Chapter Text
There was a man at the end of the alley, an orderly from the hospital, Aziraphale guessed. He was tall and broad shouldered with light, ashy hair only a shade darker than his skin. He didn’t appear winded even though his crisp, white shirt was soaked with sweat and his face was red. The angel wondered if he knew that his grin looked like an animal baring its teeth rather than a smile.
Beside Aziraphale the girls shifted. The younger drew closer to the angel, gripping his sleeve. The older tightened her grip on the chunk of wood in her hands. The orderly’s "grin" only widened, teeth gleaming despite the alley shadows.
Oh, yes, the angel thought. He knows.
Aziraphale put on a proper smile and stood.
“Hello. Is there something I can help you with?”
“And just who are you?” The man spat. Aziraphale kept smiling, but some of its softness faded.
“My name is Mist-- ah, I mean, Doctor Fell.” On the voyage over he had decided hiding in plain sight was best. If the sick came to him and left cured, who would question it?
“A doctor? You?”
Well, except for this rather blunt orderly.
“I assure you that I am,” the angel said. For the first time the man took his eyes off Estelle and gave Aziraphale his full attention.
“You new?”
“I’ve just disembarked, yes. What gave me away?” Aziraphale asked with feigned interest. Even as he attempted to keep the conversation light, he could feel the anxiety rolling off the girls in waves.
“You obviously don’t know how we do things here in New Orleans. You can’t just go around helping people.”
Aziraphale still smiled at the orderly, but it no longer reached his eyes.
“The Hippocratic Oath would beg to differ,” he said stiffly.
“Ahh, but would you go against the will of God, man of medicine?” That caught Aziraphale off guard. He blinked a few times, cracking the ice that had settled into his usually warm eyes.
“I’m... not sure I follow.”
“The Lord brought down this plague to rid the city of the irredeemable. Let them receive their punishment in accordance with His will.”
Aziraphale smothered his outrage at hearing the capital H on ‘His.’
Shut up. Ignore it. Focus, he told himself. This was the kind of information he had sailed across the world for, spilling out of this man not an hour since he disembarked! He also had two young charges to think of. He grounded himself by putting a hand over Estelle’s smaller hand, which was clutching his sleeve.
“And exactly how does ‘His will’ translate into ignoring the sick and chasing innocent children down dark alleys?” Aziraphale asked.
“Innocent, ha!” The orderly sneered. “These two tried to escape divine justice and defied God’s servant, Father Richard. He’s seen to it that no hospital or doctor in the city would dare treat degenerates like them who catch the fever. But these two tried to sneak in.” Aziraphale glared as the man pointed an accusing finger. “They’re some of the least deserving, if you ask me. Denying who and how God made them, especially people like that boy.”
Boy? Aziraphale scrunched his nose and turned to the back of the alley to see if he had missed another child hiding in the dark. But when he looked back at the orderly, the man was grinning wickedly at the child still gripping the angel’s sleeve. Realization hit when Aziraphale looked down into Estelle’s wide, terrified eyes. He had seen that look so many times over the years… so many beloved, fear-filled faces of those who had been driven into hiding and persecuted and murdered… and here they were again… this little one and all the people on his list who had come here to make new lives just to vanish altogether… new place, same story… Aziraphale was sick of it, absolutely sick of it.
Enough.
Aziraphale looked up and oh, if looks could kill. (The angel briefly considered making it so.) He stepped forward and faced the orderly. Hit with Aziraphale’s nearly-fatal look, the man’s disgusting grin finally fell.
“I think it’s time you left.” It was a command, not a suggestion.
“Not without that boy I’m not! Wh--!”
Aziraphale suddenly advanced on the man. The air around him shimmered angrily, wings ready to burst from their dimension. Now it was the orderly’s turn to be wide-eyed and terrified. He stumbled back with every step Aziraphale took.
“The only children here are girls. Healthy ones at that, and both under my care. So I’ll tell you once more,” the angel said, eyes flashing with blue fire. “Just once more--”
But he didn’t have to tell him once more, because the orderly had already turned tail and disappeared around the corner. Aziraphale walked all the way out of the alley to watch him run. The man nearly collided with a pair of lamplighters as he turned another corner, likely heading in the direction of the hospital. Aziraphale allowed himself to smirk, which surely must have been a sight with his eyes still blazing with righteous fury. His job wasn’t done though. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. That’s it, calm down. When he turned to reenter the alley the fire was gone and he wore a proper smile.
“Are you alright, my dears?” he asked. He stopped walking towards them when he realized they might still be afraid. They could even be afraid of him now, though he was unsure what they had seen or sensed. It was an unfortunate side effect of the job at times; a display of angelic power that was meant to strike fear into evil hearts also struck fear into good ones. When the girls didn’t answer he stepped away from the alley entrance to give them a free path should they choose to flee. But he was surprised when a bundle of curls barrelled into him, not past him.
“Oh!” The little one hugging his middle beamed up at him. He smiled back. “Are you feeling alright?” She nodded vigorously.
“About that,” the older sister emerged from the alley. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss…”
“Marie.”
“Marie,” the angel placed a hand on his chest, bowed slightly. Marie’s mouth quirked. (Whether from intrigue or incredulousness, Aziraphale couldn’t say.) “May I escort you young ladies home?”
Marie held his gaze for several moments, considering it. “You may,” she finally decided, before kneeling beside Estelle with the little one’s hairwrap. Marie put it back on, and once she stood Estelle took both of their hands and led them down the lantern lit street. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the insistent little tug of her hand. He glanced over and saw a similar smile on the lips of the older girl walking beside him.
“How far do we have to go?”
“The pub is just up there,” Marie nodded straight ahead.
“Pub? I thought I was taking you both home to your family.” Aziraphale wasn’t the best at judging human age, but he was very sure they were too young to drink.
“It’s not our home, but it’s where our family will be,” she replied, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s a safe place for people like us, me and Estelle… and you.” The momentary fumble in Aziraphale’s step told her she was right. She grinned.
“That obvious, eh?” He asked.
“Well, you’re a marked man now that you helped us, Dr. Fell. You would need protection from the Church either way. But yes,” Marie turned to look at him, “You are also that obvious.” As sobering as her first two sentences were, Aziraphale genuinely laughed at that. Marie did too. Estelle skipped along, buoyed up by the lightening mood. Aziraphale marveled at how happy he was despite the circumstances. It was almost as if--
“So are you an angel of the Lord, Dr. Fell?”
Aziraphale nearly fell flat on the cobblestones, blindsided as he was. “Wh-whatever gave you that idea, my dear?” He stammered. They stopped and Marie leveled her gaze at him.
“Because I can’t figure out how you healed Estelle back there. And normally I’m very good at that. I know rituals, items of power, incantations. You used nothing. So, how? ” Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply but Marie cut him off (which was honestly alright with him, since he didn’t actually know what he wanted to say). “They say the angels working with Father Richard can do magic like that. So is that what you are? An angel?”
Before Aziraphale could formulate any kind of response they heard a snap. He looked down to see Estelle, who still had a hold of his hand, snap the fingers of her other hand again while looking intently at her sister.
“Oh. You saw me change clothes,” he heard himself say. Marie’s eyes widened. She looked at her sister who was bouncing up and down, nodding excitedly. They seemed to hold an entire conversation with just an exchange of looks. Then they turned back to Aziraphale.
“You’re just like Madam C.”
“Madam who?” Aziraphale asked, but Marie’s only response was to grab his second hand and continue towards wherever they were headed. He heard her muttering under her breath, but all he caught was ‘she better…’
They reached the pub very shortly after, and once they hit the creaking porch steps Estelle broke away. She threw open the door to disappear inside. Aziraphale caught it and Marie darted under his arm. The angel followed them inside.
He didn’t have any specific expectations for the place, but he certainly did not expect what he found.
The pub was dark, and quiet. He didn’t even notice the two figures across the room until Estelle bounded up to them. Then several things happened at once. The bartender looked up and swore, Estelle made a beeline for the woman leaning against the bar, who gave a mighty “Oi! ” as the little girl barrelled into her, and Aziraphale? When the woman turned he was struck as well: by her glossy, auburn curls, her sharp, unmistakable profile, the flash of gold behind tinted glasses—
“Crowley!?! What are you doing here??”
And so angel and demon met once more.
Not far off St. Louis Cathedral stood dark above the Place d’Armes. Inside, Father Richard knelt before the altar alone.
“I beg you for mercy, dear Lord.”
A few solitary candles cast long shadows behind the carved saints and angels of the high altar. Their peaceful expressions contorted in the flickering light.
“I ask not for myself, but for your lost children.”
He felt the satisfying ache in his knees that had been bent far too long. He leaned into it, wincing with the ghost of a smile.
“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do,” he intoned, thinking of those who resisted his orders, defied God’s will. Sheep who had gone astray. But he would save them.
“Excuse us, Father.” Two young women approached, novices from the convent. They carried a chest between them. “It’s here.” The holy man gripped the altar and stood.
“Inquisitor Vicente sends his regards.”
He had them set it on the altar and then lifted the lid.
Inside were branding irons, knives, weights attached to bloody pieces of rope, devices he didn’t even know the name of. He took a piece of twisted metal In his hands.
“The lost sheep will return to the fold,” Father Richard murmured.
One way or another...