accompany him to every Equinox Ceremony he and Pepper would have with this arsehole in front of him. He could think of no better way to introduce Adam to his blade than to thrust it into his neck as he stood over the Seelie Prince and demanded he yield to him. His face warmed as he readied to step forward and meet his opponent.

It was stupid. Warlock knew it. But he needed this. Tonight of all nights, he needed it. Needed this climax to their ongoing feud, to end it with him besting Adam in a combat circle, silencing his snark and arrogance once and for all. To turn the snide grin that had haunted Warlock's dreams for as long as he could remember into a frown, and revel in, not just Adam's humiliation, but of his cocky entourage, his entire cruel race. 

Warlock had imagined it with every training drill, every sparring session, every time he stayed late to strike at the pell, bits of wood scattering across the floor. This was the moment, and it had to be tonight. His last chance to do it without consequence. 

Because then he could let it all go. All this… hatred he'd carried toward Adam — that had plagued him for so long — would disappear once he defeated him in combat. It had to. Because Warlock needed it to. It was a distraction whose weight he could not carry with him to the throne.

Ready, he stepped in front of Adam and tipped his blade forward.

"Cute sword." Adam smirked as he returned the gesture. "Almost as cute as that shirt. Your ancestors fancied themselves pirates, did they? And how many centuries has that been in your family? Has to be at least three, yeah?"

Warlock said nothing, simply took the edge of his blade to his hand and pressed, coating it in line of deep silver blood. Adam followed — his blade's edge coated in the shimmering golden blood of the Seelie — neither of them wincing at the pain. When their blood coated blades met, the slight sing of metal on metal rippled across the clearing in a gust of air, catching on the circle drawn in the dirt and causing a slight mist to rise from it. Old magic that bound them both to the circle and to the shared contest until one of them yielded. Or died.

"Surprised you'd agree to these… formalities" — Warlock said, matter of factly — "knowing whose son you are."

Adam's eyes narrowed before he shoved his sword against Warlock's and stepped backward. "Be careful, now… wouldn't want you to go and chip a nail." Adam glanced down at the shimmering black polish that decorated them. His eyes widened. "Is that glitter!?"

Smiling, Warlock raised his eyebrows. "You jealous?" Because he knew Adam was. It was a human adornment that most Fae frowned upon, but Warlock had always enjoyed. He'd made a point to collect new polishes every time he went to the material plane. This one was a particularly shimmery shade his mother had gifted him on his nineteenth birthday. Adam made a point to always poke fun at the habit. Because King Thaddeus' obsession with appearances was well known across both Courts, and his son donning human embellishments would never be tolerated.

Hollers from the Seelie side of the circle as the two Princes began to pace the perimeter. Warlock watched Adam's feet, never crossing one over the other, sure and stable. Not surprising. Adam would never be so sloppy as that. Warlock imagined his attack, saw himself sidestep Adam's first thrust, knowing it would come from his left given Adam's stance favored that over his right, imagined himself spinning around Adam's back and coming back down hard with an elbow to his ribs — not entirely illegal, although something Aziraphale would frown upon — disarming him before knocking him onto his back. It would be over in a matter of seconds.

Adam continued to pace as Warlock readied his attack, felt the calm and clarity that came as the world shifted into the narrow focus of the coming confrontation when the ground began to shake. Warlock knew the lingering trace Aziraphale had on him would have tipped him off to the unbreakable bond that they'd just made, Adam's Champion too, but with the barrier around the circle set, even their Champions wouldn't be able to interfere today. It was just Adam and him.

The ground continued to rumble just as the mist that hung over the circle's engulfed the barrier, igniting a blinding light that not only quieted everyone outside the circle but also blocked them all from sight. Warlock's sword dipped as his attention wavered from Adam. It felt wrong, the magic coming from neither the Seelie nor Unseelie Courts. It was cold, barren, laden with the power of the dead. Warlock stilled.

This was human magic.

His eyes landed on Adam's sword as the Seelie Prince winced in pain before dropping it onto the floor.

"Where did you get that sword?" Warlock had to shout over the rumbling that had grown nearly deafening.

"What?" Adam shook his head, his eyes locked on the barrier which was quickly growing colder. He lifted a hand, appearing to summon the trees around him. But nothing came. 

Warlock's dread grew. "Your sword! Where did you get it?"

Adam looked down at it, dumbly. "I… I don't know. Eric gave it to me."

Without warning, the sword shone with the same frigid energy that consumed the barrier, trembling on the ground before it shot sideways, dissolving into the light and joining its energy with the rest of the circle.

Warlock stared at him in disbelief. "How can you make an unbreakable bond with a weapon that's not your own!?"

Adam looked back, furious. "I use a bow, idiot! I haven't picked up a sword in ye-"

The last thing Warlock saw before the darkness enclosed around him was Adam's golden curls floating upwards as the ground opened up and swallowed both of them whole.

The shouting in the forest stopped once the clearing came into Crowley's view. He lifted his hand upward, allowing a vine to wrap itself around his wrist as he swung from one tree to the next, hoping his ears were playing tricks on him. But it wasn't. An eerie quiet, as though time had somehow stopped, consumed the forest. Something was wrong.

He noticed Brian first, chatting happily with Eric and Wensleydale. "Oi!" He leapt off the branch, landing softly on the dirt behind them.

Brian spun around. "Where'd you come from?"

"Where's Adam?"

The brief furrowed brow that appeared on Brian's face vanished almost immediately, replaced by a hazy calm. "Who?"

"What do you mean, who? The Prince. Your best mate. Where is he?"

Brian turned around, laughing at Wensleydale and Eric. "Can you believe him?" He turned back around. "Talking jibberish. One too many at the party, ay Crowley?"

Sneering, Crowley backed away and sniffed. The scent in the air had shifted slightly. Less a smell, more an energy igniting the air, something between a sound and a feeling that was wrapping itself around Brian and Wensleydale, around everyone that was leaving the clearing.

A glamour.

Now, glamours were crass, violent spells when placed in the wrong hands, but when conjured by a seasoned wielder, they were light, airy, and nearly impossible to break free from. And they'd been banned for use on Fae for over five centuries. Crowley glanced around. The glamour had enchanted the woods as far as he could see, and it was spreading.

The padding of paws and a blur of fur as Aziraphale arrived. He stepped out of the woods, the wolf, now free from his possession, veered to return to her pack.

Wensleydale yawned. "We're headed back to the banquet now." He patted his stomach. "Hungry." He turned to leave. 

Crowley blinked, not trusting anything coming out of anyone's mouth right now. He turned to Aziraphale. "Which of your lot did this?"

"I beg your pardon?" he scoffed.

"A glamour. You feel it, right?" He watched as Aziraphale's shoulders straightened out against the spell. "Mine don't meddle in such… parlour tricks."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Nor do your lot meddle in details, then. If you had, then you'd be able to identify the signature. This does not belong to the Unseelie. This is something else." His eyes grew worried for a moment as he looked past Crowley, clearly searching for Warlock before relief swept over him. He stepped past him and into the clearing without another word.

"Pepper!"

The soon-to-be Unseelie Queen stood, dressed in her gown, smiled at Aziraphale. Crowley immediately felt the same glamour affecting the far too relaxed smile that had settled on her face. Crowley hadn't seen much of her before tonight, but up until this point he'd thought her scowl was a permanent feature.

A ripple in the corner of Crowley's eye pulled his attention toward the charred circle in the center of the clearing, wisps of smoke slowly rising from the ashes in the dirt. The closer he got to it, the more he smelled Adam. And Warlock. The bloody fools had bound themselves to this circle, but there was something more. Dropping to a knee along the perimeter, Crowley made to touch the ash, only to be shocked when everything around him disappeared, replaced by six pairs of eyes glaring at him before he retracted his hand and stood, stumbling backward into Aziraphale, who caught him with steady hands.

"What is it?" There was genuine worry in Aziraphale's voice, which only set Crowley's higher. 

Crowley ignored the question. "Does Pepper remember Warlock?" 

Aziraphale didn't answer. 

Crowley's stomach turned to stone as he looked down at the ash. "They bound themselves to this circle."

"And to one another." It wasn't a question.

"Do you think they knew?"

"Well, Warlock certainly didn't."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "Seriously? Now!?"

Aziraphale straightened himself out. "You know very well that Adam has goaded Warlock ever since he could talk."

Crowley sneered at him. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

Aziraphale continued, walking the perimeter of the circle as he did. "The only logical explanation is that Adam tricked Warlock into this."

"So your Prince is too naive to take care of himself?"

Aziraphale glared. "Don't you dare-"

"Because that's what you're saying! Poor, sweet, helpless Warlock couldn't resist the wily temptations of the Seelie Prince. Do you know what that makes him seem? Weak."

Aziraphale swallowed. 

Crowley continued. "And as his Champion… you have no one to blame for that except yourself."

Aziraphale stepped forward. "And what of your Prince? Reckless, careless, an absolute joke. It's known that Thaddeus would rather die before giving his son the throne. How does that reflect on you, Champion?"

Crowley glanced down, noting Aziraphale's hand was on the hilt of his sword. "You really want to do this? Now?"

But before Aziraphale could answer, a soft light began emitting from the circle, tugging both of their attentions away from one another and toward the voice that came from beyond the barrier. "I don't mean to interrupt this intimate moment, dearies” — the high-pitched voice said, drenched in both sweetness and amusement. Crowley looked to Aziraphale, who stared back, stunned — “but your boys are on a bit of a long journey. And if you want to help them, you might want to join us in here." 

Chapter Text

Adam slammed into the ground with a humiliating grunt. 

Ow. 

He made to move, but was met with… pain? Shooting up and down his side. Shit. What was this? There was something wrong with his chest. A mounting pressure was quickly building in his lungs. He opened his mouth, tried to breathe, only for another degrading sound — something between a bark and a gasp — to escape him as air refused to come. His pulse blared in his ears. He choked. Sputtered. Coughed so hard his lungs burned as stars in front of his eyes flashed pink and yellow. Something was coming up his throat. He was drowning. Panicked, he turned over and threw up everywhere.

He lay on his side for a while in the darkness, gulping down air and allowing his breath to quiet his roaring pulse. It had been night on the material plane when the ground had opened up to devour he and Warlock, but even in his current state, with the colorful bursts slowly dissolving from his vision, he could tell this darkness was different. No insects. No animals. Nothing. He was neither on the material plane nor the Faewild. This was somewhere else.

Slowly, he pushed himself to sitting, still swallowing air in undignified gasps, but not really able to care. He wiped his eyes, his mouth, and froze to stare at his trembling hand. Blood. Not the glinting golden ichor he’d just used to bind himself to Warlock’s challenge — that should have heeled by now. No, this blood was dark, still dripping, and, even in the obscurity of the unnatural night that surrounded him, unmistakably red. He wiped it frantically on the grass, causing a faint metallic scent to fill the air before he turned away. 

Clearly this darkness was playing tricks on him.

A whistle from the other side of a boulder reminded Adam that he wasn't alone. Too unsure of his strength, he crawled toward the bush and peeked out to find Warlock, standing tall, his sword gripped firmly in his hand, looking up into the darkness at a line of treetops. Even worse, he looked way more put together than Adam felt, which was humiliating. Adam’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to standing and ignored the way the ground tilted beneath his feet as he walked to meet him. Warlock was fine? So Adam was fine.

Warlock offered an almost imperceptible glance Adam’s way, followed by a furrowing of his brows. "What's wrong with you?"

Adam felt a sharp sting as more blood leaked from his injured hand. He shoved it deep into his pocket. "I'm fine," he said as he stopped next to him.

"If you say so."

Warlock felt different: brighter, warmer, stronger. A deep pit of dread awoke inside Adam as he realized he felt nothing, broken. Blood dripped from his hand and onto the inside of his pocket. He closed his fist tighter. Heal.

"You're sweating," Warlock said, continuing to stare upward.

"You're sweating,” Adam lied. Warlock looked perfect. 

The Unseelie rolled his eyes.

A rustling of leaves above drew their attention, pushing whatever was going on in Adam’s body to the back of his mind. They were being watched.

Warlock pointed with his sword. "You see it?"

Adam nodded. "Should have let me fight with my bow and arrow, dick. I'd be able to take that thing out in one shot." Grasping at the familiar give and take between them should calm his nerves…

Another eye roll. "Can you climb to get a better look? I assume, even without your precious bow, your eyesight is better than mine."

Adam nodded, glancing behind them to find the right tree. He marched over and raised his hand, expecting a branch to carry him upward, but received nothing. He could feel Warlock's eyebrows raise behind him.

“…Trouble performing?”

Adam grumbled something under his breath.

“Don’t worry about it, though,” Warlock added. “I hear it happens to a lot of guys…”

Without turning, Adam extended his arm behind him to flip Warlock off. An uncommonly used human gesture he’d grown very fond of. "You know what that means?"

"Yep."

"So fuck off," he added. Right. The old fashioned way. Adam grabbed a branch to hoist himself upward but when he looked to the top, a fit of dizziness struck him, sending a cold panic to grip his belly. He stumbled backwards to steady himself and walked right into Warlock's chest. Adam shoved his injured hand back into his pocket and jumped away.

"What the heck's going on with you?" Warlock was no longer joking.

"I don't… I'm not… I…" Adam swallowed. The sound of his pulse in his ears was very distracting.

Warlock grabbed his arm, led him to a rock, and forced him to sit down before kneeling in front of him. "You need water. And something to eat… probably."

"What makes you think that?” Adam snapped, his whole body bristling against Warlock's kindness.

"Because that's what humans do when they're about to faint."

Adam made a choking sound. "I'm not-"

"No" — Warlock reassured him — "you're not. But you're something right now." He looked up toward the sky. "Maybe it's the night." He glanced around, scanning the copious fungi that surrounded them. "But I'm not seeing any water, so… food." 

Adam shook his head. "I am not eating any of that."

"No, you'd die if you did." Warlock paused, smiling slightly before adding, "You'd trip your face off before you did though. Not a terrible way to go. Could be fun to watch, but I'm not a Seelie, so…"

It was dark, but Adam made sure that Warlock didn't miss the mocking gesture he made at the jab.

Wanker.

Warlock sighed and stood. "Stay here," he said, waving a hand over his sword and igniting it in one motion.

Adam stared. "How did you…"

Warlock ignored him, using the flame to look around. At one point, he twirled the sword casually in his hand, the flames reflected off the black polish on his nails. Adam thought he caught the briefest of smiles. 

Show off.

A snap of a twig from their left caused Adam to stand. Warlock was suddenly beside him, the flame of his sword warm as he made to step in front of him. Adam shoved him aside. Or tried to; Warlock was more solid than he expected. Adam stumbled back a step.

Warlock remained focused on the noise. "Who's there?"

Itching for his bow, Adam picked up a rock and threw it into the woods.

Thunk.

"Ow!" a voice from the darkness growled.

Warlock turned on him and whispered, "What are you doing!?"

Adam shrugged. "What!?"

"Why are you picking a fight when you're not even armed!?"

Fair point.

More growling from the trees caused them to turn, Warlock's blazing sword pointed in protection. Adam dropped down and grabbed another rock. This one was smaller, but it was all he had. Warlock shook his head.

A roar from the bushes caused a gust of foul air to hit them, spraying dirt in their eyes and forcing them to turn away as a massive creature thundered toward them in a blur. Warlock's shoulder slammed into Adam. He hit the ground as a club missed caving in his head by millimeters.

Adam scrambled backward, pathetically grasping for whatever object he could throw before standing. But Warlock was already engaged. While the creature was twice Warlock’s size, Warlock’s speed was his advantage. He looked like a dancer, dipping left, missing another swing of the club as he whirled around and lifted his still flaming sword above his head to strike downward. The wooden club disintegrated to ash in the gnome-like creature's hand. 

Adam blinked. The night may be playing tricks on him but he swore Warlock's eyes had been closed the entire time.

"Thunder!" the monster growled, its red eyes glaring at Warlock.  "I'll make ye' pay for that!" It rushed, only to have Warlock spin easily around its back. Before the creature realized, Warlock’s arm was wrapped tightly around its neck, gripping and forcing it to a knee. Warlock pointed the edge of his blade centimeters from the its throat. The creature stilled in defeat, its eyes still raging as its face winced against the heat of the flames.

More rumbling from the bushes, this time another green-skinned creature emerged, only half the other's size. It had a flat nose, sharp teeth that were tinged yellow and brown, and its arms were covered in various boils that Adam hoped to never come in contact with. It looked between Warlock and its friend.

Warlock tightened his grip. "Move, and I’ll slice your friend's head off before your foot even touches the ground,” he said calmly.

Adam’s face warmed at how handily Warlock commanded these creatures, his voice as skillfully edged as his sword. Adam suddenly had an image of the type of king his rival would be, and questioned the common assumption that Adam was the stronger of the two.

Ignoring the threat, the smaller creature simply crossed its arms over its chest. "Be my guest, boy. That hooligan has ben nothing but trouble. Been trying to be rid of him for years."

"Lies!" the bigger one yelled, but Adam was pretty sure it was smaller than it had been when it attacked. Was it shrinking? He blinked and it was suddenly only as tall as Warlock, who dropped to a knee to keep his arm wrapped around its neck.

The second one lifted its chin. "Having someone constantly trying to inspect your nipples is tiresome after a few hundred years."

"Nipples?" Adam asked flatly, unintentionally making his presence known. He lifted his rock at the small one. He could almost hear Warlock's eyes rolling.

The smaller one merely nodded, not at all taken aback by Adam's feeble threat of violence. "Can you believe it? I mean, I know we look a disaster, but that needn't mean we ought to forget our manners. I was respected once; no need to forfeit that reputation here." He stepped toward Adam and extended a hand. "R.P. Tyler, at your service."

Adam blinked. "You're a gnome named… R.P. Tyler?"

R.P. shook a finger at him in correction. "I am a spriggan, actually. And R.P. was my human name." He pointed to the now much smaller spriggan behind him. "That moron is Shadwell."

Shadwell growled. "Ye had no right sharin' me name with these… these demons!" He tried to spit on Warlock’s arm, but missed, dribbling slobber down his own chin. Warlock sucked his teeth and tightened his grip.

"Well, this one barely looks a demon," R.P. said, taking Adam in. “How did you retain your human form, boy?"

"What?" Adam’s eyes darted to Warlock who, tired of contending with Shadwell’s now much smaller size, was distracted with carefully releasing him while keeping his sword pointed at his neck.  

“What did he say?” he shouted.

R.P. stepped forward, poking Adam's ribs with a finger.

"Oi!" Adam swatted him away.

R.P. sniffed. "I mean, you still smell human. Who did you make a deal with? Was it the Seelie or Unseelie?" He raised a chin. "I was once head of King Nicolas' gate security when I was still in his service." 

Adam swallowed slowly. Nicolas was his great-grandfather. 

R.P. continued. "Ran a neighborhood watch back in my human days. Was the best the town had ever seen. Being appointed leader was the deal I'd made, actually. A Seelie found me, made me an offer. A little ironic, when you think about it." He lost himself in thought before shaking his head and remembering Adam. He pointed back at Warlock. "And why are you here with him?" He leaned forward, whispering, "We can protect you, you know?”

Adam raised his rock again at the spriggan. "Shut up," he bit out. "I'm not-"

But a crack of a branch from above and a crash next to Warlock interrupted him. Another spriggan. this one had markings around its mouth, giving it the appearance of having a moustache. 

R.P.'s shoulders slumped. "Unseelie, please kill that one also."

"Sorry." The third spriggan pushed to standing, pointing a now broken club towards them before dropping it.

"Brown, you are useless," R.P. said, shaking his head.

"Don't ye dare insult him when ye'd rather fraternize with these occult heathens!" Shadwell growled, still held by the threat of Warlock's blade. Warlock’s eyes bounced between the three spriggan and Adam, a slow worry furrowing his brow.

"Oh." Brown stared at Adam. "You're the Seelie Prince. And you're… human." Shadwell's eyes widened as Warlock’s sword dipped toward the ground.

Adam swallowed. "I'm not." He winced. His voice was shaking.

A smile broke across R.P.'s face. "So it worked, did it?" He turned toward Shadwell. "Not so much occult nonsense anymore, is it?"

"Still witches" — Shadwell sneered — "the lot of 'em." 

"What are you talking about?" Warlock asked, stepping away from the spriggan and looking squarely at Adam in that way that made him want to run away.

Brown turned to face him. "The Courtless. They promised justice. Brought you two here" — he pointed a bony finger at Adam — "and turned him human."

Stunned, Aziraphale stepped away from the circle. "Did you hear that?"

"I have ears."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this Seelie's egotistical snark. "Who's there?" he asked, releasing his sword from its sheath and stepping backward slowly. "Show yourself."

Something tutted from within the circle. "Can't do that, dearie. You'll have to come in to see."

Crowley readied a bow and released it into the circle, which erupted into a ripple of gray light that consumed the barrier in a swift wave before disappearing. Someone giggled.

"Told you it would be the Seelie to strike first." A second voice taunted. No longer the false sweetness of the first, this one rumbled with resentment, darker.

Aziraphale stepped forward, slowly, raising his sword and pressing it into the air above the charred circle on the ground. Light grey sparks flickered off where the sword made contact, pressing back as though Aziraphale were scraping his blade on the stone walls of the Unseelie Court.

Crowley drew another bow. "Where’s Adam?”

A deep sigh. "You really should put that away,” the second voice said curtly. "You're going to need to move quickly if you want to help him. He's in a lot more danger than he realizes."

Aziraphale watched fear flicker across Crowley's eyes as the tip of his bow wavered before steadying. 

“And what of Warlock?” Aziraphale asked.

“His challenge will lie in facing the truth he’s run away from for so long. Blows to the heart can be as fatal as those to the body.” Aziraphale thought of the boy assaulting the pell, of hiding from what lay dormant in his heart, a truth Aziraphale forced him to run from despite knowing what Warlock truly needed was someone who would understand, who could help him through it. What a monster Aziraphale had become. And now, Warlock was where he could not reach him. Guilt gripped him. The voice continued. “Both will need to face horrors to get through this.”

Crowley’s golden eyes were locked on Aziraphale’s as he spoke. “As Champion to the Prince of the Seelie Court, I command you to release him to me.”

A third voice. "Leave yer weapons when ye enter. Lest ye fancy seeing what happens when we take offense."

A shifting look from Crowley as he glanced down at Aziraphale's sword. Dread swirled in Aziraphale as he tried once again to peer through the fog that engulfed the circle. It was hopeless. The magic was new, different, but sloppy and angry. Above all, it was dangerous. And it had Warlock, trapped. Aziraphale placed his sword gently on the ground, knowing full well no one else would be able to touch the weapon bestowed upon the Prince's Champion, and watched Crowley do the same, removing his quiver from around his back and laying it gently on its side.

They stepped together and Aziraphale tried once more to press a finger into the barrier. Someone chuckled. "That tickles," the first voice said. Aziraphale and Crowley hesitated for a second before a pair of hands broke through the barrier and dragged them both forward.

The world shifted in a moment, the air pressing tightly around them, charged with the cold energy of the barrier before releasing them on the silence on other side, gasping for breath.

"Enough dawdling, you two," the being attached the voice huffed, her jaw set in her slightly upturned chin. She was rich coffee skinned, with long dark hair that was pulled half up into a bun. Her robes were shades of gray and burgundy and her dark eyes studied them from behind a pair of round spectacles. 

"Anathema…” the third voice scolded. Aziraphale turned toward this one, her hair slightly ragged around her head, her green eyes, tired. Her brown flowing robes matched the color of her hair. "They're supposed to enter of their own accord."

The one called Anathema rolled her eyes. 

"Agnes," the first voice cooed from the corner as its owner placed a gentle hand on her' shoulder. This one was a burst of every color imaginable: bright orange hair, fierce blue eyes with thick black lashes, and striking red lips. She wore a turquoise robe that looked as though it floated around her. She was the only one smiling. "Leave it be. They don't have much time."

Aziraphale lifted his chin. "What is the meaning of this?" 

"Yeah" — Crowley stepped forward— "where's Adam?" 

"And Warlock," Aziraphale added glaring at Crowley and his insistence to leave Warlock out at every opportunity.

“Your Princes have bound themselves to us," the first one said, her red lips still spread in a gentle smile.

"Bullshit.” Crowley’s voice hardened. “What did you do to them?"

Anathema spoke up. “Your Prince is brilliant, Seelie, but his hubris has blinded him. Maybe you should have taught him not to use enchanted swords that he doesn't know the origin of."

Crowley's eyes flickered in fear. 

Aziraphale stepped forward. "This was Adam's fault then.” He glanced at Crowley before returning his attention to Anathema, trying not to let his guilt show on his face. “Leave Warlock out of this."

"No," Agnes said, calmly. Something about her gaze made Aziraphale grow cold. He reached for his sword and gripped nothing. Agnes smiled. 

"Who are you?" Crowley asked, his tone held the wariness Aziraphale felt.

"We are the Courtless."

Aziraphale scoffed. "There's no such thing."

Agnes locked him again with her gaze. "Tracy?" She asked over her shoulder to the orange haired one. Tracy floated towards him, her hands outstretched. 

Aziraphale backed up. "My lady, if you dare lay your hands on me, I will be forced to-"

"Shhhhh…" She continued forward, and despite his best attempts, Aziraphale could do nothing to stop her. His magic, in this circle, appeared to be gone. He bumped up against the circle's barrier, once again solid as stone, and glanced toward Crowley who simply watched on in horror. "It's just easier this way," she said, grazing her thumb lightly along his forehead.

He was immediately assaulted by visions, memories, a human life on Earth, a bargain made with an Unseelie knight, a soulless life of service in the darkened court, tormented by Fae all around, forced to dance, to make jokes, to cook and clean. He forced his eyes shut against the other things forced upon her but could not stop the visions in his mind. And then cold, dark, an end once the Fae were done with her, tossed to the void only to be reborn in a barren wasteland.

He opened his eyes. "Faedark?" he asked breathlessly. 

Tracy smiled.

"Faedark!?" Crowley shouted from behind her. "Do you lot believe in heaven and hell too?"

Anathema was on him in an instant, her finger pressing into his with much more forcefulness than Tracey's had, and Crowley stumbled backward, eyes pressed shut in pain. When he opened them, tears were streaming down his face.

“That wasn’t Adam,” he said, shaking his head. Anathema’s story must have been even worse than Tracy's.

“No, it was his father. Adam’s blood. And his line must pay."

“Adam’s not his father.” Crowley's voice was pleading, unsure. What had he seen? “He’s just a boy. He can’t be expected to-”

Agnes shook her head. "Nineteen is nary a boy. And he's the smartest Prince in as many generations. He can stand to pay for his family's sins."

"I volunteer," Crowley said, stepping toward Agnes. “Take me. Please.”

Aziraphale made to speak but Agnes raised a hand toward him. "Not possible. Only the blood of the sinner can pay for  blood spilt. But don't ye worry" — her eyes glinted mischievously — "you two have yer own part to play in bringing them back safely.”

Chapter Text

Warlock stared at Adam: his shirt drenched under his arms; his face pale; his always perfect golden curls, flattened and frizzed against his sweat soaked brow. He looked… a mess. The tip of Warlock’s sword dipped towards the ground as he, once again, took in the otherworldly darkness that surrounded them. "What is this place?"

"The Faedark, of course," R.P. said haughtily. The little shit had even grown a few inches since he'd processed Adam's… predicament. 

Warlock pointed his sword at him. "That place isn't real."

R.P squinted back. "Where do you think claimed human souls go when your lot are done with them?”

Warlock's eyes darted to Adam, who was starting to turn a shade of green.

"Bullshit." Adam's voice was even smaller than before.

"Why would we lie?" R.P. glared at them. "He's got a flaming sword! Let's just… taunt the Unseelie, shall we? Makes perfect sense!"

"But why him and not me?" Warlock asked.

"Because his family is responsible for the majority of the souls trapped here," Brown said flatly, his eyes locked on Adam. Warlock tightened his grip on his sword. 

Adam stammered. "I've not-"

"You have,” Brown interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “Don't you remember me?" Adam blinked at him. "You must have been nine or ten, I couldn't be sure. But I needed medicine… for my mother. She was sick. And you met me in the forest, took my name, shook my hand.  I should have known better than to deal with a child, but I was desperate. You at least let me deliver the medicine to my mother before you claimed me.” He paused, his eyes going dark. “According to others, some of your ancestors weren't as… decent."

Adam shrank some more. “Fuck.”

"Yes,” R.P. jumped in, his chest puffed out in ridiculous fashion given he was still barely half Warlock’s size. “A lot of angry souls stuck down here. We never thought they'd be able to do it, though."

Warlock walked slowly toward Adam, stopping to stand slightly in front of him. This time, Adam didn't fight him. "What do you want from us?"

R.P. let out an incredulous laugh. "That's not for us to tell you."

Warlock stepped forward, growing annoyed. "Why not?"

"Because we don't know," Brown answered. "You will need to speak with the Courtless."

"And where do we find them?"

Shadwell pointed to the sky, at a looming shadow Warlock had yet to notice — an apparent mountain that had to be at least seventy kilometers away. 

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nay, laddie. They hole up there, only takin' visitors that they deem worthy. Ye need to walk the path, and if ye make it, they may see ye. May not. And if they don’t, ye’ll be stuck here, with us."

"Well" — Warlock said, extinguishing his sword — "that seems like a waste of all that work to get us here. So I think we’ve got a good shot at being seen.”

Brown tutted, softly. "Well, I'm afraid there's a bit of a problem.” 

Warlock’s eyes traveled up from sheathing his sword, noting how the spriggan was suddenly taller than him. “And what's that?"

Brown pointed to Adam. "He's staying with us."

"The fuck I am."

Warlock stepped in front of him, hissing slightly to make Adam quiet. He pulled his sword free again. "I can't let that happen."

"Why not? Are you friends with him?" R.P. asked. “Your journey will go much more smoothly without his dead weight. Most of the souls here were sent by his kin. The whole of the forest will be looking for him." He eyed Adam hungrily. 

Warlock's jaw set. "Not friends, no. But, I can't really return as King saying I left him behind, can I?" He motioned with his hand for Adam to back away. He obeyed.

"Oh, I think you could," Brown stepped forward, his full height now at least two heads taller than Warlock. He was taller than Shadwell by half as much. "Didn't his lot cast you out? Steal from you? Starve you?" Warlock felt Adam stiffen behind him. "We know the whole tale. They're thieves and liars and traitors and they all deserve to die.” Brown smiled at Warlock. “You would be seen as a hero."

Something squirmed in Warlock’s belly. 

It was true, Warlock could leave Adam to these beasts and he’d very likely be welcomed home as something of a legend by his Court. And he wasn’t stupid. Try as he might, he knew how much doubt lingered in the citizenry around his ability to lead, to save them from the threat of time and decay that haunted them all. How Pepper was anticipated to be the true ruler, a powerful Queen and he, her impotent King. Sacrificing Adam would be a show of strength that would undoubtedly make things easier for him, not to mention his entire race. 

But that wasn’t the righteous fight Warlock had envisioned his entire life. He had challenged Adam tonight, one-on-one, to defeat him on his own merits, not sacrifice him to these monsters who would rip him to shreds in seconds. Even the thought of it made a protectiveness rise inside him that made Warlock's his cheeks warm. Because he had known Adam his whole life. Been staring down at his perfect, jerkish face at every Equinox, spent every birthday trying to one up him or catch him doing something he shouldn’t, his entire life. So, they were enemies, sure… but an enemy after so many years now, whether Warlock liked to admit it or not, had made Adam sort of a friend.

Gripping the hilt in both hands, Warlock lifted his sword. "If you're going to try to take him, you'll have to go through me." He ignited his blade with a flick of his wrist.

A string of strangled consonants from Adam. "Are you serious? I mean… yeah! Take that!"

Warlock grimaced as he backed himself and Adam away from the snarling spriggans. “Do not make me regret this."

Adam nodded, curtly. "Shutting up. Got it."

Backing away, Warlock tried to plan his attack, all the while struggling to ignore the irritating way Adam’s breath had ticked upward and began tickling the back of his beck. “Can you stop that?”

"What?"

"Breathing like that."

"Oh, forgive me," Adam said, dramatically. "I'm sorry my weakened human form is already a burden to His Highness'-"

"You two are ridiculous," Brown sneered down at them. 

The breath on Warlock's neck continued to be a distraction, and just as he was was starting to reconsider his decision, he realized it wasn’t Adam at all. He glanced sideways, at the trees, leaves rustling slightly all around them. Command over the trees was an entirely Seelie ability, with the Unseelie limited to simply being able to possess nocturnal animals. But this was the Faedark, a land supposedly without sunlight, without summer, and Warlock began to wonder if there was more to his power here than he'd realized.

"Grab on to me," he whispered to Adam, his sword still held out in front of him, losing its effectiveness as the other two spriggans grew to their full size. The flames flickered off their hungry, blood-red eyes.

"What?"

"Just do it!”

“Shads?” R.P. smiled at his friend. “How long has it been since we had a decent meal?" 

"Too long," the Scot growled. The three spriggans lunged.

Focusing on the energy around him, Warlock closed his eyes and felt something wrap itself tightly around his waist and hoist upward. A yelp from behind let him know that Adam was still with him as they were brought higher and higher, the tree’s sharp branches getting caught on their hair and skin. Without warning, they were dropped harshly onto a narrow branch that creaked under their combined weight.

"Ow." Adam shook his head, dropping immediately to a knee and gripping the branch beneath him. His knuckles quickly turned white.

"I gotta get used to how that works," Warlock said, looking down at the screeching spriggans below trying to climb their way up the tree. In their enlarged forms, they were having limited success. The tree shook.

Adam rubbed his head. "My two-year-old cousin is better at that than you are."

"You know, I'm more than happy to send you back down there to fend for yourself.

"No!" Adam raised a hand. "That was fine." He looked around. "I take it you've never traveled by treetop before?"

"No, that's your territory.”

Adam stood and looked over the edge of the branch before dropping back to his knees. "Fuck," he whispered as he pressed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Erm… to get it to work you're going to have to summon the tree again."

"How do I do that?"

Adam's eyes were still pressed closed. He was growing pale. "The same way you did it before."

Warlock tried — closed his eyes, focused on the trees — but it was as though the electricity in the woods had vanished. There was nothing to draw from. “Er…”

Adam opened his eyes, exasperated. "What!?”

Warlock straightened up, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "Whatever was there… it's gone. Or something. I can't call on it again." Something hit the bottom of the tree. The spriggan were throwing things now.

"No it's not,” Adam dismissed.

"Yes… it is."

Adam’s pale face hardened. “You're just going to have to reach your perfectly manicured hand out there and call it, alright?"

Glaring at him, Warlock thrust his hand out, wiggling his fingers dramatically and feeling nothing but his own shame heat his face as Adam looked desperately between Warlock’s hand and the unmoving tree behind him. More shaking and shrieks from below as the spriggan ran off to fetch something in the distance.

Adam shook his head. “Look, you're just not trying hard enough."

"Oh eat shit, Adam! Who are you to tell me whether I'm-"

Without warning, Adam leaned forward, grabbing Warlock's hand and shoving it out further towards the next tree, causing Warlock's face to warm as the electricity in the air sparked once more. A branch on the nearest tree creaked forward, extending itself toward them. Smiling, Adam broke contact. The branch stopped immediately; the electricity gone. They stared at one another. 

Slowly, Adam placed his, now trembling, hand on Warlock's once again, igniting the forest as he pushed it gently toward the next tree. They watched together as the branch from the other tree grew longer, broader, suddenly wide enough for them to walk across.

The two of them stared at it, neither daring break contact. Warlock swallowed. "So, not entirely human, I guess?"

A crash from below pulled their attention to the spriggan beginning to collect boulders with which to throw at the base of the tree.

"Who the fuck cares?" Adam said, gripping Warlock's hand tightly as they stood up and took an unsteady step together out onto the next tree.

“Unite the courts…” Crowley could not sound more incredulous.

"Yes." Tracy continued to smile at them. The other two Courtless maintained their scowls.

He pointed a finger at them. “You lot are insane. There’s no way that would even be possible. How could you actually believe-”

“So it’s true, then?” Aziraphale asked from behind. Crowley turned to face him.

“Yes,” Anathema said.

“What’s true?” Crowley looked between them. “What are you talking about?”

“Your time feeding on human souls has come to an end,” Tracey said sweetly. “It’s time for this rift to be mended.”

Crowley continued to blink. He waved his hand at Aziraphale. “Hello? What is she talking about?”

Aziraphale ignored him. “But, I need Warlock for that. The King... Arthur will never-”

“You won’t have him.” Anathema replied. “And Arthur knows nothing of his son’s existence. Nor Thaddeus. To them, they are the end of their lines. It should remove their own egos from the equation, make them more… willing to compromise. It’s the best we can do for you. The rest will be in your hands.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “But I need Warlock. His rule is to be-”

Anathema raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you have any idea how close your Court is to a coup? There are some who have already set their plans in motion. Muriel, is their name?" Aziraphale's color fled. Crowley thought of the Unseelie Adam was nuzzling with in the corner, at their face, beaming with mischief, as Adam accepted Warlock’s challenge. 

Anathema continued. “Young, yes, but also ambitious. They've been working on sowing dissent in the Court for a while now right under your Prince’s nose. They were working with someone on the Seelie side." Aziraphale's eyes shot to Crowley, something like betrayal flashing across them before hardening again.

Crowley stepped forward. "What do you mean on the Seelie side? Who's working with them?"

Her eyes remained fixed on Aziraphale. “If allowed to continue down this path, Warlock was not meant long for the throne. If he is truly meant to lead, you will need to do this without him, for him.”

Aziraphale stood, stunned.

Crowley tried to ignore the needling thought that was growing louder in his mind. Was it Adam? Could he have been secretly attempting a coup, an unprecedented act of aggression and clear declaration of war between the Courts? No, not possible. Adam could barely be bothered with the goings on in his own Court, there was no way he would engage with something as dangerous as overthrowing the Unseelie King. 

Because while Adam would never admit it to anyone, Crowley honestly thought he might even like Warlock, in his own way. It was in the way he always sought him out, always glancing around a room in search of that head of dark hair, and in the way his eyes lit up when they fell on Warlock’s. Sure, Adam would deny it, say it was only to take the piss out of him — and it was that — but there was comfort there as well. A grounding that Crowley noted Adam only had in Warlock’s presence, in the knowing that it would be the two of them, together, marching toward their thrones, ruling from opposite sides, and taking on the challenges of their reigns — which were guaranteed to be more tumultuous than their fathers’ — as a group, of sorts, of the two of them. The only ones who could truly understand what the other had been through. 

Much like him with Aziraphale. 

But then again, Thaddeus had made it clear he had no intention in letting Adam near the throne, not for a very long time. And despite his protestations, Crowley knew Adam’s father’s approval continued to reign supreme in his mind. So it was possible that Adam had wanted a hand in unseating his rival, hoping to show his Father that he was more than he gave him credit for. Crowley suddenly worried at the type of man Adam could have become under his watch.

“It wasn’t yours,” Agnes reassured. “A friend of his, trying to solidify their own glory.” Relief swept over him, followed by dread. Adam was a pawn in this game just as much as Warlock was.

“A marriage,” Aziraphale said under his breath.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “A wot?” 

Aziraphale continued to speak to the ground. “A binding agreement across the Courts.” He stepped toward Crowley. “A marriage would open up the shared contract, it would require readdressing the rules between the Courts, would it not?”

Starting some words that caught immediately in his throat, Crowley stopped, took a breath, and continued. “Yes… technically, but where are you going to find a Seelie and Unseelie who are willing to get married in this scenario?”

Aziraphale stared at him.

Crowley stilled. “No.”

“We have no choice.”

“I am not having this discussion.”

“Who else, then?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not going through with a lie like this. It won’t work.” 

Tracy floated forward this time, causing Crowley to jump backward, refusing to get pulled into another haunted memory void by any of them. She stopped before him and smiled. “The King’s been lying to you.”

“What?”

“There already is precedent, Shax has been working with Uriel. Seelie are dying younger and younger and Thaddeus has hidden it from everyone.” She pointed toward Aziraphale. “Same’s happening on their side.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked at Aziraphale, whose stoic expression served as its own confession. “The King would never-” but he stopped, remembered how tightly Thaddues held his council meetings of late, remembered how earnestly he’d asked Hastur and Ligur to monitor the sentiments and chatter amongst the citizenry, remembered how Crowley had been slowly shut out, how the dungeons — previously open for him to roam and inspect — had been locked away, guarded by paid thugs he’d never met before. But he’d been busy, raising a future King, all of his focus there and none on the Seelie at large. Had he been so blind as to what was really going on? 

Guilt stung him.

Crowley had come from nothing, rose by his wit and charm to become a member of the Prince’s entourage, then a member of the King’s Guard, and then his son’s Champion. He’d done it all on his own. But it had come at a cost. Bits of his soul, of his conscience that he’d had to chip away over the years, scattering pieces of it on the ground behind him, so small that, after a while, he barely noticed. All to move forward. To get ahead.

He’d tried with Adam to make it right, to make him a better King than the one he’d grown up with. He told himself it was for everyone — a better King benefited everyone — but really, maybe it was just for him. His way of telling himself that he hadn’t lost himself entirely. That he wasn’t a part of the problem that had plagued the Seelie from the start: entitlement, privilege, the ruling class pressing down on the working. The truth stung, deep and sharp.

Crowley had become one of them.  

Tracy’s eyes remained on him. “You’re not so different from us, dearie. We all gave ourselves up for the promise of something shiny.”

Crowley blinked at her, furious. But said nothing. 

Aziraphale stepped forward, his eyes pleading, and whispered, “ The Courts are trapped. Adam and Warlock are trapped. In the Faedark. We have to try.”

Crowley’s survival instincts continued to scream at him, trained from decades of doing what he had to to get by. He wanted to argue. Why was this up to him? So many privileged twats out there to choose from and it’s up to him? With Aziraphale, of all people!? It wasn’t fair.  His mind jumped frantically to who to blame, the King, the Unseelie, finally landing on Adam, on his foolishness, on his arrogance, and he was so angry at him for all of this. Not checking his bloody sword, the absolute moron. Had he learned nothing from their training? Too cocksure and blind to take to heart the lessons Crowley had painstakingly shared with him. 

Then he thought of the boy he’d trained all those years, of the way his eyes lit up when he picked up his first bow, the way he worked so hard to master the skills and stances that Crowley demanded he master before he even handed him an arrow to launch. Somewhere underneath all the hubris, the man Adam had grown into was brilliant, and infuriating, and he was in danger. He deserved a chance to be remembered for more than his worst tendencies. Crowley released a heavy sigh as he let his shoulders sag, relenting.

Tracy smiled. “Glad you decided to join us.”

“Piss off,” he muttered into his chest before looking up at everyone. “Alright. How do you suggest we do this, then?”

“That’s up to you,” Tracy replied sweetly. "We’ve erased the memories, we can change the party to be yours and sprinkle in some awareness of the two of you announcing your engagement, but beyond that, the Fae mind’s are stubborn. We can’t do much more. And you can’t delve too deeply. Keep them in the present, don’t let them question why, or they will figure it out. And if they do, then both Princes, and Courts, will die.”

“Yeah, you’ve already made that abundantly clear,” Crowley bit out, earning him a stern eyebrow from Aziraphale. He was about to tell him where he could shove that when Aziraphale spoke to Tracy.

“And when will the Princes be returned to us?” 

“When the union of the Courts has been agreed to. And you need to be get moving. Time works differently in the Faedark.”

Crowley blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The longer they’re there, the slower time will move for them. A day here could be years there. It’s hard to know for sure. The link between the two is not exactly fixed… or stable.”

Crowley leaned forward. “Are you telling me that even if we do this in a few day’s time, the Princes could be trapped there for years!?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “That is absolutely unacceptable!” Aziraphale was pacing behind Crowley now. Finally they agreed on something. Aziraphale continued. “Warlock is supposed to be married in three days! Crowned in five! You cannot do this to him.”

“There is no other way.”

"This is ridiculous!" they both shouted.

“How can you possibly expect us to do this quickly?” Aziraphale looked desperate.

“I don't even like him!" Crowley said, pointing at Aziraphale.

"Well, the feelings quite mutual, let me assure you."

Anathema rolled her eyes. "You two are as delusional as the other ones."

"What!?" "I beg your pardon?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Never mind. We’re done here,” she said, snapping her fingers and transporting them back into the party they'd just left.

It had changed. The lighting was a bit brighter, the walls, no longer covered in deep green mossy textured tapestries, were now laden with sheets of shimmering gold. The entire room, a marriage of Seelie and Unseelie designs.

Everyone turned around to face them, the Kings Arthur and Thaddeus standing at the dais. 

Beelzebub's voice thundered into the room. "Our guests of honor have arrived! Please welcome our grooms-to-be, Crowley and Aziraphale!"

Chapter Text

Adam dropped Warlock's hand the second his feet landed on the mossy ground. He flexed his fingers, trying to regain the blood flow that he'd lost given how hard he'd gripped his hand around Warlock's. The dizziness… it was unsettling. Scaling heights came as naturally to the Seelie as breathing did to humans. And he'd quickly grown tired of how his stomach rocked every time he dared look down. It was ridiculous. Cruel. And whoever had done this to him, would be made to pay.

The threat was ridiculous, completely toothless even in the privacy of his own mind. Made to pay? By whom? His father? Adam couldn't go to him. Not like this. His father would shun him the second he laid eyes on his sweaty, ashen face. The King had already made it very clear that he didn't think Adam was close to being able to take the throne, and now, he'd more likely try to sire another heir before he’d even consider avenging Adam.

And what about his friends? Brian? Wensleydale? Eric? Those guys were jokes. Adam had known his whole life the types of beings they were. It was why he’d chosen them as his gang, really. Easily manipulated and silenced, none of them ever dared challenge him. Adam was the Crowned Prince; what he wanted, he got. And he’d ensure this by surrounding himself with people who reinforced that reality, especially since his father refused to.

So that entire lot would be useless. His mum? Adam couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her outside of formal events. Which suited both his parents just fine and, Adam assumed, worked for him as well. But he never really put thought into it. His mum had never been particularly motherly — looking at him with disdain, proof of the prison she’d been sentenced to with her betrothal — so what was the point in Adam caring?

His thoughts turned to Crowley. His Champion would help him, of that he was certain, but not before smacking him sharply up side the head for not properly inspecting the sword Eric had handed him. Crowley had done it so many times during their training: when Adam didn't lift his elbows high enough; when he left his right side unguarded; when he hung upside down from a tree without properly securing his arrows in his quiver. Smack, smack, smack, smack.

Adam wondered what kind of magic Crowley would use to somehow always appear out of nowhere. He wondered if it had to do with affecting time. Crowley came from nothing, a child orphaned before he could walk with no knowledge of who his family had been. But there had been groups of low-borns who specialized in temporal magic, better capable of scaling from plane to plane, elongating the space between seconds, a sort of subtle sixth sense that few Seelie possessed. Adam always wondered if his father had seen it before Crowley had and whether or not that was why his father had pulled Crowley into his circle as a child. Surrounding himself with anyone who could pose a threat was a strategy the King had ingrained into Adam from a young age.

But Crowley would help him. He would move swiftly from sharp interrogation to creative problem solving. A wave of loneliness struck Adam. He wished his Champion was here now, instead of sneery, gloomy Warlock. He sighed loudly.

“We need to make a plan,” Warlock said, staring at the mountain on the horizon.

Adam shrugged. “Walking… might be a good start.”

“Sure, with all these creatures after us; and you, a human? Great plan.” Warlock hadn't turned to face him.

Adam sneered. 

Warlock glanced at him, sideways. “I thought you were supposed to be clever.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “Just not surprising that everyone was wrong about you.” Adam couldn't tell in the dark, but Warlock's face had gone slightly darker, at his cheeks. Seeing it awoke that excitement in Adam that he always got around Warlock, the one Crowley had cautioned him against again and again. But it was like a bright red button in an empty room, far too alluring to leave untouched.

And Adam had never been good at denying himself something he wanted.

Smiling, he placed his hands on his hips. “So, you talk about me then?”

Warlock froze, his frown quickly turning to a sneer. “Oh, get over yourself.”

Adam began circling him, the movement calming his frayed nerves. ”Does your soon-to-be Queen know? Do you talk about me… together?” He let himself smile. “Pillow talk after you do” — his smile faltered — “whatever it is that you two do-”

Warlock pointed a stern finger at him, his ears now darker than his cheeks. "Fuck off. And keep Pepper's name off your tongue.” He stepped away, turning his attention back to the mountain as he added, “She's better than you in every way possible.” There was something heavy in Warlock's voice. A pain that didn't feel like it should come when talking about his future wife. 

It made Adam's stomach clench uneasily.

Adam sighed. He was being a prick. Which was normally fun, but not now. Taking the piss out of Warlock was fun when it was about something like nail polish or ridiculous pirate clothes, but this was different. Because Warlock was worried about his wife. He’d been taken from her days before they were meant to wed. He loved her in a way that Adam had never loved anyone he’d lay with. A good time, a distraction, nothing more. And here he was, making fun of someone because they had what he didn’t. What Adam likely would never have. 

How could he? He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that anyone was with him because of who he was, only the title he held. Fucking the crown, that was all. Which he was fine with.

But… not now. He thought of his parents, of the cold way his father’s hand settled on his mother’s at formal events, of the way she snatched it back as soon as they were no longer in public, rubbing it roughly in hopes of erasing the memory of the chilly touch. Of how they hadn’t shared a bed in as long as Adam could remember. So now — watching Warlock’s face fill with dread at the idea of being away from his soon-to-be-queen — the idea of a life of casual shags under the shadow of a loveless arranged marriage made Adam sick to his stomach. Stupid human body. It was confusing being this way: weak, vulnerable, tired. 

Sad. 

It was too much. And Adam might be a prick, but he wasn’t a monster. This was something deep and personal to Warlock, and that was off limits. More so now than ever before. 

Because Adam was human, and defenseless, and he needed to be more careful, especially with Warlock. Because, right now, Warlock was all Adam had.

How pathetic.

Adam walked and stood beside him. “You’re right. That was uncalled for. Won't happen again. You have my word.”

“Good.”

Silence. Adam was never good with it. “She seems great. Really”— he struggled for the right word — “feisty.” He cringed internally. Maybe the silence wasn’t so bad.

“Adam…” Warlock warned.

“Right.” He shut up.

They stood for a long moment, the quiet of the night around them making them both uneasy. After a while, Warlock shifted on his feet. “I need to try something.”

Adam turned to watch Warlock take his hand to reach toward the trees in front of them. Adam had noticed how the hairs on his arms stood on end when their hands touched, a chill prickling his skin, as though a frost were being carried on a soft breeze.

Nothing happened for a moment until, very slowly, it looked as though the woods were shifting. Adam squinted, realizing that the trees had apparently sprouted legs and were walking themselves onto either side of a newly created path. “Whoa…” He turned to find Warlock smiling freely. It shocked him. Adam wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Warlock smile this openly before, pure, without defensiveness or malice. He wondered how often Pepper had seen that smile, how often she would see that smile throughout their lives together. A flash of something hot in his chest forced him to return his attention to the trees. “Never seen that trick before,” he admitted. 

Releasing Adam's hand, Warlock inhaled deeply. “Do you feel it?”

“What?”

“The forest. It's like… alive?”

Adam shook his head.  

“Not even back home?” 

“No.” A prickle of jealousy warmed his cheeks. 

“Hmm.” Warlock's eyes remained locked on the pathway before them, but his mind was elsewhere.

“That leads to the mountain?”

Warlock nodded.

Adam knew the answer before he even asked. “We can’t take it, can we?”

Warlock shook his head. “Everything in the forest can feel when we change things. They’ll be waiting for us.”

Adam nodded his head. While he couldn't feel the energy of the place, the Faedark had been built on the pain of human suffering, and pain creates connections where there should be none. Scents, sounds, touch, all igniting phantom memories that manifest themselves in physical sensations in the human body. It made perfect sense that the plane itself was connected in ways the others weren't. He tried not to think how many of those connections his family had made. How many he had made. “So we have to take the long way.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you sense the creatures also?”

Warlock bobbed his head. “Not exactly. Not like I can up top. Here it's more, shadows. So I don't know what they are, but I can sense if they're close.” He pointed behind them. “And there's a pack of something coming from that way. So we need to get moving.” He turned to Adam. “They can smell you, I think. Give me your hand.”

Adam offered his right hand. Warlock shook his head. “The other one.”

Adam took his left out of his pocket, hissing slightly at the sting as he flexed it, reopening the wound that had just begun to heel. The blood was still there, red and dark, but it had slowed, becoming congealed and sticky. 

Warlock took it and inspected it closely. “I need to seal this.” Despite not looking up, Adam could feel Warlock worrying at his lip. Adam swallowed in dread. “It's going to be… unpleasant.” He ignited his sword. Adam twitched reflexively but forced his trembling hand to remain in Warlock's. 

“I hate you.” He closed his eyes tightly. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

“I know.”

Adam could see the light of the flame from behind his eyelids. The heat warmed his face.

"Don't scream," Warlock warned as he pressed the searing hot blade into Adam's palm.

Aziraphale thought he might faint.

Of course he wouldn't faint. He'd never fainted before in his life, but his mind was spinning, and everyone was staring, and Crowley was… was he holding Aziraphale's hand? Aziraphale yanked his own back, clasping it tightly in the other behind his back.

“Oh, you needn’t be shy!” Thaddeus thundered from the front of the room. Aziraphale looked over at Arthur, who looked as he always did in dreaded meetings with the Seelie, irritatingly resigned. But this time, his ire was pointed directly at Aziraphale.

He and Crowley were being led. He turned to find Dukes Hastur and Ligur, smiling tightly and pushing them towards the Kings at the front of the room. Crowley's hand was once again grasping at Aziraphale's, causing him to turn angrily towards the Knight only to be met by a pair of pleading, shimmering eyes. The air in the room around them thickened, the sound dulling.

“Chin up,” Crowley said cheerily, softly grazing Aziraphale's bottom lip with his thumb as his golden eyes affectionately scanned Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm. How dare he. “And smile," Crowley continued. "This is a wedding, not an execution.” He leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale on the cheek and whispered, “And take my fucking hand. Right now.”

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand a little too roughly, shocked to feel how clammy it was as the life of the room flooded towards them once more. He looked at Crowley, noting the slightest worrying of the brow hidden behind a manic smile. Something about it softened Aziraphale as he woke to their task: if they didn’t convince everyone, if they brought attention to their discomfort, Warlock would be lost, the Courts would die, and it would be his and Crowley’s fault. He opened his hand, allowing Crowley’s long fingers to intertwine with his own, offering a gentle squeeze, which Crowley returned in kind. They could do this. Together.

“I’ll lead with my King and you lead with yours,” Crowley mumbled, before flashing a bright smile at the crowd and waving. 

Aziraphale joined him, lifting his chin as they marched towards the dais. The closer he got, the harder he knew this would be. Thaddeus stood, in the Unseelie’s halls, having somehow redecorated the place to be brighter and warmer, with nary a flick of the wrist. But it was a lie. An extravagant show of toothless power. Because Aziraphale knew there was no true, sustainable magic here. 

The Courtless had confirmed that the Seelie were suffering in the same way the Unseelie were, so all this was created from the measly bits of power Thaddeus had continued to leech from the human souls he claimed. It was vile and pointless, a flexing of a muscle that was so much more dangerous than even the Seelie King realized. Because all of this was his fault; their fault. He glanced over at Arthur, who had for so long defended the difficult choice to forfeit human souls; ahead of his time and loathed for it, even by Aziraphale himself. And Warlock, now trapped in the Faedark, made to pay for the sins performed by Thaddeus and his bloodline, stuck with his son, the same weasel who h ad haunted and taunted Warlock his entire life. Aziraphale could barely stand how much pain his King and Prince, his entire people, had suffered at the hand of the man he approached now. He squeezed his hand tightly around Crowley’s and watched him wince slightly as he continued to laugh and point at some random person in the crowd, as though he were some sort of ridiculous celebrity.

When they reached the dais, Aziraphale’s jaw had started aching.

“You Grace,” Crowley said, bowing deeply at Thaddeus and then at Arthur. Plastering a polite smile on his face, Aziraphale joined him. Thaddeus handed Crowley his hand to kiss, which he did, after which he passed it to Aziraphale, who simply blinked at it. Still bent low, Crowley raised his eyes at him, trying not to shift his face, and Aziraphale couldn't stop his eyes from wandering over to Thaddeus, who held a sort of poorly veiled contempt at his hesitation. Aziraphale wanted to take the hand and spit on it. Wanted to yank the man forward and whisper in his ear “Are you happy now? Your son, his son, are trapped because of your family's greed.” Wanted to drag him down from the dais, pull the crown off his head and shove him to the ground, exposing him for the small, petulant man that he was.

But instead, he swallowed his pride took the hand in his, pressed it against his lips, and kissed. After dropping it, Crowley turned to Arthur, prepared to repeat the action, to which the Unseelie King merely shook his head.

“We have parted with those formalities centuries ago. You may stand, Knight.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

An awkward silence once again as the two men, supposedly in love, stood stiffly side by side. It did not go unnoticed by the Kings, who's eyebrows furrowed slightly as they looked between them. Crowley, sensing the tension, swung a lithe arm over Aziraphale's shoulder, squeezing him tightly as Aziraphale tried not to grimace.

Cheers from behind. Crowley cleared his throat. He was right. Aziraphale needed to get himself together.

“Much to discuss!” Thaddeus shouted to the crowd as he raised his hands high. “Unfortunately, duty calls, and while we welcome the rest of our esteemed court to remain here and celebrate, we do need to borrow these lover for a bit to discuss certain… preliminary matters.” He turned and ushered Crowley and Aziraphale toward the exit. Ligur ran up and whispered something in his ear. “Oh, my Duke tells me that the champagne has run dry?” He clapped his hand. Every glass in the hall filled itself, with flowing fountains of champagne appearing at each corner of the room. “A gift from the Seelie Court!”

Arthur did not try to hide the roll of his eyes.

After they exited the room, Aziraphale extricated himself from Crowley's grasp and made to step toward the Unseelie King. Crowley's arm shot across him, blocking his way.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” Crowley spoke low, smiling broadly for everyone to see.

Aziraphale frowned at the pet name, but quickly caught Arthur watching them with a doubtful expression. He froze. Play the part. Everything depended on it. Returning his attention to Crowley, Aziraphale offered the warmest smile possible as he leaned forward to affectionately pick at a piece of lint that had settled on Crowley’s lapel. “I need to speak with my King... dearest.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Why… buttercup?”

Aziraphale chuckled affectionately. “This is still a business negotiation, is it not, snookums? Did you actually think I would go into a negotiation with your King unprepared.”

Crowley leaned forward. “But pudding… whatever it takes to get this done quickly is what we should focus on. You heard what they said about time. Warlock and Adam are-“

Aziraphale cut the pretense, speaking low. “I am very aware of what might become of Warlock if we fail, but that does not mean I should sentence the rest of my Court to a mediocre existence because I settled for less than what we deserve. We do not even know what our Kingdoms look like in this reality! What if the lack of the Princes has affected more than just this wedding? We must tread carefully.”

Crowley leaned back, for a moment his features turned serious before smiling again. "Alright, but be careful. And we need to agree before you make any decisions, yeah?"

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. “Let’s get one thing straight, Crowley, my allegiance in this arrangement remains with my King and my Court. I have a duty to serve in the best interest of them and them alone. Yes, Warlock is amongst them, but he would not want me to sacrifice his future nor his children’s.”

Crowley spoke seriously, now, his eyes pleading. “We want the same thing, though, you know that.”

“I hardly believe that to be true,” Aziraphale said, straightening out his bow tie as he walked over to his King. “Your Highness. Might I have a word in private?”

Arthur smiled curtly before moving aside to speak with Aziraphale in a corner. “Can you believe that man?” he said, shaking his head back at Thaddeus who was now chatting animatedly with Crowley.

"Hardly."

“I can't believe you're making me do this.” He turned to him, confused. “How exactly did this happen, again? I tried to think about it on the way over.” He frowned. “I wasn’t even aware you spoke with Crowley.”

Shit.

Kicking himself for wasting time fantasizing about humiliating Thaddeus when he should have been coming up with a reasonable answer to this questions. Aziraphale smiled awkwardly. “Oh, you know what they say, don’t you? The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “My goodness Aziraphale, but that one?” He pointed at Crowley, guffawing easily with the King, a much more free bond flowing between the two than he and Arthur. Jealousy churned in him.

“I never said the heart was clever,” Aziraphale said, turning to the King and hoping that would be the end of it. A little self-deprecating humor always worked for Warlock. Aziraphale hoped it would work for him.

“Well, he better be worth it,” Arthur said, eyeing Crowley. He looked back at Aziraphale and softened. "We've been friends our entire lives, Aziraphale. Your father, my father, our families have a strong bond. And I want you to be happy, truly" — he paused, his face hardening — "but first and foremost I am a King, and my duty is to my people. You understand, don't you?"

“Of course.”

“So, do not take any of my demands personally. They are simply for the betterment of our people.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Could you give me a hint at what you're considering?”

“No,” Arthur said with finality. “And the Queens should be returning, shortly. We ought to get on with this.”

“Without Her Highness?” Aziraphale asked. Since their marriage, Queen Deirdre had always been Arthur’s most trusted advisor, with Arthur seeking her counsel on most matters concerning the Courts. She was a voice of reason amongst the chaos, a spokesperson for the masses, as well as a balm for Arthur’s more… emotional tendencies. Engaging in a negotiation without her didn't seem like Arthur at all.

The King shot him a confused look. “Aziraphale… I haven't taken the Queen to Court in nearly twenty years.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but shut it quickly as he watched the King march over to where Crowley and Thaddeus were finishing up their discussion.

Chapter Text

They'd been running for over six hours. 

It was Warlock's fault. He should have known that simply telling someone not to scream — especially someone as incapable of controlling their impulses as Adam — wouldn’t be enough to actually keep them from screaming in agony when a flaming blade was pressed into an open wound. And Adam was, here, human, and human pain tolerance wasn't something that Warlock was particularly familiar with. His family didn't make it a habit of torturing human souls. Adam really should have warned him.

But Adam was a cocky prick. So, of course he wouldn't have admitted it. But Warlock knew it wouldn't have mattered. Because somewhere inside himself, Warlock had wanted to make Adam scream in pain. Somewhere deep down, he'd wanted to draw that sound from him, knowing how much suffering Adam and his family had caused Warlock's people over the centuries. And somewhere, even as Warlock had to drop his sword to press his hand tightly over Adam's mouth to try and muffle the sound, Warlock had enjoyed it. Warlock's face flushed hot at the thought.

He picked up his pace, trying very hard not to think about what that said about him. 

He glanced up at the pitch black sky, unchanged since they’d arrived. By Warlock’s calculation, it should be past dawn. He’d hoped the sun would come — which was stupid, he knew. This was the Faedark. But still, he’d foolishly hoped that that didn’t mean perpetual darkness. That maybe there was a moment of dusk, a glint of the sun, something to give them a better picture of what this place was or to ground him in how many days had passed. How much of his life back home he was missing. How long Pepper would be waiting for him to return. But no, the darkness lingered, deep and heavy over everything, giving the woods sharp fangs that the nights of the material plane and Faewild never had. 

Feeling the shadows close on them, Warlock dragged Adam along more quickly.

He could fight them off, Warlock thought, if he'd been alone. But he wasn't alone, and the lessons he'd had with Aziraphale over the years had focused on formal challenges and self-defense. So Adam's presence in this human form, without weapon or strength, was more of a liability than Warlock realized when he’d decided to protect him. And that was doing nothing for Warlock’s worsening mood.

"Can you slow down?" Adam asked from behind.

"No." Warlock said, pulling harder. 

Adam yanked his hand away. Warlock turned to find him bent over, panting. Warlock blinked; he hadn't realized Adam had been so out of breath. Something stung his face. He grimaced at himself. Was that guilt? 

Gross. 

He shook it off. They didn’t have time for this. The shadows loomed, glowering hungrily from beyond the tree line. Squinting, Warlock scanned the woods but saw nothing. Just the feel of eyes, the weight of hunger. “We need to keep moving." Adam wheezed, lifting a middle finger slowly towards Warlock before turning to cough. 

Warlock sucked his teeth but, looking at Adam hunched over, he really didn’t look in any shape to keep moving. The hairs on the back of Warlock’s neck stood as he felt the shadows creep closer, mouths watering, tracking Adam. Protectiveness flooded him. “I can carry you.” Warlock's cheeks warmed.

Adam straightened out. “What the fuck!?” He coughed into his hand. “No! Just give me a fucking minute… shit.”

Warlock turned his attention back towards the shadows, who seemed to have begun creeping around them, but not coming closer. He raised a finger at Adam. “One minute. And then we have to move.” Adam nodded, pressing a hand into a stitch in his side as he paced slowly. Warlock took the opportunity to look around.

The mountain they were approaching remained in the distance, foreboding, causing a slight chill and a cold dread to enter Warlock every time he looked at it. It was enchanted. It had to be. Warlock had sat in Court with his father, much more often as of late as he'd approached his coronation. The line was always out the door, with what seemed an endless supply of subjects with an even more endless supply of asks. Requests to go topside, requests for healing potions for their aging family members, requests for food and other assistance. Poverty had spread across every corner of the court, with even his own family needing to forfeit their own supplies in order to keep the populace from growing too hungry. And that was the Unseelie Court. This was the Faedark, where torture bled from its very inception, and these Courtless had made a promise, a promise they had just delivered upon. Warlock could imagine they would want to keep their subjects from coming too close, lest they be consumed like any common ruler.

He paused, searching the shadows and feeling them continue to pace the perimeter, not moving forward. He let out a sigh of relief as exhaustion started to weigh on his own shoulders. Maybe a break wasn’t such a bad idea.

He turned to look at the trees around them. They were at the edge of a clearing. The thick blanket of moss along the ground had gradually been replaced with loose dirt peppered with bright red fungi that nearly glowed in the combination of moonlight and the dew that sat heavy in the air. Warlock's eyes trailed along them to land on a boulder on the edge of the clearing. He blinked. He’d seen that boulder before. He turned around, realizing the entire area seemed familiar.

He groaned. "We're going in circles."

"What?" Adam asked. No longer panting, he’d moved on from distressed to annoyed as he swatted at the dense dust particles that floated heavily around them. 

"That boulder. We've seen it before.”

Adam squinted at it, and to the tree behind him, his mind clearly working. 

Warlock walked over to the boulder and sat down, the disappointment not helping his growing fatigue. "I can't believe this."

"I don't think we've gotten turned around.”

Warlock grunted. Of course, Adam couldn't just take his word for it. Of course, he had to come to the realization himself. If they ever got back home, Adam would probably claim it was his discovery in the first place. A critical piece in the puzzle that allowed them to escape. Because Brilliant Prince Adam always had to be right. Even in this human form, his arrogance was infuriating. 

But Warlock was confident they’d seen this boulder, that they had been walking around in circles. So, tossing his hair out of his eyes, he leaned back, content to watch Adam fumble his way into the same conclusion. “And how do you figure that?”

"That tree" — Adam pointed to the tree next to Warlock — "that's the tree Crowley spoke through on our fourteenth birthday."

Warlock whipped around. 

Shit.

Adam continued, looking up at the tree tops. "This is Hogback Wood." His voice held more confidence than it had since they'd arrive. Warlock hated it. "Which means-"

Warlock's shoulders slumped. "The mountain we're headed toward is Odegra." He rubbed his face in his hands, internally flaying himself for not putting it together sooner. 

Because the Faewild and the material plane were intrinsically connected. Before cynicism became a way of life for humans and technological advances tore their attention away from all things magical, Fae and humans would pass freely between the two realms as needed. Faery rings littered the forests like flower petals, allowing passage to anyone brave and curious. Passing through was like walking into a dream, the world the same, but different. A tree in the human realm, green-leaved and grandiose would shift, its foliage blooming into brightly colored peacock feathers in the Faewild. The landscape, locked, but the details, shifted. Without the mirror, anyone passing between the two would be lost forever.

That was before the Unseelie were exiled, limited to only roam either realm at night. Never to wonder at the colors of the trees or the glint of the sunlight on a meadow of lavender in the material plane. Moonlight was their guide, stars their companions, and they made do the best they could.

Odegra was the only structure that the two realms did not share. Its origins were unknown, having simply appeared at their exile, its caves serving as the home for the Unseelie ever since. Unseelie legend stated the loss of magic that came from the rupture of the Fae into two factions was what caused the creation of the structure itself. In the material plane, it was simply a faint distortion in the skyline; sometimes a rainbow, sometimes a fog, always forgettable.

Still rueing how Adam had been the one to piece together this connection, Warlock looked up to find Adam, glaring at him.

“So it's not just my family's fault we're stuck here, then.”

Warlock frowned. “What are you talking about? Of course it's-"

"No, because the magic that resides in Odegra comes from your people." Adam nearly spit the last two words at Warlock's feet.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"And to think I was starting to feel bad about all this." Adam had started pacing the clearing.

A different kind of heat warmed Warlock’s face as he failed to keep his voice level. “You should! You should feel bad. Are you being serious right now?"

"Odegra has nothing to do with the Seelie-"

"Yes it does! You cast us out! You hoarded power and humans and the whole bleeding sun!" 

Adam pointed a stern finger at him. “That's bullshit. Everyone knows the dark magic your people put out in the world forced the separation. Your greed-"

"Greed!?" Warlock felt wild. He knew he shouldn’t be shouting. Knew it was just another way for the shadows to find them, which, still hadn’t moved. Or he couldn’t tell. His mind was fuzzy with exhaustion and anger. And the bullshit coming out of Adam’s mouth was driving him insane. "Do you, the future Seelie King, actually believe all that propaganda bullshit?" Adam simply glared at him. "For fuck's sake Adam, how can someone as clever as you are be so stupid?"

"You know what?" Adam started, only to be stopped by another coughing fit that had him leaning against a tree for support. Warlock looked around, the dust in the air still heavy, and he watched how much of it Adam was inhaling as he gasped for breath. His own breathing hitched. The spores — not dust — around his face bounced delightedly as his head, already tired, grew fuzzier. The red mushrooms surrounding them seemed to dance in glee at Warlock's slow realization that the shadows that had been stalking them all night still hadn't moved any closer; not since they’d entered this clearing. 

He stood slowly, the earth shifting under his unsure feet. "We need to get out of here."

Adam pointed an unsteady finger at him. "And another thing!” he slurred, sounding drunk.

"Shut up," Warlock grabbed his arm and pulled, teetering and slightly off balance, but still in control.  He thought of all the birthdays he’d spent in Hogback; he knew these woods. He looked to his right. “There's a cave half a kilometer away from here. We need to move." He looked at Adam, more ashen than before and swaying. "And you need to rest." 

As soon as they exited the clearing, the spores faded and Warlock’s head began to clear as he felt the shadows make chase once more.

The door closed behind them with a deafening thud. Crowley winced at the decor, all soft fabrics and romantic lighting. He could feel Aziraphale's back straighten at the sight of it.

They were in Crowley's quarters, but they'd been redone. The “Lovebird Special” was what Beez had called it, who’d looked way too pleased with themself, offering quick smirks as they led him and Aziraphale down the corridor. Throughout it all, Aziraphale looked seconds from tearing the whole place down. Unseelie were never granted access to the Seelie Realm beyond the meeting rooms during the Equinox ceremonies. The contrast from what Crowley had seen at Warlock and Pepper’s banquet, which would have been Arthur’s the best foot forward, made it difficult for him to look Aziraphale in the eye at all.

The banquet had ended shortly after their bitingly curt meeting with the Kings, who were swiftly  shepherded off by Michael and Beelzebub to summon the Contract from the ether. The Contract was what this entire negotiation was about. Drafted back when the two Courts were split as a means to create order and governance amongst the newly divided Fae, the Contract contained, in writing,  every rule and law by which the Fae lived. Every birth, every marriage agreement, every claim to land, animal, and human soul, were contained on the enchanted scroll. If it was not written in the Contract, it did not exist.

And it was never touched. Things like births and marriages were added to the Contract automatically, simply overseen by an auditing agency, and never pulled from its appointed place in the ether. But this was a joining of the courts, the details of rights to land ownership and shared governance would need to be rewritten. Which required the Contract to be summoned and placed in the Faewild until negotiations were completed. The Kings had marched off with their Hands, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale to stand awkwardly side-by-side, slowly growing concerned at how little progress they’d actually made beyond agreeing that more discussion was needed.

And now, here they were, in Crowley’s dimly lit and overly romantic quarters, alone.

"Right." Crowley mumbled. He scrambled over to the couch, which had vines of red roses all along the top, grabbing and ripping them off as he went. "I can sleep here, of course. You can have the bed." He pointed toward the bedroom behind him, grimacing as he wondered what nonsense Beez could have set up there. He’d have to check before Aziraphale went in there.

Aziraphale cleared his throat before speaking slowly, fighting whatever emotion was rising in him. "There's really no need, I am more than happy to return home."

"No" — Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose — “Aziraphale, you know you can't. That would be suspicious. You need to stay." Aziraphale looked as though he wanted to hit him. Crowley rubbed his face roughly and stepped toward the bedroom. "I need a drink."

As expected, the bedroom was worse than the sitting room, with a pair of love birds singing along the top of the four poster bed. 

Were those bleeding nightingales? 

Crowley shooed them off the canopy, opening the window and fanning them outside. Sighing, he tossed his cape on the bed, noticing a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, fresh from the material plane, set neatly on the bedside table beside two long-stemmed glasses. Thank someone, Beelzebub wasn’t completely useless. He strode over,  picked them up and walked back into the sitting room.

Aziraphale remained just as he’d left him, stoic by the entryway. 

Crowley moved cautiously, feeling a speech coming on.

“I would like to set some ground rules.”

And there it was.

“Be my guest,” he said with a wave, the two glasses still nestled between his fingers. “But know, I will be drinking during this discussion.” 

“Physical affection will be limited to only when we are in the company of others.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Crowley muttered as he began to work the cork from the bottle. 

Aziraphale ignored him. “And hand holding only. Your arms are bony, feels like I’m being suffocated by a boa constrictor.”

Crowley rolled his eyes as the cork came loose, losing no time in pouring a hefty glass. “Sure thing.”

“And absolutely no kissing. Or mouth touching… of any kind. That thumb motion you did was beyond the pale.”

“And you seriously think people won’t find any of that suspicious?” Crowley asked as he placed the bottle down on the table a bit harder than he intended. He quickly wiped away a deep purple droplet that had landed on the Carrera tabletop, it’s blemish already set in the vein of the marble. 

“Your King and Queen seem to do just fine.”

Crowley fell into the couch with a scoff. “No one is idiotic enough to believe those two ever loved one another.” He took a sip, swirling the wine with his tongue as he relished the rich notes. Seelie wine held nowhere near the depth  of flavor of what they conjured on the material plane. Crowley would miss this. He returned his attention to Aziraphale. “What about yours? They’re all” — he sneered — “affectionate.”

Aziraphale softened, his eyes lingering on the glass in Crowley’s hand. 

“They are, or were, not here it would seem.” Aziraphale took a step toward the couch. “It’s concerning.” He worried at his lip before looking once again at Crowley’s glass. Crowley fought a smile, wondering how long it would take Aziraphale to actually ask. 

He took a much more luxurious sip. “Why is it concerning? Your King can’t function without his Queen?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at his crassness. “No, she was just… a very trusted member of the Court. An Unseelie King without a strong Queen is not something that has happened in centuries. I worry for what that means for our negotiations.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“He doesn’t trust himself.”

“Ah.” Crowley let himself smile now as Aziraphale nearly licked his lips as he walked over to the table to take a glass. “I would have poured you one if you’d just asked-”

Aziraphale stopped him with a hand. “I am quite capable of doing this myself. Another ground rule: let’s try to avoid doing too many favors for one another throughout this arrangement. We don’t want to inadvertently end this affair owing one another something. Let’s keep the negotiations focused on the Contract.”

Crowley tilted his glass towards Aziraphale. “Fair enough.”

Aziraphale finally poured himself some wine and took a seat in the chair opposite Crowley.

Crowley leaned forward. “Cheers to” — he garbled some sounds, unsure what to toast to — “to a brighter future.”

Aziraphale tilted his glass toward him with a soft ping and took a sip. He looked at the wine for a long moment before admitting, “It’s very good.”

Nodding, Crowley smirked. It was so hard for Aziraphale to say anything remotely nice about the Seelie brand of hospitality. 

The quiet of the room grew heavy as they nursed their wine.

It was Aziraphale who broke the silence. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?”

“The act. It seems to just” — he waved his hand in the air — “flow from you. I’ve snuck up to watch a human play or two on the material plane — local Tadfield productions — but none of the actors ever came close to the level of convincing you mastered out there tonight.” Aziraphale’s cheeks grew pink as he stared down at his wine. Crowley cleared his throat and poured himself another. 

Aziraphale continued. “It doesn’t come as… naturally to me. And I would never forgive myself for cocking this up.” Aziraphale remained quiet, looking at Crowley expectantly. It would seem even asking a simple question was difficult for him.

Crowley relieved him of his burden. “I came from nothing. Had to play the part of a high-born my whole life. It’s reflexive, at this point. Not sure I could turn it off it I wanted to,” he said, taking another sip and noting how his throat ached when he swallowed. 

He took another to drown that feeling.

“That must have been quite difficult for you.”

Crowley looked up, Aziraphale’s face was hard.

“You don’t think a Seelie could have a difficult life?”

“I don’t think the Seelie have the faintest idea what having a difficult life means.”

“And you do?” Crowley sneered. “Remind me, who was your father? And his father?” Aziraphale simply stared at him, unmoved. Crowley continued. “You know what, I’ve a few ground rules, myself.”

“Do tell.”

“Stop being a prick.”

Aziraphale scoffed into his wine.

“No, I’m serious. We have to work together, whether we like it or not. You don’t have to be such a self-righteous arsehole all the time. You can, maybe, see something from someone else’s perspective for once? Maybe, not assume every single Seelie is a piece of shit. Start there, yeah?”

“And why should I? You all seem to enjoy looking down on all of us.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?”

“I don’t look down on you. Sure, there are arseholes here, there are arseholes in your court. There are arseholes… everywhere. But there’s also exceptions. And we” — he pointed between the two of them — “are trying to negotiate for the exceptions, right? You think I want Thaddeus to keep his wealth? His power? Fuck no. That man’s a menace to everyone he comes in contact with. I want a better world, the same as you.”

Crowley let the weight of what he’d just set settle into Aziraphale. Treason, even worse than he’d admitted to Adam five years ago. To Aziraphale, a member of the other side. If that didn’t prove Crowley wasn’t like the other Seelie, well then, he was out of ideas. “So there you have it. Treason, and all that. But know that I’ve been working on Adam, hoping he could be better. But now” — he shrugged — “who knows. You and I have to work together for the future we want. It’s just the two of us. We can’t depend on anyone else.” 

Aziraphale worked his jaw, shifting in his seat and, for once, speechless. Crowley watched him look around his quarters. They were humble by Seelie standards. A small sitting room, a bedroom and a loo, not even his own kitchen to make tea. His marble table, now stained, was the showiest piece of furniture Crowley had. Aziraphale seemed to soften after a long moment. When he spoke, it was tentatively. “I suppose, I can try to be less… critical.”

Crowley nodded. “I know it’s incredibly difficult for you” — he teased. Aziraphale pursed his lips — “but it would be lovely. And it’ll help you loosen up. That’s what you need to survive out there. Here, have more wine” — he grabbed the bottle and poured himself another glass before offering it to Aziraphale — “it’ll help.”

Aziraphale glanced down at his empty glass, sighing before taking the bottle from Crowley. He looked tired as he poured. “This really is quite luxurious. Where did you get it?”

Crowley shrugged, taking a sip and letting the familiarity of his favorite bottle calm him. "Thaddeus made an arrangement with a winemaker a few decades back." His smile faltered as he thought about where the man could be now. Was he trapped in the Faedark with Adam? Was he trying to hurt him? Kill him? Shaking his head, Crowley took another defiant pull.

"Ah, of course." Aziraphale placed the glass down on the table. 

"Come on, don't be like that."

"Be like what?" he snapped.

Crowley stared at him as the air in the room sparked with their mutual irritation. But this was a waste of time. “You’re worried about Warlock. I get that. You need to understand that I’m just as worried about Adam.”

The sparks faded.

"Of course, you’re right,” Aziraphale sighed, slumping in his chair. “I’m being cruel." 

"Nah, you're not, not really. Adam can be a prat.” Crowley smiled affectionately to himself. “I’m going to smack him so hard upside the head when I see him.” 

Aziraphale laughed weakly. “Not that I disagree with you, nor do I wish to come to the aid of His Royal Pratness, but I actually think it’s Warlock who deserves the swift talking to.” Aziraphale brought his glass to his lips, a small smile tugging at them. “It was apparently he, who challenged Adam, not the other way around.”

 "Really?"

"Can you believe it?” Aziraphale said, his eyes twinkling. If Crowley didn’t know any better, he would say Aziraphale was proud. What a bastard. He continued. “Pepper, bright thing that she is, fought the glamour for a few seconds before it fully gripped her. She told me she'd tried to talk him out of it, but his mind was set. He’d sent Muriel to deliver the message during the party.”

Crowley remembered Adam whispering in Muriel’s ear. Of course Adam wouldn’t be able to decline a challenge from Warlock. Adam had worked for years to build a persona that hid his desperate need to prove himself. But Crowley had been more privy to it than most, through his training and how hard he worked to master his craft, all the while seeming as callous as possible. But he cared, very deeply, and the last thing he would ever let go unmet was a challenge from Warlock. 

Crowley sighed. How quickly he’d joined the masses in thinking the worst of Adam’s intentions.

He looked back at Aziraphale. “Honestly, didn't know Warlock had it in him."

“Well, you've never seen Warlock with a sword,” Aziraphale said with a raised eyebrow.

Crowley thought back to the one time he had seen Aziraphale with a sword, the way he wielded it, almost dancer-like in the night. Aziraphale thought he was alone, practicing on the material plane in the woods when Crowley had stumbled upon him to watch silently from the treetops. Aziraphale’s sword had been aflame, and Crowley had blamed that Unseelie magic for the way his face had warmed that evening, and nothing else.

Returning from the memory, Crowley offered a sideways smirk. “And you've never seen Adam with a bow."

Aziraphale smiled softly. "Well, here's to us seeing them both again soon.”

Crowley nodded, leaning forward to gently press his glass into Aziraphale's. For a moment, Crowley let himself hope that this could work. Because he and Aziraphale had this that only they shared, a mutual affection for these two Princes they’d raised. Not even a King could say he held the bond that a Champion shared with their Prince. Which meant he and Aziraphale understood one another, knew what motivated the other, and could work together toward some type of agreement that could return the Princes to them. Because the risk of failure was too horrifying to contemplate, for both of them.

Aziraphale drank from his own glass before putting it down and clapping his hands together. "Right, but in order to do that, we need to come up with some sort of Plan."

Chapter Text

Adam opened his eyes, the combined throbbing of his head and his throat screaming him awake. Not to mention the ache in his feet. Fucking shoes, who invented those things anyway? The second they'd stumbled into this cave, Adam yanked those stiff sons of bitches off his feet and threw them as far as he could into the darkness, he didn't care what kind of face Warlock made at how he could have woken something. Adam's brain had been a fuzzy mess and he was furious and his feet fucking killed. So he took it out on the shoes. He was pretty sure that if his father knew the truth about them, he'd likely have swapped all the creative torments he'd used on humans for some stiff-soled oxfords and been done with it.

Huffing, he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Fucking sleep. His body had never wanted something so badly. How he’d stupidly avoided sleeping for so many years was beyond him. Seelie didn't really need sleep, but they did do it on occasion just to pass the time, especially during the cold winter months when they weren't allowed to leave their lands. Adam spent most of his time not sleeping: goofing around, chasing girls, stealing food from the kitchens despite Justine's protests, anything that his father would frown upon and allowed Adam a respite from remembering that he was the most disappointing crowned prince in an age.

It wasn't that he didn't want to please his father. He did. Very much. His dad had just made it very clear  that Adam would not be able to receive his approval no matter how hard he tried. Not in the ways that Adam had wanted to try, anyway: on his own merits. His intelligence. His archery skills. No, his father only seemed to care when Adam exerted his power or will over others. Used it to sow fear, to bend, to break. A Show of strength, he'd called it, something all Kings needed to be exceedingly skilled at. And Adam had, for a time, tried to do it, non-stop. 

But then he'd grown tired.

Ot maybe it was the nightmares that had done it. They weren’t the kind of nightmares that woke him up in the middle of the night screaming. No, Adam had never had those. These were the kinds that lingered after he’d woken —  like smoke off a dying flame —  to haunt his waking thoughts. On the rare occasions when he would try to get some rest — locked in his room by his father for some offense Adam stopped trying to understand —he'd lie awake, and hear the voices of the people he’d tried to hurt, a human soul who cleaned his room or some member of the King’s Guard who he’d gotten in trouble for meddling with something he and his friends had been doing. 

It was always just voices. Maybe Adam was too cocky to remember any faces. Thought it not important. Given he was the Prince, he didn’t have to remember anyone’s face, only they had to remember his.  His mind wandered to Brown, wondering if his voice was one of the chorus he’d used to hear  in the dark. He shuddered and wrapped his arms more tightly around himself against the cold.

 At twelve, and before his father’s true character had made itself clear in Adam’s heart, he'd made the mistake of asking his dad once, sheepishly. To which he was told simply to man up. That he was to be King and the only ghosts that existed were the ones Adam allowed haunt him. Adam didn't know how to take that at the time. When he mentioned it to Crowley later, confused and hurt, he'd been kinder. Told him the past never leaves, and how Adam needed to decide how to handle the ghosts. Exorcise them? Hold onto them? Honour them? That one was the one Crowley obviously wanted Adam to do, with his golden eyes and hopeful smile. But Adam was just a kid, and what the fuck does honour mean to a twelve-year-old child? Shit, Adam didn’t even know what honour truly meant to a nineteen-year-old man.

So Adam ran. Ran away from the voices and his father and all of it to fuck around and have fun.

But now, here he was, the punchline in some sort of twisted joke. Trapped, not only being hunted by the ghosts of his own past, but that of his entire ancestry. And he didn't want to deal with it. The throbbing was spreading from his eyes to his face and down into his throat, and he turned over, trying to silence the pain in his body as much as the guilt in his heart.

He heard Warlock shuffle not so quietly toward him. Adam pretended to be asleep. He wasn't ready. Not for Warlock's passive aggressive comments or how his stupidly pretty face fell when he looked at Adam. Normally, how Warlock saw Adam didn't bother him one bit. A point of pride really, getting under the skin of the overly serious and far-too-broody Unseelie Prince. It added a pep to Adam's step most days. But now, here, there was something different in his look. There was judgment, resentment, disappointment. Which he could handle, but behind all that, Adam knew Warlock regretted helping him. Regretted saving him, that there was a constant calculation going on behind those blue eyes in which he imagined striding alone into Odegra and returning home without the dead weight of Adam’s frail human body weighing him down. 

Which shouldn't matter. What did Adam care?

But he did. He did care. Because Warlock chose to help him, without promise of benefit to himself or promise of repayment, which was, unheard of in the Fae world. One never did anything without a negotiation, some sort of return of payment, not ever. So, Warlock had done it out of the kindness of his own heart? Only Crowley had ever been so kind to Adam, and that may have even been a stretch. Crowley worked for him. It was pathetic for Adam even to think that that meant he harbored some kind of affection for him.

So the acknowledgement that Warlock chose, of his own free will, to protect Adam? Well, Adam didn't know how to take that. But now, with disappointment oozing from every inch of Warlock's body whenever he looked at him, Adam felt every bit a twelve-year-old boy again, itching to run away from it all.

Warlock's shoes echoed across the cave walls before stopping. Adam felt him kneel in front of him. Something hard pressed into his hand.

"I found some water."

Adam shot up so quickly his head felt as though it might split open. Wincing, he didn't notice Warlock's hand on his shoulder for a few seconds, strong and steadying him. "Slow down." 

Adam was drinking before he could offer some kind of snide remark. But the truth was he didn't want to. He wanted to cry in gratitude as he drained the bowl of water, as it cooled his throat that had apparently grown thorns overnight. He sputtered, covering his mouth so as not to waste any of it, and swallowed roughly. "Thank you," he said without thinking. 

Which wasn’t really a big deal. Thanking between Seelie and Unseelie was allowed, they were both Fae. Contracts between Faekind didn't happen in fancy word play or sneaky tricks. Not often, anyway. That sort of thing was reserved for smaller, human minds, and mostly because it was fun. Fae were allowed to thank, and apologize to one another, freely. Not that they did it often, not even in their own circles. Some older Fae thought it meant something, a favor owed, a debt to be paid — pride was… well, difficult to shed —  but less so to the younger lot. They were just words, albeit significant ones that should not be tossed around casually. So, Adam saying thank you to Warlock, in this instance, should have been shocking for that reason alone. An olive branch he was offering freely. But Adam didn't care. This water was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted in his entire life.

But the ashen look on Warlock's face made Adam grow cold. Because… shit. 

Adam was human. 

"I mean, fuck you." He tossed the bowl against the cave wall, wincing as it shattered everywhere.

That pulled Warlock from wherever his mind went, shrugging as he stood. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t count if you don’t mean it.” Adam frowned. Warlock sounded hurt. “So, eat shit… or whatever.” Warlock added, sounding more like himself. 

Adam sighed in relief, moving slowly as he dreaded what standing was going to feel like in this frail human body.

"Something took your shoes," Warlock said, now staring off into the darkness. He scrunched his nose in disgust. “Bats… I think.” 

Adam eyes lingered on Warlock’s painted fingernails as they rested comfortably on the hilt of his sword. He blinked and pushed to standing. "Well, good riddance."

Warlock turned and stared at Adam's feet. "Sure, but. Humans wear shoes for a reason."

Adam feigned shock. "You don't say." The water really had helped his mood. "Don't worry. I'll keep up.” 

Warlock grimaced. “Do you want mine?”

“Fuck no, I don’t.” Adam glanced down at the stiff, shining oxfords on Warlock’s feet. “Those look even more wretched than mine. Just” —  he pointed at Warlock's sword —“can I borrow that?" 

Warlock’s fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt. "Why?"

A fond laugh bubbled up Adam’s chest, startling him into a frown. What the fuck? He cleared his throat. "I just need it to wrap these up." He extended his hand. "I won't break your precious sword, I promise."

Warlock sneered, mumbling something that sounded like "I'd like to see you try," under his breath as he pulled his sword from its sheath, tossed it lightly into the air before catching it by the blade and handing it to Adam, hilt first.

Adam quickly started cutting away his trousers at the knee. "Does it have a name?"

"Does what have a name?"

"Your sword. Don't swordsmen give them names?"

Warlock watched him, and Adam couldn't help but notice a little color flushing his cheeks. "You're going to cut yourself," he warned, and Adam looked down to see he'd barely missed taking a chunk of skin off below the knee. Better pay attention. Once the fabric was free, he started cutting a long strip off of one side. Warlock watched with rapt intensity. "Where did you learn that?"

Adam shrugged, starting to wrap his foot. “Saw it in a human film, once.” Adam could feel Warlock's eyes widen.

"You've watched human films? When!?”

Adam looked up at him, suppressing a smile and an urge to be snarky. This was the person who’d chosen kindness, who risked his life to help Adam.The least he could do is be honest. And maybe a bit cheeky. “You know, there's an entire day of me being topside on our birthday with nothing to do until you're annoying arse shows up to bug me,” he teased before returning to his work. “Sometimes I'd go to the library. Sometimes the cinema." He lost himself in memory. "Have you ever tried the absolute poison humans call candy?" He huffed a laugh. "That stuff's wild."

Warlock stared at him a long moment, his right eye twitching slightly. Adam knew what he thought of him. How he assumed Adam just spent time up top taunting humans, hunting them, preying on their fears. But aside from, apparently, Brown and that one time with that sweaty kid, Adam realized he had very little interest in making agreements with humans. And that knowledge was challenging Warlock's view of him. 

Warlock’s intense staring started doing that thing to Adam’s stomach that made him uncomfortable. He focused on tying his wrappings. “You okay?” he asked avoiding Warlock’s eyes.

“Yeah.” Warlock squeaked, his voice breaking upward as he shook himself awake. He watched Adam for another long moment before adding, “And to think, all those years you were giving me shit for my nails?"

Adam finished tying off the knot on his second foot, inspecting his work. Not bad. "Well, you get it. Appearances, right? And my dad couldn't read my mind, and he never gave a shit enough to ask what I'd been up to, so he never found out. Just not brave enough, I guess, to flaunt it in his face, like you.” Adam paused; the self deprecation from his own mouth shocked him. Not to mention how he'd never talked about his dad with anyone really, except Crowley. He didn't know if he wanted to stop or keep going. "What would you do… after sunset?" Changing the subject felt… safer.

Warlock inhaled slowly as he considered the question. “Books too… never made it to the cinema, though.” He paused, loosing himself to thought. “Humans are really weird at night, you know? Think people don't see what they do. Can let loose a bit. So, mostly I liked to just watch them.”

Adam smirked.

“Not like that!" Warlock chuckled, a real laugh as he tossed his hair out of his eyes. It was a surprisingly endearing sound that warmed the air as it bounced off the cave walls. "No, just sitting at a pub alone, walking home from work, taking a break from life. Humans are more honest in the darkness when they feel like no one can see them." Warlock nodded towards his sword which now lay across Adam's lap. 

Adam extended the hilt towards him. When Warlock reached for it, Adam pulled it back slightly. "So, you're not going to tell me the name?"

"Not a chance."

"Fair enough,” he relented playfully. He rolled up his sleeves, feeling foolish in a dress shirt and, now, makeshift ratty shorts. Not that it mattered… he didn't care. But, Warlock still looked perfect, not a crease to be found on his black on black ensemble. Except for his stupid cravat. He knew Warlock hated it, could see him wincing and tugging at his collar every now and again. But it was his father’s and Adam knew Warlock would do his best to keep it in pristine condition for as long as possible. Adam just didn't want to feel… sloppy next to him. He ran a hand through his hair, to ward off the self-consciousness.

Warlock stood and turned his back to him, looking towards the woods. "The forest is quiet. The shadows… they're sleeping, I think. Or, preoccupied. We should make as much headway as we can while they are." He turned around. "Can you run?"

"I'll do my best."

"Dolphins!"

Aziraphale blinked, straightening himself out in the chair that he'd been sitting in for two hours, which was starting to grow uncomfortable. "What?"

“Material plane based water mammal. Ever see them?"

Aziraphale shook his head. He seemed to have lost the plot somewhere in this discussion. They were supposed to be making a plan. But, one glass of wine became two, and then Crowley went and grabbed a few more bottles from the King's stores — which he'd assured him that Thaddeus had offered as a wedding gift, which Aziraphale questioned. That sounded far too generous an offer from the Seelie King — and now something about dolphins? 

"Hold on," he said, raising a hand to stop Crowley who teetered forward from the couch, arms splayed wide, clearly preparing to launch into another tirade. Aziraphale squinted at his arms. How long were those things? Aziraphale tried once again to grasp at Crowley’s train of thought, but somehow got lost staring at a particularly spirally lock of hair that rested elegantly at the nape of his neck. 

Aziraphale slumped back down."What exactly is your point?"

"Big brains."

Aziraphale squinted at him. "What about their brains?"

Crowley swayed some more, his honeyed eyes going unfocused for a moment. When he returned, he locked them on Aziraphale’s. 

They were quite pretty. 

"Brain city,” he blurted. “Problem solvers, the lot of them. If they can do it, so can we."

Two hours, and that's where they were. Aziraphale placed his glass down gently on the table. It slipped to the floor. Good thing it was empty. "That's not particularly reassuring."

"It should be!"

"But we've not come up with any Plan."

"Just need more brain juice." Crowley leaned forward and reached for more wine.

"You said that three bottles ago."

Crowley scrunched his nose, staring at all the empty bottles in front of them. "Yep…" 

A worried silence settled on them as they stared at the growing purple blemishes that peppered the white marble table separating them. No Princes, no Plan, and a wedding in three day’s time. Aziraphale shifted in his seat again, his bottom had started to go numb.

Crowley patted the seat next to him, that lock of hair stirring slightly. “This one’s cozier.”

“I’m fine where I am.”

“No, that chair’s murder. I specifically chose it so I could stick Hastur somewhere when he’d pop by to talk business. I can’t actually believe you’ve sat in it so long.” He smacked the space next to him. “Come here, angel!”

Aziraphale frowned. “Angel?”

“Pet names, yeah? People in love do that. Your Queen always calling Arthur, dearest and darling. You’re the I-don’t-drink-while-I’m-working angel.” He hiccuped. “But you’re working now, aren’t you? So, joke’s on you.” He shook his head, picking up the bottle to squint at the label. “This human stuff is strong.”

“I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to consume as much as we have.” Aziraphale’s legs had started to go numb now. He stood and walked over.

“Atta boy!” Crowley said, leaning forward with a sideways grin.

Aziraphale raised a hand. “A little space please. And I would prefer if you called me Aziraphale.”

Pouting, Crowley slid over. When he spoke, his slur had lessened. “Right but, we do need a code for if things start going pear shaped. Like if we need to talk, in private. I think calling you ‘angel’ can be that.”

His mind wandered back to the party the night before. To the way the air thickened and the sound muffled. “What did you do?”

Crowley blinked. “Wot?”

“Last night, you did a thing, when you spoke with me. What was that?”

“Oh…” Crowley garbled some sounds as he shook his head. “That’s nothing.”

“It certainly didn’t feel like nothing.”

“Well, it’s not nothing, it’s just not something I can do often. It’s a time… thing.”

“A time thing…” Aziraphale said flatly. “Can you perform temporal manipulation?”

Crowley groaned. “Maybe? Sometimes? It’s very hard, and not dependable at all. Pet names are much easier.”

Aziraphale looked at him, clearly not wanting to discuss this ability. It was seen as low brow, that much he knew, something the high-born Seelies shunned as mastery of it continued to evade them. Jealousy was an ugly emotion. But Crowley clearly didn’t want to discuss it. So Aziraphale wouldn’t. “Alright, then what should I call you?”

Crowley waved his hand in the air for a moment before he turned to him. “How about ‘fiend’?”

“Fiend?”

“Yep. Can’t say ‘arsehole’ and I would be damned if you called me something atrocious like ‘honey-pie’. So, you: ‘angel’, me: ‘fiend’.” He extended his hand for Aziraphale to shake. “No favors, no kisses, stop being a prick and angel and fiend means code red. Agreed on the ground rules?” Crowley stared at him once again with those golden eyes and Aziraphale felt his face blush. Seelie magic had that affect on people. The hypocrites shunned glamours while, at the same time, refusing to acknowledge how their physical attractiveness affected others. 

Aziraphale swallowed and took his hand. “Agreed. ”More silence as they sat side by side. The worry returned, like some sort of unavoidable oncoming collision. 

“So“ — Crowley sighed — “eighty years.” 

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley’s face darker as he stared at his hands. Aziraphale nodded. “Did you really not know?”

Shaking his head, Crowley forwent his glass entirely to grab the bottle by the neck. “Nope. No idea how I’d missed that. Sheltered in these walls a bit too much, it would seem.” He took a drink.

“Well, Adam seems a handful.” It was the only consolation Aziraphale could offer. 

Crowley chuckled. “Sure, babysitting a nineteen-year-old is the reason I never spent time with the peasantry.” He swallowed, slowly. “No, I made a choice. Stopped asking questions. Followed the rules to save my own hide.” He brought the bottle to his lips once more. “S’my own fault.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Now Crowley, I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself-”

“Nope.” He stayed looking at the far wall. “I got where I wanted to be and turned my back on them all. Selfish son of a bitch, me. No wonder Adam turned out the way he did.”

Aziraphale turned to him, the wine making his tongue a little looser than it would otherwise be. “Excuse me, but I have to object to this line of thought. Adam is, from what you’ve told me in the last two hours, a prat, for sure. But also, twice the man his father is, rejecting convention, living by his own merits, learning archery when it is otherwise frowned upon. He sounds like a much braver man than anyone gives him credit for.” Aziraphale blinked at himself, not actually believing what he was saying. But there was pain here, vulnerability. Aziraphale couldn’t just ignore that, even if Crowley was a Seelie.

Crowley smirked, exposing a dimple on his right cheek Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. “Well, well, who is this person?” He offered his hand. “My name’s Crowley, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he teased. “I think I actually like you with a bit of wine in you.” He went to take another sip but stopped to add, “Told you all you needed was to loosen up.”

Aziraphale snatched the bottle from his hand — earning a playful scoff —  and took a sip, himself. “I think people underestimate how difficult it is to be a Prince’s Champion, is all. We deserve more credit than we receive.”

“Hear, hear!” Crowley grabbed the wine bottle back before Aziraphale could have another swallow. 

Another long silence.

Crowley leaned over. “So, this is the part where you tell me your Secret Plan.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Is it, now?”

“Yes. Where you tell me how we’re going to get these hereditary enemies to join hands and march forward together towards a glorious and prosperous future.”

Aziraphale took the bottle again. “Well, sorry to disappoint.” Another long sip, during which he accidentally finished the bottle. He put it down with finality before sighing. "They're never going to agree to terms.”

They'd spoken very little, about the initial terms that were brought forward to the discussion at the banquet. Apparently, both Kings were well aware that joining the Courts would result in the ability to share power between them and extend their lives. It was likely the only kindness the Courtless would grant Aziraphale and Crowley in this whole affair, not needing to convince them that this was in both their best interests. But even that knowledge wasn't enough to mend the gap between the two sides. 

Because, land. The Seelie had isolated the Unseelie to the caves of Odegra centuries prior, moving their own families into the abandoned Unseelie homes before the tea kettles had even gone cold. It hadn't been mentioned by either King this evening, but Aziraphale knew that would be the sticking point that would keep this alliance, and the return of Warlock and Adam, at bay.

"They might agree to terms,” was all Crowley said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Is your King prepared to evict half his Court from the homes they stole?"

Crowley inhaled slowly, calculating, not so discretely, how to respond to this in a way that wouldn't destroy the mood. He kept his voice even as he said,  "To hold an entire union hostage for a child's bedtime story-"

And there it was.

"Bedtime story!?"

"Aziraphale, entire family lines have lived on these lands for generations. Some of them, for longer than the Unseelie before them. There is a reality in which these families have more claim to these lands than yours do."

"They were stolen-"

"Because there was an uprising! Your ancestors rebelled. They broke the code of law. We are Fae, Aziraphale, there are consequences to breaking the rule of-“

"I am not having this discussion with you." Aziraphale stood up.

"Stop." Crowley raised his hand, his eyes surprisingly steady. Aziraphale realized the haze of alcohol had vanished from his mind as well. "Aziraphale, we need to talk about this. Please." He gestured back to the seat beside him.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, biting on the retorts he wanted to offer. Because Crowley was a part of the problem. And no matter how gorgeous his eyes or long his arms, he was still a predator, looking to give up as little as possible before getting what he wanted. And Aziraphale was so unbelievably tired of this.

But he thought of Warlock. Stuck with Adam together in the same way that he was stuck with Crowley. With no way out unless he and Crowley succeeded. He straightened out his waistcoat and sat back down.

Crowley's voice was soft. "We have to convince them to find a middle ground."

"King Arthur will never agree to remaining isolated to Odegra."

"No, but evicting families from their homes also does not work." Crowley's eyes looked hopeful, disarming Aziraphale.

“Do you have a suggestion?”

“What about Hogback?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “What about Hogback?” 

Hogback was the place where the barrier between the material plane and the Faewild had been it’s weakest, allowing for easy access back and forth for both sides. Today, the doorways were all but extinct, with only one allowing passage. During the drafting of the original contract between the Seelie and Unseelie, Hogback had been deemed sacred land, never to be inhabited, only to be protected.

“It’s land. Available and free. A new beginning. More than enough space for the Unseelie to start anew.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “And you think the Seelie would forfeit it?”

“Forfeit what? It’s not ours, it’s shared land. A lingering memory of a bond between humans and Fae we now know we’ll never get back. It’ll take some convincing, but I’ll manage. Besides, I’m an optimist.” He flashed a sideways grin and another dimple before adding, “Do you think Arthur would go for it?”

Aziraphale’s mind worked. It was insane, but not impossible. It allowed everyone to get what they wanted, while requiring the Seelie to give up relatively little. It could work. “I think so,” he said, a smile growing on his face. He suddenly felt giddy, as though he could breathe for the first time in years. 

Crowley beamed back. “See… that wasn’t so hard,” he teased, standing and marching towards the bedroom only to return with another bottle.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s-”

Before he could finish Crowley pulled the cork and took a swig. “Get off it angel, we just solved a centuries’ old problem, let’s drink to that.” He handed him the bottle.

“I thought I told you to call me Aziraphale” —  he paused, trying not to blush as the giddiness coupled with the wine made him a bit silly — “fiend.” Aziraphale took the bottle.

“Now you’re getting it,” Crowley said as he plopped back down on the couch, spreading his arms wide as he propped his feet on the marble table. 

My goodness, thought Aziraphale, his legs are even longer than his arms.

Chapter Text

Warlock tried to be as quiet as possible as he hoisted himself up towards the treetops to get a closer look. After a week in the Faedark, the mechanics of the place were becoming clearer. Sound for example, when released below was muffled, immediately eaten by the moss and fungi that littered the ground, while noises from above spread like ripples in a still pond, far and wide, refusing to stop until its edges were reached. His stomach rocked uneasily as the branch above him creaked under his fingers, causing him to glance nervously back down the hundred or so metres to where Adam waited with his sword. The shadows’ ears, or whatever they used to sense sound, perked up, waiting for more indication of where he and Adam were within the forest. Trying not to remain calm, Warlock dropped the offending branch and swung his arm over to the right for another, more stable option. 

All this sneaking was getting annoying, especially considering everything would be so much easier if Warlock could just use that tree bending magic that he and Adam had wielded to escape the spriggan that first night. It had taken Warlock a few days to realize the shift inside himself, the switch that had been flipped the first time he and Adam had joined hands. It had awoken the forest to them, sure, but it had also unleashed a power inside him that no longer needed Adam to wield it. It was stronger when they were closer, obviously — Warlock didn’t think he could make trees walk all on his own, for example — but the power now that now lived in him had been growing stronger every day to become a distinct itch in the back of his mind, a pronounced tingling in his hands that gnawed at him… always.

He could feel the tree’s willingness now, beneath his fingers: the gentle leaning in, the soft whisper for him to command it, and the enthusiastic admission that it would gladly obey. The forest was so eager to obey him. But it was a trap. A temptation. It was wearing Warlock down, the effort needed to continue to ignore it, knowing giving in would expose them to the snarling hunger of the shadows that stalked them. But he continued to fight it. Because Warlock knew the truth: no matter how much of a connection his Unseelie blood felt to these woods and the creatures of the night, nothing in this forest was a friend to him. 

Finally reaching the top, what Warlock saw turned his stomach immediately to lead. Odegra, the mountain that housed the passageway through which they needed to walk in order to return home — that they’d been marching toward hour after hour for seven days straight — remained fixed at the same point on the horizon as it had since they'd started on this journey. 

Which meant, it must be moving... away from them.

Or maybe the forest was sending them in circles. Warlock couldn't make sense of why they were making no headway towards their return home but, after seven days of this, it was clear that getting there by foot was not an option. Huffing, he descended back the way he came.

Letting his impatience get the best of him, he jumped the last six-or-so metres, to land harshly on the grass and startle Adam who’d been staring out towards direction Warlock had most recently felt the shadows, holding his unlit sword. More dread as Adam looked towards him, his eyes wide and expectant, before his jaw set at Warlock’s expression. Adam handed him back his sword without a word.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Warlock said, ignoring the petty urge to plunge his sword deep in the cursed ground as some sort of pointless revenge. He carefully sheathed it instead.

“It kind of does,”Adam said, staring off into the distance as he absentmindedly scratched at the scruffy facial hair that, according to him, itched like the dickens. Warlock had tried not to laugh when he’d said that; it felt mean, given his predicament. But Warlock couldn’t really help it. Seelie definitely did not dabble in trivialities like facial hair and the irony that their Crowned Prince would be awoken in the middle of the night because his chin itched was too rich. Warlock did feel bad, though; it looked like it was absolute agony. 

Adam turned back to face him. “Every single human in here has been exposed to Fae trickery. You think they're just going to let us leave without some seriously fucked up quest?"

“Of course.” Warlock could not hide his sarcasm. “And here I was thinking that being kidnapped, you being turned human, and us needing to hike across a cursed forest while being stalked by hungry shadows was test enough.” Warlock tried to glare at him, because this was Adam’s fault, or his family’s fault, and all that Fae trickery these humans learned was at the hands of the them. And yet here Warlock was… stuck, with their Prince, protecting him all the while missing his wedding and coronation, leaving the Pepper, his parents and the entire Unseelie Court in who knows what state.

But the more he tried to glare, the less he wanted to. Because Adam looked a right mess: his previously white shirt was riddled with stains — the sleeves ripped off the day prior and tied around his head like some kind of absurd bandana; his eyes and cheeks sunken, looking like he'd lost half a stone since they'd arrived.  The journey was starting to wear on him and, while the call of the woods was clearly wearing Warlock down, the fact that he’d started  genuinely worrying about Adam wore on him even more.

He eyed Adam before saying, "We're not in a state to deal with much else right now…"

"You don't need to worry about me, I'm fine,” Adam said, smiling weakly.

Warlock offered a pointed glare this time. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Ah, of course not." Adam smiled again, a real one this time, the kind Warlock had seen him flash all the pretty girls in Court. Warlock’s stomach clenched uneasily.

He hated this so much.

Clearing his throat, Adam shoved his hands in his pockets and started pacing. “That has to be it.”

Warlock shrugged, weakly. He was tired. “Sure, okay, but what are we supposed to do without more information? We don’t even know what they’re after.”

"Me, obviously."

Warlock offered him a blank stare. “So, is everyone in your family a narcissist, or is it just you?"

“Ha, funny,” Adam said, sarcastically. “But you said so yourself, the shadows are hunting me. Why would the human souls be any different?”

Sighing, Warlock ran a hand through his hair. "So what do you want to do about it? Go off and sacrifice yourself.”

Adam sneered at him. "I didn't say that. And besides, you were right about what would happen if you showed up without me. No matter what his actual feelings for me are, my dad would have to declare war if you returned without me. And that’s not something anyone needs.” He paused, that mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Not to mention how bored you'd be if I wasn’t there."

"I think I'd manage.”

"Don't think so. But, whatever."

Ignoring him, Warlock let out an impatient exhale. ”So do you actually have an idea, or were you just trying to piss me off?"

Adam grew serious. “Look, you're going to think it's ridiculous, but, hear me out. Have you ever seen the human film the Sixth Sense?"

Warlock frowned. "Have you? Isn't that movie bloody ancient?"

"It was playing on special release on our tenth birthday. But" — he stepped closer to Warlock, speaking low — "in that film the ghosts lingered because they had unfinished business, yeah? The little girl wanted to warn her dad about how her step-mother poisoned her, to save her sister. That kind of stuff."

Warlock shook his head. "Not following."

"What if the humans here have something like that? Something we can" — he flexed his fingers at the idea — "bargain with, to take back to their families or friends in the material plane once we get out of here. A message, or something. Give them something to look forward to that’s not just ripping me to shreds.”

Warlock merely blinked at him. “And you… would do that?"

Adam shrugged. “Why not?"

“Seems uncharacteristically decent of you,” Warlock said offhandedly, glancing once more at the woods that surrounded them, scanning for danger. When he turned his attention back to Adam, his face had turned hard. Warlock frowned, confused.

"Well, you know what? Maybe I'm not as much of a shit-head as you think I am." Adam turned and stalked off.

Warlock blinked, his face warming uncomfortably as he watched Adam walk farther away from him. What the hell was that? Warlock had expected Adam to offer a snide retort, some kind of fuck off or rude gesture. It was how things went between them; the only constant amongst the chaos that surrounded. Warlock had started to find it oddly comforting.

Adam continued walking away from him, causing Warlock to jog to catch up. “Where are you going? You can't be alone out there.”

"What do you care?" Adam spat over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Warlock grabbed Adam's arm who yanked it away and rounded on him. 

“Don't… touch me.”

Warlock lifted his hands. "Fine." The reflex of an apology was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. Because this was bullshit. All the years of Adam teasing Warlock, about his hair, about his nails — about everything and anything he could — and today, Adam couldn’t take one stupid joke? Warlock didn’t care if he was human, this had to be some kind of sick Seelie manipulation, something Adam had learned from his wretched father on how to keep lesser people in line and submissive under his heel. Warlock was not having it. “What's your problem?" 

His mouth asked. His mind didn't care. 

Obviously.

Adam’s jaw remained clenched as he spoke. “Maybe it's because you're constantly talking about what an arsehole I am or what a piece of shit my family is or-"

Warlock scoffed. “Oh, come on! How is that any different than what you've called me our entire lives-"

"What do I say?" 

Warlock leaned back, stunned. "What?"

"Give you a hard time about your nails? Make fun of your broody clothes, or your hair, or how sometimes you stare at me so intensely that I can barely stand it?" Warlock swallowed as Adam paused, his voice had gone slightly breathless. "Have I ever once called you a piece of shit? Made fun of your parents or your people?"

Warlock stammered a bit. He had countless examples of Adam’s cruelty, of the way he thought he was better than him, beyond childhood teasing, of spitting on him and his kind. Of course he had examples of it.

He thought, hard, his face growing hotter by the second. 

He came up with nothing.

Reading Warlock’s face as easily as ever, Adam nodded. "Yeah. Thought so." 

Warlock's chest was squeezing so tightly he didn't think he could speak even if he'd wanted to.

Adam stepped forward, invading Warlock’s personal space. When he tried to back away, his heel hit up against a tree. His pulse blared in his ears. 

Adam crowded him more as he spoke. “I know you hate everything about me, but maybe you could lay off telling me every bloody second, yeah?” Warlock’s eyes burned. 

Nodding, Adam stepped back. “Cool." He turned and walked away, leaving Warlock to simmer in what felt alarmingly close to regret.

Crowley’s head killed. Bloody Chateauneuf du Pape… what was that stuff? Poison? Sure, it tasted great and made it possible for him and Aziraphale to avoid arguing about every-stinking thing that came up, but good heavens the pounding in his head was treacherous. Never again, he thought, before remembering that there were three unopened bottles back in his bedroom. Maybe just a break until tonight, then. 

It would be a sin to let it go to waste.

Shower. That’s what he needed. That’d get his blood pumping and kick whatever this was out of his system. He made to move, realizing that there was something heavy, and soft — and snoring? — weighing down his shoulder enough to slow his progress. He cracked open an eye, immediately spotting what must have been those same bleeding nightingales perched up on his mantle, heads tilted, staring at him. Had they come back?

“Shoo!” 

Blinking, the birds offered one another a knowing look before flying lazily back into his bedroom.

A moan from behind. 

Shit. 

Aziraphale was laying on top of Crowley’s left arm. 

Shitshit. 

How did that happen? The bloody Chateauneuf du Pape. A cursory glance at the floor allowed him to tally at least five bottles, but if memory served, one had rolled under the couch at some point. So six. What bloody idiots. But it hadn’t all been for not, and a headache. They’d set ground rules, laughed, and flirted… maybe? No, that couldn’t be right. Come up with a plan. Yes, Hogback. Crowley frowned to himself. That seemed a bit more far-fetched in the light of day. Had that actually been his idea? Bloody wine. 

Aziraphale let out a soft snore against Crowley’s ear, not helping his growing unease. It wasn’t that far-fetched. They could talk about it more this morning before their respective meetings No harm in having a backup plan, just in case? Every good plan needed a backup plan. Ugh, his headache was not helping the situation. He needed to get up.

He started to roll, only for Aziraphale’s heavy leg to swing over and a gray and black tartan-socked foot to hook itself between Crowley’s legs. Rolling no longer an option, Crowley tried to squirm his way out, but Aziraphale’s thigh was holding him in some kind of death-grip that refused to release. Crowley wouldn’t be able to extract himself without waking Aziraphale, likely rudely. And he wasn’t ready to deal with that eyebrow, not with this headache and without a proper shower first.

Crowley sighed before realizing there was something else. Something hard… jutting into his hip. He froze. Was that? No, couldn’t be. His face grew warmer by the second. 

He kept his hips incredibly still as he cleared his throat. “Erm… Aziraphale?”

“Hmmmm?” Aziraphale shuffled forward, somehow pulling his thigh tighter and… yes. It definitely was. Very pointedly pressing into his hip.

Crowley sprung from the couch.

“What’s going on!?” Aziraphale shot up, his white curls standing in all sorts of directions as his eyes darted around the room. His face fell when they landed on Crowley, the events of the night before rushing back as his color fled. He rubbed his face roughly in his hands with a groan. “I’d hoped it had been a dream.”

“No such luck, unfortunately,” Crowley said, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to look down at Aziraphale’s trousers to confirm his suspicions. Whoops. He’d looked. It was. He smirked.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Chuckling, Crowley dropped his chin.

Aziraphale dropped his hands. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re just excited, is all.” Crowley pointed at his trousers. “I’m flattered, really.”

Aziraphale glanced down and froze. Crowley could almost hear his face turning red. When he looked back up, his hand was covering his mouth. Crowley’s smile grew. 

Oh, this was worth being trapped beneath him earlier.

Crowley tried to break the tension. “Look, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Aziraphale’s head shot up. “I am not embarrassed.”

“Good.” Crowley pointed towards the loo as he walked towards his bedroom with a bit more pep in his step than he’d had earlier. “I was going to wash. up but, if you prefer, you can go first. Get settled. I can have Justine send up some tea.”

He heard the loo door shut before he’d made it into the bedroom.

Parting with the idea of getting a proper shower in, Crowley used a bit of magic to clean himself up and relieve a bit of his headache. He took his time getting dressed, giving Aziraphale an opportunity to shake off his apparent mortification. Crowley chose a simple ensemble for the day, not the flashy outfit he’d donned the night before. White trousers, white shirt, silver tie and white jacket. He set his bow and quiver near the door and took a seat on the couch.

Aziraphale remained in the loo when Justine arrived with a pot of tea, a few pastries and a steaming cup of coffee.

“Ah, Justine. Merci beaucoup,” Crowley said as he relieved her of the tray. Justine had been in King Thaddeus’ employ for many years now, somehow avoiding his ire on multiple occasions. She protected her stall well, ran a tight kitchen and made room calls when appropriate to keep close connections with the right members of the Court, She was a survivor and smart as a whip, at least in the reality where Adam existed. Crowley hoped, here as well.

“De lien, Crowley,” she said with a tighter smile than usual and swiftly left.

His head still throbbed when he brought the cup to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in the rich, nutty aroma. Now, coffee was considered very low-brow to many Seelie. Tea and wine were the only acceptable human beverages to consume, but Crowley had fallen in love with coffee the first time he’d tried it in the material plane. It had been Nina who’d introduced him to it, actually. Having convinced her boss at the pub to buy a second-hand espresso machine under the guise of sobering up overly pissed patrons, Nina’d been practicing making espresso during her breaks in preparation of opening her own cafe. One night she’d made overdone it and dropped a steaming mug filled with six shots of espresso in front of Thaddeus. He smiled and thanked her, but immediately slid it over to Crowley once she’d walked off. Crowley remembered the way he nearly scalded his throat as he took the whole thing down in one go. Even so, he’d been lost to the stuff ever since.

Justine kept a store of it just for him. He never asked, he just always knew. Whenever he asked for a meal delivered to his room, it always came with a cup of steaming coffee on the side.

The loo door opened.

“Tea, if you want it,” Crowley said without looking over at him. He felt Aziraphale standing stiffly by the door. He turned slowly toward him. “You alright?” Crowley glanced towards his hands, which were clasped tightly in front of the offending organ that he assumed continued to be the reason Aziraphale’s cheeks were pinker than usual. Either that or he was wearing makeup. Which wasn’t entirely impossible. Warlock had worn some eyeliner the night before. It suited the Prince. A little rouge wouldn’t hurt Aziraphale one bit.

“I think not drinking alcohol should be added to the ground rules.” Aziraphale said, his hands were gripping one another more tightly now, looking almost pained. 

Crowley blinked. “Why’s that? Embarrassed by a little morning wood?” Crowley said as he slowly brought his mug back to his lips, which were set in a sideways smirk.

Aziraphale scoffed. “It’s… unprofessional.”

“Oh come off it, angel,” Crowley groaned, setting his mug down on the table. “Professional? As we try to swindle both of our Kings into renegotiating their shared contract to save the sons they know nothing about? Because they, and us, are being held hostage by three human witchy ghosts hell bent on revenge? I think professionalism left the station years ago.” 

Aziraphale made to respond but Crowley stopped him with a hand. “Look, you’re a good looking bloke, Aziraphale. And it’s alright if you think I’m a good looking bloke. And it’s also alright if you were just laying in a certain way that caused… things to happen. It’s fine. Don’t make it a bigger deal than it ought to be. We’re both adults with bodies that work in a certain way.” He picked up his mug again. “Besides, raising future Kings doesn’t leave us too much time for personal relationships, now does it?” He looked at Aziraphale, whose cheeks had returned to their normal color. He was eyeing the tea. “How do you take it?” Crowley asked, before remembering the no favors part of the ground rules. “Not to pour it for you, just to… ya know, know.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Milk and sugar, but I’ll tend to it myself, thanks.”

“Justine brought croissants.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Real ones?”

Appearing as though the events of the morning were finally behind them, Aziraphale sat down next to him and picked up the pastry far more carefully than necessary. “I’ve never actually eaten a croissant, before” he said looking at it longingly.

Crowley’s smile faltered, of course Aziraphale wouldn’t have had croissants in Odegra. His mind raced back to the green drinks at Warlock and Pepper’s banquet, at the way Hastur and Ligur sneered, refusing to even sample the stuff before turning into some golden elixir without a thought. 

A warmth bloomed in Crowley’s chest at being able to offer Aziraphale this delicacy. 

He leaned forward to grab one for himself. “Well, let me tempt you, then. Because, according to you, life’s short and is only getting shorter. So” – he raised the croissant towards Aziraphale – “ chop chop.” He took a sloppier than necessary bite.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said distantly as he turned the croissant delicately over in his hand —  those same seasoned hands that Crowley, hidden in the treetops, had watched Aziraphale use to wield his sword with such lethal elegance — before bringing the croissant up to his nose and inhaling deeply. Crowley paused his chewing, feeling somewhat crass for how he’d simply ripped into the thing that Aziraphale was treating with so much reverence. 

Aziraphale sighed, long and slow, his eyes closed, and Crowley suddenly felt the need to shift in his seat. This was borderline obscene. Did Aziraphale know he was consuming a pastry as though it were a lover? He had to. Even slower than before, Aziraphale opened his lips and brought the croissant to his mouth, biting down gently. He chewed, deeply, deliberately, his tongue clearly massaging the bread up into the roof of his mouth as he let out a deep, aching moan.

Crowley snapped his mouth shut just as his half chewed croissant nearly tumbled past his lips. He cleared his throat.

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open as he rushed to swallow. He turned to Crowley, a stiff smile on his face. “It is quite good.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice breaking upward like a teenager’s. He cleared his throat which had grown as warm as his face. “Never been to France?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Even less time to make trips to Paris when you’re raising a Prince, I suppose.”

“But, not even before? With Arthur when you were lads?”

“No. We stayed mostly local in Tadfield. Arthur’s father had a bit of a firm hand.”

“Ah,” Crowley nodded, finishing off his breakfast.

Aziraphale took another slow bite as he clearly strangled another obscene sound from escaping his throat. “But you have, I assume? Thaddeus’ globetrotting was well known throughout the Courts.”

“Yeah, he had an eye for the exotic.”

Aziraphale picked up his tea and took a long sip. “Is that how he acquired Justine?” he asked calmly.

Crowley stilled, his jaw tightening b before looking up at Aziraphale, who simply looked back, one eyebrow raised high as he held his cup of tea gingerly in his hand. With a bloody pinky held high.

The bastard. 

“It’s early, and I’ve got a headache,” Crowley replied. “So can we not with this right now?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Of course.” 

Crowley sighed, considering calling Justine back for more coffee but thinking better of it. 

Aziraphale finished his croissant with barely a whimper. “Should we discuss our game plan?”

“Sure.” Crowley shrugged.

“Hogback.”

Crowley leaned forward. “Yeah, about that” — Aziraphale’s features turned to stone, doing something to Crowley’s insides knowing he’d caused it. He cleared his throat —  “we’re still aligned that that’s the right course, yeah?”

Aziraphale let out a long breath before straightening his shoulders and returning to his tea. “Yes, I do believe it’s our best option.”

“Absolutely.” 

“And you don’t think you’ll have any issue from your side?”

“Nah,” he lied. It had been his idea after all. If drunk Crowley had believed in their prospects the night before, so would he.

“Perfect.” Aziraphale placed his cup down. “We should likely get to it, we don’t want to keep them waiting.”

Chapter Text

Adam closed his eyes, letting his imagination be swept away by the memories the cool breeze and rustling leaves around him: scaling the treetops in the material plane, avoiding Court with long nap under the old oak that stood outside the castle walls, hell, even hanging upside-down, working through one of Crowley’s impossible training drills seemed sweet compared to Adam’s current predicament. He breathed in the air, less damp and stale than normal, or maybe he was getting used to it. He couldn’t be sure. And honestly, he didn’t know if he cared.

A tap on the shoulder and a soft clicking of teeth as Warlock jogged snapped him back to reality. Adam made to follow, but his foot slipped on the mossy edge of the branch that marked today’s path. Warlock’s hand gripped his wrist, steadying him and allowing Adam’s stomach to find its way back to his body as he glanced down at the hundreds of skittering, stinging seedpods that would have eagerly cushioned his fall. The first time they’d encountered them, he and Warlock were completely ambushed with the things overtaking them within seconds and causing them run back from where they came. And after spending the evening picking their stinging pines from every bit of his exposed skin, Adam woke the next morning with a rash so scalding it made his scruffy beard seem like silk by comparison. Even with the blessed ointment Warlock had somehow thrown together, Adam still couldn’t walk for three whole days. Taking to the trees, even with the inherent risk of attracting the shadows, was their only option. But, given they’d not been caught yet, it seemed as though the shadows hated the pods as much as they did.

Dropping his hand, Warlock turned and continued forward. Adam kept his eyes down as he carefully picked up his pace.

It had taken an entire month, but Adam was finally getting the hang of this human body of his. It wasn't really all that different from his Fae body, aside from how frail it was, and how bloody tired he got at the end of each day. And all the leaking. He leaked everywhere: his eyes, his nose, his skin, every possible place on his body that could leak, did leak, at one point or another. It was bloody disgusting. And all the leaking meant he needed constant access to water which both slowed them down and made it so he leaked even more. The cycle was very irritating. On more than one occasion, he’d thought back on his fourteenth birthday and felt a pang of sympathy for the sweaty kid who nearly sold Adam his soul to stop his friends from making fun of him. If he’d had any sense, though, he’d have asked to just stop leaking. 

If Adam ever got back home, he’d go topside and do it for him for free.

But there were bits of being human that weren't so bad. Water, for starts, hitting his tongue after trudging through the woods all day tasted better than anything he'd ever had in his life. Which had shocked him. It was common knowledge that Fae were hedonists. Seeking out whatever was most pleasing to the body — eating and drinking, snogging and shagging — was how all Seelie, especially Adam, spent their days. And his position made that search all but unnecessary. 

As Prince, he never had to look far for a delicate hand to kiss or warm body to fill his bed, a swift remedy for the loneliness and nightmares that haunted him when left in the dark to his own devices. And when he grew bored of the shallow conversations that always seemed to follow, the castle never lacked the finest fare imaginable. Roasts and puddings, wines and sherries — originating from both the Faewild and the material plane — filled the ballrooms, and his belly, constantly. 

But water? The Seelie did not sully the temple of their mystical bodies with the likes of water. That was for humans, and animals; a means to bathe or swim, nothing more. But here, in this body, in this forest, water had become what Adam’s dreams were made of. 

Adam would never have thought that he could be so grateful for something so trivial.

Which, he knew, was the point of all of this. The whole human thing was a punishment, a way for him to understand what it was like to be the thing his family had preyed upon for centuries. 

The human condition, his dad had called it. A generalized suffering and feeling of displacement that all humans harbored within themselves. Housed inside that suffering was the key, the one thing that could be used to get a human to give themselves, freely, to the Fae. And while Fae were traditionally known to trick and prank humans into agreements, Thaddeus’ preference was to get humans to offer themselves willingly; claiming the suffering even tasted sweeter when the soul knew that the true reason for their plight was their own inadequacy. 

Adam remembered one particularly haunting dinner. The King had been in a mood and Adam, still young and eager for his dad’s affection, had taken on the role of quiet observer, the safest option for him when his dad’s outbursts were unpredictable. Adam had been listening to his dad and Hastur debate the needs to increase dungeon capacity when he noticed his dad casually wave his hand at Justine, his head chef. Adam felt the magic as it floated across the table, landing on Justine and turning her rigid. A few seconds later, she began dancing.

At first, Adam joined the chorus of laughter that consumed the table; a critical piece of playing the quiet observer was being eager participant. But after a while, once Justine had waltzed her way through the appetizers and the mains, he noticed the pain on her face, the sweat on her brow, and the tears in her eyes despite her hysterical smile remaining fixed as she served Adam Crème brûlée. Adam tried to keep his eye on his plate whenever she returned to the room, but his dad, always watching, used his fork to hit him sharply on the wrist to ensure Adam watched as Justine danced by. 

Before that night, Adam hadn’t thought his dad capable of cruelty. The Seelie King was the pillar of truth, the creator of light, the defender of what was good, and right and, in contrast, wrong. So it was impossible for what he did to be wrong. But the sick feeling that had grown in Adam's belly that night remained with him to this day, and he'd always known that, no matter what King he eventually became, he never wanted to feel that way again.

The sound of thousands of tiny legs scraping against the dirt halted, and Warlock turned back to find the pods dispersing back towards where they came. Territory was another big piece of the Faedark, with certain fungi only occupying certain areas and seedpods needing to remain under the cover of specific types of trees. Adam was logging it all silently, not that he needed to. Warlock was more than capable of keeping track on his own, despite his claims that school and studies weren’t his strengths. He was a natural protector, a skilled survivor, and Adam marveled from afar at how much he’d changed in the last month. Adam thought back the night they ended up here, on the glint in Warlock’s eye as he entered the combat circle, at the childlike eagerness with which he flourished his sword. But whatever lingering threads of childhood had fallen from Warlock in the last month, leaving only the future King of the Unseelie Court. A dull ache entered Adam’s chest at the thought. He sighed, following Warlock to climb down the tree and land softly in the grass before sprinting full speed to create as much distance as possible between them and where the shadows will be coming for them.

After their argument weeks ago, Adam and Warlock had remained polite, albeit quieter than before. At first, it seemed Warlock was nearly incapable of not insulting Adam every chance he got, but he did have the decency to keep his mouth shut when the urge arose. Adam quickly noticed that Warlock would shake his hair out of his eyes whenever he felt an urge to say something snarky. It happened almost every other hour during the first few days, but Adam couldn't help notice that he'd not seen him do it at all in the last week.

He tried not to think about that too much.

Their relatively quiet days were filled with endless kilometers of walking. So stubborn, and not ready to agree to Adam's plan, Warlock had insisted they continue to hike through the woods towards Odegra. They'd spend days heads down, not looking at the horizon in hopes that when they did look up it would be different. That whatever silent trial they were being put through, would somehow have resolved itself when they’d not been looking. 

The shadows stalked closer than before, with the seedpods — along with other dangers that lurked down on the ground — requiring them to use the trees more and more often than either of them would have liked. But they had no choice. Warlock made sure they stayed low, a supposed safety measure in the event that they’d need to drop and run, but also an unspoken courtesy to keep Adam’s annoying and ever-present vertigo at bay. And while they needed to sprint at full-speed into hiding once they dropped back down to the ground, doing this did allow them to travel three times as far as they would have been able to on the ground. 

But still, nothing. 

It was frustrating, to not be making progress toward returning home, but there was also a warm calm that had settled over them, a familiarity in doing this together. Adam was surprised how little he actually missed home, despite this being an absolute shit situation. Sure, he thought about it a lot, about clean clothes and a hot shower, about the food, about a bed that wasn’t a cold cave floor. But the truth was he had no real friends back there, not really, aside from Crowley. And Crowley worked for him, how pathetic was it that Adam considered his employee his only true friend. But friends shouldn’t have mattered. Adam was the Crowned Prince, he should want to get back home simply for that, to claim his birthright. But he knew as well as anyone how unwilling his dad was to cede power to him. 

Everything back home was a lie. A beautiful, shining, lie.

And this place was dark, and dirty, and dangerous, but it was also honest. Warlock was the most honest person Adam had ever met. It had unnerved him, how deeply Warlock’s jab at Adam’s character had stung, at how it had forced Adam to say too much, get too close, but he couldn’t help it. Back home, he would have let it slide off him and offered a snide remark back. But here, Adam was an exposed nerve, thinking and feeling too much at once. 

Because he knew Warlock was right. Even if it wasn’t Adam himself insulting Warlock or spitting on his people, that behavior was foundational to the Seelie culture. Being in this human body had made him realize how for granted he and his people took their power, and how their privilege was built on the foundation of Unseelie sacrifice and human suffering. A fact that Adam had turned a blind eye to his entire life. Now, his dad had done a good job of keeping him isolated, of ensuring Adam’s gaze remained solely locked on him, blinding him to everything outside of the castle walls. But Adam was nineteen now, a grown man, and he’d spent the last three years burying his head in the sand whenever possible. His avoidance had made him complicit.

And Warlock’s offhanded honesty had cut Adam deeply, making him want to be honest back and, even more unnervingly, making him want to change the way Warlock saw him. To be better than Adam had been at home. Which made him realize another truth.

That Adam didn't know if he ever wanted to go back there.

But Warlock did. He had a future Queen to return to, a whole Kingdom to lead, a mother and dad who loved him. Everything Adam didn’t. And keeping Warlock away from his promising future made that sick feeling return to Adam's belly. Wanting to stay here was selfish, and that was not the person he would allow himself to be.

Not anymore.

The only way back was Adam's plan. It had to be. He'd wracked his brains on the rules of this place and it was the only thing that made sense. Back on the material plane, Adam had read books about human covens and spells that allowed for summoning of specific beings to grounds where others could not enter. That was the way. But Adam needed Warlock, and Warlock needed to come around in his own time. 

So, Adam bided his time. Drinking his water, controlling his leaking, not bringing it up until Warlock could no longer avoid the issue.

And today —  after their mad sprint had given them enough safe distance to catch a breath —  as Adam crouched low and cupped his hand to drink from a stream, all that waiting paid off.

Warlock sighed as he sat on a fallen tree. "I don't know if it makes sense for us to keep doing this.”

Standing, Adam slowly walked over to take a seat next to him, seeing the worry in Warlock's tense shoulders. 

Warlock spoke to the stream in front of them. "But, there's no guarantee that your plan will work, either. There's no reason to think any of these monsters won't just kill you the second you’re within reach.” 

Adam leaned over, bumping Warlock gently with his shoulder before pointing to his sword. "That's why I have you."

Warlock laughed weakly. He'd done that a bit more these last few days as well. Its sound, one of the only things in the woods that calmed Adam’s nerves. "We don't even know what's out there. There's no reason to believe I'll be able to protect you."

"Well, first of all, I saw you with the spriggan. You literally disarmed them with your eyes closed." Warlock chuckled. Adam could also now see when he blushed in the dark.  “Second of all, you can just use the trees.” Warlock frowned. Adam tilted his head, having figured out weeks ago that Warlock no longer needed him to control the woods. “Don’t. You’re a shit liar. And lastly, unless you want to die out here, we don’t have a choice.”

For a while they said nothing, simply looked out at the darkness, at Odegra's ominous presence on the horizon, mocking them.

Warlock let out a long exhale before asking, “Which mushroom is it?”

"What?“

"I've watched you inspect every different color fungi we’ve come across for the last two weeks. You're planning on using a summoning spell? Like the humans do, right?"

Adam stared at him, impressed.

Warlock blushed again. "Pepper was always better at lessons than I." Adam's eyes dropped at the mention of the future Queen, guilt stinging his cheeks. “But human magic… that always stuck in  my mind in a way the other lessons hadn’t.”

Adam nodded. "It's the orange one." He pointed at a patch of them on the far side of the stream. "It has the proper characteristics. Or, I think it does. I'm doing this just off sight…"

Warlock stood and walked over to the stream, hopping easily over the length of it, nearly floating to the other side. Adam's jaw tensed. He was learning to live with this new body but bloody hell, did he miss being able to do that. 

Warlock dropped to a knee to inspect the mushrooms, gently plucking one from the ground and crushing its cap between his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, tasting before nodding. "This seems like it has binding capabilities you need, yeah, but how will you summon a specific soul?" He hopped back toward Adam, elegant as ever, before rejoining him on the branch. "Or are you just going to try your luck and hope you don't accidentally end up with a snarling fomorian towering over you?"

The two of them had stumbled upon an abandoned fomorian settlement at some point during the second week. Its giant occupants appeared to have abandoned it years ago, allowing Warlock and Adam to scavenge for supplies. The crude water bag Adam  had found there had been a game-changer, freeing them to venture away from the streams and cut through the woods at a much faster clip. 

But fomorians were things of nightmares, told to Seelie children as cautionary tales of what could happen if they were to be caught powerless during the night or venture to the material plane during the cold days of winter. Accidentally summoning one was not an option.

Adam shook his head. "That spriggan, Brown, he was mine. I made a deal with him, enslaved him, gave him to my dad." He laughed weakly. “I barely even remember doing it.” Adam braced for the cutting comment he deserved. But Warlock said nothing; didn't even flick his hair out of his eyes. He simply sat. And listened. Adam sighed deeply. "I think that connection should allow me to call him, specifically."

Warlock raised a finger. "I want it to be known that I still think this is a really shit idea."

Adam laughed. “Duly noted,”

Warlock smiled. “Just, the best shit idea amongst shit ideas.”

A long lingering look, heavy with worry and the hint of something else unspoken. Warlock looked back toward the stream.

“Alright." Adam stood, his back cracking in a ridiculously loud and oddly satisfying way that shocked Adam and made Warlock snort a laugh. "Now, all we have to do is find a few hundred of those orange mushrooms and we can cast the bloody thing."

✨✨✨

Adam assembled everything he needed to perform the summoning: the sap-soaked bark of an enchanted elm, a feather from a phoenix that he'd been carrying for weeks, and hundreds of orange-capped mushrooms, arranged in a circle large enough to give him, Warlock, and Brown space to move without being on top of one another. Adam wanted to be able to stay out of arm's reach for as long as possible.

Warlock hadn't participated in much of the set up, instead mumbled something about needing to fetch some branches from the woods and walked away. Somewhere inside Adam was a nagging awareness that Warlock still didn’t agree with this plan. But Adam shoved that aside. Not getting people’s approval was… difficult for him. But it didn’t matter here, because Adam knew that this was the way he could help get Warlock home. And whether or not Warlock believed that to be the case, didn’t matter. Adam had to believe in himself in order for this to work. And he would.

He’d just finished double checking the perimeter when he heard Warlock return.

“You’re a right shit for leaving me to do this all alone,” Adam teased over his shoulder before turning around. Adam knew the jab would be received softly, given how rare it was for Warlock to shy away from work. Whatever he’d needed to do in the woods, Adam tried to believe it was important. “But I think we’re ready.” Adam dusted his hands off before his eyes locked on a long, wooden object that Warlock was holding slightly behind his back. Adam blinked. “What’s that?”

Warlock glanced down. "Oh…" — when he looked back up, his color had fled and there was a distinct panic behind his eyes. Adam watched Warlock’s painted fingernails as he shoved the carved piece of wood toward him — “just a thing I … I found in the woods,” Warlock blurted. “I can't use it. Thought you might be able to." 

Adam swallowed, trying not to let his face reflect the excitement he felt inside as he stared in shock at the offering. Seconds stretched long, and he could feel Warlock watching him intently, his hand, still outstretched, but dipping in the doubt Adam had seen in his eyes. Adam reached forward and took it from him, careful to inspect the craftsmanship, still dazed.

Because Warlock had just handed Adam a freshly carved bow. 

He smiled at Warlock briefly before returning his attention to the weapon, running his hand gently along the length of it, feeling the grain of the wood and appreciating the workmanship. It was still damp, giving the bow a pliancy that would add a bit of extra power to its release. The whole of it was carefully carved, the notches along the top perfectly sized to hold its string in place —  a bit of thinly cut rawhide Adam was sure he’d seen Warlock quietly tuck into his pocket back at the fomorian settlement. The balance of the weapon wasn't perfect, but it was manageable. Adam could have been imagining it, but the wood almost felt warm from the heat of Warlock's blade. 

Adam exhaled softly, embarrassingly touched by the gesture.

Warlock shoved three arrows into his hands. "And these were out there, also."

“Convenient,” Adam said, sarcastically, no longer able to stop himself from smiling. 

"I know." Warlock's face was growing redder with every passing second.

Adam swallowed the thank you before it could tumble from his mouth, knowing that saying it would be crossing a line that Warlock clearly did not want to cross. Which was dumb, because Adam no longer feared binding him and Warlock together. This journey had already done that for them whether they wanted it or not. And Adam wouldn't be a human forever, or he hoped not. So whatever the binding was, it would be temporary. Adam ached to be able to show Warlock, in a real way, how grateful he was to him, to acknowledge the kindness that Warlock, as an Unseelie, wasn’t supposed to be capable of, let alone bestow on their hereditary enemy. 

But no matter how much Adam wanted to say these things, he knew Warlock would panic. And that was a line he would no longer cross. So, instead, he instead raised the bow, closing one eye and aiming an arrow at a tree before releasing. The arrow struck hard, slightly off target, but it was dark and Adam was working with shoddy human eyes. He smiled approvingly. "This is brilliant. I’ll definitely make good use of it.”

"Good. Glad I found it,” Warlock said, running a hand through his hair as he looked away, turning his focus toward the circle of mushrooms and letting out a long whistle. “This looks intense."

"Yeah, fuck you for leaving me alone to do it all myself mister I know human magic."

Warlock laughed softly. “You like the bow, right? Wouldn't have found it if I'd been too busy arranging mushrooms." 

"Fair point." 

Warlock folded his arms over his chest as he began to walk the perimeter. "Besides, it looks like you did fine without me."  He eyed the English oak at the center, its long branches dipping low enough to graze its leaves along the grass. “So, how do you want to do it?"

"I'm a big fan of winging it, really."

"Seriously?"

"I mean, there's no way to know how he's going to react so just: call him here, be at the ready with our weapons, I'll make my offer and then we… react accordingly. He might be big, but he’s slow. I should be able to handle him long enough to make the offer. I think you should be out of sight though. I feel like he’ll be more willing to talk if it’s just me on my own.“Adam patted the tree trunk as he tucked his bow and arrows carefully behind one of the groves in the bark. “Thought this was good cover." 

Nodding, Warlock continued to pace as his mind turned on the situation. His hands gripped his biceps more tightly as he asked, “And if he says no? And attacks you. What then?"

"We stop him.”

Warlock paused his pacing. "I'm not willing to kill someone for you today. I need you to know that."

"I'm not asking you to. I just assumed that a man of your… skillset” — he eyed Warlock playfully, who rolled his in response; a welcome break in the tension — “could render even a full-sized spriggan unconscious relatively easily. But if I’m wrong…”

Warlock ignored the bait. “That’s fine. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Disarm, deliver offer, disengage. Sound good?"

"Sounds good."

“Also”— Warlock looked up at the thick branches on the oak tree — “something about the mushrooms. I can’t” — he frowned — “the tree won’t be able to help you. It’s just me.”

Adam nodded. “And that’s more than enough.” The tension returned, thicker than before as they stared at one another for a longer than necessary minute. Warlock’s eyes grew dark, heavy with an emotion Adam couldn’t identify. It was making his chest tight. Something thumped in the forest too close for comfort that tore their attention from one another. When Adam looked back at Warlock, determination had replaced the emotion. Adam’s chest tightened some more.

“We should do this soon,” Warlock said, glancing around. “Shadows are lurking."

Adam nodded, lifting the phoenix feather and realizing his hand was trembling slightly. He swallowed. "Can I borrow your sword. Just… light it for me?"

Warlock unsheathed his sword and flicked his wrist slightly, and Adam watched dumbly as flame engulfed the sword slowly, rippling up the length of it as though moving through tar. His face flushed warm. He didn't know if he'd ever get used to seeing that.

Warlock handed it to him. Adam gripped the oak and the feather in his hand, thought of Brown, thought of him as a human, in whatever fleeting way he could remember him — a mustache, maybe, a newspaper gripped in under his arm — as he engulfed the ingredients in flame and dropped them onto the mushrooms. He handed the sword back to Warlock who extinguished it and walked into the cover of the oak.

Taking a deep breath in, Adam shook out his shoulders as he kept the image of Brown, both as a spriggan and a human, in his mind. He watched the feather twist, its individual barbules curling to smoke while the bark of the tree crackled, spitting embers upward to light the air that slowly grew thick with the spell. The flame remained fixed for a moment, as though encased in glass, before exploding outward, engulfing the circle, enclosing Warlock, Adam and the tree within its perimeter and nearly blinding Adam in the process. A grunt and a scoff from behind, and Adam turned to find Brown, crouched low, the raw carcass of a hare in his hands, its purple fur matted with blood and body still twitching despite the gaping hole in its belly. 

The hare barely made a sound as it was dropped onto the ground. Adam watched the spriggan grow taller by the second as Brown glared at him, his eyes wild. Adam could feel his pulse in his ears.

"You!" 

"Yeah, me."

Brown lunged. The air above Adam’s head was ripped by bloody claws. He dropped to the ground. Rolled as a cold panic gripped his stupid human body. The ground shook as the spriggan’s massive food landed by Adam’s head, snapping a root of the oak in half as Adam scrambled back on all fours. Blood trickled down Brown’s chin, his eyes rabid and wild as his arms continued to slash at the air as he charged him.

Adam was struck with the overwhelming urge to abandon this whole plan, to turn and leap over the flames and run until his bloodied feet forced him to stop. Facing this monster alone seemed like the dumbest idea he'd ever had, his own apology and offer feeling microscopic compared to the rage in Brown's eyes. 

But that rage was Adam's fault. He had to do this. Or he would be stuck here. Warlock would be stuck here, would die here, never to marry. Never to be King. No, it was now or never. Adam jumped sideways, using his speed to avoid Brown, before turning and raising his arms above his head. "I brought you here to apologize!" His voice shook even more than his hands.

“Apologize!?” Brown sneered. "I'll wring your scrawny little neck you piece of sh-" Brown lunged again as Adam leapt to the right.

"And to make an offer!” Adam shouted. He quickly searched for Warlock in the shadows but saw nothing. His stomach clenched in doubt.

Brown barked a laugh. "An offer! You've got to be kidding me."

The laughter shored something in Adam. Because even here, even to this spriggan, Adam was just a joke. A stupid, useless, playboy. No one worth bargaining with, no one worth taking seriously, only worthy of dying. Adam had done this to himself, he knew it, but he was done with it. Done being dismissed, being seen less than. Adam set his jaw. He stepped toward Brown, his whole body seething with determination. "I'm unarmed. You're three times my size. Why would I bring you here if I were lying? Do you think I want to die?"

"I don't pretend to know what goes on in your wretched mind," Brown sneered, but he was standing still; not immediately crushing Adam in his massive hands. He was listening.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adam spotted a glint of blue eyes, and nod. He lifted his chin. "But I'm not Seelie anymore. Just a human, like you once were."

Brown spit on his face, a warm thick, bloody slime that made Adam nearly retch. But he didn't look away, nor did he wipe his face. Adam simply stared at Brown and watched how his lack of reaction slowly disarmed the spriggan. 

He continued. “Your sister. She still alive?"

Mistake.

Brown lunged forward again. Adam ducked below his arms, immediately tripping over a branch of the oak that was nestled into the ground. He stumbled into the oak. Tasted blood he hoped was his own and not something else.

“I’m sorry!" He turned to face Brown. The muck on his face was stinging his eyes. But he refused to clean it. "I am so sorry, for all the pain I caused you. And your whole family.” Brown’s eyes flickered again, not with rage, with sadness. Adam pressed on. “I didn't understand. Not then. But I do now. And… if there's anything you want to say to your sister — any message you want to send her or last words you wished you could have told her before you were taken — I swear on my honour that if I get out of here I will personally see that she gets it."

"What?" Brown croaked.

Adam swallowed slowly, grasping at the words Crowley had taught him, hoping he’d get them right. “As Prince of the Seelie Court, I bind myself in service to you" — Adam frowned, realizing he didn't know his full name — "Mr. Brown. On my honour, I will not rest until payment has been made, either in service or in death.”

Brown growled as Warlock rushed out from behind the tree.

"What are you doing!?" 

The words Adam had spoken were binding, as binding as the blood agreement he and Warlock had engaged in what started this. If Adam did not honour this agreement, his soul would belong to Brown's no matter where it lay: the Faewild, the Faedark, even death. Brown would be able to summon him at will, pull him back down here, destroy him. 

Adam's life would no longer be in his hands.

But what did a promise matter if it wasn't bound in this way. What good was someone's word, without the risk and blood and death behind it? Words were meaningless, hollow sounds filled with intentions that were as fickle as the air that filled them. 

Adam had to mean this. 

To get Warlock home. To return him to his wife and his kingdom and his family. To show him how thankful he was for the bow and the protection and all of the undeserved kindness. Adam had to mean this. And he did. 

So much so that he was willing to prove it with his life.

He held up a hand to Warlock. "It's fine." He held Brown's curious gaze. “I will honour this agreement.”

Brown shrank a few centimeters as he worked his lip. "Who's to say you actually get out of here."

"I do."

"And I do" —Warlock walked up and stood next to him before mumbling — "you bloody idiot." Adam relaxed, surprised by how comforting it was to  simply have him near.

Brown sneered. “But you said you weren’t Seelie anymore.”

“I’m not, but I’m still the Seelie Prince. And this is just like the agreements your lot made with my kin. If I don’t pay, you can kill me. Or torture me. You’ll own my soul.”

Brown eyed him, and then Warlock, sneering more openly at him before returning to Adam, his jaw still working. Adam nearly bounced on his feet, his whole body tingling with anticipation. He was close. He could feel it. 

“Why me?” Brown asked, still shrinking.

“Because you were mine. I owe a debt. Do you accept?” Adam held his breath.

Finally Brown sighed. “Fine." He extended his still bloody hand. Adam took it. A soft hiss and a slight burn  ran up his arm as the bond was set between them. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and Adam smiled, knowing they were now one step closer to getting home.

Pulling his hand back, Adam wasted no time hopping over the smoking perimeter — desperate to stop the blood and spit from sliding further down his neck — and dunked his face in the stream. He rubbed harshly, knowing water alone would never be enough, but it was all he had. He stood, shook his wet curls out of his face and walked back.

Brown was now his normal size, barely making it past Warlock's hip. He poked at the rabbit carcass, a disappointed frown on his face.

Adam dropped to a knee to look him in the eye as he spoke. "Do you want to tell me now, or?"

Brown reached into his pocket and took out a note scribbled on a leaf. "Not in front of him, but, instructions are there."

Adam frowned. "Instructions…”

He opened the note and glanced at the very detailed instructions. His sister lived in a town called Dunkeld, or somewhere around there. Her name was Margaret Brown. And he wanted her to know that he was sorry for blaming her for getting fingerprints on their gran's 18th Century Antique French Beauvais Tapestry. He'd eaten a packet of crisps and panicked. 

Easy enough.

Nodding, Adam folded the note carefully and placed it in his pocket. He didn't know how his human memory would fair, so holding onto it was the best solution. "Did you know I would do this?"

Brown shrugged. “Assumed once you figured the trick out you would want your bow back."

Adam's eyes flickered up to the arrow in still hidden in the tree. His fingers tingled as an odd shiver ran up his spine. "What do you mean want my bow back?" he asked slowly.

Brown rolled his eyes. “I told them that leaving the Unseelie with his weapon was going to give it all away. Who would ever believe that a Fae could actually be turned human? But no! No one wants to listen to stupid old Brown.” He scoffed. “It was only a matter of time before you figured out how to restore your powers.”

The sound of Adam's blood rushing in his ears had returned.

Brown continued. “And that bow — loaded with all your power? You’re far too clever to not feel its call, even in these woods. You were the one who tricked me into selling my soul for god sakes. I knew we’d only get a few weeks of you powerless. But, at least you found out the way we intended, and not by… crasser means.”

Adam’s breath had gone ragged as he watched Brown look between him and Warlock. The spriggan’s face slowly fell. "You did figure that out, right? That's why you made me the… the offer? To get… your bow, return your… powers — oh, bullocks." He sighed. "You didn't know." 

Adam felt wild. "You're saying my bow — from the Faewild —  is here, somewhere?"

Brown plopped onto the ground. "R.P. is going to murder me."

"Oi!" Adam snapped at him. "And if I find it I get my powers back?”

"Yes, of course!”  Brown sneered. “Not even the Courtless have the power to strip a Seelie Prince of his power.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But don’t count on it to help you get out of here any faster. That’s as much up to you as those fools on the other side. If either of you fail, you two stay here, and your offer is as good as the leaves I wipe my arse with."

Adam sneered, pretty sure that the thing that had breath that smelled as badly as Brown's didn't wipe his arse with much of anything.

"And how exactly do you know this?" Warlock asked Brown, but stared at Adam, something that looked close to fear in his eyes. Adam blinked. Confused. This was good news.

"Look, I've said enough and have probably gotten myself into quite a bit of trouble. But I'm not the only one waiting for an offer. There are hundreds more souls out there waiting for a visit from you, Prince," he said the title mockingly as he pointed a finger at Adam.

Adam stood up. "Fine. Let's go find your friends." He turned, spreading his arms wide. "Oi! I'm here!" 

Hissing Warlock grabbed his arm. "Are you kidding me right now?” He shook his head in disbelief.  “What if it’s a trap?”

Adam barely heard him. All he could think about was his bow and arrow. And his powers. And stopping being dead weight in this whole thing to get Warlock back home. Nothing else mattered.

"I need my bow," he said to himself, his mind racing at the feeling in his hands, the slight tingle, the prickling heat he'd felt as he shook hands with Brown. It was here, somewhere in these woods, possessing his abilities, keeping them from him. How much easier would everything be if he'd had it the entire time? Warlock had done so much, and Adam had just been weighing him down. This was it. His way to repay him for his kindness, without making him uncomfortable with empty words “thank you,” but proving it by relieving Warlock the burden Adam’s useless human body and vile bloodline had placed on him. This was how Adam could show Warlock he was grateful. 

As equals.

He looked at Warlock. “I’m no good to you… to anyone like this. I need to get it back.” He looked toward Odegra, somehow casting a shadow even in the pitch black night. “To get us home, to get you back to Pepper, to make you King.”

Warlock sighed, a flicker of something pained crossing his face as his eyes dropped to the ground. “You’re right.” He closed his eyes and repeated to himself, “You’re right.” There was a sadness there, something open and raw that Adam hadn’t seen from him before. He didn’t understand it. This was good news.

Warlock’s eyes found Adam’s once more. “But we have to be smart. No going off alone. No stupid risks.”

Adam nodded, shocked by the relief that flooded him at gaining Warlock’s support. But his mind wouldn’t stop, leaving that feeling behind to race through what he knew. Based on the context of their discussion and the heat he felt when he made the agreement with Brown, Adam’s path back to his power lay in the binding of himself to these human souls. It had to be.

“Hey!” Warlock snapped at him. “Did you hear me?”

Adam looked at him. A sadness striking him at knowing that once they did return home they would lose this, whatever it was. That because of the Courts and who they would be, they’d never be allowed time alone like this, to be open and honest, always tethered to their people and their duty. 

He swallowed. He was being selfish, again. This stupid human body really liked being selfish.

Adam set his jaw. “No stupid risks. You have my word.” It wasn’t a thank you. It wasn’t a blood oath. But it was the closest Warlock would allow, so it was what Adam would give.

Warlock sighed, gesturing for them to return to Brown, who watched with a quirked eyebrow and a curious expression. As soon as they reached him, he crossed his arms over his chest, expectantly.

Adam walked over to grab the bow and arrows Warlock had made him — still holding them far gentler than they needed to be —  before kneeling in front of Brown. "Let's start with Shadwell and R.P. yeah?” He looked to Warlock, who nodded. “Take us to them."

Chapter Text

Aziraphale walked slowly through the winding cave that led to the Royal wing of Odegra, careful to  keep his mind focused on the upcoming negotiation, and not allowing it to meander back towards the smell of dew on grass or the distracting way long fingers curled elegantly around the base of a red wine glass. He was starting to think that spending too much time alone with Crowley was starting to wear on him. Seelie were physically stunning beings, the smell of them loaded with pheromones and the scent of sun-dried leaves after a summer storm — forlorn pleasures that Aziraphale had only heard of as a boy, his face warmed by a fire as Jophiel’s hands fluttered, as dramatic as his words, and somehow explained a feeling Aziraphale would never know. Aziraphale thought himself strong enough to resist, but if his “sunrise salute” had been any indication, he may have made a grave miscalculation.

Aziraphale had always doubted Arthur’s claim of the Seelie’s ability to tempt others. Aziraphale had often  been in close quarters with other Seelie, negotiations or Equinox Ceremonies where the pheromones fell flat, where the scent of flowers, so overpowering, became repulsive. Duke Hastur was a particular culprit, the smell of roses coming off him so strongly, Aziraphale needed to place a handkerchief over his mouth to avoid gagging. So it it wasn’t all Seelie; it was just Crowley.

Which was even more dangerous.

The croissant hadn’t helped. Well… it had been delightful, if he were being honest, but merely another temptation, and one Aziraphale had not had the willpower to resist. Food stores were low in Odegra, with rations thinning more and more each year. And taking from the material plane was frowned upon. Now, it was done — Aziraphale himself had gone up on more than one occasion to sample a biscuit from the local bakery, but he’d made a point to limit himself only to things he’d sampled before. Never venturing out to something new, never allowing his cravings to grow away from what was easily attainable. 

Never to want. 

But he had yearned to try a croissant for some time, and if he was being pulled into this nonsense by these vengeful human spirits, he would allow himself some pleasures. His mind wandered to the banquet this evening, which was to be held in the Seelie Castle, and wondered what delicacies he would be able to sample while there.

No.

He shook his head. The task at hand. Negotiation.

Blinking from his stupor, Aziraphale realized he’d not seen anyone on his way down, and briefly worried that the meeting may have started without him. That seemed preposterous. Arthur would never allow a meeting of this magnitude to start without his son’s Champ-

Ah, yes. There was no Warlock. How quickly Aziraphale forgot, his thoughts lingering on the situation he was in and not the one in which Warlock was equally trapped. Who knew where he was, for how long, or how it was affecting him. 

His thoughts traveled backwards, to when Warlock barely reached Aziraphale’s elbow. They sat together, Warlock’s small legs dangling over the edge of one of the higher openings in Odegra, the frown of a much older being etched onto the young Prince’s forehead.

“Why does he hate me?” he had asked in the unsure voice he’d soon learn to hide from the world.

“He doesn’t hate you. He hates what you are.” At this point, Aziraphale had yet to start to hide his hatred for the Summer Court from his voice.

Warlock’s lip trembled. “He doesn’t even see me, then?”

“No.”

That was the last time Aziraphale heard that tone from him.

Aziraphale was no fool. Denial may have been Arthur’s drink of choice, but Aziraphale had known Warlock’s truth from that moment onward. And he was trapped, with the person who’d tormented him for all those years. Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. He needed to remain focused and do everything in his power to return Warlock home. To enable him to become the King Aziraphale knew he could be and lead these new joined Courts forward a more prosperous future for all Fae-kind.

Aziraphale picked up his pace, barely registering the etchings of crescent moons that peppered the walkway.

When he entered, the table of hard faces turned toward him immediately.

“So good of you to join us, Aziraphale,” Michael, the King’s Hand, said sweetly, barely hiding her usual brand of annoyance that was reserved exclusively for him. Aziraphale replied with a tight smile, remembering his place. As a matter of the state, this negotiation would be primarily her charge.

“It’s my fault,” Uriel broke in before Aziraphale could offer a less productive reply, his dull headache making its itself known at the worst possible moment. “I must have forgotten to inform Aziraphale of the change in time. Apologies,” they said with a subtle wink. Relief washed over him. Their friendship had not changed in Warlock’s absence.

Michael waved her hand. “Sit.” She gestured to the empty chair next to an overly stiff-backed Gabriel. The tension in the room was thick.

“As I was saying, the Contract was effectively transferred to our possession last night without incident. We have today to review the details before returning it to the Seelie tonight to be prepared for update before the wedding tomorrow. The King will await our suggested terms this afternoon. We need to get put together a sound proposal here.” She took a seat, placing her hands on her lap as she spoke. “But there’s a wrinkle,” she said, her face falling momentarily as she glanced at Saraqael. “They were there last night.” She tossed a scroll onto the table.

“How?” Uriel asked as they picked up the scroll.

“Well, the affair was open to everyone, was it not?” Michael looked to Saraqael.

“As is written, yes, all weddings are open to the entire Court.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I warned you this would happen-”

“With all due respect, Gabriel, there’s no reason to believe they are hostile-”

“There is now,” Uriel said, looking up from the scroll and handing it to Saraqael.

Aziraphale leaned over, trying to read it before Saraqael pulled it tightly to their chest.

“We can’t let our negotiations be derailed by this nonsense. And the fact that we have the Contract in our possession means security is of even more importance.” Michael nodded at in Aziraphale’s direction. He turned to Gabriel, assuming Michael was waiting to hear from the head of the King’s Guard. Gabriel simply returned Aziraphale’s expectant stare. Oh, that’s right. Aziraphale was the head of the King’s Guard here. Unfortunately, he still had no idea who They were. His eyes throbbed, and he cursed those long fingers and how they’d tempted him into far too much wine than was wise.

The table continued to wait.

“Of course!” he said, overly enthusiastically to Michael. “What do you suggest?” 

Gabriel scoffed. “Are you seriously deferring your responsibilities to the Kings Hand?”

Aziraphale smiled tightly. “No, simply seeking council from those more familiar with the matter. We are headed toward a more equal community, are we not? Why not start here, in this room? Anyone have any suggestions? he asked, gesturing to Saraqael for the scroll so he could discreetly catch himself up.

“They’re nobody,” Gabriel dismissed. “A bunch of amateur hooligans looking to make a spectacle and gain support. And, by the way, Saraqael, why haven’t the halls been cleaned yet? I had to escort the Seelie to the ball through back passages last night to avoid passing the sigils.”

“They used some kind of stubborn enchantment this time. It’s making it more difficult to remove them than anticipated. We’re working on it.”

The words in the room faded as Aziraphale took in what was written on the scroll. “The Children of the Moon?”

Michael glared at him. “What’s wrong with you? Did you hit your head one too many times on your Seelie’s golden headboard last night?” Uriel stifled a snort. “Yes, the Children of the Moon. Goodness, Aziraphale. Keep up.”

Aziraphale ignored the insult. “These demands are outrageous.”

The list included: reparations for the loss of wealth and power in the Faewild, the return of familial lands to every Unseelie family line that had existed during the expulsion, an open apology and acknowledgment of responsibility from the Seelie Royal Family for all of the hardships incurred on Unseelie kind, as well as the demand that King Thaddeus stand trial for the ongoing hate crimes incurred towards humans and Unseelie alike. The note ended with a request for a meeting with a member of court as well as a vaguely worded threat of retaliation if the demands were not met.

Aziraphale’s stomach sank as the promise of the conversation he and Crowley had had the night before and the potential that held began to dissolve in his hands. 

He looked to Michael. “How will this affect the negotiations?”

“Not sure. The King will be here to review the Contract shortly. He’s not brought me up to speed on your discussions last night. Any update?”

“Nothing really to note from that discussion, but I had an unofficial agreement with Crowley about relocating all Unseelie to Hogback.”

“Hogback!?” they all shouted at once.

Michael put a hand up to quiet everyone. Her eyes were wide as she asked, “And he agreed to this?” 

“It was his idea, actually,” Aziraphale said, taking in everyone’s shocked faces and reaffirming how badly they needed this to pass. He looked to Michael, whose jaw was set.

“That’s it then. We can’t let these… children derail this. Not when we’re so close. I’ll take it to the His Highness. Good work, Aziraphale. And” — she glared at everyone around the table — “no one tells the King of this,” she said, holding up the scroll. “You know how stressed he gets, and this whole negotiation has already put him through enough. We will deal with it.”

Aziraphale quickly read over the words once more. He thought back on himself when he was younger, foolish — his head full of steam and so much anger — knowing very well he could have drafted a much more sharply worded letter if given the chance. But Aziraphale had always been loyal to the crown, loyal to Arthur. He thought through the young people in Warlock’s circle, puzzling though which of them could have been responsible, knowing the seeds of this had been growing right under his Prince’s nose by those he trusted. Aziraphale gripped the scroll as he looked at Michael.

“It’s Muriel.”

“Muriel? But the Queen’s their aunt…” Saraqael shook their head.

“Exactly. They’d be uniquely capable of gaining open access to spaces that would make them more dangerous than we want.” Aziraphale looked to Gabriel. “Definitely amateur, but not entirely nobodies. I will meet with them.”

Gabriel shook his head. “That sets a dangerous precedent.”

“I will assume the risk.”

“Aziraphale, up until now they’ve just been a band of kids who scribbled a few pictures on walls. Granting them an audience with the head of the King’s Guard legitimizes them in a way we should avoid.”

“Well, they reached Michael last night, and there was no identifiable signature on the scroll that I could sense.” He looked to Michael who shook her head in agreement. “So they’re more skilled at covering their tracks than most. And their leader is very likely related to the Queen, who currently has close and immediate access to the actual Contract. So we best be cautious. Where is the Contract now?”

Michael lifted her chin. “Secured.”

“Good, let’s make sure it stays that way. Saraqael, take some of my best guards and double the efforts.” Azirphale stood. “Now, where is this meeting?”

Gabriel stood tall, looming. “With all due respect-”

“Your objections have been noted, Gabriel, thank you,” Aziraphale said curtly. Gabriel’s eyes flashed with anger, but he remained quiet. Aziraphale returned his attention to Michael. “What time is it scheduled?”

“One hour. Here’s the map.” Aziraphale looked briefly. The location was tucked deep into the depths of Odegra, to a place where the lesser families lived in even deeper darkness. “Take Gabriel,” Michael added.

“It says come alone.”

“Yes, but we all know that you have no idea how to navigate down there. You’re granting them an audience, they’ll take what we give them.”

✨✨✨

Aziraphale walked in silence as as he and Gabriel made their way to meet with Muriel. He tried not to remain annoyed at Michael’s comment of him not knowing his way around these caves, but the truth was it had been many years since he’d ventured down into Odegra’s depths, and even when he had, he’d never venture down this far. It was colder than he remembered. He blew into his hands for warmth, the smoke of his breath escaping through the space between his fingers.

Aziraphale forced himself not to grimace at the groups of huddled people that lined the walkway, people without homes, elders whose shaking hands and hungry eyes showed of lives nearing their end, children hugging their parents for warmth. He remembered the pained expression Crowley wore the night before as. He recounted how he’d abandoned the Seelie people for his own personal gains, and Aziraphale felt the same shame bite at his own features. He’d never known poverty, had always grown up basking in the warmed of the Crown, meagre as it was compared to what he’d seen in his walk to Crowley’s quarters.

But warmth it still was, especially compared to what was stretched out before him. How inequality of this level had been breeding right under his nose shook him to his core.

The other version of Aziraphale would have been ashamed. That young, hot-headed Knight had longed for what these Children of the Moon sought: revenge. And to make the Seelie pay for what their ancestors had done. He and Arthur had dreamt of it as boys, playing with wooden swords in the dark corners of the Royal wing, Aziraphale, the evil Seelie; Arthur, the valiant King. It had been their favorite game.

But the years stretched on, and as Aziraphale’s place at the King’s side solidified, the fire within him began to dim, dulled by a duty requiring him to trade rage for diplomacy. It continued to live within him, though. And despite being limited to the irritated remarks and toothless fantasies of a Prince’s Champion whose form of rebellion had shifted to raising the man who could one day make the change the younger Aziraphale had longed for; Aziraphale had told himself it was for the best. That his duty to his King and his people was more important than his own selfish desires. But walking through these halls, those desires suddenly seemed far less selfish, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel he’d traded fire for a leash.

A leash that, the more families he needed to step over, was slowly being consumed by the newly resurrected flame of his youth.

“Does His Highness know what’s happening down here?” he asked as Gabriel dropped to a knee to check the pulse of someone who looked particularly ashen. Aziraphale quieted as Gabriel placed a reassuring hand on their shoulder and helped them sit upright, a soft camaraderie and familiarity passing between them. It would seem, Gabriel reserved his curt brand of arsehollery for the members of the King’s Court.

Gabriel responded once they’d resumed their walk. “He knows of it, yes. He’s taken little interest in seeing it for himself, despite my urging.” The anger in Gabriel’s voice was clear.

Gabriel had been the most rule-abiding of all of Arthur’s childhood friends, and despite him and Aziraphale being cut from the same cloth with regard to their loyalty to the Crown, they’d butt heads on almost everything else. Once panic began to spread in the Court as lives shortened, Gabriel had the unfortunate task of keeping the peace. Which meant, shutting down unrest when it got too ambitious, removing overly emotional citizens from Court when they came to beg the King for aid that he could not provide, and performing ongoing investigations into groups that could pose a risk to the Crown. In the world where Warlock had existed, he’d taken it on with a stiff lip, keeping his updates with the King private. 

Aziraphale had resented him for it, not to mention the way he’d always subtly looked down on Warlock, saying he needed to man up, slapping him a little too hard on the back when he walked by, and watching Warlock’s young face to see if he’d wince or, perish the thought, cry. Aziraphale had always assumed Gabriel felt Warlock was the wrong man to inherit the throne, but seeing the emotion on his face now, Aziraphale wondered if he’d just worried that Warlock hadn’t the stomach for the truth of the Kingdom he was inheriting. 

“And what about me?” Aziraphale asked, knowing full well the answer he’d receive.

Gabriel scoffed. “I’ve told you of the degradation of these halls for years, Aziraphale. Don’t pretend you care now.”

The leash burned brighter. “Where do they all live?

Gabriel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Permission to speak freely… sir.” He stopped walking.

“Permission granted.”

“None of this makes any sense to me.” Aziraphale stiffened. “You… the Head of the King’s Guard? Balking at the Children of the Moon as though you’d never heard of them? It doesn’t make sense. I even went to see Uriel” — a flicker of fear passed through his eyes — “to see if there’s something… wrong with me.” He blinked, remembering who he was speaking with. He turned to steel. “After the Contract negotiation is completed, I would like to be relieved of duty.”

“What?” Aziraphale’s ability to feel the power of the glamour was not as strong as Crowley’s but a distinct tremor echoed through the air in the cave as Gabriel made the request.

“Something’s wrong, and I can’t shake it. I’m unfit to serve you or His Grace in this state.”

Doubt. It had only been twelve hours and the glamour that the Countless had placed on the Unseelie was already cracking. The flame that had been growing inside Aziraphale vanished as a panic clawed its way up his throat. If this was Gabriel — a strong, albeit more simple minded creature within the Court — how was the rest of the Kingdom fairing? Was Arthur, with his hesitation from the night before, feeling the same needling of discomfort? Were the Seelie equally affected? His mind swirled around hundreds of questions, unsure how this would affect his chances of returning Warlock home, when someone stepped in front of them.

“Tea, dearies?”

Aziraphale froze. He watched as Tracy appeared out of nowhere, smiling at Gabriel. Her bright robes from the night before were replaced with humble grey raiments, her makeup, gone. She handed Gabriel a cup of tea before turning to face Aziraphale. He blinked.

“You had a rough night. Take the tea. I made it myself.” She smiled sweetly despite it not being a request. He picked up the cup and held it tightly as he watched Gabriel take a sip. 

Gabriel’s shoulders immediately relaxed as he sighed into the drink.  He looked back at Tracy, his entire mood shifted. “Whoa, this is... this is amazing. What is it? I’ve never had tea like this before.”

“An old family recipe,” Tracy smiled as Gabriel took another long sip.

“Mmmmm!” he moaned, his eyes opening lazily as he spoke. “It's doing, like, one thing here” — he pointed to his mouth — “and another thing here” — he pointed to his head — “and they're both totally different things, but they're both so good!”

Aziraphale gripped his mug more tightly as Gabriel downed the last of the tea, swallowing loudly and licking his lips. It was a bit absurd, actually.

“Wow… that was just the ticket!” he said with a broad, goofy smile as he placed his cup daintily back on Tracy’s tray. He pointed to it and shouted, “Tea!” looking back at Aziraphale who winced at the way Gabriel’s eager tone echoed off the barren cave walls. Gabriel looked past Tracy, a sudden eagerness igniting his disposition. “Come on! It’s not too far now! Oh, hey Bob!” He ran off to talk with a short, older gentleman who’d just rounded a corner.

Aziraphale shoved the cup back at Tracy. “What was that?”

“You’re welcome, love.”

“Is that happening everywhere?” he whispered, glancing at Gabriel, who was speaking to a confused Bob far more animatedly than he’d ever seen Gabriel discuss anything.

“Not everywhere, but, the longer this takes, the more it can. Which is a shame,” she sighed at the tea. “We can only reinforce the glamour so many times before the damage becomes permanent.”

“Permanent,” he shouted. Gabriel looked over and waved while Bob used the distraction to try to inch away. Swallowing roughly, Aziraphale turned back to Tracy as another uncomfortable realization made its way to the forefront of his mind. “Have you been watching us this whole time?” He thought of this morning,  feeling unreasonably protective of his alone time with Crowley.

Smiling, Tracy patted his shoulder.

Aziraphale felt himself blush. “I can assure you that our fraternizing is purely professional.”

A knowing eyebrow crept up her forehead. “We just have to keep an eye on our investment.”

That word, investment, ignited something in Aziraphale. This was just a game to them, some kind of sick joke. Coming here, kidnapping Warlock and Adam, thrusting Aziraphale and Crowley into this farce, hanging their godson’s lives above them, with not a single care given to the fallout that would come —  to the real lives that would be affected — by a hastily negotiated union between the Courts. 

It was madness.

The younger, bolder version of him stood up. He would not allow this. He would stand and fight, not lay down and forfeit this critical moment to some human witches that relied on crude potions to reinforce their magic. Potions! Hope flickered inside him at the realization that their ability to trap Warlock and Adam may have simply been a clever side effect of the Princes’ own unbreakable bond and not something more formidable from the Courtless themselves. Was this all some elaborate bit of jiggery-pokery? His mind ran through endless scenarios, all converging on one conclusion: the Countless were not as powerful as they had claimed.

And Aziraphale would exploit that.

“Stop watching us,” he said, still looking at Gabriel.

Tracy tilted her head. “Excuse me?”

He turned to her. “We’re going to alter the agreement.” He extended his hand. “Give me the potion. I will use my judgment with when to use it. I cannot have members of my Court experiencing permanent brain damage at your hand.”

“And why would I do that?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Because you, my dear, have trapped the Princes for a reason. You need the Courts joined just as much as we do.”

Her face remained unchanged except for the way her lips tightened at the corners. Aziraphale felt a rush of exhilaration he’d not felt in many years. He had her. 

He continued, his hand still extended. “And you’re being reckless. Drugging people,” he scoffed. “We’ll need good people to run the Courts once the union is complete. This” — he pointed back at Gabriel who was in the middle of an extremely animated story, complete with broad hand gestures while Bob hobbled further away  — “will not do.”

He watched as she removed a small vial from her pocket with a thick, shimmering clear liquid inside. He made to take it, but she grabbed his hand, holding him. “Remember, dearie, we still have your Princes, in a dark and dangerous place. They’ll be stuck there until we see fit to release them.”

“How can I possibly forget?” he responded with a forced sweetness before growing serious, “We want the same things. You do not understand the Fae as we do. Give us the space to do it our way.”

“Well, I hope you’re right. For all of our sakes,” she said before turning to look at Gabriel who continued to shout at a now almost jogging Bob. “And, word to the wise, don’t go off and think that breaking the glamour will work in your favor. The disorientation can be particularly violent; makes what happened to this one look like a kindness.” Aziraphale swallowed. Tracy continued. “And, you better get a hold on that one. Most people only get through half the cup,” she said, offering Aziraphale a concerned eye before walking away.

Aziraphale sighed, a wave of relief hitting him as he placed the vial in his pocket with a nearly trembling hand. But doubt crept in, quickly, not allowing him the fleeting joy of his own victory. He’d just angered the people who had Warlock and Adam. Threatened them. What would the King say if he knew how much danger Aziraphale had just placed his son in? What would Crowley say of the way he’d just risked his own Godson’s life without consulting him first?

No, the stubborn side of Aziraphale spoke boldly. Warlock was the greatest swordsman of his age. And Adam, well, according to Crowley, was an unbelievably gifted archer. The two of them together would be able to overcome any obstacle put in their path. If they could work together, of course. But they had to. Aziraphale knew Warlock’s feelings for Adam were complicated, but Warlock was smart enough to come to the conclusion that working together was the only way. And if Aziraphale and Crowley could overcome their differences for this, surely Warlock and Adam could as well?

He blinked himself awake, realizing Gabriel was still chasing Bob and how time was quickly passing them by. He marched towards the fumbling Knight, alarmed by how similar this felt to what it was like to discipline a five-year-old Warlock.

Oh, how he did not miss those days.

Aziraphale grabbed Gabriel by the arm. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“Right-oh Boss.” Gabriel turned and waved at Bob’s back. “See ya, Bob!” Chuckling he turned and pointed towards a fork in the cave. “Take the right and it’s the first set of columns on your left.”

Aziraphale’s mind continued to race as he and Gabriel forged ahead. The agreement he’d discussed with Crowley the night before would not work. These people living down in the depths, isolated to the darkest depths of Odegra, deserved more than to just trade one settlement for another. They deserved equality, living together as true equals. They deserved an open apology from the Seelie for stealing their lands, for the wealth and prosperity they built upon the blood and tears of others, not the consolation prize of being closed off to some formerly sacred lands that no Fae had cared about in five generations. 

But how? How could he convince the Seelie, convince Crowley, of this. It seemed preposterous to even fathom. He gripped the potion in his pocket, wondering if a few drops into Thaddeus’ goblet would be enough?  And Arthur? Would he have to poison his childhood friend to secure the future his people deserved? Did Aziraphale have the stomach for either of those options?

When he turned the corner, another wave of relief struck him, stronger than before.

Because standing in front of the pillar wasn’t Muriel, but Pepper, her hair pulled back tightly, wearing a tattered black leather jacket and ripped jeans. Her face was not the one he’d seen smiling with Warlock for so many years, but a hard, cold expression of a warrior.

And next to her, dressed in black robes with a hood pulled over her head, stood the Queen.

"Does it feel weird?"

Crowley blinked. His distractibility wasn’t due to the lingering headache that he could just not shake — but really, how did humans stand it?? — but more due to the fact that his mind had remained in his quarters, lingering on his warm couch, strong arms, and a French pastry he doubted he would ever be able to eat again without blushing. His mind had definitely not been set on this lot that sat before him, despite the importance of the task ahead. He straightened himself out.

"Does what feel weird?" he asked Ligur, fairly certain he’d been the one who posed the question.

“Fucking a Bullywug." Ligur shuddered. "Bet their teeth leave a nasty mark."

A prickly defensiveness rose in Crowley. "Oi. That's my future husband you're talking about."

Ligur raised his hands in forfeit.

"Why do you think that would happen?" Hastur asked.

“Haven't you ever been around an Unseelie when they're mad, all scorching anger. It's enough to melt the skin off a human. Imagine if they're… excited. Must be a right shock to the system."

All eyes turned to Crowley, who crossed his arms over his chest. "Stare all you want, but I am not discussing the details of my sex life with you lot."

"Alright you morons!" Beelzebub shouted as they entered the room, the tails of their white jacket flowing behind them. “Leave the traitor alone."

"Traitor?"

"Yeah" — they offered a mischievous smile — "of all the Seelie blokes at your disposal, you had to go and fall in love with a bleeding boggart?"

"What's with the names, today?” Crowley sneered.

Beelzebub waved their hand in dismissal. "You're right,” they said, placing a hand on their hip. "But really, how did this happen? One minute I think your plan is to be celibate for the rest of your life and the next-" 

“Beez,” he interrupted, glancing at the craned necks and eager faces around the table. “Not here.” His tone left no room for argument.  Crowley hoped their near friendship would allow him the ability to get by this without ruffling too many feathers from the others. He could see the confusion growing in Dagon’s eyes as Beez had started their questioning. The Courtless had warned of keeping everyone in the moment, and Crowley wouldn’t risk Adam’s safety for anything, especially not the stupidity of the group around him. He hoped his usual aloofness and uncanny ability to avoid questions would settle the matter.

“Fine have it your way,” Beelzebub sneered before turning to the group. “Let's get started.”

“Should we not wait for His Grace?"

Beelzebub offered a disbelieving look. "The King has more important things to do than discuss these terms, Crowley. We should be able to handle it."

"But, the significance of this negotiation to the success of this union-"

"Will be firmed up today. We will handle it."

Crowley sneered, mostly at his headache but Beelzebub assumed it was at them. "I think I'll pop over ask the King myself,” he said. It was early enough in the day that the King would be preparing for his daily hunt in the woods. It was a routine he never strayed from, and Crowley was sure he could catch him before he was off.

Beelzebub scoffed. "In what universe are you allowed to see the King without my permission? You're head of the Kings Guard, Crowley. I am his Hand. You speak to him through me. Now sit down." Beelzebub's stare asserted their superiority. Superiority that didn’t exist in the same way where Adam existed, as Beelzebub was Head of Kings Guard and the Hand, Dagon, allowed Crowley freedom to provide with the regular updates on Adam that the King secretly required. 

But this world had no Adam, so Crowley settled himself back in his seat, forfeiting the meeting to Beelzebub. “As you wish.”

“Now that we've all regained our mental capacities" — Beelzebub kept their eyes on Crowley — "this should be an easy discussion. The King informed me that he and the Unseelie agreed that they would retain their shared governance by season. So Thaddeus will remain King during Spring and Summer, and Arthur during Winter and Fall. No change, simply that they would govern over all Fae during that time and not just their own Courts. This is the time during which I will hear any objections, just know, I will absolutely not be bringing them to His Highness.” Beelzebub smiled as they looked across the room.

Hastur groaned but said nothing.

“Smashing. Moving on. The abolition of the human clause means that no Fae will be allowed to make arrangements with humans for the rest of eternity. But the King would like to retain his current staff until their souls fade out or they are retired by him. It’s not like they go anywhere when they’re done, and he argues their ongoing service to him is a kindness.” They looked at everyone once again. “Objections?”

Crowley shifted in his seat, but forced himself to think of Adam. And Aziraphale. The human souls were the responsibility of the Courtless, they had enough on their plates. He remained quiet.

“Wonderful. That only leaves the land.” With that, Beelzebub looked toward Dagon who leafed through some papers.

“Between Sacred Spaces and the planned expansion for the Castle’s ballroom, there’s no free land to offer. The best we can do is agree to enchant Odegra: sunlight drenched halls, flowing fountains of champagne, proper homes built into the cave walls and not simply furniture tucked into damp corners. A marked upgrade by any standards.” Nods from the others. “It’s all the Unseelie know, let’s make it suitable for them and be done with it.”

Crowley shook his head.

“Why not?” Dagon sneered.

“It’s a prison, Dagon.”

“Oh, come off it, Crowley-”

“It is, and it’s unreasonable for us to think they would remain there with barely more than a bit of redecorating.”

“You discussed this then?” Beelzebub asked.

“Of course.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Hogback.”

“Hogback!?” everyone but Beelzebub shouted. They remained stoic. 

“Yes.”

"Well that's a lark," Hastur said, shaking his head. He stilled when he realized Crowley was not joking. “That’s sacred land, Crowley. No one’s allowed to live there-”

Hastur scoffed, searching the table for backup. The others remained quiet. “You can’t be serious. What gives them the right to taint that soil with their…” Hastur’s face contorted disgustedly as he searched for the correct words.

Crowley relieved him the burden. “One Court, Hastur. We can’t forge a path if we continue to harbour these primitive ideas of who the other is.”

“No one asked for this, Crowley,” Hastur said, pointing a stern finger his way. Ligur placed a gentle hand on his wrist, which he tossed off. Crowley could feel the seams of the glamour stretching, Hastur’s anger pressing it to the point of ripping. He needed to do something, quickly. Hastur continued. “Just because you decided to share your bed with this-”

“Where’s Shax?” Crowley asked flippantly. Hastur’s face fell. “Seems our healer is noticeably missing from this affair. Hastur, you know the truth here is that this is long overdue, and my marriage to Aziraphale offers a way for all of us to see past our own arseholes and towards a way to save us from our own extinction. We were just too bloody proud, as a people, to do something about it long ago. Truth is, you should be thanking me,” he said with finality, leaning back in his chair. Maybe that had gone too far, but Hastur was a right arsehole. The glamour settled back into place. Crowley spoke to all of them now. “Look, unless you want to give up your lands, it’s the best chance we’ve got. Giving this to them is a sign of good faith, a sign of healing toward a more promising future. It’s the only way.”

Beelzebub intertwined their fingers on the table in front of them. The optimist in Crowley smiled; he had them.

“And your Aziraphale… he agreed to take this to his King?”

“He did.”

Beelzebub smirked. “Wonder what you had to do to get that done?”

“A gentleman never tells.”

“Alright, well it may shock you to believe it but, the King had suggested the same. So, if your fiancé can get this pushed through, then this will go a lot smoother than we anticipated.” Beelzebub stood, a silent dismissal to the rest before pausing. “Well done, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled to himself as he made his way back to his quarters, the relief of knowing the hardest part of this whole thing was finally behind him. He couldn’t wait to share the good news with Aziraphale, slightly disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to see him until the banquet tonight. He thought of Adam and how soon he would see him. Maybe he’d forgo the smack across the head. Maybe all of this wasn’t for nothing. Maybe Crowley would just take him in a deep hug and thank him for his arrogant foolishness, honest about how long it would have taken the Courts to do this on their own.

Crowley was an optimist, after all. And maybe this whole thing wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

Chapter Text

“We’re not going there,” Warlock said flatly.

“And why not?” R.P. asked, his neck craning so high that his attempt at intimidation just made him look absurd. 

It had taken a few weeks of them working together for the spriggan to come clean. But one night, while the Shadwell and Brown were deep in the cups of some vile brown sludge that Warlock could barely stomach the smell of, the former scot admitted to how difficult changing their size was, confessing to needing at least eighteen hours of rest afterward to recover. And because the work the spriggan were doing for Adam was exhausting in its own way — going dwelling to dwelling to convince creatures they’d never spoken with before to not only refrain from killing Adam but also to trust him — R.P. had demanded Warlock maintain the sole responsibility of protecting the group. 

Which was fine. 

But it also meant he’d been dealing with a group of bickering goblins that barely came up to his hip for months. So when they tried to act all tough, like R.P. was doing right now, it took all of Warlock’s dwindling self control to not laugh in their faces.

Their best guess was that it had been three months since they’d realized that Adam’s powers weren’t gone, but were merely hidden, somewhere in the Faedark, inside his bow. As soon as Brown told him, Adam had become convinced that making these agreements with the occupants of the Faedark was his only path to finding it.

But it had been three months, and find it, they hadn’t. But Warlock could feel how badly Adam needed this, so he’d remained quiet, just sitting and watching whenever they met with someone, his sword at the ready for the inevitable moment when something would go wrong.

And now, it would seem, was that moment.

He looked down at R.P.. “We’re not going there, because you told us never to go there.” Warlock walked over to his side of the space that they’d been calling home base for the last three months. “Shadwell” — he snapped his fingers — “off.” The biggest spriggan grumbled something rude as he rolled over. Warlock scrunched his nose as he set his sword next to his bed. Shadwell always left a smell.

Accepting that Odegra remained out of reach — as well as Adam’s assumption that it definitely would stay that way until he regained his powers — made things a bit easier for the two of them. They were able to settle down, sort of, in a cave that had good access to water and food for Adam. They’d kept it bare for a while, a silent commitment that getting back home remained their only priority, and it wasn’t until Adam woke one morning with a crick in his back so severe he could barely stand that Warlock decided to build them beds.

He’d done it slowly, chopping down the trees, careful to search for ones that were on the brink of falling over. When making Adam’s bow, Warlock had made the mistake of chopping off a branch of a pretty sturdy birch, only to have it all but scream at him in protest. He remembered raising his sword, ready for the shadows to come running, but the woods remained unchanged. The shout was apparently something only he’d heard. Or felt. It was difficult to know. A further connection between him and the Faedark. So when looking for logs from which to build their beds, Warlock followed the enthusiastic recommendations of the trees themselves, who guided him towards their oldest siblings that were eager to offer their bodies to live beyond when the insects and earth would otherwise consume them.

Ignoring R.P.’s grumbling, Warlock sat down, sinking into the leaves that made up his mattress with a subtle crunch. He frowned. He really did need to replace those soon.

“Well, clearly the situation’s changed, Warlock.”

Warlock’s eyes narrowed. “So what’s in this for you?”

“What do you mean?” R.P. asked, frowning.

“I mean, you told us no one ever comes out of that place alive, and now you’re sending us in there, alone? You know we’re no good to you dead.”

The tips of R.P. s ears darkened, a sign that — Warlock had learned throughout their many arguments in the last few months — he’d struck a nerve.

R.P. stepped toward him. “We have risked our lives, my reputation, going out and speaking on your behalf, Unseelie. And here I was, under the assumption that verbal agreements meant something to the Fae.” He scoffed. “But let me tell you something boy, they mean something to us. To me.”

Brown — who turned out to be the most reasonable of the three — spoke from the corner. “I believe what R.P. said was ‘no one’s stupid enough to venture down there.’ That’s a bit different from ‘no one come’s out alive.”

“And you seriously think Arnold was able to get in and out? He’s a literal troglodyte.”

Brown shrugged. “Did you smell him?” Warlock grimaced. Arnold made these spriggan smell like roses. Brown nodded. “Exactly. If anyone would be able to get in and out, it would be him. Even bloody gremlins can only stomach so much.”

“Great,” Warlock said sarcastically. “Let him get it.”

R.P. threw his hands up in the air. “Adam!” Warlock looked over at him, leaning against the far wall, his arms and legs crossed over one another. His thinking posture, Warlock had come to call it. 

Adam was considering going.

“Can you guys give us a minute?” he asked, shoving off the wall. His hair had grown shaggy, his curls settling slightly below the tops of his ears. His beard had filled itself in, no longer itching him constantly, replacing his boyish beauty with the rugged charm of someone much older than nineteen. And he was skinnier, but much stronger; the lean muscles of his arms clear now, even at rest.

Giving Adam the bow had awoken something in him, a drive to do more, to hunt, a confidence and a bit of his old self that he’d lost when they’d arrived. But not too much. He was also humbler, open to compromise; he listened and took advice. When he spoke to the human souls, Warlock watched his honest and pained expression: the pinch of his brows, the downward tug of his lips, the flush of guilt and spark of promise to repay a debt and reward these souls for their honesty. He was Adam, but not Adam. 

The change made life easier in some ways. It allowed Warlock to be less defensive and more open, no longer anticipating an edged blade behind every word. But it was also confusing in a way he couldn’t put into words.

He blinked at himself. Who was Warlock kidding? It wasn’t the bow that he made for Adam that had caused all that, it was learning about his powers. Warlock needed to remember that Adam was a Seelie, and the second he got his bow back and they returned home, he would go back to being the same arsehole he’d been their entire lives.

But, somewhere inside himself, Warlock hoped he was wrong.

R.P. scoffed as he and the other two skulked their way out of their space and into the cave corridors. Brown turned to them before leaving. “I’ll take him hunting. It’s been a while. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Adam shoved his hands into his pockets as he slowly made his way over. He no longer wore shoes at all; said he didn’t need them. His ripped shirt and pants had grown dirty, but somehow the muck of them had faded together to make a weird sort of matching set. He looked like he always did: effortless, casual, beautiful. Like he’d always belonged here.

Warlock glanced down at his own, still pristine, clothes, untouched by anything. He’d felt increasingly stupid wearing them, but knew his Unseelie powers were the only things keeping them in this condition. If he took them off, they could get damaged, and he wasn’t sure if the wear incurred here would be reparable in the Faewild. And that would be devastating. They meant something to him and, even more importantly, they meant something to his family.

Warlock remembered the way his mother looked at him when he’d gotten dressed before his wedding banquet, the mischief in Pepper’s eyes when she first saw him, the slight glint of pride in his father’s when he entered the ballroom, and the subtle shift in his relationship with Aziraphale, no longer his mentor, now much closer to his equal as he stood before him in these robes. These clothes felt like his last lingering connection to home, to who he was back there, and served as a reminder of what he owed the people he loved that were left behind.

So no, he wouldn’t be taking them off any time soon. Would simply continue to roll up the sleeves when he needed to; the rest would remain unchanged.

Except the cravat. He yanked that off weeks ago and shoved it somewhere beneath the bed of leaves that made up his mattress. That would not be coming back with him.

Sorry, mum.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Warlock watched as Adam took the bow he’d given him from around his back and placed it gently on the ground. 

Finding the arrows in the formorian settlement had felt like a sign. Warlock could tell how hard being human had weighed on Adam as they trudged through the woods, the way his trained eyes scanned the distance at any sound, how his hands twitched for something to do. Not at all used to being a burden in this way, his mood had grown distant, talking less, and the second Warlock’s eyes landed on those arrows, he knew that giving Adam some way to protect himself — something that reminded him of who he’d been before while also proving that his worth didn’t come only from his powers — would help.

Adam had started crafting his own arrows that same night, picking up fallen branches,  inspecting the bark of trees, and grabbing pointed stones for tips. It had taken him a few weeks to persuade Shadwell to lend him some of the tools he’d spied the first time they were invited back to the spriggan’s lair, but relent Shadwell did once Adam took down a magnificent buck and offered it to him as payment. The spriggan diet consisted mostly of scrawny hares and flightless birds that were more bone than anything else. A buck was a rare feast.

Once he had the tools, Adam took to carving new arrows by the light of the fire while he and the spriggan half-heartedly debated one pointless thing or another. Warlock generally kept quiet, watching Adam’s hands work, the rhythmic motion of his fingers, how he carved the wood slowly, deliberately. These new arrows had enabled his accuracy to skyrocket. Adam hadn’t been exaggerating, if Warlock had let him meet his challenge armed with his bow, there was no telling which of them would have won.

But in some ways, the bow had become more of a complication than Warlock had anticipated. It was in the way Adam handled it, with respect and protectiveness. In was in the way his long, skilled fingers wrapped themselves around the arrows, the way he tugged at the string with so much confidence, and the way the pace of his breath matched the movements of his body. Warlock had never given anyone anything before, let alone something he’d made, and the way his chest ached whenever Adam treated his gift with respect and reverence was confusing, and painful, and some days Warlock selfishly wished he’d never given Adam the thing at all.

The mattress sank under Adam’s weight. He frowned at the crunching sound. 

“I know,” Warlock said without looking at him. “I’ll get to it.” 

“You sleep on this?”

“You sleep on yours,” he clipped back.

“Yeah, but I change mine every couple days. How long has it been since you-” Warlock offered a sideways glare. Adam’s mouth snapped shut.

“I don’t need sleep like you do.” He didn’t admit that he couldn’t sleep, not because he didn’t want to, but because he kept watch, overnight, staring at the entrance to their space from his bed. He couldn’t admit how he kept the bed this uncomfortable so sleep wouldn’t come for him, so he could be sure Adam was safe every morning. Shit, Warlock could barely admit those things to himself without blushing.

“Right, but this is bloody torture.”

Warlock pointed to himself. “Unseelie, me.”

Chuckling, Adam hit him softly with his elbow. They sat quietly for a bit before Adam took a long, slow breath. Warlock closed his eyes, knowingly. Adam had already decided. 

“We agreed no stupid risks.”

Adam sighed. “Warlock, I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.”

Adam bent his leg at the knee to rest it on the bed. He turned to face Warlock. “I can feel it, Warlock. With every agreement I make, every handshake. Its call grows stronger. Arnold’s not lying. My powers are there.”

“You don’t need them,” Warlock pleaded as he watched Adam’s jaw tighten. They’d had this argument a few times. It was selfish, Warlock knew it, but they’d found a rhythm here, a way of living that worked for them. That kept them both safe, and alive. “I barely use my powers, you know?”

Adam scoffed. “Sure, I look like a goblin and” — he pointed to Warlock’s feet — “those shiny shoes and perfect hair that still look as though you’re about to address Court, that’s just good hygiene, then?” He grew serious. “Don’t be like that, Warlock. It’s unfair.”

Warlock’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Adam sighed. “But… the stories we’ve heard, Warlock. What my family’s done; what these souls have endured and need in order to move on. This isn’t about me… anymore.” His eyes dropped, his mind turning inward. “I’ve tethered my life to hundreds of human souls. I looked them each in the eye and promised them I would deliver their messages. And I am a man of my word… or I want to be, at least.” Warlock raised a finger to counter, but Adam beat him to it. “And I know I gave you my word on ‘no stupid risks’ but this is different. And you know it.” When Adam’s eyes met Warlock’s his chest squeezed at how much Adam had changed. “They deserve to be freed from the torture of this place,” Adam said with finality before adding with a smirk, “Besides, everyone at home is waiting for you. We gotta get you back there, Your Grace.”

And there it was. The voice of reason, coming from bloody Adam of all people. But something had shifted in Warlock recently. A cold dread had settled in his belly anytime he thought about going home. It was because he missed it, obviously. They’d been trapped here for months, and he missed it.

Missed it so badly that thinking about it made him want to vomit.

Warlock’s breath hitched faintly as Adam placed a hand on his. His skin was soft, but not as soft as it had been that first day when he’d gripped Warlock’s fingers to walk across the treetops together, his Seelie blood still warm in his veins. These hands had worked, grown tough, with the scar from Warlock’s blade a rough reminder of everything they’d been through together. Shame stung his face as the memory of how coldly he’d said, “Don’t scream,” fully aware of how much pain he was about to cause as well as the almost sadistic pleasure he’d taken in inflicting it. It was a moment of weakness, and something Warlock would regret for the rest of his life.

Adam leaned forward, finding Warlock’s eyes beneath his hair. His face warmed.

“I promise not to die.” Adam smirked. “I know that would… complicate things for you with my dad. You have my word” — he bobbed his head side to side — “as good as that is nowadays.”

Warlock chucked, pulling his hand away to run it through his hair and replace the feel of Adam’s skin with something else. He cleared his throat. “Yeah well, you’ll have me so, if you die, we both die. And I prefer not to, so. Let’s not be stupid.”

“Sounds like an absolute rubbish plan,” Adam teased, his bright green eyes still locked on Warlock’s. “But it’s all we got.”

Warlock nodded, dropping his eyes to the floor. Looking at Adam recently felt dangerous, and Warlock made a point not to do it often when they were alone together.

Adam turned his head away. “Unless…” His tone turned mischievous as he stood.

Warlock grabbed his arm, glancing over to the pile of leaf wrapped hazards in the far corner of their space. “No way.”

Adam’s mind, turned out, was as clever as everyone had said, and he’d quickly noticed materials in the Faedark that could be combined to create relatively harmless, but exceedingly blinding, bursts of light. Warlock remembered his confusion at Adam’s excitement when they’d stumbled upon a random bat colony one day, as well as his horror as he watched Adam immediately drop to the ground, scooping up their droppings with his bare hands and making Warlock gag. 

But that night, Warlock watched Adam’s face literally light up after borrowing his sword to test his experiment. The forest consumed all fire except the flame of Warlock’s sword, but for creatures that lived in perpetual darkness, a blinding burst of light was the most disarming weapon, as was proven by how Shadwell stumbled into trees for hours following the display. 

But they were incredibly unstable, with one of the earlier sets going off in the middle of the night unprompted and scaring both Warlock and Adam shitless. 

Warlock continued. “I won’t go with you.”

“Calm down,” Adam said, giving in way too quickly. “I’m just taking the piss out of you.” His eyes followed Warlock’s to the pile. “You know, I’m not sure they’d survive the trip anyway. Best we make a few more of those rock-throwing-rope-thingies you like so much.” 

Warlock rolled his eyes, despite the comfort of their casual back and forth starting to settle his nerves. “They’re called bolas.” 

“Right, those things. Way more effective than a blinding light bomb. If we encounter hundreds of clawed, snarling gremlins coming to suck our eyeballs out of our sockets, taking out one or two at long range with your bolas will really make the difference.” 

Warlock squinted at him. “Fine. Bring one.”

“Five.”

“No.”

“Four,” he crossed his arms over his chest.

Warlock groaned. “Fuck you. Three.”

“Was that so hard?” Adam asked, smiling.

Warlock’s chest ached. Because all of this was harder than Adam would ever know.

✨✨✨

He and Adam left the next morning. Brown, R.P. and Shadwell stayed back, sleeping off the hangover from their hunting expedition the night before. Warlock had the sneaking suspicion that the spriggan weren’t actually sleeping, they were just scared. Despite all his nagging, Warlock knew R.P. had no intention of going with them. One of the first things the old sod had said when they began working together was to never venture to this part of the forest. And, since it was in the exact opposite direction of Odegra and constantly teeming with shadows skittering over its every inch, Warlock had no problem listening to him.

In the material plane it was Tadfield’s High Street, but in the Faedark it was the lair for the shadows that stalked them, which, according to the spriggan, were actually gremlins. Supposedly. No one who saw them survived long enough to be sure. As soon as their meetings started with the human souls, the shadows dissipated. Warlock hadn’t understood why at the time, figuring it had something to do with the protection that came with being surrounded by other creatures from the Faedark. But now, he knew it had been a strategy. If the bow was hidden somewhere in their lair, that meant the gremlins likely harbored some kind of connection to Adam’s powers as well. So, he assumed, they’d sensed Adam’s connection to it growing, and knew it was only a matter of time before would come searching for it. 

No longer needing to hunt him, the gremlins were now just waiting for Adam to come to them.

From what Warlock could tell, the gremlins weren’t human souls. There were animals in the Faedark, lizards and hares and featherless birds whose red eyes followed from the tree tops as he and Adam trudged through the woods. All relatively harmless. But the gremlins felt different, more intelligent but less sentient, like a hive mind whose master he couldn’t see. A pit of dread opened in his stomach at the thought of what they might find once they got there.

They’d walked in silence, side-by-side for a long while. At some point, Adam stopped with Warlock continuing on a few steps before he realized. He turned to find Adam working his jaw.

“I’m going to say something.”

Warlock felt his eyebrows rise on his forehead. “While I appreciate the warning… I have gotten fairly used to that over these last few months.” 

Adam ignored him. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time” — Warlock’s stomach twisted in a way he didn’t want to think about — “but I don’t want you to freak out.”

Warlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Why would I freak out?” His voice caught slightly. But he wasn't freaking out. Maybe a little annoyed that they were stopping in a somewhat exposed place, but not freaking out. They were about to face thousands of gremlins armed with nothing but a few weapons, a bit of temporary insanity and a plucky attitude. There was literally nothing Adam could say right now that would make Warlock freak out.

“Just… don’t. Okay?”

“Err… I’ll do my best?” He could hear his pulse in his ears. 

Adam exhaled slowly before straightening out his shoulders, the bow Warlock had made him shaking slightly with the motion. “Thank you.”

Warlock blinked. “What are you do-?”

“Just shut up, all right? I know I’m human, and I’m not supposed to say that but” — Adam shored himself for what was coming next, looking deeply into Warlock’s eyes. Warlock swallowed —  “I would have been dead as soon as we got here if it weren’t for you. You saved me, were kind to me when you didn’t need to be. And I just wanted you to know, before whatever happens here, that I appreciate that, and you, very much.” Adam’s face had turned a deep shade of pink. Warlock had no idea humans blushed so deeply. “And I hope —  once you’re back to your wife and family —  that things can be different for us. I hope we can just…  not go back to the way things were. I don’t want that.”

Warlock’s ears had started ringing at some point in the conversation. Adam frowned. From somewhere beyond the ringing, Warlock heard him say, “Oh fuck, you’re totally freaking ou-”

“No, I’m not.” He cut him off. But he was, absolutely, freaking out. He didn’t know what the rules were, here in the Faedark. And Adam wasn’t really a human, so it probably didn’t mean anything. But even amongst Fae, thanking did not happen lightly, and it absolutely never happened between Seelie and Unseelie. No matter what the rules said, Adam saying it meant something significant to him. And to Warlock. But before he could move beyond freaking out to replying, a bit of movement in the corner of his mind dissolved the tension of the moment. He looked up, they were closer than he’d realized. He looked back at Adam. “They know we’re coming.”

Adam heaved a heavy sigh. “Right. Of course, they do.”

“I hate this.”

“I know,” he said, looking pained and not yet ready to walk away from their discussion. Neither was Warlock. But the shadows flickered again in the seeing darkness. Being this close, Warlock could feel their eyes locked on Adam, almost taste their hunger. Warlock looked back at him, at his exposed arms, his bare feet, his human body. Warlock’s dread grew restless. 

Yes, Adam was a talented archer, but this was suicide.  

Emotion was dangerous in combat. It was the first lesson Aziraphale had taught Warlock, even before he let him hold a sword. Mastery over ones heart was the key to true skill with a blade. A shaking hand, an unsure step, those were pathways to disaster or death. But Warlock had never been good at quieting his mind or heart, the two of them engaged in what felt like a constant battle for his will. But Warlock wasn’t in a combat circle with Aziraphale where a stern eyebrow and a bitchy remark was what awaited him. He’d lose Adam… to snarling monsters. Hear his screams as they tore into his flesh, watch streams of thick red blood empty into the dirt, feeding the cursed magic of this place with the same pain and suffering that had fueled it for centuries.

No. 

Warlock set his jaw, forced his mind quiet. Because they’d already agreed: if Adam was dying here today, so was he.

“We need to move,” Warlock said as he started back up towards the shadows.

They didn't talk for the rest of the journey, both of them holding their weapons at the ready as they approached. Warlock’s dread didn’t loosen the closer they got to the lair. The woods around them had grown quiet. Too quiet. Since their arrival, the forest constantly felt alive, breathing and dangerous, but this area felt numb. As though Warlock's senses had been dulled, or this place was different from the rest of the woods. 

Warlock reached his arm out to stop Adam who was already bouncing on his toes.

“It’s here,” he whispered as he started walking faster.

“How do you-”

He flexed his fingers around his bow. “I can feel it.” His breath had hitched higher in anticipation, and Warlock’s matched in panic, his overly emotional heart the only thing refusing to quiet around him. 

Warlock reached out toward a tree, knowing it would not heed his call but hoping against hope it would anyway.

It didn’t move.

Chittering from their left had them both turning. Or Warlock thought they’d both turned. Adam apparently completely lost his mind and started sprinting in the opposite direction. Warlock turned and chased him.

“Wait!” He tried to keep his voice down when the sight of what Adam ran towards nearly stopped him dead in his tracks.

The structure looked like a castle carved from the hollowed trunk of the most enormous tree Warlock had ever seen. It sat in a depression within a clearing, surrounded by the corpses of fallen trees and the bare skeletons of bushes. The grass around it, scorched so black that the little moonlight they’d learn to depend on seemed to disappear into its depths. The feeling of the forest leading up to it, silent and empty, was concentrated here, like a singularity pulling life into its void. Warlock’s dread turned cold. 

This was iris at the center of the Faedark.

And of course, at the top of the castle, nestled in a small window-like opening set below the blood red leaves that adorned its branches, glinted the bait of the elaborate trap: a shimmering bow, absolutely reeking of Seelie power.

The feel of the power was what floored him. Warlock had nearly forgotten how small it made him feel, how ugly and useless. He faltered, suddenly a kid again, confused at why the boy with the green eyes hated him, so angry at the people who saw him only for what he was, never bothering to get to know who he was. His eyes stung. He wondered if it was the place itself, somehow cursed in a way that made his fears consume him so wholly.

A blur of shadows somewhere. His senses continued to dull as he frantically searched for Adam, the darkness of the place playing tricks on his eyes. Warlock flicked his wrist, igniting his sword and spotting Adam nearing the structure.

Flickers in the darkness drew closer.

“Adam, wait!” But the power was too strong; if it had awoken all of Warlock’s fears this violently, the need in Adam to possess it must be crushing. 

A snarl and a crack. 

Warlock turned. Brought his sword down. Six halves of small bodies tumbled to the ground. He continued to chase Adam.

The flickers were closing in on them and Warlock had no idea how Adam continued to evade them. He watched Adam run, releasing arrow after arrow after arrow, somehow taking out three or four gremlins at a time. His moves were different, faster, the Seelie power of his golden bow already sinking into his skin and sharpening his instincts. A heavy grief pierced Warlock’s chest as flickering waves approached from their left.

“Heads up!”

Warlock looked and saw Adam heave something into the air. He dipped left, caught it, ignited with his sword and tossed toward the direction where the shadows felt the densest. He watched Adam turn his bow sideways to shield his eyes, still running and releasing arrow after arrow, before Warlock did the same. The explosion was muffled, its power immediately eaten by whatever dark magic oozed from this place, but the light of it had stung true, rendering the hungry swell sightless. They snarled blindly, their claws slashing at air and smoke.

Warlock sped ahead, catching up to Adam as he reached the structure’s entrance. More ringing in his ears, clouding his mind. Something was wrong. He made to reach for Adam but he was already shoving the opening wider, squeezing through. Feeling the shadows behind them begin to blink awake, Warlock followed.

The spores that hit them once they were inside nearly floored them both.

“Shit,” Warlock said, covering his mouth with his arm. The floating particles glinted with the flame of his sword, lighting the interior in rolling waves of flickering orange. Adam bolted toward the stairs, broken and crumbling, taking them two at a time with only a slight falter in his steps any indication of the spores’ effect on him. Warlock tried to push through but tripped, knocking a shoulder into the wall and nearly dropping his sword. “Adam…” he said, leaning on the wall for a second, feeling the reverberation of thousands of claws scratching from the outside, but not venturing further. 

He tried to shove off the wall, but was met with a soft crunch. He lifted his hand to find glowing, red mushrooms, millions of them, tiny and covering every inch of the walls. His looked to the ground, to the ceiling. They covered every inch; their veinlike mycelium webbing across the length of the space, pulsating as more spores spilled from them and out into the air.

A maw of dread opened inside him. This was a different trap than he’d anticipated.

Fighting the dizziness that crept further into the corners of his mind, Warlock took his sword and pressed its flame into the wall, igniting it in one motion. The rancid, hissing smoke that wafted off the mushrooms choked him, but the woods around him seemed to flicker in thanks. His powers hadn’t actually been dulled here. It was the forest who’d been weakened, their life leeched by these fungi, apparently equally as dangerous to the rest of the Faedark as they were to him.

What were they?

Warlock continued with his sword, making broad strokes along the wall and watching the flames, no longer rolling, more soft embers spreading slowly, as they sizzled and smoked, consuming the veins. The spores in the air caught and burned with whatever weakening Unseelie magic he had left. He coughed. Choked. Shoved his sword into the wall, expecting the familiar resistance of wood, only for it to sink deeply, as though piercing soft flesh. He took his other hand and punched through easily, shoving outward with a squelch, and gasping at the cool air that rushed in to combat the smoke. His chest began to loosen when the sound of a body collapsing to the floor came from above.

Adam.

When Warlock regained his senses, he was already up the stairs. The spores were less dense here, the weight of them keeping them settled below, and the walls were different, greyed and covered in a thick black tar that dripped down the length of them. He stepped forward, his foot getting stuck as he spotted Adam on the ground, his arm outstretched not a meter from his bow, while the black tar slowly spreading over him.

“Adam!” His own voice was muffled to his ears, as though he’d only heard it from inside. He made to lift his foot, but felt his knees crash into the icy ground as gravity dragged him downward. A bitter cold seized him where his legs met the ground, spreading upward to strangle his lungs. Sharp clouds of air burst from his mouth, but the air around him was locked tight. Nothing would enter.

Warlock was suffocating.

The tip of his sword sagged, its weight becoming unbearable, as though an invisible hand pressed on it from above. Warlock watched helplessly as his blade dipped lower; its flame immediately eaten to nothing as it touched the tar. 

The ground shook. Warlock felt sharp claws gripping his ankles. Climbing up his legs. Hot, rancid breath dripped against the back of his neck.

He struggled to move, only for the frigid tar to grip harder as he fought, pulling him down, its icy fingers climbing up his arms, his legs. Terror gripped him as he realized it was coming for his face, for his mouth, his eyes, to enter and consume him from the inside out, as it had done the structure, as it would do to Adam and everything else that had ever dared enter it.

Adam’s panicked eyes met his. Warlock tried to shout a warning but the gremlins were already overtaking Adam, grabbing his outstretched arm and pulling it down, away from the power of his bow. The tar, somehow sliding off the creatures easily, clung to him as clawed hands shoved Adam’s face down to suffocate in its depths.

A pained, muffled scream ripped the last remaining air from Warlock’s lungs as the tar’s tendrils closed themselves over his face, forcing his eyes shut.

Silence except for the stuttering of his slowing heart.

Warlock had known this whole thing was suicide…

Chapter Text

Dying, Warlock thought, felt a lot different than he’d imagined.

He wondered when his body would stop shivering. The cold was torture. The emptiness of death would be a welcome escape.

And it was taking too fucking long.

A flash of light breached the darkness. A crack in the ice. A glorious hint of warmth. Warlock’s stubborn heart stuttered faster.

The distant sound of screams. A pressure in his chest burned. His lips were still clamped shut. His lungs, pushed. Stretched. Began to scream at him.

Claws scrambled down his legs. More decadent warmth distracted him. His fingers twitched, their tips burning. His skin prickled with a sharp electricity. 

The smell of burning flesh. His eyes shot open as air punched its way into his lungs. More pressure. He rolled over, spilling black tar onto the ground.

Scorching heat consumed the air. The skin on his arms erupted in agony. He cried out as his hands shot to them, frantically shoving the bubbling flesh from his bones. But it was the tar that melted away, retreating as the fire that engulfed it spread outward, along the walls and up towards the ceiling. 

Another flash of blinding light. Warlock scrambled backward, squinting as a possessed flame shot across the floor, flickering wildly and leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. The room became consumed. Screams and the soft thudding of falling limbs filled his ears. 

A charred, twitching hand rolled across the floor, stopping against Warlock’s thigh. He tried to shove it away, but felt his head collide with the ground instead. Darkness finally took him.

He welcomed the quiet.

When Warlock opened his eyes, he was sitting, his back against the trunk of a tree that was walking through the woods. The thick smell of smoke filled the air. Warlock turned to squint at the distance where the impossible flames that still engulfed the structure lit the sky. A soft hiss and the faint sound of screams continued to echo through the treetops. The last meagre sounds of whatever darkness that had lived there, as it slowly died.

Warlock glanced down at himself, all signs of black tar gone, all feeling of exhaustion dissolved. Only a tingling electricity remained; the lingering feel of Seelie magic.

He looked up to find Adam, bright and shiny and new, his golden bow strapped around his back, Warlock’s handmade one, nowhere to be seen. His clothes were as they were at Warlock and Pepper’s banquet, his hair, back to being perfect, and his smooth face held the arrogance of the boy who’d been cruel to Warlock their entire lives.

Warlock struggled for breath as his chest seemed to collapse in on itself.

Adam turned to him, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “You’re awake.” He walked over, dropped to a knee and gently placed Warlock’s sword across his lap. “Sorry, needed to borrow that.”

Warlock could barely look at him. His face stung so badly he was sure he was wincing. 

Adam touched his shoulder. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hand over Warlock’s chest and down his arm, leaving a warm trail of electricity as he went. “I couldn’t sense anything-”

The thought of Adam searching Warlock’s body for injuries, touching him, healing him somehow with a power that Warlock couldn’t even fathom, without his consent, caused a rage to ignite in him so hot he could hardly think. He shoved Adam’s hand away.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Warlock spat as the tree came to a stop at his silent command. 

Adam leaned back, a mixture of confusion and betrayal on his face.“What?” 

Warlock stood — a branch meeting him as he stepped off from where he and Adam sat — and didn’t look back as he stalked off towards their cave.

✨✨✨

Warlock stormed into their space. He paced the floor, so angry he could barely think clearly. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Adam asked as he entered, throwing his bow and quiver down onto his bed. 

Warlock glared. This wasn’t the Adam he’d grown to know since arriving in the Faedark. The ruggedness of the person Warlock had grown to call a friend was gone, replaced by the glowing perfection that only came from filthy Seelie power. The same power that Adam’s people had used to flaunt their superiority in the face of Warlock’s, the same power that they’d used to tempt humans and trick them into slavery. The same power that was the reason Warlock was stuck here, away from his life and his duty and his family, with this once again perfect, arrogant arsehole who, even in the Faedark, apparently got to swagger through life with his name and his power and his infuriating beauty. 

It was bearable before, when Adam was human, and needed protecting. When this persona he wore like armour back home sat lifeless at his feet. But that version had vanished in an instant. Warlock was now trapped, for who knows how long, to deal with all this bullshit, with this Adam. 

Warlock had nearly forgotten how much he hated him. 

“You’re my problem,” he spat. 

“I’m your problem!?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean? What did I even do to you?”

Warlock nearly said it all, but he couldn’t. His fiery rage grew duller with every breath, leaving only an aching grief, an overwhelming exhaustion, and an honest realization: it wasn’t worth it. This Adam didn’t deserve his honesty. “Nothing… just” — Warlock let himself deflate as he walked toward his area on the far wall, knowing taking as much distance as possible between him and Adam was the safest option — “I don’t want to talk right now.” He tossed down his sword.

The sound of Adam’s footsteps chased him as he took the length of the space in three long strides. Warlock turned, shocked. 

“Fuck that, no. I just saved your life. Why are you so angry with me?”

“Back up,” Warlock warned. Adam was so close to him now, the Seelie power coming off of him was tingling his skin. The smell of him — all freshly cut grass on a summer day — was a terrible distraction.

“No.” 

Warlock dared to search Adam’s face. Every bit of the vulnerability that had grown in him was gone. Warlock’s jaw tightened. He wanted very badly to shove him away. 

Adam squinted at him. “You want to hit me, don’t you?”

“What?” Warlock hated how easily Adam could read him.

Adam scoffed. “You do.” His eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know?” He leaned back, a cruel smirk spreading on his lips. “‘Don’t scream’? The way you watched me as you shoved your flaming sword into my bleeding hand? You enjoyed it.” His eyes flashed as he read the shame on Warlock’s face. Nodding, he continued. “You challenged me because you wanted to kick the shit out of me and then we ended up here and I became human and you couldn’t. Because of honour… or whatever. Well, fine. Here we are. Equals.” Opening his arms wide, he stepped back. “Hit me.”

Warlock wanted to. He wanted to so badly. Because he was exhausted. Exhausted after months in this forest making no headway towards escaping this prison and returning home to his life; to Pepper, his parents, his duty. He was tired constantly ignoring the forest, in the way it tempted him to just reach out, the way it would make everything so much easier if he did, of fighting how badly he wanted to despite knowing that doing so would have forfeited both of their lives. He was tired of worrying about Adam, about his stupidity, about his recklessness. He was tired of looking at him. Of how badly it hurt. Of how badly it had always hurt, and of how much more it hurt now knowing Warlock had seen a different side of him, a kinder, more humble side and the pathetic way his heart was breaking inside his chest now knowing he would never see that side again. He was tired of his own shame, of being angry at himself for caring, always caring too much, about everyone and everything. All of the time. 

Warlock was so tired.

But he wouldn’t let himself become a pawn in Adam’s stupid game. He set his jaw. “Fuck you, Adam. I won’t hit you.” 

Adam crowded Warlock again, forcing his back to hit up against the cave wall. Warlock’s pulse began blaring in his ears. “Why not? You hate me.” It wasn’t a question. Adam’s breath — now tickling Warlock’s lips, he stood so close — had started to go ragged. Warlock tried to keep his steady. 

He was unsuccessful.

“I do.” Warlock’s face was burning.

“Tell me why.” Adam’s eyes narrowed. 

Warlock’s throat hurt. “No.” The word sounded strangled.

“Coward,” Adam spat. His eyes were wild now. Warlock struggled to look at them. His gaze dropped to Adam’s jaw, to his lips. There was nowhere safe to look. Nowhere safe for him. Anywhere. Warlock’s eyes were starting to sting. 

Adam leaned closer, his curls tickling Warlock’s forehead. “Why won’t you say it?” he said through clenched teeth. His voice was wrecked; a restrained whisper, thick with emotion.

It’s sound caused a pressure to build in Warlock’s chest. He was suffocating, could barely breathe, and before he could think he heard himself blurt out, “Because I don’t.”

Adam froze. Warlock stopped breathing. The two of them stood, centimeters apart, unmoving for what felt like an eternity, before Adam leaned forward ever so slightly, his breath still grazing Warlock’s lips in sharp bursts, his curls now settled softly on his forehead. 

Warlock lost his mind and pushed forward.

Warlock and Pepper had done this. Once. It had been her idea. She'd argued that it was inevitable, and they both agreed that leaving all of the awkwardness for their wedding night was a terrible idea. So one night, Pepper came to his bedroom with some champagne that they both drank straight from the bottle, and they did it. 

The sex was fine, albeit a bit weird. Teeth clicking against each other. Sloppy, tasteless tongues that Warlock really didn’t understand the need for, and awkward apologies when arms and legs got stuck uncomfortably between them. His hands were especially clumsy, with him having no idea what to do with them most of the time and feeling guilty anytime they touched Pepper’s skin. And despite his body reacting as was expected, reflexes and all that, the whole experience had left him feeling confused and somewhat dirty. He could tell Pepper felt the same, her smile tightly bound around her duty and affection for him as a brother. Nothing more. Warlock wasn’t sure if that made the whole thing better or worse. But after that experience he’d decided that, despite doing what was required of him as King in order to sire an heir, it was not something he ever needed to do again. 

But Adam’s hands, gently cupping his face, he needed. Adam’s mouth… he needed.

Pressed up against the cave wall, Warlock dared not move, allowing only his mouth to explore. Just a small taste, nothing more than that. Adam’s soft lips, the flavor of a much more delicious tongue — hints of sunshine and fresh dew — a warmth spreading slowly throughout Warlock’s body. Adam’s thumbs began softly moving back and forth along the edges of Warlock’s jaw, teasing his mouth wider, lighting him up from the inside.

But this need, he could handle. This little bit, Warlock could allow himself. Somewhere deep down, he’d known it was there, in the way his imagination always went to golden curls and green eyes, in the way, even when he was inside his future wife, the future mother of his children, all Warlock could see was Adam’s face, pained, pinned down as Warlock shoved his sword up against his neck. A brief flash of how tightly Warlock had shut his eyes to the images, how desperately he’d begged his mind to conjure something… anything else.

But it never did.

And now, with Adam’s tongue pressing against his in such a lascivious way that he thought he might faint, Warlock wondered if it wasn’t pain he’d been imagining pass over Adam’s features throughout all those years, but something else entirely. 

He inhaled sharply as Adam slotted his leg between his and pressed. 

Greed awoke inside him. But Warlock refused to surrender to it, kept his hands gripping the stone behind him, still in control of his body, not daring move. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself give in to his greed. He had a duty, to Pepper, to the crown. This was a distraction. Just a small sampling. Nothing more.

But his greed whispered to him: just a touch, one lingering graze of his fingers along Adam’s cheek, one slow carding through his golden curls, to pair with the taste. It was harmless. He ached with the need to reach out and touch Adam. Just once. He could allow himself just this once.

Opening his mouth wider, Warlock took Adam’s tongue in deeply as he grabbed his hip, gripped, and pulled it towards him as his own eager hips canted forward of their own volition. A pained sound rewarded him as Adam’s entire body trembled in response. 

That’s when Warlock lost himself to his greed.

His other hand shot up, clutching Adam’s curls as Warlock moaned hungrily into his mouth. Still gripping his hip, Warlock pulled and Adam obeyed, the two of them eagerly rutting against one another. A luscious warmth was building inside Warlock, growing sharper with every press of their hips. He turned to suck a bruise on Adam’s neck — sunshine bursting onto his tongue — desperate to hear that sound again, that pained noise from Adam that had driven him mad. This time he earned a groan as Adam’s head fell backward. Warlock gripped his hip harder, nearly grunting into the friction.

Enough.

His mind warned. But Warlock’s greed was overpowering, and he needed. His whole body was being electrocuted with a need for the man whose lips eagerly welcomed his as he made his way back to his mouth, whose hands tugged softly at his hair, and Warlock didn’t know how he could continue to live with this need, its eyes now open and ravenous inside him. He gripped Adam tighter and let out a throaty moan in frustration at his own weakness.

Stop…

His mind begged, desperately aware of how it was being silenced, as well as the price Warlock would pay if he allowed it to pass. He had to stop. If he didn’t, he’d never find his way back. Something inside him would be opened that he’d never be able to close. It was terrifying, days from his wedding and coronation, his whole life ahead of him, what he’d envisioned, what his family and his court needed from him, dissolving with every press of Adam’s lips into his skin, every hungry sound escaping his rival’s mouth, every glorious muscle tightening deep in his abdomen.

But, Warlock knew he was already lost. After this, he’d never be satisfied with that life he’d envisioned, never be fulfilled with that tepid union that awaited him, would always be bereft of feeling, of wanting, of this. Tears stung his eyes as he hooked a leg around Adam’s, whose keening response to Warlock pulling him closer drew the growing tension inside him deliciously taut.

But there was still Warlock’s clothes, his last pathetic defense against forfeiting his heart and himself to a truth he dare not admit. He was grateful for them, despite the desperate way his skin tingled with the need tear at them, to strip Adam, ripping his clothes from his body to lay them both bare, finally, open and vulnerable. To be, at last, free.

Because Warlock’s body, this cursed thing that had ruined his life for so long, that had never once obeyed him, wanted more. Lusted for more. This need to feel skin on skin was growing, scalding him from the inside out. But he dare not try, dare not ask, because his mind, weak as it was becoming with every passing second, still controlled his voice, and that jagged, sharp desire was lodged so deeply in his throat that the destruction left in the wake of pushing it forward would surely end him.

Adam’s hands wandered downward, pulling Warlock’s shirt from his trousers, gripping the clasp of his belt, and relieving Warlock the burden of putting his need into words. Warlock nearly wept in gratitude as the metal clasp fell open against his hip.

“These bloody trousers,” Adam growled against Warlock’s neck, his own need pressing into Warlock’s thigh so pointedly that he could barely keep his own trembling fingers from finding Adam’s belt. From taking him into his hand; from knowing the soft warmth of his skin, from feeling the weight of him. From needing to witness him coming undone.

It shocked him, his sudden fluency in the native tongue of his desire. The two of them had been strangers until moments ago, and yet his body knew its call, welcomed it eagerly. But his stubborn mind was still clinging desperately to reason, a last lingering thread still connecting him to his duty, holding him back. Unable to let go. He gripped Adam’s hair more tightly and bit his neck. Gasping, Adam’s hands fumbled.

“Fucking pirates and their fucking trouser strings.” Adam panted as he tugged to loosen his waistband. The trousers were as traditional as the shirt, with a strong tie that looped itself around eight times. Adam continued to tug. 

Warlock wheezed a pained laugh. “I hate you,” he mumbled shakily, eyes pressed shut as he needily rutted against Adam’s hand which continued to tug at the string. Warlock’s entire body had started to tremble beneath Adam’s touch.

“I know.” Adam’s reply was breathless as he buried his head in Warlock’s neck, continuing to fumble at his trousers. Warlock felt a smile spread on Adam’s lips as the last string snapped. Warlock froze, a paralyzing, delirious excitement coursing through his body. Adam’s trembling hand dipped into his trousers, his fingers wrapping around the length of him, causing Warlock’s head to fall back and his knees to buckle. The feel of Adam’s grip consumed him as a strangled sound tore itself from his throat.

His mind no longer protested what came next.

Adam gripped him by the hair, pinning him to the wall as he brought his lips to Warlock’s ear. “Don’t scream,” he whispered. 

Warlock bit his bottom lip, suppressing a whimper as Adam slid down with agonizing slowness, to land on his knees with a thud before taking Warlock deeply into his mouth.

Chapter Text

“Your Majesty,” Aziraphale said, bowing low despite being unable to take his eyes off the Queen. It was such a relief to see her here.

“Aziraphale. Gabriel.”

“Hello!” Gabriel waved back. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, yanking him down to join him in a bow, causing Gabriel to frown. “Who’s the angry one?” he whispered loudly.

“Pepper,” Aziraphale said, offering her a slight nod.

She remained stoic. “How do you know my name?”

Gabriel’s sideways face popped into his line of sight, still bent low. “How do you know her name?” His whispers were nearly shouts now. 

“Gabriel, do you think it could be possible for you to not speak for a bit?”

Gabriel chuckled. “Of course, not!” 

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened. “Try.”

“Okay” — Gabriel sighed — “but I’m not making any promises.”

Aziraphale returned his attention to the Queen, who studied him with the calculating gaze she always held at meetings with the Seelie. It stung to know she considered him an enemy.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” she said, waving them to stand. Aziraphale searched the feeling of the glamour as he did so. A faint ripple shook its foundation as Pepper’s eyes narrowed in his direction. The vial in his pocket swayed as he stood. He needed to tread lightly here, careful to not awaken their memories as he gained crucial information.

He straightened his waistcoat. “Your Majesty, are you the leader of the Children of the Moon?” His eyes glanced quickly to Pepper, already knowing the answer but paying the Queen the respect she deserved.

Deirdre dismissed him with a laugh. “Of course not. Pepper here has been leading that group for years. I am simply an invested supporter.”

Aziraphale tried to remain collected, despite a youthful, almost dizzying excitement stirring in him. The Queen supported a more dramatic plan. He could use this to get to Arthur, to pull together a unified Unseelie front to the forthcoming negotiations. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it sounded for a moment as though you’d confessed to treason.” He let the playfulness he felt inside find its way to his tone.

“If wanting to lead our people into a more prosperous future is treason, then so be it,” she said, continuing to inspect him despite the start of a smile forming behind her eyes.

Aziraphale felt the opportunity present itself before him, but testing their resolve would be the key. If they were going to risk Warlock’s life for this, there could be no room for half-formed plans or immature leadership. He turned his attention to Pepper. “We received your demands.”

“And I assume you have no intention of honoring them, despite seeing what you saw on your way here today?”

Clever bit of planning on her part. “Hogback… has been the tentative agreement.”

“Bullshit,” she spat.

He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Why?” 

Her eyes turned fierce. Oh, how powerful she would be as Queen. “A golden cage is still a cage. We demand equality.”

Aziraphale continued his stoic challenge. “Some of these Seelie families have lived on these lands longer than our Unseelie ancestors,” Aziraphale said, recounting Crowley’s argument from the night prior. “We cannot simply demand they return them.”

A cackle from the shadows. Aziraphale  noted an annoyed look flash across Pepper’s face as Muriel emerged. “Well, well, get a taste for a bit of that golden Seelie cock and see how quickly they turn, right Pep?”

A huff of laughter from Gabriel as he swatted Aziraphale softly on the shoulder. Aziraphale shot him a pointed look. He quieted.

“I told you to not to come,” Pepper shouted over her shoulder. 

Aziraphale watched the interaction. Any type of disloyalty could be catastrophic, destroying all of their efforts and making the whole risk to Warlock’s life not worth it. Pepper needed to prove she could keep Muriel in line.

Muriel shrugged. “Told you he was a bloody turncoat.”

“Muriel!” Pepper turned to them now. Muriel shrunk under their gaze, raising their hands. 

“Alright! I’ll be quiet. Calm down.” They leaned against a far wall. “Hey Aunty,” they tossed at the Queen.

“Hello, darling,” the Queen replied, eyes still on Aziraphale.

Pepper worked her jaw, considering her next words wisely. “Do you actually believe that? They were stolen from us, Aziraphale. Families dragged, kicking and screaming, from their homes. Children, sobbing and gripping their parent’s legs as they were herded like cattle over to live in this foul smelling shit-hole. You’ve heard the same stories I have; how can you look me in the eye and actually say that?”

Aziraphale glanced once again to Muriel, their tight expression and narrowed eyes showing how much effort it was taking to remain quiet. But quiet, they did remain. He pushed harder. “But an apology? A trial of the Royal Family? These are the demands of a foolish child not the terms of the mature rebel gro-”

“Are you familiar with he founding tenets of the Fae? Before that abomination of a Contract was drafted.”

Aziraphale was taken aback. The founding tenets were made classified during the drafting of the original Contract; no person outside of the Kings’ most trusted advisors was allowed to know its contents. This Pepper was indeed as clever as the one who was set to marry Warlock. Aziraphale looked to Muriel, who’d calmed and was watching their leader with rapt intensity. Finally allowing himself a true smile, he returned his attention to where it was owed. “Enlighten me,” he said.

“Land was never meant to be owned, held by one family or the other, only homes enchanted with the generational magic of their owners were to be claimed, while allowed to bend and move across planes and lands. This whole idea of ownership is a perversion, a poison spread outward from humanity’s greed. We were never meant to be this. The act of claiming ownership over the land in and of itself is criminal, punishable by death, and the Seelie Royal family has done this generation after generation. They must stand trial.”

“You’re bloody damn right,” Muriel shouted. A small smile spread briefly on Pepper’s face before growing hard again.

Aziraphale turned to Deirdre. “And my Queen? You agree with these demands?”

Lifting her chin, she smiled weakly. “I believe our children are owed more than another settlement. I believe the future of both Courts depends on a foundation of trust and justice and I believe exorcising the sins of the past is necessary to heal before we can move towards a more prosperous future as one Fae people.”

“So why not tell the King yourself?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely curious.

Her smile faltered. “My husband and I haven’t spoken for years beyond what’s been required of us. Once my womb proved to be barren” —her voice caught in her throat — “well, he buried himself in his work, taking on all matters of state himself.” 

Guilt gripped Aziraphale. He could almost feel her pain, knowing she carried some unnamable grief for the loss of a son she’d never known. How frightening it must be for her and Arthur to sense something so wrong in the universe but not be able to comprehend it. Aziraphale wrung his hands, knowing the loss had been so painful it had been what ripped the King and Queen apart — a love so strong it had the capacity to make even Aziraphale prickle with jealousy from time to time, questioning his choice to abandon hope for even the prospect of a life partner. He thought once again of the Courtless, of the game they were playing with everyone’s lives, of their selfishness and cruelty. 

His rage burned brighter.

Aziraphale didn’t notice Gabriel leaning toward her until it was too late. “Why are you crying?”

Pepper scrunched her nose. “What’s wrong with him?” 

“He hit his head,” Aziraphale said curtly. He’d heard enough. “My Queen, my lady, I agree with you, and I want to help.”

The Queen smiled. 

Pepper blinked. “What?”

“I am saying I would like to enlist and offer my services to your cause.”

“You gotta be shitting me!” Muriel had run to stand next to their aunt, their eyes bright with excitement. Aziraphale tried not to smile.

Pepper raised a hand to Muriel, still serious. “Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do, and I know someone  who wishes he could be here to fight with you. Who would do it regardless of the cost.” A dull ache as he thought of Warlock, hoping he was safe and knowing he would understand. “And since he can’t be, I will on his behalf.”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed, clearly testing his resolve now as he’d just tested hers. “But, what about your fiancé?”

“Let me deal with him. We have a rare opportunity to enact real change here, and we cannot let it pass with a consolation prize like Hogback Wood. Crowley is closer to our side than he realizes, he can help us garner support from the Seelie, which we will need if we are going to pull this off.”

“We already have support from the Seelie,” Deirdre admitted with a smirk. 

Aziraphale straightened up, trying to quell his excitement, this was more promising than he could have anticipated. “Might I ask who?”

Pepper and the Queen shared a look before Pepper answered. “No.”

“Alright, fair enough. But, a trial for the entire Royal family is a bridge too far, I’m afraid.” He thought of Adam. “I have it on good authority that some of them are being punished for their crimes.” 

Pepper squinted at him. “So what are you suggesting?”

“A return of the lands and an apology. It’s the best I can offer. The displaced Seelie can have Hogback. And removing Thaddeus from power. He has no right ruling over our people, no matter the season.”

“Agreed,” Pepper said all too quickly, extending her hand towards him to shake.

Aziraphale smiled. She had been prepared to concede the other asks all along. He had, quite literally, been played for a sucker. Aziraphale was so proud of her, at seeing how far she’d come in this world even without a crowned Prince at her side. Pepper was a true fighter who cared deeply for the prosperity of her people and Aziraphale was going to do everything in his power to make sure she became the leader she was always meant to be.

He took her hand in his and shook, the chill of their agreement running up his arm. He watched Pepper receive the same without wincing.

“Nice!” Gabriel shouted as Aziraphale took his hand back and straightened out his sleeves.”I’m Gabriel,” he said, extending his hand to Muriel who simply sneered at it. 

After a far too long pause, Aziraphale pushed Gabriel’s hand down as he turned to Pepper. “Excellent. Now, we have much planning to do.” He glanced at the Queen. “Having Her Majesty and the head of the Unseelie King’s Guard sends a bold message, but… we should have a back up plan. Some sort of bargaining chip in the event the Seelie need some forceful persuasion in order to agree.”

Pepper glanced at Muriel, sharing a mischievous look before looking back at Aziraphale. “Bold of you to assume we don’t already have one,” she said.

He folded his hands gently in front of him. “Oh, and what is that?”

Muriel answered. “We’re going to steal the Contract.”

Crowley plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, offering an appreciative nod to the blonde human that carried it as he took a sip. Not bad, he thought pausing when he noticed how the human shrank lower and kept their eyes locked on the floor as they scurried past to navigate the rest of the party.

Crowley frowned, which was stupid. What was happening here was nothing out of the ordinary. Thaddeus’ human servants always staffed Seelie parties; and it was custom for them to remain as unseen as possible, never making eye-contact, simply a floating hand holding a tray. But after the night before — and seeing how the Unseelie used enchantments to carry their trays, despite their stores of magic being far lower than the Seelie’s — Crowley couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. 

No.

The Courtless, he thought. Humans were their charge. Not his and not Aziraphale’s. Adam and Warlock. Getting them back was all that mattered. Crowley took another sip, swallowing both champagne as well as a bit of guilt as he turned his attention to the ballroom.

The contrast Thaddeus’ ballroom boasted against the previous night’s was stark: dazzling golden tapestries donning the Seelie crest floated inches from the ivory marble walls whose golden veining shimmered in the candlelight; tables lined the room’s perimeter, overflowing with delicacies from all over both the human world and the Faewild, with a dedicated area just for French cuisine set next to Thaddeus on the dais; the far too high ceilings were hidden beneath a web of interwoven tree branches, lush with thick, radiant leaves and accented with the brightest flowers imaginable.

Crowley blinked. The ceiling had been enchanted —  looked like Beelzebub’s work — with clusters of distinct flowers blooming above the heads of each attendee and following them throughout the room in an almost swarm-like flurry. The entire room was alive with it, with blossoms thrumming through the veins of the greenery that cascaded above. Looking up, Crowley frowned as yellow tulips danced above his head. Interesting choice, he thought, but was stopped as he spotted a head of white hair standing at the threshold.

Aziraphale wore a crimson shirt beneath a slate, double-breasted waistcoat that shimmered in the room’s glinting light. Standing with one hand in his pocket, Aziraphale took in the space, his frock coat unbuttoned and casual against the formality of the event. Crowley’s mouth was suddenly uncomfortably dry as he noticed that not one, but two buttons at the top of Aziraphale’s dress shirt had been left open, offering the slightest hint of silver chest hair with the promise of more below. 

Crowley took another sip of champagne.

Red camelias immediately appeared above Aziraphale’s head as he spotted Crowley, his eyes dragging up and down his white and gold suit before tugging at his waistcoat and walking towards him. Crowley’s stomach did a daft flip, which he frowned at. He was entirely too old for his body to react this foolishly to a pretty face. He watched Aziraphale stride over, his blue eyes locked on his as Crowley willed his nerves to still. 

“Well, well, well… you clean up nicely,” he said, summoning his most playful drawl as he extended his hand to offer Aziraphale a glass of champagne. Thankfully, the Angel took it without protest. 

“As do you,” Aziraphale said, taking a much more lingering look at Crowley’s clothing of choice. Crowley let out a nervous laugh, what had gotten into Aziraphale? The nonsense in his stomach was quickly joined by a warmth gently brushing his cheeks as Aziraphale reached forward, his soft fingers lingering slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear.

Crowley blinked, thinking back on the stiff backed, argumentative bloke that he’d sat with on his couch the night before, compared to this almost sensual specimen before him. No matter what these looks were stirring within Crowley, this was not the Aziraphale he’d parted ways with earlier that morning. Something had happened. He leaned forward to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “Angel?”

Aziraphale leaned in, his cheek hovering barely a breath above Crowley’s. “Just playing the part our people expect, is all.” Crowley swallowed roughly. This was fine. Brilliant even, given how Crowley had felt the glamour loosen faintly throughout the day. This was a good idea. 

Aziraphale pulled back, and Crowley fought the frown that threatened to appear at the sudden chill on his cheek. Right, this was a good, albeit complicated, idea. Fuck, how long had it been since Crowley had been that close to someone so handsome? How long since he’d been touched by one? Shit, his brain was shit. Absolute shit. What? A pretty face gives you one look and suddenly you can’t make hold one coherent thought in your head? 

Get it together you dumb sod.

He brought his glass to his lips and downed the entire thing in one go. Because that was another brilliant idea.

Crowley turned to find Aziraphale watching him, a smug smile on his face. What was going on? 

Aziraphale took a sip of his champagne, humming and bouncing happily on his toes before asking, “How did you fare during your meetings?”

Right. Adam. The Contract. Crowley’s nerves returned themselves to their rightful places as he cleared his throat. “Fine, honestly. Nothing to report. Thaddeus had already been preparing to forfeit Hogback, so we should be fine there.” He glanced at Aziraphale, searching for a reaction. Not that he needed one. He’d felt good about it all day, leaning into his optimism, not letting any lingering doubts enter his mind. Because it had been easy, and Crowley deserved bloody easy for once. But maybe it had felt, a bit… too easy. And with Aziraphale, here, acting like this? That optimism Crowley had forced himself to depend on to survive was starting to dwindle.

Crowley felt his defenses rise as he took another glass from a passing tray.

He turned to watch Justine as she pirouetted dramatically out of the kitchen, a tray of vol-au-vents balancing on a hand raised high above her head. A bark of laughter from the dais where Thaddeus stood, joyfully watching one of his favorite forms of entertainment as the rest of his human slaves  began to dance compulsively. Crowley tried to hide his sneer as he looked to Aziraphale, expecting an equal level of affront, a silent rage at the flagrant abuse of power. But the Unseelie simply stood stoic, holding his champagne, entirely unmoved.

Crowley’s defenses locked tightly around him.

He turned to Aziraphale. “Angel, a word in private if-”

“Foie Gras?”

Crowley turned to find Brian, holding a tray of duck liver on toast as he sloppily did what Crowley assumed was an attempt at the human dance the robot.

Crowley waved him away. “No, we’re fi-”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he plucked two from the tray. “These look scrummy.” He offered one to Crowley who declined. Brian remained in front of them, bending at his waist and continuing his sharp hinge movements with one arm while keeping the tray fixed.

Crowley felt his anger rise. Aziraphale was blatantly fucking with him, now. Ready to snatch the mini-toasts out of his hand, Crowley made to grab his arm and escort him out of the room to talk when his mind caught up with the most obvious mystery of the moment: why was Brian serving hors d'oeuvres?

“Oi, what is this?” Crowley said, snapping his fingers at him, fully aware there was no magic controlling his movements. 

Brian stood straight, looking at Aziraphale, who nodded. “Come with me,” Brian said curtly before turning towards the kitchens and walking while doing what looked like a pathetic one-handed version of the hand jive.

Aziraphale followed. Crowley gripped his arm. “Angel-”

“Fiend, please” — Aziraphale’s eyes were serious, but his voice was sincere — “come with us.” 

Crowley hesitated, looking around the room to see if anyone would notice their absence, but everyone was too busy gawking at the full-on ballroom dance performance that was happening in the center of the floor, with Jean-Claude leading Shem through a round of the Tango; the smaller man’s terrified features locked as he gripped the thorny stem of a red rose in his teeth. Turning, Crowley jogged to catch up with Aziraphale and Brian as they disappeared behind the kitchen doors.

The temperature rose at least ten degrees as Crowley entered the kitchen, the hissing and sizzling of the place hitting him as he watched Aziraphale and Brian — no longer dancing or bothering with the tray — as they march past steaming pots of soups, sizzling pans of chops as well as more than a few Michelen Star awarded chefs hunched over dishes as they meticulously painted swirls of rich sauces across plates in preparation for serving.

Crowley had been in the kitchens many times: as a boy, to steal food after banquets he wasn’t allowed to attend; as a teen with Thaddeus after returning from the material plane pissed on ale and human kisses to take what they wanted and laugh away the night; and as an adult to find Adam and his friends enchanting cakes to grow legs and fight back when someone approached them with a knife. It was a busy place, with humans toiling at stoves and ovens. Food could be enchanted into existence in the Faewild, but Thaddeus claimed he had a palette for the flavor of the labour that went into the preparation. So, these kitchens were magic-free spaces, a little pocket of the material plane where humans were expected to act as they had above. Until they exited the doors and their strings were plucked for that same King’s amusement. 

Brian opened the door to the pantry and motioned for them to enter. Aziraphale walked in with far too much confidence for Crowley’s taste. When the door closed behind him, he knew why.

The future Unseelie Queen, Pepper, stood at the center of the room, her arms crossed in front of her. Behind her was Eric and that other one, Muriel, that same mischievous look in their eyes as they lounged on a chair. Wensleydale sat on a stool in the corner, next to the Unseelie healer, Uriel and bloody Shax of all people. Gabriel rounded out the ragtag group of who-knows-whats, standing strangely goofily next to two hooded figures.

Crowley shrugged his shoulders. “What the fuck is this?” 

“A new beginning,” Pepper said flatly. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes as he turned to Aziraphale. “Honey-pie. Might I have a word with you in private?”

Aziraphale motioned to Pepper, far too calmly. Crowley’s jaw clenched. “I believe you should listen to them, first.”

Pepper stepped toward him. “We won’t settle for Hogback. We want equality, our lands returned, the wankers who stole them can have that enchanted patch of dirt. We want what we’re owed. As well as an apology from the Seelie King. Who will need to step down for the crimes he’s committed against all Fae and humans alike. We’ll settle for nothing less.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Oh will you, now?” He felt his anger rising, felt the room slowing the way it does when his emotions accessed the old magic that lived in his blood. He stared at Aziraphale before tugging him along with him in time. Aziraphale blinked as he found Crowley’s furious eyes. “What the fuck are you doing, Angel?”

“Did you not see what was going on out there?”

“That’s not our concern. We need to stay focused-”

“Tell me the King will release the human souls once this is over.”

Crowley stilled, his eyes darting to Shax who was frozen mid yawn. “Getting Adam and Warlock back is the only goal we should-”

“No.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, no?”

“The world we would have to settle for is not one I am willing to accept. Nor would it be the one Warlock would want to rule over. Even Adam deserves better.”

“Life, Aziraphale. A life is what they deserve.” He pointed towards Pepper. “That woman could be Queen! And instead, what? Grungy jeans and a life as some underground rebel leader!?” He stepped toward him, his jaw starting to hurt. “This is treason. She can die for this. An execution; public and brutal. Thaddeus would love it. It’s been years since he’s had one.” He swallowed, feeling Adam’s safety passing from his hands with every word. Aziraphale needed to see reason. “Don’t you think she could do more good sitting atop the throne beside Warlock than she could here?”

Pain flickered across Aziraphale’s eyes briefly before that same, infuriating resolve returned. He lifted his chin. “The damage would be irreversible by then. Don’t you see? This is the only way to ensure ongoing justice and prosperity. The world would be as we make it. We can’t be one Court without properly healing, or even the thrones Pepper and Warlock sit atop will be dripping in the blood of those who came before them.”

Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was nonsense. Entrapment. Without Aziraphale, he’d be helpless to get Adam back. He turned to march back towards the group. “Then let’s ask her, shall we?” he said as the weight of the air around Pepper loosened and he pulled her forward in time to meet them. “Pepper!”

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale whispered, looking between them. “You said you couldn’t control this. Did you lie to me?”

Ignoring him, Crowley marched up to her, expecting her to retreat but she stood firmly, chin raised, only slightly faltering as she glanced at the way the rest of the room was locked tight. “What if I said I could make you Queen?”

“I’d say you’d gone mad,” she scoffed. 

He felt a tremble of the glamour around them, like a twitch on the far corner of a spiderweb. “Not mad. A promise. What if I could make you Queen of the Unseelie?” Her eyes flickered in fear. 

Aziraphale was behind him at once. “Crowley, she cannot awaken.”

Crowley turned to him, teeth clenched. “You’re risking everything on a fool’s errand. Now it’s my turn.” Back to Pepper. “You know it’s true. I can’t tell you how, but the throne is within your reach. Don’t throw it all away on this.”

She frowned at him, then at Aziraphale, the veil of the glamour limping around her, nearly gathering at her feet. Aziraphale remained still. She searched inward, her face breaking. “It wouldn’t matter,” she admitted, more to herself than to them.

“What?” Crowley said impatiently.

She looked at him. “It wouldn’t matter. We” — she didn’t say Warlock’s name, but it was there, on her face, an awareness of a truth she couldn’t see, only feel —  “wouldn’t be able to do what we could do here. This has to be done. It’s the only way to truly heal.” She looked at Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head at her, an affectionate smile on his face. “No need to apologize, my dear. He would be so proud of you.”

Crowley gripped the air around her once more. Pepper stilled. “We can’t risk it, Aziraphale.”

“Why not? They’re grown men. Skilled fighters. Trained by me and you.” His eyes went to the bow slung over Crowley’s back. “Don’t think I haven’t heard tales of your expertise with that bow. And Adam may very well be a prat but, according to you, he’s also resourceful and exceedingly clever. They will make their way through that place safely. I know it. 

“We are needed here, to do this, to change our world for everyone. You said so yourself, how you’d looked away, forgotten who you were. You can’t tell me that the Seelie Court is thriving the way Thaddeus’ sickening display of power out there would lead us to believe. You can’t tell me that there is not suffering in the depths of the forest, that there are no children going hungry. Yes, lives would be lengthened if we simply joined the Courts, but at what cost? We need to change the power structure, heal our people, give everyone a fighting chance. You have the power here to make demands as well, to heal the hurt inflicted on your kin as much as I do. Let’s use this moment” — he pleaded, stepping forward — “to trust our Princes and not forfeit everyone’s future to cruelty and fear.”

Crowley shifted on his feet, swallowing hard. So angry and yet so incredibly torn. His thoughts turned to his childhood, before Thaddeus befriended him, when he ran through the woods — barefoot and alone —  hunting food with a bow and arrow that he’d stolen off a snoring Knight whose breath reeked of scotch and cigarettes. Crowley taught himself to wield his bow, sloppily handling it, his shoulders screaming as he tried to hold it high enough to get a shot off only for it to bury itself in the dirt and scare away his prey. He thought of how many time’s he’d missed, how he’d cheated — his clawing hunger teaching him to slow time in those moments, allowing him to release his arrow closer than his prey would otherwise allow. He become a hardened survivor in those woods, carved from a soft boy to something entirely different and far too calloused for his short years.

Thaddeus had used Crowley’s story at Court. Pointing to him as an example of his own generosity as well as evidence of how anyone could make it if they only try hard enough. But Crowley had always grimaced at that line of thought. 

Because it shouldn’t be this way, with the wealthy trained in padded rooms by masters in fitted coats, while the poor starved, hiding beneath the cover of trees and begging for scraps. Everyone should be able to eat and sleep comfortably, not only the fighters and the cheaters and the ones born under the right family name. The world was broken, both here and in the material plane, built on some ableist ideals that left so many to wither. But it should be better. It needed to be better.

Crowley sighed, hoping Adam could forgive him. 

He snapped his fingers upward, releasing the air as the rush of life and time collided with him and Aziraphale. He looked to Pepper, that fuzzy awareness still on her features, the glamour hugging snugly, no longer strangling her senses. 

He looked directly at her as he spoke. “I want Hogback opened for anyone who needs it; Unseelie aren’t the only Fae without homes. I want the humans not only released from servitude, but their souls freed from ownership so they can return to their afterlife, not the whatever nightmare they’re trapped in now. And I want abolition of the monarchy.” That took everyone by surprise. “Unseating Thaddeus isn’t enough. The structure of the monarchy breeds tyranny and there’s no guarantee that the one who inherits it will even want it.” He looked to Aziraphale, whose proud eyes and beaming expression softened the defenses that had been tightening their grip on him since they entered. Inhaling slowly, he turned back to Pepper. “It’s time for people-appointed leadership.” 

Gabriel looked up, goofily. “They may not like that,” he said, pointing to the still hooded figures next to him. 

They pulled their hoods off, revealing Queens Deidre and Harriet. Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Your Majesties.”

“Actually, we’re fine with that,” Deirdre said, looking to Pepper. “It’s time for a changing of the guard anyway.”

Harriet scoffed. “My husband needs to be stopped. I’ll support whatever it takes.”

A smile tugged at Crowley’s lips. He turned to Pepper. “Right, so what’s the plan, then?”

“We deliver our demands to the Kings tomorrow, during the final negotiation” — she looked to Muriel — “and steal the Contract as collateral.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, you’ll what?”

“Steal the Contract,” she said smiling.

“How?”

“It’s being transported from the Unseelie to the Seelie tonight. We will simply swap it,” Uriel said from the back corner.

“How exactly do you intend to swap it?”

“With this,” Wensleydale said, pulling out a golden scroll that looked alarmingly like the Contract.

“Where did you get that?”

“I made it, actually,” he said, smiling. “You see, my dad runs the Contract Auditor’s office, and I’ve been a bit obsessed with it since before I could remember. I’d built a to-scale model of the Contract by the time I turned twelve. This is a vast improvement. Anyone who’s ever been in its presence won’t be able to tell the difference.”

Crowley scoffed, impressed. “Where will you keep the real one once its swapped?”

“We’ll watch it,” Brian raised his hand, glancing over at Eric who nodded.

“No,” Crowley said, pointing a finger at them. “Don’t trust you lot.” He turned to find Uriel and Shax. “What about you two?”

“Can’t, we’re needed in the Court. To keep attention away from the details and argue in defense of swift resolution.”

“Pepper?”

“I am the face of the Children of the Moon. I can’t stay in hiding.”

“Ugh, fine. But Wensley, you’re with them. And Gabriel.”

“Yes, sir!” he said, standing and offering Crowley a mock salute. Crowley turned and frowned at Aziraphale, who merely shook his head.

“What’s wrong with him?” Crowley asked.

“Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

Inhaling slowly, Crowley nodded. “And what about us?”

“We,” Aziraphale took him gently by the arm — “need to be making it back to our party. Our absence won’t go unnoticed for long.”

Crowley nodded. “Right, nor the Queens. We should all get back.”

Chapter Text

“These passageways were once used quite often, actually,” the Seelie Queen said, the train of her ballgown gliding behind her as she led Aziraphale and Crowley to where they’d be able to re-enter their party relatively unnoticed. ”Mostly by human servants whose Kings valued discretion. But they were retired shortly after the Seelie were limited to one human soul per year.” 

Aziraphale had never actually heard her speak, and was shocked by the elegant strength her voice held as she recounted the history of this place. There was pride there as well, and a bit of sorrow. He wondered if she could sense her son's absence the way that he knew Deirdre could. He wondered what she would say to his risking her son’s life and forfeiting his birthright. He shook the thought from him, instead focusing on her words. “Why retired?” he asked.

“Well, the passageways’ unpredictable nature made their use too great a risk to bear.”

Aziraphale glanced warily at the dark walls around them. “Unpredictable nature?”

The Queen smiled. “They change.”

“Are they sentient?”

“Not exactly. But they were enchanted long ago to limit unsanctioned use. Riddles, tricks and deadly traps line them. Only the cleverest minds dare test them.”

Crowley scoffed subtly. Aziraphale turned to find a reminiscent smile spread on his lips. Aziraphale knew that look; he’d seen it on Deidre’s face whenever she talked about Warlock as a young boy, wistful in memory. Clearly Adam had made use of these passageways on more than one occasion. Aziraphale could feel Crowley forgetting himself, see the memory forming on his lips before he quieted him with a gentle hand on his wrist. Not here. Maybe not ever.

A somber mood settled between them at the unspoken thought.

Harriet continued, oblivious to the shift. ”It proved to be too much for the humans. So they were retired.”

“And yet, you plan to use them to swap the Contract?” Aziraphale asked, unsure as to whether  Muriel and Wensleydale were up to the challenge.

Harriet turned to face him, smiling. “Your wedding may be the catalyst for this to occur, but preparations for this operation have been ongoing for quite some time. We are more than confident in our chances,” she said with finality as she gesture toward a somehow even darker corridor. “That will send you back through a closet behind the tapestries. Wait there for a few minutes. Deirdre and I will enter first, then you shortly after. Good luck,” she said, and walked away. 

Aziraphale and Crowley made their way in silence, the somber mood still lingering as they stood in the dark, narrow closet, the clinking of glasses of sounds of laughter wafting in from just beyond the wall. A celebration… of them, and yet like these passageways that he hadn’t known existed until moments ago, there was so much going on beneath the surface. He felt the beginnings of the cold dread of regret settling in him, the nagging doubt, the tightness of worry. 

But the plan had even set, and he was a member of an ensemble now. There was no time for uncertainty. Aziraphale had his own part to play, and it involved keeping the glamour locked in place and convincing everyone in that room that he and Crowley were hopelessly in love.  

And Aziraphale would not fail them.

He blinked at the near pitch darkness, wiggling his fingers in front of his face, unable to even see those as the tendrils of Crowley’s scent perfumed the air between them. 

Well, they were quite close, weren’t they.

He cleared his throat. “Where should we say we were, if we’re asked?”

“Popped out for a quick snog,” Crowley said, far too quickly.

Aziraphale huffed a nervous laugh. “Crowley!”

He felt the Seelie shrug. “Why not? You look divine in that suit, and I’m not too shabby myself. No one will bat an eye if we snuck out for a quick shag. We’d be bloody fools not to, really.”

Aziraphale was thankful for the darkness now, feeling how a warmth was slowly growing within him, rising from his chest to settle comfortably on his cheeks. 

He had laid it on a bit thick when he’d walked in, hoping Crowley would be so taken aback that he’d allow Aziraphale to lead him to the kitchens for the meeting with Pepper without much protest. It felt wrong at the time, but also exhilarating. Crowley looked absolutely delicious in that suit of his, his narrowly fitted double breasted vest contrasted against the looseness of his golden jacket — whose color matched his eyes far too well to be an accident — came together to create a perfect ensemble for the evening. 

Aziraphale blinked. All of this: the loss of Warlock, the proximity to Crowley’s unnerving beauty, the possibility of rebuilding society as well as the immense danger they were all placing themselves in was affecting his judgment. He felt free and terrified, delirious and grief stricken. Above all, he felt reckless in a way he hadn’t in decades. A lust for justice, the yearning to fight for what’s right, the itch for vengeance all against a crippling fear of failure. It had always been there, simmering just under the surface of him; a roiling storm beneath a stoic façade that he’d been forced to don due to his proximity to the throne.

And here, now, with everything going on, Aziraphale was struggling to keep it all inside.

“You mind?” Crowley’s voice, much closer than Aziraphale had expected, had taken on a deep and gravelly tone that Aziraphale heard in his chest. He felt Crowley’s hand stop to hover just over his temple.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Do I mind, what?”

“Well” — Crowley’s breath was caressing Aziraphale’s lips now — “I’m known to be a bit handsy when I snog.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s fingers carding through his hair, tugging it gently, his nails scraping Aziraphale’s scalp before his other hand joined on the opposite side. “Just need to make it look convincing,” he whispered. Aziraphale hadn’t realized his eyes had closed until he opened them.

“Here,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s hand and running it up the nape of his neck to thread in his red locks. “Most end up doing the same back. A bit addictive, really.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s head dip back, heavy in his palm.

Light blinded them as the door was yanked open. Aziraphale quickly dropped his hand, flushing hotly with embarrassment he knew he needn’t feel. They were engaged, and this was all an act. 

Obviously.

“Crowley!?” Ligur asked, staring between them. “What are you, fifteen? Get out of there and back to your party.” He tugged at Crowley’s arm who yanked it away.

“Oi! Careful with the suit, yeah?”

“Out. Both of you. Right now!”

The room had transformed since they’d left, with the dance floor replaced by a set of round golden clothed tables. The flowers from the ceiling, still dancing above the heads of the guests, now cascaded downward to create custom centerpieces for each setting. The human slaves were busying themselves running back and forth from the kitchens. It appeared as though the soup course had just been served.

Aziraphale would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about this. Food in Odegra was rationed and, frankly, bland compared to what lay before him. The champagne from the night before had been a rare treat, but he’d never seen anything like this. A long forgotten awe bloomed inside him, thick and warm, coating him in almost childlike eagerness. He could barely keep himself from bouncing on his toes.

Crowley leaned in close. “So, Angel, possibly our Last Supper. What do you fancy?”

Aziraphale sighed wistfully. “Everything.”

Deciding to skip the seated meal, they settled for a tasting menu from the assortment of delicacies that sat atop the tables that lined the walls. It thrilled Aziraphale a bit to see how much it affected the Seelie King, with Thaddeus’ right eye twitching slightly as they walked, arm-in-arm, laughing as Crowley showed Aziraphale to his favorites. But it was their wedding and, as such, they were allowed to forego conventional etiquette for the evening. And the King would never challenge what was written, not in front of so many guests. So they were left to their own devices, with surprisingly little fanfare.

It shocked Aziraphale, how natural it felt, his arm resting snugly in Crowley’s, the way the Seelie spoke, low but confident, excited but unhurried, as though the lie were true; that a lifetime of potential lay before them, and not the deadly endeavor that awaited them just beyond the horizon. 

He let himself fall into the rhythm of it. Welcoming the heat that flushed his face every time Crowley smiled warmly at him, every time he looked at him with those bewitching, golden eyes. Aziraphale felt the heat slowly spreading within him, to his fingers, to his toes, and relished how it pushed out the cold clawing dread for what awaited them. Because Aziraphale deserved this. And so did Crowley, who seemed to have had new life breathed into him at being needed in this way, being listened to so openly. 

Aziraphale imagined how often Crowley must have been dismissed in Court, forced to bite his lip, and not say too much because of who he was and where he came from. Always playing the part of the humble and grateful vagrant who fell into the generosity of a magnanimous King. The thought made a different heat rise within Aziraphale, made his throat tighten with an anger and defensiveness that shocked him. He gripped Crowley’s arm tighter as they continued through the room.

As they moved from delicious bite to delicious bite, Aziraphale could hardly contain his excitement, barely even blushing when he spotted Crowley eyeing him intensely as he did. Aziraphale knew he could be… dramatic when something brought him joy — his body, always a tad overeager — but he’d long parted ways with caring how that was perceived. Especially tonight. He was the fiercest swordsman in the Court, the Prince’s Royal Champion, and yes, he enthusiastically took pleasure things. If anyone thought lesser of him for it, he would gladly challenge them to duel and see who remained standing.

“Angel,” a soft voice called to him. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, an affectionate smirk resting gently on his face. Crowley had clearly been watching him, his champagne glass cradled casually between two long fingers as Aziraphale had hummed through a plate of macarons. The champagne has flushed Crowley’s cheeks, making him somehow more beautiful than usual. 

Aziraphale smiled, realizing his own intake of alcohol was likely contributing to the buzzing sensation in his belly. But he didn’t care. He was having fun, and he didn’t want to think about everything else. He didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

With anyone else. 

He swallowed his last bit of dessert. “You know, I thought that name was for emergencies, only,” he teased.  He’d found that teasing Crowley was almost as delicious as the food.

Crowley’s eyes lingered on Aziraphale’s lips for a moment before moving upward. “Yeah, well, sue me. I like it,” he said, clearing his throat. Crowley turned to face the table, plucking an eclair from a tray and extending it towards Aziraphale. He made to take it. Crowley playfully pulled it away.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Hastur,” Crowley said with a slight tilt of his head towards the tables. Hastur was indeed there, glaring at the two of them while Ligur, his arm slung over Hastur’s shoulders, spoke drunkenly into his ear.

Aziraphale felt himself brighten. Pettiness towards someone like Hastur was also a delicious delight.“Oh dear, he seems to be in quite a state.”

“Wanker hates everything about me. Always has. And your people. So here” — he slowly moved the eclair towards Aziraphale’s mouth, a nearly lascivious smirk on his face — “let’s give him a show, yeah?”

Something inside Aziraphale was cracking. That resolve he’d built up over so many years, shuttering his rage from the world, replacing it with a steely armour, a stern eyebrow, a pursing of the lips. It was all he was allowed, now that he was at the King’s side. Recklessness and passion were not befitting a member of the Unseelie Court.

It hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when feeling was purpose. When the Unseelie lived fiercely, embracing their passions and desires openly. It was the molten core of their people, running hot in the blood in their veins. But time passed, magic dimmed, life flickered, and the need for order reigned. But the instinct was always there in every Unseelie, and not the superficial hedonistic pleasures the Seelie touted, but the need to live with intensity, boldly, unrepentant in one’s truth. 

The Seelie loved to twist it for their narrative, make the Unseelie seem unfit for leadership, less worthy of respect. Too emotional, too reckless, too carnal. 

The muscle memory of Aziraphale’s self-repression growled. He wanted to pull away, to gently lower Crowley’s hand. Lavishing on his own while he ate was one thing, being affected while fed by Crowley, in this public space, was another. Readying his protest, Aziraphale glanced briefly at Hastur, who was now joined by Ligur, matching scowls of disgust on their faces. 

That’s when Aziraphale’s recklessness broke through his armour.

Without a word, Aziraphale leaned forward, parting his lips slowly as Crowley gently nudged the pastry towards him. His face flashed hot as he waited. Silly, he thought. It was just a pastry. But Crowley’s hungry eyes were locked on his, the flush of his cheeks darkening as he dragged his own tongue along his bottom lip while bringing the pastry closer, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel that this was the most scandalous thing he’d ever done. Leaning forward, he closed his eyes, took the dessert into his mouth and bit down, letting a low and decadent moan rumble up his chest at the taste. It was absolutely divine.

“Ah, fuck.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes to see Crowley reaching for a napkin, the hand still holding the eclair, covered in cream that had apparently burst through the other side.

“Should really think through the logistics next time,” he joked as he wiped his fingers clean. He glanced up at Aziraphale, smiling as he raised a finger toward him. “Angel, you got a”— he took his thumb, gently wiped a bit of cream off the corner of Aziraphale’s lips, before bringing it back to his own mouth and licking it clean — “all better, now," he said, swallowing.

A scraping of a chair against the floor. Hastur was in front of them in an instant.

Crowley’s eyes flashed excitedly but didn’t leave Aziraphale’s. “Sorry, Hastur. Sort of busy here,” he drawled, now reaching for a cream puff from the table.

“You got some bloody nerve.”

At that, Crowley did looked at him. “Do I?”

“Yes, this… this unnatural, disgusting” — Hastur was sputtering, spit nearly trickling down his mouth — “you can’t just expect us to stand and watch-”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I expect you to do, you prejudiced prick. I’m feeding my fiancé here. If you can’t handle that, get the fuck out of my sight.”

Stepping toward him, Hastur slapped the cream puff out of Crowley’s hand, crowding him towards the table.

Aziraphale’s hand was on the Duke’s chest before he realized it. “Not sure you want to make a scene with us right now,” he tutted, his other hand resting gently on his hilt.

Hastur’s eyes glanced at Aziraphale’s sword before returning to his face. “Fuck you,” he spat. He looked back at Crowley. “And you. Something about this whole thing hasn’t felt right to me from the start, you know that?”

Aziraphale blinked, pulling his focus to the glamour which he’d lost track of amongst all the food and drink distracting him. He looked to Crowley. He felt it as well.

Aziraphale's hand moved from his hilt to dip into his pocket, clasping the potion vial and pulling it out. He searched up and down the table for where to put it, for a way to get Hastur to ingest it before he drew too much attention and spread the weakening of the glamour outward. Spotting what was in Aziraphale's hand, Crowley frowned before Hastur gripped him by the lapels and tugged him upright. 

The glamour flickered.

Aziraphale needed to act quickly. He grabbed a glass of champagne. Pouring enough into the drink and tossing it in Hastur’s face was his best bet.

“Hastur!” Thaddeus boomed from the other side of the room. “Behave yourself in the presence of our guests.”

Hastur paled at the King’s tone, and Ligur was on him, gripping his arms and pulling him off Crowley as Aziraphale discretely tucked the vial back in his pocket.

Hastur pointed a finger at Crowley. “This isn’t over.” 

Crowley straightened out his jacket as the Dukes walked away. “What was that?”

“I believe he didn’t like us canoodling in front of hi-”

“No, not that. That.” He pointed to Aziraphale’s pocket. “Is that a potion?”

Aziraphale took the vial once again out of his pocket. “Ah, yes well, you saw Gabriel-”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You did that to him!?”

Aziraphale felt himself smile. “Unfortunately, no. The Courtless. It’s the only way to reinforce the glamour once it’s broken. Hastur seems close. We need to keep an eye on him.”

Frowning, Crowley took the vial from Aziraphale’s hands to inspect it. “Clever trick. Is it permanent?”

“Not sure.”

Crowley glanced at him, that playful mischief brightening his eyes once again. “Do you want it to be?”

Aziraphale chuckled, a bit embarrassed. “Gabriel is always insufferable but… no comment.”

Crowley smiled, warm, unguarded, honest. That buzzing inside Aziraphale was back, warmer now, silken and soft. Aziraphale breathed into it. It was a gift, this feeling, not something he’d felt in so many years, and something he’d thought was reserved only for his youth. Infatuation — which was what this was, there was no longer a point in denying it — had a tendency to turn brittle as one aged. Transactional, in some ways. The mystery of intimacy, gone. The awareness that behind its warm glow and addictive touch was a harder, colder, reality. And heartbreak, for him at least, had always lurked in its shadows. This innocent, playful feeling that was bubbling up within him as his words danced in the air with Crowley’s, was woefully finite.

Guilt flickered inside him. He thought of Warlock, of how hardened the Prince had become as he’d grown, of the kind smile that spread on his face whenever he saw his future wife but also the rigid way his back straightened whenever they had to touch or stand side by side. Warlock had been robbed of so many things: innocence, a childhood, his crown and, maybe most tragically, this feeling that Aziraphale was quickly growing desperately possessive of. Grief joined his guilt as he remembered how he’d done that to Warlock, in the name of love for both the Prince and their people, but Aziraphale had stolen so much light from him nonetheless. The somber mood he’d had been running from all evening from had settled itself back onto his shoulders; its weight threatening to crush him.

Crowley’s eyes had grown soft as he’d watched Aziraphale, an equal solemnity settling in him as the guests began to clear the ballroom. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, it would appear it’s time for us to head back to yours.”

“How ‘bout yours tonight? Safer that way. No way to claim we were near what’s” — he glanced back at the Queens who were leaving with their husbands — “you know.”

Ah, yes. The finer details of what awaited them crashed into him. Aziraphale took a last sip of wine before he placed it down on the table. “If you’d like, that’d be fine.” His voice caught, his throat suddenly tight. Crowley nodded and let Aziraphale escort him out of the ballroom.

✨✨✨

As they walked in silence, Aziraphale tried not to think about everything at stake. At how much risk those young people were in carrying out this plan. If they were caught, if any of them were found, they would all be brutally and publicly executed, the merging of the courts would be cancelled, and Warlock and Adam, lost forever. 

But it was worth it. They were doing the right thing. The good thing. What all Fae deserved.

Aziraphale exhaled slowly, feeling Crowley gently squeeze his hand, a comforting gesture that warmed his chest. Aziraphale chuckled softly. He hadn’t realized they were even holding hands.

Arriving at his doorway, it was as though Aziraphale woke to the realization that Crowley had never before seen an Unseelie’s quarters, in the same way that he hadn’t seen a Seelie’s the night prior. Childish embarrassment stirred in him as he thought about how Crowley would respond to the cold cave walls, to its echoes, to the stale smell that lingered throughout all of Odegra. And as though the thought had never occurred to him, Aziraphale wondered if he always smelled like that, if the odour of old water was what welcomed Crowley when they stood closely together, if he suppressed scrunching his nose out of some sort of compulsive politeness that was engrained in all Seelie from a young age.

No.

He was done with that. No more guilt for who he was, for the situation he and his people were forced into. No more denying himself his emotions, his rage, for the benefit of others. His armour had cracked earlier, and he would be damned if he was going to allow childish insecurities be what spilled forth. And yet, his hand lay still on the doorknob, unmoving until gentle fingers found them, gripped and whispered, “Here Angel, let me,” as they turned it open together. 

They stepped into the room and let the door close behind them.

There was no wine, no rose petals, no nightingales or romantically dim lighting. Just a black couch, torches on the bare stone walls, and a singular bed in the barren corner.

“This is how members of Arthur's Court live in Odegra?” There was no pity in his voice. Aziraphale was grateful.

“Arthur prides himself on not giving those closest to him special treatment,” Aziraphale said proudly. Because he was proud of his friend, and his King, and how he treated members of his Court as he treated everyone else. But Aziraphale’s shoulders were beginning to slump in spite of himself, the weight of the last few days, finally taking its toll.

Noticing, Crowley shifted on his feet. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” Crowley said, removing his jacket. “We should get some rest.” He walked towards the couch.

Aziraphale’s chest ached as he watched him walk away. That exciting feeling they’d shared between them in the ballroom, darkened in this room by life’s weight and the burden of what tomorrow could bring. He should feel optimistic, excited by the prospect of a new world, but all Aziraphale could feel was regret. For mistakes he’d made, chances he’d not taken, and lies he’d told others as well as himself in the name of duty. But he didn’t want it. This could be his last night alive. An execution could await him tomorrow, and he didn’t want to spend his last living hours feeling regret for who life and circumstance had forced him to be.

So he wouldn’t.

“You can have the bed,” Aziraphale said, not paying his doubts any mind.

“Nah, couch’s fine.”

“With me,” he finished.

Crowley stilled. 

More regret. Aziraphale wrestled it away. “I would like you to join me, Crowley, in my bed tonight.” He paused, his voice dropping as he added, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Crowley swallowed slowly. “All right.”

The air in the room had shifted, thickened with the prospect of what was to come as Aziraphale slowly took off his jacket. The buzzing was back, a low thrum inside him, an ache for distraction and closeness, a need to quiet his mind. To forget what awaited them, and simply feel. Crowley’s eyes remained locked on Aziraphale as he sat down, carefully removing his shoes and placing them neatly beneath the bed when Aziraphale walked to stand before him. Crowley’s chin tilted upward, his golden eyes lifting — soft and open and vulnerable — to meet Aziraphale’s.

Crowley shifted, a slight push forward allowing for his knees hover just on the inside of Aziraphale’s. There was a tentativeness to his movements, a tilting of his knees outward, but not daring touch, a reverent tremble in his fingers as he lifted them to sit softly on Aziraphale’s belt. Crowley’s confident swagger was gone, stripped bare, leaving only an open, and vulnerable, and achingly beautiful being before Aziraphale to gaze upon.

Aziraphale felt the buzzing inside him morph, gathering in on itself to twist into a sharpened blade that was slowly pressing itself into his chest, slicing him open as the realization of how lonely he was truly dawned on him.

It had been years since he’d shared his bed with someone — so busy with Warlock and the King. And here, now, with Crowley smelling of sunshine and dew, scared and clearly wanting Aziraphale as much as he wanted him, Aziraphale longed to taste his lips, to caress his fingers on his skin, to feel his back arch and hear his breath hitch. To be lovers. Aziraphale needed it, to forget the weight of everything that sit on their shoulders, to embrace what he was, an Unseelie, burning with feeling, with rage, with passion.

Aziraphale stepped forward until Crowley’s knees bumped up against his inner thighs. The fingers resting on his belt twitched.

“May I kiss you?” Aziraphale asked softly. 

Crowley said nothing as he slid his hands behind Aziraphale’s thighs and pulled forward, bending Aziraphale’s legs at the knees and leading him to kneel on the bed. Aziraphale slid his hands up into Crowley’s red hair as their foreheads met one another. They sat there, breathing deeply, basking in the scent of one another, and despite Aziraphale’s childish fears, Crowley did not pull away at the stale smell, simply rested his hands gently on Aziraphale’s thighs, his thumbs moving  rhythmically up and down, igniting Aziraphale’s skin even through his trousers. 

His body was so eager for the touch he had to force himself to remain still. 

And then Crowley was tilting his chin upward, grazing his nose against Aziraphale’s, ticking his mouth with his breath before their lips softly met. A burst of sunshine and the sound of summer rain flooded Aziraphale as Crowley’s hands tightened on his thighs, moving upward, gripping where Aziraphale’s legs met his hips. A needy whimper trembled its way out of his lips as Crowley dipped his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. It was the same tongue he had watched all night, gliding along Crowley’s lips, sticking out from behind his teeth when he smiled, the same tongue he’d used to form the slow and patient explanations to Aziraphale’s nearly incessant questions about the food.

Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing his own tongue into Crowley’s mouth, waiting for the blade in his chest to soften, for the ache to melt, to slide lower, to shift into the familiar pooling heat in his abdomen that he yearned for. For the moment in which instinct and desire overwhelmed him, wrenched control of his thoughts from his grasp, and forced him to forget. But the blade stuck. Sharp and painful at the thought of Crowley’s kindness, at the terror that kindness awoke in him, of losing it, of losing Warlock, Arthur… everything. There was so much at stake, and the blade stuck to it, stubbornly immovable.

No.

This was not how this was supposed to go. Aziraphale growled, low and angry, taking his teeth and biting Crowley’s bottom lip, hoping the sound it would tease would dislodge the blade. Crowley gasped, his back arching and Aziraphale felt the hardness forming in the Seelie’s trousers. He leaned in, tilted his hips forward, hoping to meet Crowley’s erection with his own eagerness; that surely would do it. This man laying under him, open and ready, the most beautiful thing Aziraphale ever held in his hands. Surely this would unshackle him and allow him to finally forget.

And yet the blade remained, his chest somehow tightening around it, holding it in place in spite of itself; his own traitorous body refusing to let go.

Aziraphale’s eyes stung, enraged and ashamed. Every thought he’d run away from crashed into him like a torrent, every fear, every doubt, every terrifying hope he dare not have, all colliding inside him at once, the burden of it all. The guilt, suffocating him. 

It was too much.

Aziraphale didn’t remember pushing off Crowley. He didn’t remember dropping his hands from Crowley’s hair or even walking away from the bed. But when he came to, he was sitting on the couch, alone, his wet face buried in his hands.

The cushions sagged as Crowley sat beside him. Aziraphale felt himself tense away. He was so mortified he thought he might actually die.

“Angel…”

He shook his head from behind his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, broken. He could sense Crowley’s hand hovering just above his shoulder before returning to the couch. “I just… I can’t,” he sobbed. So angry at himself, for being so foolish, so cowardly, for believing running away and hiding was what he needed in this moment. For behaving like a child who would rather bury himself in a warm body than honour the moment before him. 

But that person was lost to time, and no matter how much these last few days have reacquainted him with who he had once been, Aziraphale was no longer that person. And he had to respect that.

Crowley scooted over, hands clasped in his lap, close but still not touching. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Aziraphale let out a pained laugh, finally lifting his face from his hands as he spoke to the far wall. “I invited you into my bed and am now sobbing on my couch. I think I have a bit to apologize for.”

“You think you’re the first bloke I made cry in bed?” Crowley quipped, hitting him lightly with his shoulder.

Huffing, Aziraphale shrugged as he looked at Crowley. His eyes were warm with a touch of worry, that kindness that had disarmed Aziraphale so wholly, still there. Aziraphale’s chest ached at the sight of him. “I am sorry.”

“Nah,” Crowley said, leaning back. “Was a bad idea anyway. Think we’re both so keyed up we’d not have made it very far.” He glanced down at his own crotch, a rigid erection still present, and over to Aziraphale’s, whose infuriating body had finally decided to follow instructions. “We’re not kids anymore,” he said, his voice turning soft as his eyes moved back up to meet Aziraphale’s. “And I don’t mind waiting for the right time.”

Aziraphale felt tears sting his eyes once more. “And you don’t think sacrificing our godsons’ lives and leading innocent youths into an execution is the right time?”

Crowley smiled softly, leaning forward to wipe a tear from Aziraphale’s cheek. “First of all, none of that is going to happen.” Aziraphale scoffed, trying to pull away but Crowley held him there with a gentle hand on his cheek. An aching warmth bloomed beneath Crowley’s steadying palm. “And second of all, no, I don’t.” Crowley’s eyebrows pinched together softly, his golden eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face, taking him in as though seeing him for the first time. “Look at you, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered. 

Crowley’s words caused the warmth to thicken and spread down into Aziraphale’s throat, loosening a tightness that had settled there. He swallowed into it Crowley continued. “Always have been. I would be an absolute fool to want to rush this with you.” Crowley leaned forward, closing his eyes as he pressed their foreheads together and sighed longingly. “I’ll wait for you as long as you need, Angel.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, sharing the stillness and closeness with Crowley, feeling the warmth from his kindness, his touch, cause the blade to finally buckle and melt away. For the first time that evening, Aziraphale's thoughts grew surprisingly calm.

“I will say,” Crowley said, eventually breaking the silence, ”you are quite the snogger.” 

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. 

“I’m serious. Much more of that and it would have been the eclair all over again.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes to find Crowley’s playfully locked on his. “Fiend,” he teased, interlacing his fingers with Crowley’s hand that rested on the couch. Aziraphale stared at them as he spoke. “Would you still lie with me tonight?”

Crowley’s thumb caressed his. “Anything you want, Angel.”

They stood and undressed. Aziraphale tried not to stare as Crowley took off his shirt and trousers, and instead stole quick glances as he watched him crawl under the covers in nothing but his pants. Blushing, Aziraphale did the same. His hands trembled as he wrapped his arms around Crowley’s bare skin.

“You’re warm,” Crowley sighed, the seductive tendrils of sleep dragging his voice lower as he settled himself snugly in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Warm?”

“Yeah. Warmer than Seelie at least. Like being near a fire. A bit ironic given you lot are the Winter Court, and all.”

Aziraphale’s head lay on his chest. A soothing current of electricity thrummed through him where their skin touched. “Well, goes to show maybe there’s more we don’t know about the other than we realize.”

Crowley’s chest shook in laughter. He took Aziraphale’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it gently. “Can’t wait to learn everything else.”

Silence wrapped itself around them as the rhythm of their breathing lulled Aziraphale into an almost trance-like state. 

The blade was entirely gone now, leaving behind only a dull ache and pit of dread that Aziraphale now knew he could not shed. Would not shed. He needed the weight of this burden, needed to remember what and who was at stake. Running through this blindly, trying to hide from what awaited him, would only result in disaster, in hasty decisions, in sacrifices that needn’t be made that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He had the gift of time and experience behind him, the advantage of a life lived, of trials surpassed, of a heart broken and mended over and over again. Of mistakes, and regrets. He’d done all of that, and yet still here he stood. He needn’t allow the ghosts of his past rule him now, not when there was so much at stake. He could honour them, honour his life, use them to forge his strength and empower him to aid Pepper to lead everyone toward a better future. This wasn’t his battle to win; he wasn’t leading this charge. He was simply a soldier in this fight, playing a role only he, with his wisdom and experience, could. And he would face the weight of this moment with eyes open.

Aziraphale’s chest heaved.

“I’m scared,” he whispered without thinking. And maybe that was it. Expressing that truth, that he was terrified of losing, not for himself, but for everyone else. That he sought not glory, or honour, but peace and the company of the people he loved in a world they all deserved to inhabit. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and would not go through this experience as though he were. He was scared, and he would embrace that fear at every point throughout this.

Crowley sighed, wrapping his arms more tightly around him. “Me too, Angel.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, listening for the signature howls that plagued the caves of Odegra every night to woo him to sleep. Some believed the howling was spirits of dead Unseelie, some believed it to be ominous prophecies of trials to come, but Aziraphale noted how quiet the halls were as his eyes dipped slowly shut, his body feeling unexpectedly at home in Crowley’s arms.

Chapter Text

Adam had never watched anyone sleep before. 

Sure, he’d had opportunities. On more than one occasion he’d ended up too drunk, passed out in someone else’s bed or, even worse, they’d fallen asleep in his. Not that they were ever too drunk for what came before. It had been Crowley’s sixteenth birthday gift, teaching Adam how to sober someone up or, at least, suppress the drunkenness for a bit before things got too far along. Adam remembered Crowley stumbling into his room, completely pissed and demanding Adam sober him up or he’d refuse to leave. It took a few tries, some of which involved Adam accidentally taking Crowley’s drunkenness on himself and nearly vomiting, before he got it right. But once he’d mastered it, it was a trick Adam used often: snapping whoever he was with sober, checking in, making sure they wanted to do what they were about to do, and then snapping them both back into fuzzy giddiness before carrying on. So there had been many instances in which there had been a gorgeous being in his bed come morning. 

But still, Adam had never watched them sleep. He thought that was a farce, something invented for books or bad romantic comedies that he’d never waste his time watching (except for the few times when the theater in Tadfield was being particularly atrocious and offered nothing else on his birthday. But he never liked them and would never, ever admit to anyone that he’d actually watched them).

So the fact that he was staring at Warlock, watching his back slowly rise up and down with his breath, noting his hair and how, for the first time, it flopped messily over his face which nuzzled itself adorably into the crook of his elbow, was… concerning. Except Adam wasn’t concerned. For the first time since he could remember, he felt entirely peaceful.

Because Adam had come so close to losing him. 

Everything had happened so fast, the pull of his power so blinding, that Adam hadn’t realized what was happening until the tar that drenched the floor surrounding his bow began to drown him. The stuff pulsed, cold and slick, as it slid up his arms and toward his face, gripping tighter and slowing his own heart rate down to match its pace, as though his body was being absorbed into it. For a fleeting moment, Adam felt the forest around him as clearly as he’d felt it in the Faewild, its eyes open in quickly vanishing hope as the darkness crept closer and closer to consuming his slowing heart. 

An excited shiver rippled through the sludge, shocking him and causing Adam to look up and watch the flame of Warlock’s sword get eaten to nothing as his blade seemed to almost bend beneath an invisible weight. Adam could actually feel the tar’s anticipation grow, as though it were actually enjoying what it was doing to the two of them. That’s when the trap became clear: this place, these fungi, stole power, twisted it, turned it sick and rotten and used it to consume everything it could. Its grip tightened around Adam’s lungs as he watched it leech Warlock more and more of his power.

Panic awoke in him as he thought through what would come next. The place would consume them both, ignite the tar with their Seelie and Unseelie power and spread it across the whole of the Faedark. Every soul would be consumed. Everything destroyed. It was poetic, in a way: the curse of Adam’s family finally coming full circle, his blood both damning the souls to this prison while also serving as the final piece needed to destroy them entirely.

The connection between the tar and him grew as it pulsated with increasing power, and Adam could feel its tendrils growing, could almost see them stretching to breach the barrier between worlds, the curse eager and hungry for the teeming life of the Faewild and beyond. Terror gripped him as he realized their fate would be far worse than death; it would be living on in this curse as it spread and destroyed everything they loved. Jagged claws gripped his hair and shoved his face deep into the black.

Adam fought, but he was exhausted, his human body convulsing without air, his bones nearly breaking at the effort. And then Warlock’s terrified scream reached his ears, pained and broken, and something in Adam snapped.

Because Warlock hadn’t wanted to come; was only there to protect Adam. And Adam had sworn he would get him home. He refused to be the reason Warlock died today.

Adam didn’t know what he grabbed, maybe a gremlin, or a skeleton buried deep in the tar, but Adam shoved upward so sharply not even the pop and blinding pain in his shoulder could stop him. Somehow he knew that all he needed was to reach, that the faintest touch of his skin to his bow would be enough. And then his finger grazed the warm gold, and his Seelie power, bright and electric, flooded him in a violent swell.

Crowley had refused to teach Adam how to use his bow and a sword at the same time, despite his incessant begging. Adam had thought it looked wicked cool, but Crowley felt it unnecessarily flashy. “A sword or a bow; life would not require the use of both, and a true marksman did not seek to show off.”

But Adam did; Adam unapologetically loved showing off. It was one thing he’d inherited from his father that he thought he’d never be rid of. So when the sword called to him, he let instinct guide him to the hilt, let the Unseelie fire consume not only the blade but also his entire body, not at all fearing what would happen to him when the flame touched his skin. His connection to the forest quickly returned, the trees’ eyes open in hope, in desperation for the dark magic that had leeched itself into the very roots of the place to be excised. So Adam ignited his arrows in Unseelie magic, consumed the flame with his own enchantments and swept through the structure, feeling the darkness recoil in his very presence. 

The forest woke as the darkness waned, green returning to the grass and the leaves, a relieved sigh emanating from the entire place as the darkness from the structure slowly withered and die. Adam could still feel it now; a new world. But Odegra remained the same. When he thought about it, where the rest of the forest felt solid, the mountain felt thin, like mist, untouchable by anyone. Which meant he and Warlock hadn’t yet passed whatever test they’d been sent here to pass. Under different circumstances, that would have upset Adam given how sure he’d been that getting his powers was the key. But, after last night, he was surprisingly calm about the prospect of staying here a bit longer. 

So Adam would unapologetically watch Warlock sleep and not worry about what that meant for himself or his heart. Because he thought he’d lost him. Thought it had been his own recklessness that would have caused it. And yet, somehow, here Warlock was, peaceful and alive and gorgeous and Adam would stare at him for as long as he bloody well pleased. Adam heard himself sigh as he shifted into the comforting warmth inside his chest.

And then Warlock’s eyes were open, and Adam felt like a complete idiot.

“Holy shit!” Warlock flinched back, nearly hitting his head on the cave wall.

Adam’s cheeks burned. “Sorry!” He raised his hands towards him. “Yeah… that was… sorry.”

Warlock rolled over, rubbing his face in his hands. “Shit, Adam.” His voice was ragged with sleep. It was adorable. Warlock dropped his hands and frowned at him. “How long have you been awake?”

Adam blinked. “Errr…”

“Adam, you did sleep, didn’t you?”

He should lie. Lying would be good here. 

“No.”

Smooth.

“Adam…” Warlock groaned

“I wasn’t tired.” That was the truth. He pointed towards the bow. “Either that or” — he looked at Warlock whose cheeks were suddenly bright pink, and looked away before his could match—“something else. But I was just too wired. Who knows?” — he joked — “I might not actually need it anymore.”

Warlock shook his head. “No, you really should sleep.”

“It’s not like you ever slept.” The words fell from his mouth before he realized it. Warlock’s face turned pinker.

Too much. That might have been too much. Fuck, was Adam always this awkward? 

“No, I guess not,” was all Warlock said in reply. He appeared to be trying to look anywhere but directly at Adam.

Awkward. This was getting awkward. Adam didn’t want it to be awkward. He should say something about it. They hadn’t taken time to talk… after. They were furious and then it was frantic and then they were lying on his bed, wrapped in one another and staring at the ceiling. Neither of them had said a thing. And Adam knew Warlock well enough to know he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it. up. So it was up to him. And now was the time. To be mature. Because talking about this stuff was what mature adults did.

“So” — Adam swallowed, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck — “last night…”

Warlock broke in. “Was a mist-”

“Was really fun.” Adam finished before blinking. “Wait, did you say a mistake?”

He felt his face warming, his skin prickling with doubt. Was it possible for him to have read the entire situation so incorrectly? No. Adam had always had a good handle when people were into him. And Warlock, by anyone’s standards, had been very, very into him the night before. Adam was sure of it.

But that didn’t stop his hands from trembling. He hoped Warlock wouldn’t notice, but his terrified blue eyes locked on them, forcing Adam to shove his hands under his own elbows to save his pride. His confidence was evaporating, quickly. Did Adam even know how to talk to someone he really cared about, or had he hidden his entire life in safe bodies for fear of whatever this was? A faint ringing was growing louder in his ears.

Shaking his head, Warlock shut his eyes. “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean” — he pressed his lips together, breathing slowly. Very into him. That’s what this had to be. Or maybe that’s what Adam needed this to be. He wasn’t entirely new to rejection. As Prince, one doesn’t get rejected often, but he had had to send a few girls home after their sober stint, needing to return to his room alone with nothing but his nagging thoughts — the absolute worst kind of company. But those had been more inconveniences than anything else. Because there were always more women, more hands to hold, more lips to kiss. None of them stood out to him as different from the rest.

But Adam had quickly realized that he cared for Warlock, deeply. That he wanted him… in his bed, again. Wanted Warlock to want him, again. More than Adam had wanted anything before. And that… was concerning given how pained Warlock looked right now. Adam had to fight himself to remain on the bed beside him.

Because this was what Adam’s dad had warned him about. What he’d taught Adam — probably the only thing he’d ever taught him. Don’t care. Don’t love. Never let people know what’s inside your heart. But with Warlock, he wanted to be open and honest and shed all that bullshit. But maybe his dad had been right about this.

Warlock opened his eyes. “I had fun last night, too.”

Adam exhaled sharply, the relief too quick to play it off as cool. Warlock noticed, his darkening eyes dropping to Adam’s lips before returning to hold his gaze. “I’m glad,” Adam sighed. The words sounded clumsy coming from his mouth, but saying what he was feeling would have been even worse.

Warlock nodded. Adam wondered if his face would ever return to its normal color.

“And,” Adam continued, worrying that if he thought too much he’d never get the words out — “I know you’re getting married.” Warlock’s eyes dropped to the space between them. Adam rushed forward before he lost his nerve. “And I don’t want to complicate things for you, but, if you were willing, I’d very much like to do it again.”

Warlock’s eyes locked with his. It was apparently his turn to release a shaky breath as he said, “Me too.” Adam’s whole body was going increasingly warm. He wanted to hold onto the feeling forever.  Warlock smiled briefly before looking confused. “Wait, did you mean now?”

“No!” — Adam backed away from him — “Not now.” He paused, noting how Warlock’s eyes had grown dark. Adam flushed hot. “I mean, I could… now, if you wanted. But” — he shook his head —  “that’s not what I meant. I meant another time. Any time. Whenever you wanted to, really.” He swallowed. “I had a lot of fun,” he said, his own vulnerability nearly making him grimace. He’d never coveted the Unseelie’s ability to possess animals before this moment, because if he could, Adam would enter a turtle’s mind, crawl into its shell, and never leave.

Warlock smiled softly. “Okay.” Their gazes lingered on one another for a moment before he sobered, breaking off and glancing again down at the bed. “But, you mentioned Pepper…” 

Adam’s stomach turned to stone. This was fine. He’d expected it. Expected Warlock to set the ground rules, to make it exceedingly clear what this was versus his betrothal. Adam knew what a good time was — everything he’d experienced up until this point had been a good time — and no matter how much emotional importance he may have inadvertently placed on it as he watched Warlock sleep throughout the night, that’s what this was and, as soon as they returned, it would be over. 

It was what Adam deserved really, for the way he’d treated every courtship in his life like some sort of game. Now, Adam took great care to make sure no one left his company less than satisfied (he had a carefully curated reputation to uphold), but that had been for entirely selfish reasons. But this, here, with Warlock, whatever it was or would become, was enough. Had to be enough. Because Adam didn’t know if he could stand to be near him and not be able to touch him like he had the night before. It would be impossible without a marriage and an entire Kingdom between them.

“Pepper’s complicated,” Warlock sighed. “I love her. I do.”  Adam hands gripped his arms, finally allowing himself to admit that it had been jealousy that had twisted inside him every time Warlock had mentioned his fiancé. This time, Warlock thankfully didn’t notice. “She’s my best friend and the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. But, not…” he stopped, locking Adam with his blue eyes once more. Adam understood and smiled softly despite the somber conversation.

He blinked, catching himself. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t be smiling-”

“No. It’s okay. It’s just, not like that. To my father’s dismay, it never has been. Not for me.”

Adam nodded, finding the seriousness in Warlock’s admission. It didn’t matter in Fae society who anyone took to bed. As long as there was an agreement, and both parties were of consenting age and amenable, it didn’t matter who or what they were. Except for the Royals. The Royals had a duty to rule, to produce heirs, and serve as a symbol of unity and balance for their Courts. The throne came with incredible power and wealth, and this was its one cost. There were rumors, of Adam’s ancestors taking lovers here and there, but it was always hushed and never interfered with the relationship between the King and Queen. An ongoing lover, that was a distraction. Unbecoming of someone seated on the throne.

Now, Adam had made peace with this. Had enjoyed the company of women and had shied away from the company of others, not because he wasn’t interested, but simply because it felt easier that way. He’d always been extremely curious in what it could be like with a man, in exploring the differences — and he could never deny a lingering glance at a handsome face that crossed his path — but it felt like something he’d have to be content with never experiencing. This was the one thing Adam hadn’t fucked up yet in his dad’s eyes. And, up until now, he'd not really felt a need to.

But Warlock was different; had always been different. From the first time he stared at Adam to last night, Warlock had always had an effect on him that had felt threatening for Adam to submit to. He remembered the way his dad looked at him that first day, and the shock and shame Adam had felt to see his disappointment. Maybe his dad had seen something between them that they were too young to understand.

Adam looked back at Warlock, another truth he shouldn’t share spilling from him. “I think I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

Another shaky breath in reply. “Me too,” Warlock admitted, shrugging and laughing weakly as he pressed his hands into his face. Adam wanted very much to reach out, to touch him, to kiss him, but Warlock’s laughter only grew louder, and soon Adam was overcome with his own fit at the stupidity of the whole thing. Because it was absurd, how obvious their mutual attraction had been for so long, how utterly clueless they’d both been to one another. The bickering and the feigned competitiveness, the excitement and anticipation they’d each struggled to hide every time they were in the other’s presence, all just a pathetic veil for their true feelings. Adam couldn’t stop laughing they were so ridiculous. It was the delirious kind of laughter that only came from an invisible weight being lifted and the giddy rush of freedom that followed. What absolute morons they’d been. 

Adam had to wipe tears from his eyes when they finally did stop.

He inhaled deeply. “Wow, yeah, so” — he looked around the cave for his clothes, spotted them in a pile in the corner, next to Warlock’s. He swallowed against the memory of how they’d gotten there, of how carefully he’d unbuttoned Warlock’s ridiculous pirate shirt, knowing how long it had been in his family and hoping to not damage it. Contrasted with the way Warlock tore Adam’s shirt open — the sound of the buttons hitting the stone walls — of how Adam’s back arched to meet the hungry mouth that trailed frantic kisses over his chest and down his stomach as strong hands pinned Adam’s desperate hips to the ground. 

Adam had never been so turned on. 

He looked back at Warlock, trying not to get too distracted — “since I didn’t sleep… eating is probably not something I should be skipping, so.” He made to move off the bed. 

Warlock’s hand landed gently on his forearm. “Or…”

Adam’s eyes trailed up to his. “Or” — a hopeful smile — “now?”

Warlock leaned forward, flicking his hair out of his eyes in order to press his forehead into Adam’s. Adam inhaled sharply. He was never going to tire of watching him do that.

“Definitely now,” Warlock whispered against Adam’s mouth as he crawled forward, kissing him deeply as he slowly pressed Adam back down onto the bed. 

Waking up in Odegra was weird. Not only because of the fact that there was no light, making it impossible to know when morning had actually come, but also because of all the echoes. 

Odegra was shockingly loud. The sounds of Unseelie walking through its halls, their chatter bouncing loudly off the walls making it nearly impossible for someone to sleep once anyone was awake. It was a stark contrast to the castle where Crowley’s quarters were located: soft rugs, plush tapestries — so much care taken to muffle the noise and enable people to exist in ignorant bliss to the goings ons around them. But it was also isolating, making the whole place feel sterile and, its occupants, deeply lonely.

Crowley hadn’t really noticed it before now. He’d only ever lived amongst the silence, first in the woods and then the castle. He was never actually invited to move in; that decision Crowley had made on his own. He and Thaddeus became friends at around the age of thirteen. At the time, Crowley had seen the Prince and his gaggle of cronies galavanting through the woods on more than one occasion. They clearly felt like rebels, sneaking out from the castle grounds to slum it in the woods where dark creatures lurked in Odegra’s shadow. Young Crowley was one of those dark creatures, he supposed, and enjoyed watching them, hidden high in the treetops.

Already an expert tracker by this age, Crowley watched this group’s dynamic with the same rapt intensity he’d given animals while hunting: how the other kids fawned over the Prince; how Thaddeus drank their praise down like water; and how carelessly he tossed them aside when they became redundant. Crowley was no one, an orphan from nothing, but he was an incredible study and impersonator, spending his evenings mimicking the speech patterns and mannerisms he’d spent the day memorizing. The thing he honed in on most fiercely was what the Prince valued above all else: bravery almost to the point of recklessness Not that Thaddeus himself was brave — far from it —  but he was very eager to send anyone off into danger when it suited him.

As adults, Thaddeus would describe what they’d done in the woods as silly kids’ stuff: torture an animal here, steal from a homeless family there. He was too smart to risk anything himself, so he’d walk up to the victims, introduce himself as Prince, even shake hands, only to then walk away and bid his goons to go off and do his dirty work. More often than not, Crowley struggled to keep from rushing them and pummeling them bloody with his bare fists. But he was a child, and starving, and despite everything, he knew this was an opportunity he could not afford to waste. So he continued to hide amongst the trees, stalking his prey, and readying his shot.

And one day, Crowley took it.

Unicorn chasing was one of Thaddeus’ favorite games. Now, unicorns were cherished animals in the Faewild, their blood, precious and powerful. And Thaddeus’ gang had grown to love to follow them throughout the forest, corner them, aggravate them to the point of almost attack, and then run off. It was shite, but harmless enough, because no Fae could ever overpower a unicorn.

But that day, something had gone wrong.

They’d followed the unicorn too close to Odegra, the enchanted willows that marked its entry swaying in the wind in almost warning. Now, no Unseelie could have exited the cave, not while the sun was out, but there were other creatures that lived in the mountain’s depths. Goblins, cave trolls, there was even rumor that a lone jabberwocky stalked the darkest depths of the place, all free to roam inside and out. But they never did, the Faewild itself too bright and clean for the likes of them to survive for long. But the smell of a unicorn was enough to make any creature forget self-preservation in search of the luscious power that pulsed through the animal’s veins.

Crowley smelled it before he saw it, the stale scent of beasts that thrived in the dark. The dire wolf — panting, its fur matted on its nearly skeletal frame — was already dying, but every member of  Thaddeus’ party wielded swords and daggers, requiring them to rush the beast in order to strike, and even a half-dead dire wolf could do more damage in one blow than any Fae could land in ten thrusts. 

The shouting startled the unicorn away, and the wolf — immediately growing enraged at being denied its prize — turned its snarling fangs instead toward the lesser meal before it. Chaos broke out as the group split apart, but Thaddeus remained fixed, an expectant smile on his face as he turned and looked directly at Crowley, hidden in the tree tops, as though he could see through the leaves that encased him. 

This was it.

Slowing time, Crowley swiftly released two arrows, one into the beast’s neck, incapacitating it before the other pierced its eye. Crowley stepped forward, allowing the tree to gently lower him to stand before the narrowed eyes of a sated Prince. Thaddeus said nothing, simply turned and walked back to his castle. Crowley followed. 

And no matter how much food or wine or wealth Crowley drowned himself in over the years that followed, the castle remained rigid and cold. This place, by all accounts, devoid of love and haunted by the ghosts of tortured Fae, held more life than Crowley had ever known before.

Curls tickled his chin as Aziraphale shifted. Crowley glanced down to find two blue eyes looking up at him, a hint of fear mixed within their openness.

“Morning, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “I think we might need another safe word.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around him. “Sure. Any ideas?”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “Honey pie seemed to do work out well last night.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “It did do, didn’t it?”

“It’s dreadful. Let’s use it,” Aziraphale said, nuzzling deeper into Crowley’s neck before stiffening. Crowley could feel his lightness fading. “Today…”

Crowley inhaled deeply. “Yep.”

Aziraphale continued. “Is our wedding day…”

The weight of it all struck Crowley. “Not getting cold feet on me, are you?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. Crowley opted for frankness. “But honestly angel, I’m not sure we’ll even make it that far.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale sighed.

Silence, the heavy kind that was wound tight by unspoken thoughts. Crowley was quickly realizing how much he hated silence. “Lucky for you, though,” he said filling the quiet. “Not sure I’m the marrying type.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s voice ticked upward, but he remained still, his hand a bit tighter on Crowley’s bicep than it had been a moment before.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m an old sod. Marriage seems like something for younger people.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, hopefully if this all works out, we’ll all have quite a few more years to look forward to. You could have far more life ahead than you think.”

Crowley dipped his chin, trying to look at Aziraphale as he spoke. “What would you do, with the extra time?”

Sighing, Aziraphale lost himself to thought. “I don’t know, really. If this succeeds, there’ll be no King, no Champion. It’s hard to imagine what to do when so much is up in the air.”

“Yeah, but that’s what you would do for someone else, what would you do for you?”

“Paris,” Aziraphale said without hesitation.

“Really?”

He smiled. “Yes, and London, and Tokyo. Travel the material plane, if that’s an option. Not sure how this would affect the veil. We might be trapped here forever, for all we know.”

“Right,” Crowley’s thoughts returned to what Thaddeus had forced the humans to do the night before; to the countless cruelties he’d witness the years before. It would be nearly unfathomable for the Countless to forgive the Seelie that level of cruelty. He tightened his arms around Aziraphale. “Well, look. If this works out, and we don’t die an excruciating and humiliating death-”

“That’s a very large if-”

“It is. But if we do, I’d like to go with you. If you’ll have me.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s lips spread into a smile against his chest. “That would be lovely.”

Crowley’s mind was fully awake now, scrambling through the night before, the plan, the party, the  honesty and tears that came after. It was shocking how calm he felt about all of it, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of the way he and Aziraphale seemed to fit so well together in this bed. Even in the caves of Odegra of all places, among the darkness of these Unseelie halls, Crowley felt he could be more honest with Aziraphale than he’d ever been allowed to be before, and somehow they fit.  

He loved Adam; he was the son Crowley would never have — an infuriating idiot of a son — but that hadn’t given him this level of completeness. No, this was a different kind of peace. And after a life of acting, of mimicking a person he was forced to pretend to be, to finally fit with someone in a way he’d never been able to before was overwhelming, and terrifying. A shiver went through him he couldn’t keep from reaching Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking up.

Crowley’s chest ached with wanting to tell him, to admit everything he’d kept so deeply hidden from everyone. He’d already started, admitting he wanted to dethrone Thaddeus, being open and honest about Adam, but this was different, this was his heart, his vulnerability, his own loneliness he’d run so far from for so long. He wanted to, but couldn’t. Not yet. So he grabbed at the first thought to cross his mind. “Just thinking about how this entire plan hinges on Wensleydale, and reconsidering all of my life’s choices, is all.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “He seems like a bright young man.”

“He is. Never understood why he spent so much time with Adam, given how different he always seemed from the rest. But Adam saw something in him, I think. Wensley was the only one to put him in his place. The rest never did. Adam liked that.” He shook his head. “We’re just… placing a lot of faith in him. I hope he can deliver.”

A banging on the door startled them both, with Aziraphale jumping out of bed and grabbing a robe that had been slung over a chair. He marched towards the door and yanked it open. “I beg your pardon-”

Muriel, Gabriel, and a limping Brian rushed past, shoving Aziraphale out of the way and slamming the door shut behind them. They caught their breath as Crowley’s eyes fell on the golden Contract tucked under Brian’s arm.

“What are you three doing here?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes glancing from the Contract to the door.

“Ambushed,” Brian winced as Muriel and Gabriel lowered him slowly onto the couch.

Aziraphale stilled. “By who?”

“That white haired one with the beady eyes,” Gabriel said, bent over, his hand on his thighs.

“Hastur,” Crowley growled from the bed.

Once Brian was down, Muriel rushed Gabriel. “You fucking wanker!” they said, pounding him with their fists. “This is all your fault!” Gabriel brought his hands to his face, easily blocking their punches. Muriel’s rage-filled eyes flashed wildly as they reared their booted foot back and kicked in him square the crotch. Grunting, Gabriel slumped, red-faced, to the floor.

“Muriel!” Aziraphale rushed to his aid, easily lifting Muriel off Gabriel as they continued to slap him. 

Crowley blinked. Aziraphale was a lot stronger than he looked.

Aziraphale looked between Brian and Muriel, still holding them as they tried to wrestle out of his arms. “But the Contract. You were able to swap it?” He released Muriel to the couch.

Biting his lip, Brian shrugged, offering Muriel a loaded look before they both turned to stare at the Contract shaped object that was now leaning against the couch. 

Crowley went cold, realizing the only one who could decipher whether or not this was The Actual Contract was noticeably absent from the room. “Where’s Wensleydale?” he asked, standing slowly.

A frown burrowed itself into Brian’s features. “Hastur got him.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale opened his door and allowed Crowley to enter, briefly checking the hallway before shutting it behind them. “Were you followed?” he asked, waving the door locked with a dance of his fingers.

“No,” Crowley said, uncovering a tray of pastries he’d nicked from the kitchens on his way back from checking the mood in the Seelie castle. Crowley had changed from the prior evening’s suit and was now wearing the official uniform of the head of the King’s Guard: a white tunic with golden embroidery that started at the shoulders, ran down the sleeves and seamlessly into the braid of his white trousers. Redesigned during Thaddeus’ reign, it was relatively understated by his standards, except for the golden breastplate that donned the King’s own crest: an intricately detailed image of a serpent wrapped around a flaming sword. This version was even gaudier than the one plastered all over the ballroom the night before, with the Seelie magic that imbued it powering its ethereal glow and giving the flame the appearance of dancing, the steps of it reflecting off the serpent’s scales. Crowley’s beauty, of course, added an air of elegance and sophistication that the outfit did not deserve. “Any word from Michael?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said with a worried glance back at the trio that filled his couch. The Contract, or its counterfeit, was now hidden carefully under Aziraphale’s bed and out of sight. “Michael would have been in here in an instant if she’d caught wind. I assume the Seelie have yet to share the news. Anything strange in the Castle?” 

“Yeah; absolutely nothing. Which is strange if someone was caught breaking into the Queen’s quarters. Beez should have been on my arse immediately. So either, they’re being nice considering its my wedding day, or Wensley’s already turned us in.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You don’t think-”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, his golden eyes honest and gentle. “But your door’s not been beaten down yet, so let’s be optimistic, shall we?” He flashed a wide grin — which had the opposite effect on Aziraphale than he’d hoped — before turning to walk the plate of pastries over to the couch. Aziraphale grabbed a croissant and took a restless bite. It tasted like cardboard. He put it down.

“Alright, you lot” — Crowley said, sitting on the coffee table in front of them — “tell me exactly what happened.”

Gabriel perked up as he licked his lips, cradling a pain au chocolate in his hands like it was made of glass.

“Oi!” Crowley snapped his fingers at him.

Muriel answered, their eyes like daggers fixed on Gabriel. “This bloody idiot happened, that’s what.”

“Hey!” Gabriel turned from his bite and frowned. “I am a Knight of the King’s Guard. So that’s Sir Idiot, to you. And I would appreciate an apology for kicking me earlier. That was decidedly… uncool.” Aziraphale frowned at Gabriel’s use of  “uncool” while Muriel’s eyes bored even deeper.

“An apology!?” they said, indignantly. “I’ll show you an apology-” and they made to stand only for Aziraphale to place a firm hand on their shoulder, keeping them seated. 

“What happened?” Crowley asked again.

Brian sighed, rubbing his face as he spoke. “It was going to plan. We found the Queen’s quarters. It was empty, as discussed; she was with the King, going over the designs for his new ballroom. We came through the secret passageway she told us about and the Contract was right there.” He dropped his hands. ”Wensley walked over with his fake while Muriel and I waited in the passage, to make sure it didn’t change, you know?” Brian looked between Aziraphale and Crowley. “We told him to hurry up, but you know how he is; he’d never actually touched the real one, only studied it from afar. So” — his eyes dropped — “we gave him a minute.”

Muriel cut in. “I told you we shouldn’t’ve-”

Aziraphale gripped their shoulder, tutting softly. Muriel quieted. “Go on, Brian.”

“So, he was holding the two of them, admiring his detailing or whatever he calls it, when-”

“We hear this prat” — Muriel broke in again — “shouting from outside the door, demanding to see the Queen, with an ‘urgent request’.”

“The Contwact negothiation ith an urgent reqwetht,” Gabriel said over a far too large bit of pastry. 

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the urge to smack the pastry right out of Gabriel’s mouth. He struggled to keep his voice even. “Gabriel, you were supposed to wait with Eric. What happened?”

Gabriel swallowed roughly, nearly choking before he spoke. “Oh, Eric snuck out, said they needed a word with Pepper but I think they just wanted to get a gift for this one.” He pointed a thumb to Muriel, who quickly turned a shade of pink. “Oh, that was supposed to be a secret.” He shrugged. “Well, I got bored. Remembered I knew a different secret way to the Queen's quarters. Thought I could help.” He returned his attention to his breakfast, licking his lips.

“How did you know how to get through to the Seelie Queen’s quarters?” Crowley asked, his arms and legs crossed.

Beelzebub showed me.”

“Beelzebub!?”  Crowley’s eyebrows were suddenly reaching for his hairline. 

Gabriel beamed. “Yeah! We’re friends” — his smile turned to a frown — “I think. Memory’s all fuzzy.” 

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley before asking, “And why, exactly, are you under the impression that you and the Hand of the Seelie King are friends?”

“Well” — frowning, Gabriel lifted a hand, ticking things off as he went — “we’ve gone into town. Shared a bag of crisps. Listened to music.” He dropped his hand and smiled wistfully. “You know, friend stuff.”

“Friend stuff…” Crowley said with flat disbelief. Aziraphale glanced down to find Crowley’s fingers digging into his biceps to a point that looked almost painful. He placed a comforting hand on Crowley’s shoulder and felt the tension melt. Crowley uncrossed his legs. And then recrossed them before asking, “How long have you two been… fraternizing?”

“A year?” Gabriel shrugged. “Time’s weird.”

Crowley garbled something before Aziraphale tightened his grip on his shoulder, quieting him. Aziraphale stared at him as he said, “As fascinating as this development is, we need to focus on what happened after you sabotaged the operation.” Gabriel frowned. “Did they see you take the…” Aziraphale nodded towards the bed, unsure if the even wanted to say the word out loud.

Brian shook his head. “No. When we heard the door we rushed Wensley and he dropped both of them. I grabbed the one closest to me and threw myself back into the passageway."

Muriel rolled their eyes. “And mangled your bloody ankle like an idiot.” They all glanced down at the injury, already healing. Another benefit of being a Seelie. Aziraphale quieted his jealousy. Muriel continued. “We thought Wensley was right behind us, only to make it halfway back here and see that it was this moron.” They sneered at Gabriel who, having finished his pain au chocolate, had now moved onto picking from the beignets. Aziraphale slapped his hand without taking his eyes off Muriel. “And then the passages shifted and we were lost for hours. It’s a bloody miracle we made it back to you, at all.”

Aziraphale nodded in calculation. “So they know it was the Contract you were tampering with?” he asked.

Brian shrugged, aggressively grabbing a beignet from Gabriel and ignoring the pout it earned him. “They’re going to execute him,” Brian said, slumping. His eyes had turned glassy.

“Not if we have anything to do with it,” Crowley said, standing and motioning for Aziraphale to follow him to the other side of the room. Aziraphale followed, grabbing the croissant from his end table and biting into it once again. It remained cardboard. 

Crowley turned, his hands on his hips. “They are absolutely going to execute him.” 

“Obviously.”

Crowley nodded almost compulsively, his golden eyes dancing around the room. “If they haven’t already.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “You’re here. No execution would happen without the head of the King’s Guard present.”

Another bang on the door. “Traitor!”

“Shitttt,” Crowley mumbled as Gabriel perked up, pointing to the door and having enough sense to simply whisper “Beelzebub” rather than shout it. Muriel was already up, tugging at Brian’s arm and as they retreated toward the back of the room.

"In the loo!” Aziraphale shoved both of them, slapping another pastry out of Gabriel’s hand before getting him to stand and follow the other two. “And be quiet!”

“Crowley!” Beelzebub banged again. “ I know you’re in there! Open this door immediately.”

Crowley rushed Aziraphale. “Take off your shirt!”

“What?” Aziraphale, said, shocked at how the command made his face flush warm like some sort of overly-exciteable teenager’s, even under these circumstances. Crowley, already topless, was pulling his trousers off his legs. 

“They won’t look too far if we’ve looked like we’ve been shagging. Strip!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Now!”

No time to remove his trousers or shoes, Aziraphale merely ripped his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side and hid the rest of himself under the blankets. Shuffling over made him realize Crowley had removed his pants while Aziraphale had been preoccupied. He tried not to blush more as he flicked his hand forward to unlock the door. Crowley’s arm wrapped around his as he sweetly called, “Come in!”

Beelzebub walked in with Ligur and Dagon at their sides, sneering at the room as they took in the state of it: clothes everywhere; half eaten pastries tossed on a tray; crumbs littering the floor. Dagon gagged, not offering the faintest courtesy to hide it. Aziraphale tensed as he witnessed their long-held stereotypes cementing in real time. Crowley’s free hand found his, offering an affectionate squeeze.

“Sorry” — Crowley said with a laugh, shaking his head — “didn’t hear you for a minute there. Busy.” He leaned his head lightly on Aziraphale, who sighed and allowed a genuine smile to spread on his lips.

“Something’s happened. I need you to come with us.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not a chance. It’s our wedding day” — he turned and beamed at Aziraphale, who couldn’t help but beam back — “and I have no intention of spending the day anywhere but by my husband’s side.”

He shook his head. “You know anything that you tell me, I’m just going to tell Aziraphale — one Court and all —  so you might as well just be out with it.”

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed, darting between the two of them. “As Hand of the Seelie King I command you to come with me, alone.”

Crowley’s arm stiffened around Aziraphale, but his face remained pleasant. “Fine” — he relented, over-exaggeratedly — “but you owe me.” He threw a bare leg out from under the blanket, making it abundantly clear that he currently wore no clothes whatsoever. 

Shouts and hands over eyes as the three Seelie stepped backward. Aziraphale laughed, not offering the faintest courtesy to stifle his delight in their discomfort.

“We’ll… give you a minute to put yourself together,” Beelzebub said before stepping out and closing the door.

Crowley shot up, completely nude, and began picking his clothes up off the floor. Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. It was rude to stare, he thought, and turned away as he fought the question that his suddenly desirous mind insisted on asking, which was: “Does his entire body taste the way his lips do?”

Crowley turned. “You got that, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

Crowley froze and then smiled. “Oi,” — he whispered, leaning forward to kiss him — “stare all you want later, but right now I need you focused. Did you hear anything I just said?”

Aziraphale shook his head, ashamedly. 

“I’m going to see what’s going on with Wensley. Find Pepper and the Queen. Tell them what’s going on. And make sure you don’t miss that negotiation.”

“But-” Crowley silenced him with another kiss, deeper than the first that left Aziraphale with a heady feeling. “Their plan didn’t work. Now it’s time for mine.” He winked, his golden eyes glinting with mischief. Audible scuffling from the loo tore their attention from each other.  “And don’t let those idiots out of your sight for a second, yeah?” he said, pointing.

Crowley walked towards the door before stopping at Aziraphale’s frock coat from the night before. He rummaged through its pockets, removed the vial of glamour reinforcing potion, and tucked it into his own. 

“What are you taking that for?” Aziraphale asked.

“Insurance,” Crowley said, and he let the door close behind him.

Crowley hated the Seelie interrogation rooms. 

The term “room” was honestly, overly generous. The space was white, blindingly so, with disorienting light assaulting from all directions, giving its occupant the claustrophobic feel of being suffocated while in an endless expanse of nothing. There were no sounds, no smells, with the air adjusting itself to the exact body temperature of the person being held. It was madness incarnate, and was very effective at breaking its occupants.

“Tell me again, what was he doing?” Crowley asked Beelzebub, who bit their nails as they stared at an an-all-too-comfortable Wensleydale, a fresh black eye blooming on his face.

They ignored the question. “Something’s not right.”

“Why do you say that?”

“What, are you blind? He’s bloody smiling!”

“Hysteria takes on many forms.”

Beelzebub shook their head, aggressively switching hands to begin an assault on the cuticles of their left thumb. 

Crowley looked back to Wensley; he needed time with him, alone. Gripping his hand behind his back, Crowley tried to stop time on both sides of the room, resulting in Wensley and Beelzebub simply letting out simultaneous yawns before blinking at themselves. The interrogation room was too powerful, leeching all forms of magic, old and new, away from Crowley’s grip.

His mind jumped to the next viable option. “And… you said Gabriel was involved?” Crowley had no idea what was going on between Gabriel and Beelzebub but it seemed particularly suspicious that in all of their recounting, Beelzebub never once mentioned the Unseelie. There was something here Crowley could work with.

Beelzebub stopped chewing. “Why do you ask that?”

“Well, Hastur did say he was the one who tipped him off to the break in. Just unsure why he’s not been brought in for questioning, is all.” He paused leaning over to speak low. “I don’t understand how an Unseelie found his way to the Queen’s quarters in the first place.”

Beelzebub bit harder. 

Crowley continued. “Maybe I ought to send a team out to bring him in.”

“No!”

Crowley blinked, hiding his smile. “It’s really no trouble. He works for my future husband, after all.”

“I’ll do it.” Beelzebub blurted. “Need a break from this blinding shit hole anyway.” They walked towards the exit. “Get him to talk. I refuse to believe he was conducting a royal panty raid, no matter how convincing his confession is.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Crowley felt the air around him tighten as his eyes were assaulted by the blinding white of the interrogation room. He fought a shiver. The feel of the place was entirely unsettling.

“Ah, it’s you,” Wensley’s voice cut through the silence. The bruise on his face looked even worse in the light.

“Well, brilliant work, Auditor’s Son.” Crowley said, pacing in front of him. “And really, royal panty raid? You want that reputation following you around for the rest of your life?” He shrugged. “What happened?”

“I got distracted.”

“By what? You were supposed to be in and out in seconds. Why did you stop?”

Wensley lifted his chin. “Why should I tell you?”

Crowley stared at him, shocked. This was not the kid that he’d watched grow up in Adam’s shadow. “Because we want the same thing? Or was that not why you lot dragged me away from my party last night and set me on a path towards treason?”

Wensley’s eyes darted around the nothingness in silent calculation. Auditor’s son, indeed. He set his jaw. “Pepper told me not to tell.”

“Pepper did?” Crowley enchanted a chair in front of Wensley, turned its back to face him and sat. “I bet she didn’t intend for you to get caught, so either you tell me now, or there’s nothing I can do to stop that lot from executing you before lunch.” Crowley expected the word execute to land harder, but Wensley didn’t even flinch, despite his eyes growing thoughtful.

After a minute, he shifted in his seat. “I had to plant a bomb.”

“A bomb?”

“Yes, in the real Contract.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “We discussed holding it hostage. We discussed using it to get your demands met. We never discussed destroying it.”

Wensley shrugged. “Whoops.”

Crowley was fuming. “This was Pepper’s idea?”

“No, this was my idea.”

“Yours?”

Wensley sat back in his chair. “Do you really think Thaddeus would ever go for voluntarily returning lands and stepping down? He doesn’t respond to threats, only power. Of strength. Hiding the Contact somewhere won’t be enough. We need to have that arsehole by the balls,” he said with finality, crossing his arms over his chest. “And now we do.”

Crowley’s mind was racing. He stood, mumbling to himself as he paced. “Destroying the Contract would be absolute chaos. There would be no laws, no families, everything will be upended, everything would need to be rebuilt.” He looked at Wensley, still unfazed. Crowley’s eyes narrowed, trying not to garble his words. “Well then, why couldn’t you have just waited until you were out of the room?”

“Because” — Wensley spoke with slow condescension, as though explaining something to a small child — “the Contract can only be changed in the presence the Royal sigil.” He frowned. “Do you actually know anything about it?”

“I know enough,” Crowley sneered defensively. “You know there is an Unseelie Queen on your side. You could have just planted your little bomb in her quarters and saved us all the trouble-”

Wensley cut him off. “Seelie, Royal sigil.” 

Crowley stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“The Contract can’t actually be changed anywhere but in Thaddeus’ quarters.”

“Since when?”

“A few years.”

Crowley took in the severity of the statement. “How?”

“He has his ways.”

Crowley’s eyes widened in understanding. “Your father…”

“Is a good man,” Wensley said defensively.

Crowley nodded, realizing how far the King’s cruelty stretched outward to infect even those most loyal to the laws of the Court, commanding them to break their sacred oaths, soiling hundreds of years of tradition if it didn’t fit his needs. He looked back to Wensley who, for the first time, looked unnerved in the sterile light. “Of course he is,” Crowley said softening. Maybe Wensley was right, but the implications of destroying the Contract could not be taken lightly. They needed to tread carefully. “Can the bomb be removed?”

“Yes. But only by me.”

“Convenient,” he sneered. “Can you at least tell me where it is?”

Wensley pointed to Crowley’s breastplate. He looked down at the crest, the sword’s flames dulled slightly in the light of the room as they flickered off the serpent’s scales. “It’s in the crest at the top. The snake’s tongue. Anyone presses on it and it goes boom.” He smiled proudly.

“Sounds safe.” Crowley didn’t hide his sarcasm.

“Actually, I would have preferred something a bit more elegant but I was pressed for time. So, you gotta be careful.”

A pop in the room, the entire room suddenly smelling of sickly roses.

Crowley turned to find Hastur, fuming. “Traitor!” 

Shit.

Crowley raised his arms, feeling the glamour limp around the Duke. “Hastur, hold on-”

“I knew it! You’re conspiring! With this one!” he sputtered, golden spit soiling the pristine floor before the room consumed it to nothing, like everything else. 

Crowley had already dipped his hand into his pocket as he said, “I don’t know what you think you heard, but it’s not true.” But Hastur was already on him, grabbing him by his collar and slamming him into some invisible barrier behind Wensley. Stars crowded Crowley’s vision. His hand fumbled.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Hastur hissed a little too close to Crowley’s face. He tried to back away, the smell making him sick but Hastur simply held him there. “I knew there was something going on.” He smiled, wretchedly. “Now, you’ll be executed for treason.”

Crowley’s fingers found what they were searching for, quickly thumbing the cork free from the vial as  Hastur glanced down. “What are you-” Hastur broke off as Crowley tossed its contents into his face. 

Hissing, Hastur backed away, rubbing his eyes and trying to spit the potion from his mouth. “What in the bloody fuck!?” he said, but Crowley could already feel it taking effect. He turned to re-cork the bottle, realizing too late that there was barely any left. 

Hastur’s breath slowed as he shook his head, his eyes going vacant as he blinked at the light. He looked at Crowley. “What was I saying?”

Wensley’s eyebrows rose. “What just happened?”

“Never you mind. Either of you. Hastur!” Crowley threw an arm around him, gripping a little more tightly than necessary. “How you feeling? Pretty good?”

Hastur bobbed his head a bit before saying, “I guess.” He looked down at his clothes, patting himself. “Was I doing something?” he asked.

“Just coming to offer me your well wishes, I suspect! You do know that today is my wedding day, don’t you?”

“No… I mean, yes?” He frowned. “Do I know you?”

Crowley chuckled, tossing the potion vial up in the air and catching it. “Bloody brilliant stuff, witches.”

“Witches?” Wensley narrowed his eyes at Crowley who simply winked back.

“You’ve got your secrets Auditor’s son, and I have mine.”

“Why are you chained up?” Hastur asked, eyeing Wensley's wrists. 

“Excellent question, Hastur. Be a pal and release our friend here, yeah? He has a very important part to play in my wedding.” 

Hastur nodded, snapping his fingers upward and dissolving the interrogation room and all its trappings. Crowley’s mind was spinning with what to do next when Hastur leaned in to ask, “Am I invited?” His voice was hopeful.

Crowley smiled. “Of course, you’re invited! We’re friends, you and I.”

“Are we?”

“Best friends.” Crowley led him towards the door, motioning for Wensley to follow.

Hastur huffed happily. “I always wanted a best friend.”

Chapter Text

Warlock focused from behind tightly closed eyes.

He thought of sunlight. Thought of its warmth. He thought of pulling from deep within himself to bring forward-

“Use the force, Luke…”

His jaw tensed, trying not to lose focus. “Shut up, Adam.”

Adam chuckled softly as Warlock’s grip tightened on his hands, trying to concentrate.

He thought of flowers. Of the smell of summer rain. Of the burst of electricity whenever Adam’s lips pressed themselves onto his skin. Of sun-dried leaves. Of-

“Let go, Luke.”

Warlock opened his eyes in a huff. “You know, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I can just do it on my own.”

Adam’s green eyes glinted with the same mischief Warlock had spent years in the face of when they were kids. Warlock tried to glare, but quickly became distracted by a singular curl that had broken free from Adam’s now-signature messy bun to settle neatly on the bridge of his nose. Like every other difference between them, Warlock’s own hair — nearly reaching his shoulders now and no longer skittering into his eyes whenever it was compelled to — had taken the opposite stance and quickly formed the habit of sitting obediently behind his ears. But Adam’s soft curls had always been a terrible distraction for Warlock. He returned his ire to Adam’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Adam exhaled. He shook his head and weakly fought the smile that had already spread from his eyes to his mouth. “That was just very… force-like.”

Warlock squinted at the term’s familiarity. “Is this Star Wars, again?” He really should have known. He’d listened to Adam talk non-stop about this movie  — movies? — for hours at a time, and while lying in bed as they told one another their favorite stories late into the night had quickly become one of Warlock’s favorite parts of their days together, Star Wars was one fixation he could not share with his boyfriend.

The trees rustled in a slight breeze, as though shaking their heads in anticipation of a debate they had born witness to time and time again. 

The forest had changed, grown progressively more alive in the two years since Adam destroyed the fungus that had been the driver of its curse. It quickly became clear that the mycelium had spanned across the entire forest, infecting the plants, spreading its spores, and slowly poisoning everyone and everything in the Faedark. Adam and Warlock were pretty sure if they’d continued as they had, they would have started experiencing side effects of the prolonged exposure like the rest of the residents.

The richness of the forest had grown every day, with new animals coming out of hiding and native plants shedding the curse’s dull weight to step into their true colour and flourish. Warlock found that listening to the symphony of the woods set against the sound of Adam’s excited retelling of the Matrix, or interlacing their fingers as Warlock described the heated sword fights of Treasure Island while reading Adam’s reactions in the subtle changes in the tension he held in his fingers, had become very dear to him. It was ridiculous, and cheesy, and so very mortifying. But Warlock, turned out, was a bit of a romantic, and the quiet moments that he and Adam shared remained deeply precious to him. Even frustrating ones like this.

Adam shook his head. “How you can hate Star Wars, I will never understand. It’s literally space pirates.”

“It’s really not,” Warlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired of this argument. “Pirates don’t use magic-”

“Space pirates with magic! It’s the coolest story ever.”

Warlock couldn’t help but soften at his enthusiasm, taking Adam’s hand again and caressing his knuckles gently with his thumb. “Come on. Are you even trying anymore?”

Adam’s fingers twitched defensively. “Of course I’m trying.” Warlock raised an eyebrow at him. It was so easy for him to tell when Adam was lying, now. It seemed impossible to think there had ever been a time in which he couldn’t. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Adam sneered.

Warlock continued to caress Adam’s hand. “I’m not giving you a look-”

“Yes, you are,” Adam said, pulling his hands away. Warlock watched him look over his shoulder, and heard Adam's exasperated grunt as he glared at the faint whisper of orange sunlight that had been the totality of what they’d been able to conjure up until this point. 

It was an accident at first. A year had past since Adam regained his power, the forest growing stronger each day. Adam had continued to meet with the human souls — this time without the spriggan, confident in his and Warlock’s ability to defend themselves, if need be —  apologizing and taking their wishes, continuing to carry their burden as his own as time ticked farther and farther away from them.

But no matter what they did, Odegra remained mist, fixed in its inaccessibility and continuing to allude them. The gremlins —  freed from the control of the fungus and now about as dangerous as stray puppies — no longer stalked them, allowing him and Adam to command the trees to march them towards the imposing mountain. But with every step they took, Odegra backed away. They even dug, knowing Odegra’s caves plunged deep into the ground, and hoping they could reach one that would grant them passage. But still, nothing. An entire year… and nothing.

By that point, Warlock had forced himself not to think too much about home. Shortly after regaining his powers, Adam had come to the conclusion that — given the loose connection between the Faewild and the Faedark, and the way time moved differently between home and the material plane — the days the two of them were experiencing here were not equal to the days everyone was experiencing back home. Meaning, everyone they cared about could already be dead, or they could not have even realized Warlock and Adam had gone missing; it was impossible to know. The conflicting emotions that information awoke inside Warlock made him nauseous.

And then Warlock couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. One day. And then another. Adam let it be for a while, going out on his own, returning to their cave to climb into bed with Warlock and wrap his arms around him, saying nothing. Warlock didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be home, and he didn’t. The faces of his parents, of Pepper, of Aziraphale and the citizens who were left without their King, haunted his dreams; disappointed, disgusted, abandoned. But then Adam was here, his, holding him, kissing the back of his neck and nuzzling soft whispers into his hair, and the undeniable truth was Warlock wanted to be nowhere else. With no one else. There was deep love and gutting guilt in equal measure. Warlock didn’t know how many weeks he’d spent in bed before Adam finally refused his objections and dragged him from the cave and out on a long walk.

Which was lovely, actually, despite the night itself being entirely ordinary: pitch black except for the moon; the chirping of frogs and chittering of bugs singing in Warlock’s ears; and Adam’s fingers intertwined with his as he shyly began talking about home. Now Adam barely ever talked about home, his memories clearly too painful for reasons completely different from Warlock’s, but it made no difference. Warlock had made a point that, no matter what he was feeling himself, whenever Adam wanted to open up about his life from before, Warlock would set his own emotions aside and just listen.

That day, Adam had started describing what a summer afternoon felt like: the warmth the sun’s rays gently pressed into the skin, bright and tingling; the smell of grass and dew and how the morning almost steamed, an homage to the sun’s return. With a slight break in his voice, Adam gently squeezed Warlock’s hand and described the buzzing of bees, how he and his friends used to chase them around, their sting all but tickles to a Seelie’s skin, and the playful tease of a summer breeze on one’s heat-flushed cheeks. It was a genuine kindness, not only to know that Warlock wasn’t entirely alone in yearning for home while still cherishing this, but also because Unseelie were never allowed to be out while the sun was up, with Warlock’s only experiences the times he’d snuck out on their birthday to catch the last lingering blush of sunset as dusk settled over the material plane.

But all Unseelie had imagined it, had dreamt about it ever since they could dream. It wasn’t uncommon for groups to huddle to around a fire in hopes of hearing elder recite the old poems filled with descriptions of times when the Fae were one stock, forged from magic under the sun. Young Warlock never missed an opportunity to listen to the words, past down from generation to generation, as they bounced off the barren cave walls and the fire’s flame danced in the teller’s glassy eyes. He knew them by heart by the age of seven but, somehow, listening to Adam describe it had been even more enchanting.

How Adam knew that this was exactly what Warlock needed after weeks of being unable to move, he couldn’t know. Adam was annoyingly good at knowing what Warlock needed without him ever asking; as powerful and clever and intuitive as his reputation claimed. But also kind… and thoughtful, and sensitive. And Warlock’s. At least while they remained here, Adam could be his.

So Warlock smiled and let Adam talk, while silently holding on to the secret that he was pretty sure Adam hadn’t puzzled together yet. Because Warlock already knew all this. Everywhere Adam’s fingers grazed his skin felt like a ray of sunshine, every time they embraced, Warlock smelled grass and flowers, every time their lips touched, he felt electricity build, like the charge the air gathered in anticipation of a storm, right before lightning split the sky and waves of thunder chased quickly behind.

And, as the two of them walked on, Adam lost to memory and Warlock mesmerized by the way his excited eyes seemed to light up the woods around them, something changed.

It was a slight tilt in the ground, at first, gravity’s pull slanting as the leaves of the trees all around them dipped. And while the minuscule ray of sunlight that suddenly peeked over the horizon nearly blinded them in its own right, it was the reaction of the woods that nearly floored them. The waves of relief and silent cheers from the plants struck both of them so sharply they’d needed to steady themselves on a nearby tree. On their way back to their cave, Warlock and Adam had run into the spriggan with tears of joy streaming down their cheeks as R.P. demanded to know how they had conjured the sun, something none of home thought they would ever see again.

They briefly tried something similar on Odegra, envisioning it coming closer, imagining the mist of it collecting to solidify into something they could touch, but it never worked. Another confusing disappointment. But after witnessing how the simple ability to track day and night, albeit through such a small shift in the sky, was transformational for the Faedark’s residents, Adam and Warlock committed themselves to getting them more. It was a consolation prize, they knew it —  the souls deserved to be freed — but this was the most they could do given they too were trapped and unable to fulfill their side of the arrangement. 

So they kept coming back to this spot, trying to harness the same energy. For a time, Adam told stories like that first day, but he’d grown tired after months of repeating the same memories. They then moved on to what they were doing today, meditating with different imagery, hoping something would change. But nothing happened, the stubborn sun remaining nothing more than a mocking glint in the horizon, and Warlock knew Adam’s disappointment in their failure was making him itch to focus on something else. 

Warlock sighed a little too dramatically. “You know what, maybe you’re right. You’re too tired. You should head back; I’ll keep at it.” Warlock watched Adam’s back tense. He knew what button he was pushing. But he needed Adam to take this seriously. They were getting close, Warlock could feel it. The way the ground felt almost like liquid when he and Adam were in sync, when Adam’s focus was set on the task and he was able to share his powers freely with Warlock, and his with Adam. But when it was like now, when Adam’s attention was split and Warlock was trying to do the work for both of them, it always felt too rigid. But Warlock had a feeling about today. The woods felt malleable, the ground less stuck, gravity, less heavy. His entire body buzzed with the anticipation of something he couldn’t name. But Warlock needed Adam’s help, and he refused to let the coping mechanism Adam’s father had forced upon him through years of neglect — to run away when things got too hard — stop them. Not today. Warlock needed Adam to take this seriously. And nothing made Adam take something more seriously than Warlock claiming he wasn’t up to the challenge.

Adam turned back to him, his I-don’t-want-to-do-this face traded for his adorable I-won’t-let-you-be-right face. Warlock had no idea how he kept himself from smiling. 

“Five more minutes and then we’re leaving,” Adam said, gripping Warlock’s hands. “Nina’s popping by tonight, and you know how she is when she’s kept waiting.”

“Ahhh.” Warlock teased with a smile, earning himself another annoyed glare from his boyfriend. Nina coming over was always a treat. Warlock enjoyed watching from afar as Adam heard stories about his father as a young man in love, of the tenderness that he had somewhere beneath all the armour of power. Warlock knew Adam would never admit that he missed his father after all of his neglect, but he did love him, somewhere, and never forfeited an opportunity to learn more about his life. Nina offered a different perspective that Adam would never have known otherwise, not to mention the fact that she was kind enough to bring over the absolute best tea blends in the whole of the Faedark. And Warlock could never say no to a good spot of tea.

He watched as Adam shook out his shoulders, exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes. This time, Warlock felt Adam’s power graze his own as images of wind on leaves, sun showers, and cloudless skies were shared between them. His skin prickled, tickled in the way it always was when he and Adam commingled their powers. He drew upward, like pulling on a string, and felt Adam’s awareness focus as he did the same. Adam’s hands gripped harder, his powers flowing freely through Warlock, electric and strong as Warlock offered his own searing force back. A chill spread between them as they continued to tug. And then, finally, the Earth obeyed. 

The ground slanted as gravity grew heavy, making the forest creak loudly as something deep in the Earth seemed to nearly snap. Warlock’s eyes shot open, falling on Adam before they both looked up at the sky as it lit up above them. 

It still wasn’t much, and nowhere near the intensity that Adam described in his stories, but it was a blush sunset, pale pinks and purples reflecting off the clouds as a bright orange semi-circle peeked out from the horizon. Warlock blinked, his eyes dropping down to find Adam’s whose face showed the same shock and wonder. Because Warlock knew this sunset. Not in his dreams as a child or even from behind shut eyes as he and Adam lost themselves to each other’s bodies. No, this sky, Warlock had seen with his own eyes. It was the same sky that he and Adam had met under on their birthdays each year in the material plane. The same point in the day where the sun is right at the horizon, the brief handshake between the day and night, when the two of them could be together, free from the weight of their fathers’ eyes and their Courts’ expectations When they were just, two kids, equals, trying to take the piss out of one another to hide the truth of their feelings that simmered just below the surface.

And here, now, pulling their magic together, they’d conjured that same sun-kissed sky for everyone in the Faedark to live beneath.

“Holy shit,” Warlock huffed. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, relief sweeping over him as felt the forest cheer and its joy spread outward to touch the entirety of this plane. It was overwhelming, and when he opened his eyes to find Adam, his own green eyes misty with emotion, Warlock couldn’t stop himself. 

He was kissing him before he realized it. 

“Whoa.” Adam accepted Warlock’s lips eagerly.

“I want you,” Warlock sighed into Adam’s mouth, feeling the sun warming his skin as he leaned forward, trying to push Adam’s back onto the ground.

“What?” Adam chuckled against his lips. “Here?”

“Yes.” Warlock was already tugging at the string on Adam’s vest. “I need to make love to you. Beneath the sunlight.” His skin felt ignited by the sun, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in anticipation.

Adam turned away to look behind them as Warlock trailed kisses across his jaw and down his neck. Adam’s head dipped back slightly as he said, “But anyone can come by.” His voice had grown breathy despite his body remaining rigid, attempting to fight the pull of Warlock’s touch. Warlock’s skin burned brighter. Early on, he found that playing Adam’s body came as naturally as mastering his sword, and the power that Warlock could wield over the Seelie Prince turned out to be the most thrilling thing of all. He continued to kiss, to gently scratch Adam’s scalp, to tug his hair and press his hips forward with the perfect amount of pressure. Warlock felt Adam’s rigidness melt as the bushes around them snapped together, their branches growing long and interlocking to create a protective barrier at Adam’s silent command. Warlock smiled against his pulse, continuing to untie his vest as Adam's chest pushed itself eagerly into his fingers.

“One condition, though,” Adam said, suddenly pulling back. 

Warlock frowned. “Okay…”

“You have to say ‘fuck’.”

“Fuck,” Warlock said flatly, rushing him again only to be stopped by Adam’s hand pressing against his chest.

“No… say you want to fuck me under the sunlight.” Adam’s face glinted with playful mischief again, but Warlock’s eyes couldn’t help but wander down to his freckled chest and the way it that had gone splotchy as it always did when he was excited.

Warlock huffed impatiently. “No.” He leaned forward again, nipping at Adam’s ear, gripping his hips, pressing into them. Adam’s head dipped fully now, offering his full neck for Warlock’s pleasure.

“Why not,” he asked, his voice surprisingly steady as he nearly melted into Warlock, who’d finished untying his vest and had begun kissing his chest. Adam finally allowed himself to be lowered onto the grass.

“Because it’s crass,” Warlock said with a playful bite of Adam’s nipple while he pinched the other more sharply. Hissing, Adam’s hips pressed upward. Warlock was having trouble keeping his own breath steady, drunk on sunlight and the realization that he, an Unseelie, was never supposed to experience this precious gift, and how badly he wanted it.

“Crass?” Adam’s breath caught as he arched his back upward, greeting Warlock’s mouth as he made his way down his torso. Warlock’s mind was growing fuzzy; Adam’s skin tasted even better under the sunlight. Warlock licked a long trail along his stomach, blowing gently on the path and reveling in the way Adam’s muscles tightened at the sensation. Adam gripped his fingers in Warlock’s hair, for some reason, still talking. “Okay, well we can’t possibly have that so… how about” — Adam’s body stilled — “shag.”

Warlock paused, his teeth tugging at Adam’s waistband. “Adam…” he muttered around the cloth.

“Or knocking boots!” Adam said to the sky.

Groaning, Warlock dropped the waistband and buried his face in Adam’s stomach.

“Oh, I got it!” Adam said, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at him. “Bumping uglies!”

Warlock sat back on his heels. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” He made to stand but was stopped by Adam’s fingers around his wrist.

Adam sat up and kissed him slowly, deeply, releasing his wrist to grip Warlock’s upper thigh in the way that always made him weak, showing himself equally as capable at playing Warlock’s body as he was Adam’s. He pressed their foreheads together. “Hey” — Adam whispered, grazing his nose teasingly on Warlock’s — “make love to me.”.

Scoffing, Warlock shook his head, not breaking contact. “I hate you.”

“I love you, too,” Adam said, smiling, now opening Warlock’s vest and sliding it slowly off his shoulders. A shiver crawled up Warlock’s spine as the skin on his back met true sunlight for the first time. Adam cupped his face gently in both hands. “Now stop being a cock-tease and fuck me under this magical sunlight that we conjured together.”

Warlock pressed forward, laughing into Adam’s mouth, pouring all the love and joy he possibly could into him as he pressed him back down into the grass, which smelled brighter and richer than it ever had before.

It was the first time of many that they would make love beneath the sunlight. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale straightened his cuffs as he led Muriel, Gabriel, Brian, and Eric through the halls to pick up Pepper before heading to the Contract negotiation. The final Contract negotiation. The final Contract negotiation that was to immediately precede his and Crowley’s very real — and quite binding — wedding ceremony. 

Aziraphale hadn’t let himself think about The Wedding much at all since this whole thing had started, too preoccupied with Warlock’s safety and the subsequent rush to support Pepper in this rebellion. The Wedding seemed an afterthought. But they were coming close to the after portion of this affair, and even if they succeeded and somehow managed to get Thaddeus and Arthur to agree to their demands, that drastic an amendment would require a union to forge the change and bind the new Contract into law. It didn’t necessarily have to be their wedding, just a wedding between any Seelie and Unseelie to make it so. But the Courtless had sent him and Crowley, had bound them to this task by dangling Warlock and Adam’s lives over their heads. Because despite the loaded glances Muriel and Eric shot one another every few seconds or Gabriel’s claim that he and Beelzebub had shared a packet of crisps, there truly was no one else who would make this sacrifice. A burst of nerves fluttered in Aziraphale’s belly at the prospect. He shoved it aside; a marriage was trivial compared to what await them. He and Crowley would make it work, whatever it was. This was far more important. 

Still fidgeting with his cuffs, Aziraphale glanced back at the group that followed him. They had all dressed the part, with Aziraphale stumbling upon a far-too formal tuxedo in his closet immediately following Crowley’s departure. Rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, it had felt like the glamour, conjured from the cold magic of the dead; another subtle reminder from the Courtless that they remained a part of this and, in many ways, maintained control. Aziraphale stood, his hand on his coat for a sombre moment, letting the continuous bickering of Muriel, Gabriel and Brian fade to the background.

Because it should be Warlock here with Pepper — not him — making this change. Leading this charge. Aziraphale knew Warlock had wanted this. Maybe not in this exact configuration, but drastic change was what he and Pepper and daydreamed about since they were children, huddled together after their studies, imagining animatedly. The spark had dulled as of late, as it always did whenever age forced the details of a complex situation to come into full focus and the matted web of the world made itself fully known. But, still, Warlock had always intended to be a King who shepherded in an era of great change. It was his duty, one he had bound himself to from far-too-young an age.

But it would not have come to be, Aziraphale had whispered to himself, standing facing his wedding suit. He was intimately familiar with the burden the crown carried, had watched how it crushed Arthur — once a young man of equal color and conviction as his son. And Aziraphale had already begun to see the burden thread its way around Warlock’s will, had borne witness to him defensively sanding down the jagged edges of himself in an effort to keep them from catching on expectation and ripping through convention. Aziraphale himself had helped make it so.

Taking down his coat, Aziraphale scoffed softly to himself, angered by his unearned grief, and quickly vowed to do this for Warlock.

He’d scoffed softly to himself as he took down his waistcoat, angered by his unearned grief, and quickly vowed to do this for Warlock. To relieve him the burden that his father had carried, freeing him to live a life true to himself, if Warlock were brave enough to face it. And… if Aziraphale were able to bring him back.

How Warlock would react to returning to a world in which his birthright had been stripped from him, Aziraphale couldn’t know, but what he was sure of was that the boy he’d helped raise would understand the intentions and, with time, would forgive him. The rest of the Court was a different story.

Arriving at Pepper’s door, Aziraphale knocked, rolling his eyes at the scuffling coming from behind. “Will you please be quiet?” he asked sharply, questioning the decision to bring this group along at all. But Crowley had been right, letting them out of his sight would have put the entire affair in far greater danger.

“He’s touching me!” Muriel hissed at Gabriel.

“Your coat is so soft,” he said, reaching for the black velvet blazer Muriel wore but missing as they took a broad side-step to their left. Aziraphale shot a firm eyebrow at the two behind them, forcing Eric to meekly step forward and place themself between the two bickerers. Aziraphale was grateful for Crowley’s decision to take the vial of glamour when he’d left. If he hadn’t, Aziraphale was sure his hand would have accidentally slipped a few drops into their drinks hours ago. Turning back to the door, he caught sight of Brian, whose troubled gaze remained fixed on the floor, clearly still lost in worry for the well-being of his best friend. Aziraphale softened. They were barely beyond children, putting themselves in tremendous danger; he ought to have more patience. Except for Gabriel, of course, still craning his neck and reaching for Muriel’s sleeve. Eric swatted his hand away with a scowl.

Maybe the potion was more trouble than it was worth.

The door opened, and Aziraphale found himself staring dumbly at Pepper, whose hair was pulled up neatly as she stood before him in her wedding gown. It was crimson lace over black silk, with the intricate mesh running high from her neck all the way down to her hands where it wrapped itself elegantly around each of her fingers, stopping right below her knuckles. The whole of it nearly glowed in the soft light from her quarters. She was the picture of elegance and power.

Another pang of soft grief. Pepper truly was the Queen the Unseelie deserved.

Muriel shoved past him, an annoyed sound coming out of their throat as doubt settled itself in Pepper features. “Too much?” she asked with a grimace.

“No,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Not at all. You look like a woman about to change the world, is all.” Her grimace shifted into a relieved smile.

“It just felt right… to wear today,” she said, patting herself. “Didn’t even know I had it,” she admitted with a weak laugh. Her smile held a sadness, her eyes glassy; the glamour continued its snug embrace on her, firm but not suffocating.

Aziraphale set his shoulders. He would do this for her as well; for the life of relative comfort she was trading in exchange for this burden of responsibility. She’d looked Crowley in the eye and told him that she wanted this, not that life, despite what that could mean for her and Warlock. And Aziraphale was going to do everything in his power to make sure she succeeded here today. 

“Is that it?” she asked, pointing to the glint of gold peeking out from his scabbard, now holding the Contract they’d lifted from Harriet’s quarters. He closed his coat over it with a curt nod. “And your sword?” She glanced behind him, never leaving anything to chance.

“I have it!” Gabriel said, waving his hand like an overly eager child. “Did you know it can go on fire!?” 

Aziraphale flinched at the volume of his voice. “Yes, so please do be careful,” he said over his shoulder with a bit too much sarcasm. “You wouldn’t want to accidentally set yourself aflame, would you?”

“No.. but that would be pretty neat,” Gabriel said, chuckling softly.

Aziraphale met Pepper’s eyes, a soft plea breaking through her resolve. It was clear her nerves were getting the better of her despite her best efforts to tame them, and Gabriel’s buffoonery was not helping. She and Aziraphale had spoken briefly earlier in the afternoon, with Pepper’s color fleeing the second she heard of Wensleydale’s fate. She felt it her fault, that much was clear, and Aziraphale had needed to talk her down from marching over to the Seelie interrogation rooms and offering herself in exchange for Wensleydale’s release. It was a fleeting impulse, a sign of the purity of her character, but Pepper’s resolve remained firm enough that it took relatively little to convince her to stay the course. 

But Aziraphale had been forced to lie. Had told Pepper that the Contract they had in their possession was The Contract, and not possibly Wensleydale’s counterfeit. He’d made Muriel, Brian and Gabriel promise, nearly threatening Muriel whose incredulous expression at the prospect showed them to be the greatest liability. But he’d implored the importance of the lie, at how Pepper needed to be resolute in her confidence for this to have any chance of working. Thankfully, Muriel eventually saw reason. 

Aziraphale knew that Pepper believed in this cause; this entire affair had been her idea. But the gravity of it all, Wensleydale’s capture and a wedding dress she’d never seen before appearing in her closet, it was a recipe for doubt to simmer close to the surface. Before he could offer words of comfort, Pepper took a steadying breath. “Let’s go.”

They made their way through Odegra’s caves in relative silence, the air around them feeling colder than usual as they walked. Aziraphale tried not to fidget with his sleeves but, despite his best efforts, his cuffs remained askew —  maybe not in reality but in the restlessness of his mind — causing him to fiddle with them mindlessly as they drew nearer to the meeting rooms.

A tap on his shoulder.

“Something wrong with your jacket?” Gabriel asked, peeking over his shoulder.

Aziraphale dropped his hands with a huff. Success or failure, Aziraphale was quite ready for his babysitting duties to be over. “Nothing at all, thank you.”

Pepper glanced sideways. “Stop being so nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he countered.

“Well, you’re making me nervous.” He turned to see her eyes glassy once more, her shoulders slumped and hands clenched into fists. He frowned, realizing that she too — like his sleeves —  felt off balance, as though the sound of her voice was mismatching her movements by a fraction of a second. He looked around, sensing it from everyone and realizing it was the glamour, wilting and almost flickering with each passing minute, that was the cause, as though the Courtless were growing impatient and wanted to force some kind of confrontation. A flicker of panic. The Courtless had made it abundantly clear what the consequences would be if the glamour broke. Aziraphale was running out of time.

Aziraphale stopped, placing his hands on her shoulders and gripping the glamour into place. If she awoke from it, if any of them did, Warlock would be lost forever.

“My dear girl, I know this won’t make sense to you, but I have watched you, from afar, for your entire life. I have seen the strength that you carry within you. I have witnessed you challenge royalty” — she frowned — “heard your ideas on how to run this Court and have been constantly inspired by your fierceness and tenacity. You are more than capable of achieving what you set out to today. Believe in yourself, and everything will follow.” Aziraphale held his breath; unsure if he’d said too much but sure if he had said any less her panic would consume her. 

He was rewarded with an affectionate smile as he felt the tension in her shoulders soften; the glamour continued to drape itself across them like a cloak. 

“Alright” — she said, lifting her chin — “let’s go.”

When they reached the door, there was neither guards to greet them nor fanfare to announce their arrival. Aziraphale exhaled slowly, offered his silent gratitude to his fiancé for their incident-free welcome, before opening the door and stepping inside.

Michael reacted first, her eyebrow raising high on her forehead as she took in the entourage behind him. Next to her was Uriel, who smiled widely, and Saraqael who simply looked befuddled. On the opposite side stood Beelzebub, who spit their drink out at the sight of Gabriel; Ligur, who was on the unfortunate receiving end of Beelzebub’s drink episode; Shax, who raised a glass in Aziraphale’s direction; and Dagon, who simply looked confused. At the head of the room stood Crowley, mid-toast with Thaddeus and Arthur. The glass in Arthur’s hand dipped as his eyes fell on Pepper. 

The glamour trembled; the recognition between them pressing sharply into its threads.

“Aziraphale,” Thaddeus bellowed, continuing to appear calm despite a glint of mischief flashing behind his eyes. For the first time, Aziraphale noticed a resemblance between the King and Adam “Who are your guests?”

Pepper stepped forward. “We are the Children of the Moon, and we are here to deliver our demands for the Contract negotiation.”

“You!” Michael growled, making to step forward only to be stopped by Uriel’s firm hand.

Thaddeus tilted his head. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know you?”

“No, but you know some of my friends.” She nodded at the queens, standing behind their husbands, now stepping forward. Crowley walked away from the kings, offering Aziraphale a quick wink as he joined him on the opposite side of Pepper.

“Deirdre?” Arthur said, his puzzled look growing more concerned.

The Queen paused, extending her hand towards him. “You belong on their side, darling.” Aziraphale watched confusion grip his King, could see his desire to step forward stopped by his duty and diplomacy. So much like his son. Aziraphale silently willed him to take her hand.

“Harriet, where do you think you’re going?” Thaddeus asked with an almost amused smile on his face. It made Aziraphale’s stomach tilt uneasily. He glanced back at Gabriel, wishing he had his sword.

The Seelie Queen did not turn to face him as she said, “Away from you, dear.”

Deirdre abandoned waiting for Arthur and took Harriet’s hand instead.

Thaddeus barked a laugh. “Treason! My own wife. Ah well, suit yourself, you dumb bitch.” He turned, downing his entire drink in one go and slamming the glass on the table, nearly shattering it. Aziraphale fought the urge to step back away towards Gabriel. He would not leave Pepper’s side. Thaddeus continued. “Anyone else want to join this… whatever this is?” he said, waving his hands lazily in the air.

“Hi Beelzebub!” Gabriel shouted from behind Aziraphale. “Ow!” he cried as Muriel stomped his foot.

Beelzebub’s eyes widened, clearly ready to murder Gabriel as he continued to fight for their attention.

The King’s head shot over to them, a tightness forming in his jaw. “Well, Beelzebub” — he scoffed — “I did not expect you, of all people, to have a hand in this.”  He turned and glared at Gabriel. “Do you… know this person?”

Errr,” Beelzebub stammered.

“I got us more crisps!” Gabriel said, taking a small bag from his pocket and waved them over his head. 

Thaddeus’ eyebrows shot up to his forehead. “Well, I guess a lifetime of service to your King is no match for a packet of fucking crisps,” he spat as Beelzebub backed slowly away.

Out of nowhere, Hastur fumbled into the room carrying Crowley’s quiver and bow. “Got what you asked for,” he said, approaching Crowley with an all too familiar goofy smile. He punched him lightly on the shoulder before adding, “Bestie.”

“Hey! Since when is he your bestie!?” Ligur shouted, an appalled look on his face as he glared at Hastur. “You swore to me that there was nothing going on between you two!”

“Oh. Hi, Ligs!” Hastur waved.

Crowley garbled some words as he shot a defensive look between Ligur and Hastur. Aziraphale tutted softly and placed a gentle hand on the small of his back, stilling him.

Wasting no more time, Pepper stepped toward Thaddeus with her chin held high. When she spoke, her voice was firm and powerful. “The Unseelie will not abandon one settlement for another. We demand our lands returned, an open apology from all Seelie, an abolition of the monarchy, and for you, King Thaddeus, to stand trial for the crimes you have committed against all Fae and human kind. You are a monster and a tyrant; not remotely fit to rule this Court, or any other.”

Crowley shuffled closer to Aziraphale, leaning in to whisper, “So she went for the whole trial thing then, huh?” 

Aziraphale offered an absentminded shrug, his attention focused intently on Arthur who slowly stepped toward the group, the confused stitch in his brow deepening as he continued to stare at Pepper. The mismatched feeling Aziraphale had in the passageway had followed him here, and he could almost see the glamour wilting, a slight shimmer in the air, distorting the world as it loosened its grip. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched for his sword, but he dared not move for fear that the motion itself could tear through the glamour entirely.

“Something’s not right here-” Arthur started.

“No, something’s not,” Thaddeus said, his hands on his hips, clearly tired of the theatrics. Aziraphale turned and searched for Gabriel once more. “Ligur, arrest him,” he said pointing to Arthur.

“Arrest me?” he asked incredulously.

Thaddeus stepped forward, aggressively invading Arthur’s space. “You mean to tell me this wasn’t your idea? Filthy boggart,” he sneered. “A sham wedding!? And when that didn’t work to your liking, a coup?” Arthur stammered. Thaddeus searched his features, smiling cruelly at the power he still wielded over the Unseelie King. Aziraphale felt his panic turn to rage as he was once again forced to watch his friend made to feel small by a bully and a coward. Crowley placed his hand on Aziraphale’s wrist, drawing attention to his quiver with a slight nod. 

Thaddeus licked his lips. “You know what? Maybe not. You’ve never been a man of any substance Arthur, always too weak and timid to make a real impact. So now, what, you’re having this little peasant girl do your job for you?”  He spat on the ground between them. “Fuck you.” He turned to the room. “Fuck all of you. This negotiation is cancelled. I would rather commit my entire race to extinction than bend to the likes of you.”

“Well, shit,” Crowley mumbled, freeing a few arrows from his quiver to twirl in his fingers.

Thaddeus continued to glare. “Arrest them.” No one moved. He looked to Crowley, holding Aziraphale’s hand, and quickly moved back to Ligur. “Ligur are you deaf!? Arrest them, now!”

Ligur made to move as Pepper grabbed the Contract from Aziraphale’s scabbard and raised it above her head. Everyone froze. The glamour nearly bent in half.

“What is that?” Thaddeus said with forced calmness.

Pepper tilted her head. “You know what this is.”

“That’s not possible. The Contract is here.” He turned to look at the floating document next to him in the front of the room.

“You sure about that?” she asked with a playful glance over her shoulder. “Wensley?”

Wensleydale waved from the back of the room. Recognition paled Thaddeus’ features. Wensleydale smiled. “My father sends his regards,” he added cheerily. 

Growing serious, Thaddeus’ eyes darted back to Pepper’s hands.

“Agree to our demands, or I destroy it.”

“Destroy it!?” both Arthur and Thaddeus shouted. Deidre placed a gentle hand on Arthur’s arm.

Aziraphale looked to Crowley, who offered a small nod. His mind was swirling, the glamour nearly breaking, the awareness tugging at everyone’s mind, and now the risk of the Contract destroyed and everything reset. 

The possibility of getting Warlock and Adam back safely was passing through Aziraphale’s hands faster than he could grasp at it.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Thaddeus spat. “You think you know what you’re asking for, peasant? You don’t know shit. Fae are selfish, hedonistic creatures. Do you have any idea how quickly the Courts would destroy themselves without order? Without discipline!?” His rage shook the room. “You need control. Oh sure, you can stand there and blame me for all of your plights” — his eyes went mad as he glanced around the room — “ but my hand, my family’s hand, my son’s hand is what has and will keep this place from eating itself alive.” Aziraphale closed his eyes in defeat as he felt the glamour tumble lifeless to the ground. Thaddeus — his fury still blinding him to what he’d just said —  extended an impatient hand towards Pepper. “So return the Contract to me and go back to your hole, girl, before you make me really angry.”

“Shitttttt.” Crowley sneered as awareness spread across the room.

“Warlock…” Deirdre said to Arthur.

Harriet’s eyes grew grief-stricken as the memory of her own son flooded her mind. “Where is he?” she whispered, looking to Crowley.

Pepper’s hands shook as she lowered the Contract, confused. Thaddeus, unfazed — or uncaring — saw his opportunity and rushed her, running across the room to rip the Contract from her hands. Before anyone could react Aziraphale felt the air around them tighten, felt time thicken to molasses as the space between seconds was stretched to a stop. 

Crowley turned to him. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

Aziraphale chuckled sadly, a slight hysteria fueling him now. “It did, didn’t it.”

“Can’t hold this for long” — Crowley’s golden eyes glanced over at the crowd — “too many people. What do you want to do?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, the glamour’s broken.” He looked sadly at Crowley. “We’ve lost the Princes.”

Crowley nodded. “So it would seem.”

“I’ll never forgive myself.” He turned to Arthur and Deidre, holding hands now and looking pained. “How will I tell them?”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his. “We just have to make it worth it,” he said, looking at the Contract. “There’s a bomb, in the sigil. All we have to do is press it and everything is reset to zero.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes. "A fresh start.”

“A disaster, more like,” Aziraphale laughed softly at the insanity of the prospect.

Crowley bobbed his head. “Maybe, but also maybe not. Won’t know if we don’t try right?”

Smiling affectionately, Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him. “I suppose,” he said, pressing his forehead into his. What choice did they have? “This may push back our trip to Paris, though,” he said, pulling away and looking at the chaos surrounding them. “It seems as though we are going to be needed here.”

Crowley took both of Aziraphale’s hands in his. “Already told you, angel, I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“Me too.” He stayed for a moment, breathing Crowley in and relishing the way his scent made Aziraphale feel as though he were standing in a field on a summer afternoon. Breaking away, he turned to face Pepper. “The sigil, you say?”

“Yep, all you have to do is press right there, and boom.”

“Boom…” he repeated before frowning. “Is it dangerous?”

Crowley matched his expression. “Don’t know actually. Wensley made it. I doubt he’d want to hurt anyone in the process.” His eyes fell on Thaddeus, his frozen expression twisted in rage. “Except him.”

Aziraphale was unconvinced. “Do you trust him?”

Crowley smiled. “I do actually. Bigger set of balls on the kid than I expected.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly as he felt time start to speed up, with Thaddeus beginning to move and the shouting around them growing louder. Aziraphale stepped forward, releasing the Contract from Pepper’s hands and moving back toward the front of the room and away from the fray. Once time caught up to them, Thaddeus, still running toward an empty handed Pepper, was met by Arthur’s fist instead. He fell to the floor with a thud.

“Ah, well then,” Aziraphale said, all eyes in the room turning towards him. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?” he said, pressing a finger into the sigil and closing his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Someone cleared her throat from his right. Everyone turned to find Anathema standing next to the counterfeit Contract, one hand on her hip. “I think you want this one,” she said, pressing her finger into the sigil.

Boom.