Chapter Text
The Guatemalan rainforest was hot, foetid and damp, cacophonous with animal calls and thick with insects. None of which bothered Aziraphale, who was standing at the edge of the clearing where they'd made camp the night before and staring forlornly down the road they'd been traveling - the only passage through the lush, unrelenting green. Oh, he liked plants well enough, but he was used to them being far more civilized and conscientious of his concerns. Since his priority at the moment was 'finding a missing human,' he had become far less tolerant of the obscuring foliage. His pale hair was done up in rolls above his ears and long enough to skirt his collar in the back, and he was ridiculously overdressed: a teal wool frock jacket and matching waistcoat with gold embroidery and brass buttons, moleskin breeches and a pair of soft thigh-high calfskin boots, both in a gentle caramel. He had a satchel at his hip, a polished walking stick in his hand, and a look of supreme disappointment on his face. On the whole, he looked entirely out of place, both psychologically and physically.
By contrast, Crowley was fascinated by the vast array of plant life in this jungle; there were so many peculiar colors and scents, and it was so very warm . The humidity, on the other hand, could get itself stuffed, as could the unpredictable, five-minute downpours that soaked their heads and turned the ground to slippery muck. He’d managed to escape the rains last night and sleep for a bit, curled up in his tent, and had only just stuck his head out when he sensed something was amiss.
“Everythin’ all right, ange- er, Mr. Fell?” Right, they were using code names for this.
Emerging fully from the tent, it became clear that the demon’s attire was significantly less couture than his companion’s, consisting of a simple wine-red shirt with baggy sleeves, high-waist black breeches, stockings that matched his shirt, and black, low-heeled leather boots. Normally, he’d also have on a pair of small, round glasses with smoked lenses, but he’d left them off to sleep. At the moment, his golden eyes were squinting at the suspiciously empty campsite, composed of four small tents arranged around a flat clearing, multiple stacked bundles of supplies and food, and a still-smoking firepit in the center.
“.... why is it so quiet?” Crowley queried. “That church human never shuts up for more than two minutes.”
"Mmn. Well, that ," The angel articulated cautiously. "Would seem to be the problem. There are no humans here. They seem to have gone on without us. And our zealous friend has left his belongings."
“They what?!”
The angel’s statement chased any remaining cobwebs from his brain, and he grabbed his glasses and rolled out of the tent. As he tried to tame his wild, sleep-wrecked hair (which had grown to his shoulders) back into a decent ponytail, a more thorough look-about confirmed that they were entirely alone.
“Gah,” he spat. “Where the Heaven is that man’s common sense? Running off in the jungle at night. Might as well just salt yourself and poke a leopard*.”
Aziraphale frowned, equally perturbed. "I don't understand this. I wasn't away for more than twenty minutes, and when I returned they were both gone. Our guide's pack and clothes, however, are also missing, suggesting a voluntary departure.” The angel turned and put his hands on his hips, scowling at a kettle next to the fire.
“Not a lick’a sense between them,” Crowley muttered, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire and encouraging it to flare up again.
"What a bother... Oh, is there any of that brewing herb left?”
“Ah, the local 'tea'? Let me check.” Digging around in his own pack, Crowley fished out a small leather satchel with a folding top. “Ah… yep, should be enough for a pot.”
Moving the kettle out of the embers, Aziraphale smiled and leaned to accept the packet. "Oh thank you, my dear. There should be jaggery in my provision pack, if you'd like." He poured hot water into a hollow gourd used specifically for brewing the herb. "In the yellow parchment, if you would.”
Don't pay attention to that smile. Just find the jaggery. Shifting a few items around in the angel's pack, the demon found the yellow envelope in question and drew out two of the small golden chunks: one for each of them.
Aziraphale added a few pinches of dried and crushed herb to the gourd and stirred it in with a silver rod “Ah... I think I'm truly in for it, Crowley. If I - if we don't find that boy, I'm never going to hear the end of it."
"Not your fault he ran off on his own like an idiot. Where’d he get to, d'you reckon? Can't have gotten that far."
"There's footprints, shod ones and bare." The angel took the sugar and, cracking the hard lump easily in his hand, he dropped only a couple fragments into his cup in anticipation of the drink, pocketing the rest. "And I found scuffs in the mud, in that direction. I... think someone took our Edmund.” Aziraphale fussed with his cup, using the rod to help melt the sugar. “They must have been watching, waiting for me to leave. It is my fault. If I hadn't been so keen for a cup- of something , well." He gestured at the kettle dismissively. "Here we are."
Crowley gave the jaggery an experimental sniff and then broke off a side portion, putting the rest in his bag. Hearing the news that their ward had probably been snatched, he arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale.
"... you could've woken me, you know. I'd have gotten it for you." Crowley offered,
"It's not as if I knew I needed to guard the fellow, you can't expect me to know when someone's going to be dragged off in advance!” Aziraphale huffed, completely misinterpreting Crowley's words. “Ika-Atl was here when I left, and you were... well you were asleep. Honestly. There could have been an earthq- Look, the point is I didn't know he'd be in danger. I suppose we should at least try to find him." He poured the contents of the gourd into their two clay cups, the brew dark and steaming.
The Fallen looked briefly baffled as he watched his overture fly right over that fluffy head.
"That's not what I- forget it," he grumbled, scowling into his cup before blowing on the dark liquid and taking a sip. "But yeah, I guess we should. If only so our respective memos match up." Even if he had to fudge a few lines.
"Oh, yes. Right." Aziraphale held his cup in both hands. "Not to be contrary, but I rather imagine your higher-ups would be pleased with you if he's gone. Especially if he's been - well, we don't know what happened to the previous missionaries." The angel sipped his drink, twice. "No one in Heaven knows a thing about it. "
"Nobody in Hell talks to anybody else, but it's not difficult to figure it out. Young men pumped full of dogma and adrenaline get it in their heads to go 'bring the word' to these little hideaway tribes, and then they run off into the jungle with a bag and a Bible, and then they die." Crowley realized he was ranting. Phew, this herbal drink packed a punch; he could feel his eye-slits dilating just a tad from the caffeine. "Frankly, this probably would've happened to him whether we were here or not."
"Mn. You're probably right. You're usually right. Bugger it all, why do they always send me on these futile errands?” The angel’s voice was rising in pitch and volume. “Go here, go there, watch some poor soul shuffle off - usually painfully . No you can't do anything about it, yes you have to be there, no we won't explain why. I have just about had it, you know. I’ve half a mind to complain to… to someone ." Aziraphale finished his drink. "We should go."
Because Heaven is full of wankers . Which Crowley very nearly said aloud, stopping himself just in time. He had felt a little ripple of... something when he’d heard Aziraphale asking all these pointed questions. He liked it. It felt more honest.
This inquisitiveness on Aziraphale’s part was fairly new behavior--when they'd met before, even at the Globe Theatre for the opening night of Hamlet, the angel wouldn't tolerate Crowley’s prying words at all (though they had found other uses for the demon’s mouth at the time). Aziraphale, in fact, hadn't actually been asking those questions aloud - at least, not up in Heaven. However, his commanding officers knew when an angel was developing curiosity, had seen the germination of it in Aziraphale, and they had dutifully nipped it in the bud by cutting him off with snarky non-answers to get him to take his assignment and go. Which, in Aziraphale’s opinion, was far more frustrating than being ignored, and a notable contributor to his current frustrated state (caffeine being the other).
Crowley knew, in a deeply twisted and personal way, just how Heaven felt about Asking Questions. But now that he was stuck down here, why not ask them? What could God do, make him fall again? At least now maybe he could track down some answers.
"Where did you say you found the footprints? That's the direction we should head in." Hopefully the rain hadn't washed them away by now.
Indicating a faded trail from where the campfire had been, Aziraphale gestured north, which was the direction they'd been heading. "The prints follow along the road there, and then go off into the brush. I didn't follow it far, though. I didn't want, er, for you to wake up alone."
Hefting his provisions pack, the angel looked over his shoulder at the rest of the camp. "Should we just leave everything as is? I suppose it won't do much harm, maybe someone will come looking." He took the kettle and yerba gourd, though. No sense going without a warm drink in the morning.
"Neh, just leave it. We can always miracle supplies over to us, if we need 'em." Damn it, the angel did one nice thing for him, barely even a nice thing, and it still made Crowely’s heart do that annoying little dance in his chest. Shifting his pack on his shoulder, he started out in the direction that Aziraphale had pointed, with the angel close behind.
Within a few dozen paces, the footprints turned into drag marks, and then went off the road, leading off into a barely-visible path through the dense jungle. Whatever happened to their missionary, it had happened fast. The scents in the area were several hours old, but Crowley tasted them anyways - no, nothing occult or ethereal was involved. Most likely scenario was that the guide had lured Edmund into an ambush... though, for what purpose? Crowley had some ideas, but nothing for certain. He had a machete with him, but was loath to harm the foliage. A quick glare from him, and the vines and leaves pulled away so he and his companion could venture into the brush- though one gangly heliconia did give him a little attitude when they passed by. Rude.
Aziraphale puffed and pushed along behind the light-footed demon. They would have to go trekking off the road when he was wearing his nice travel coat, wouldn't they? But he was nothing if not game, and noting Crowley's apparent purposeful direction, followed his companion’s lead, stepping carefully over roots and tiny living things. He was quiet, doing his best to keep up, but the ground was damp and slick in patches under his civilized boots. His heel skidded in the mud, and he put a hand out to steady himself, briefly clasping Crowley's shoulder from behind.
"Ah. Sorry." Aziraphale whispered, steadying himself and releasing Crowley from his grip.
"S'fine, angel." It was not fine, but he had to keep focused for now.
Being able to will the underbrush out of their way made the journey easier for them both, but the ground was still slippery and once they were fully inside the veil of trees, the air was so close and thick with water that Crowley's hair and shirt were drenched and sticking to him in a matter of minutes. That was something else to ignore.
Where were the tracks? There was one, barely a heel print. There was another, just a few toes. No shoe prints. No blood. No bodies. Had Edmund just been carried off, then?
The two ventured deeper into the dense foliage, and time seemed to slow to a crawl but the demon was fairly sure that at least four hours passed because the sun was going down. Or was that- crack-BOOM! - no, that was just storm clouds. Lightning flickered through the leaves, and then another crash of thunder came and rain began to come down in sheets. Fuck my life.
Aziraphale sighed, sodden in seconds. "Oh, I suppose it couldn't hurt to..." Raising a dripping hand, he made a motion, as if plucking something from the air above, but nothing came of it. The celestial blinked in surprise and dismay. The rain began to undo his neat curls, unspooling them into long ratty tails around his face, rivulets streaming down from the tips and into his pressed collar.
"Oh." The angel repeated the attempt at a miracle, standing there in the downpour as if stunned. The ground trembled under the sonic bash of another thunderclap, bringing Aziraphale back to clarity. "We should probably find shelter." He'd hate to be discorporated by lightning and end up back in Heaven with neither his charge nor his body. His allowance would be docked for a century at least.
Crowley didn't see the gesture, but heard the surprised "oh" and turned to see what caused it. They both stood there for a moment, a pair of disgusted and bedraggled pups in the rain.
And then the demon huffed loudly, turned back, and strode forward. "And where would we find shelter, angel? There's nothing around here but-!" He didn't finish his sentence, because he yelped in surprise when there was suddenly no solid earth under his leading foot and he tumbled forward, abruptly vanishing from Aziraphale’s line of sight, leaving naught but a couple of fluttering leaves where he’d been.