I have a few bits and snippets written about Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages. These will eventually be posted-probably not in chronological order-as a series.

The first installment-Az and Crowley during the Blitz.

London, January 1941

Aziraphale closed the blackout curtains and turned off the lights in his shop. A rumble of falling brick sent a shockwave through the small building. Books fell off shelves, and the light fixture overhead swung precariously on its chain. A green glass shade fell to the floor and shattered, and Aziraphale shivered, pulling his jumper tighter around him. He knew that compared to the noise outside no one would have heard it, but any excessive sound made him jittery these days. He took up a candlestick and lit it, grabbed a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet in the back room, and trudged down the steep ladder to the cellar where Crowley was waiting.

It was by pure coincidence that the cellar existed, and convenience that Crowley had seen fit to occupy it. Aziraphale had miracled it into existence to store his collection of wine bottles. Crowley, who lived in a second-floor flat and had been discorporated a few too many times for his liking, had taken to hiding out somewhere that was less likely to collapse.

"Hey," said Crowley, a greeting he had picked up in America some twenty or so years earlier.

"Hay is for horses, my dear boy." answered the angel curtly, moving to light the other candles he had placed around the cellar. Angels, unlike demons, did not have exemplary night vision.

"Sorry—good evening, Mr. Fell. Isn't it a lovely night?" the demon replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Aziraphale snorted, a most unbecoming sound for an angel to make. "What shall we open tonight?"

Crowley got up and stood—crouched, rather, over his companion's shoulder. "Hm…well, we have an excellent 1825 Medoc, 1723 Beaujolais, the usual suspects…Merlot…Cabernet…what are all these blessed awful American things? Did you smuggle them out back in the 20's?"

Aziraphale gave a non-committal shrug as testament to his maybe not-so-angelic behavior. Crowley continued rattling of labels.

"Madeira, Claret, Port…say, is that some Amontillado way in the back?" he asked, giving the angel a playful nudge.

"Oh, shut up." said Aziraphale.

"Such language," chided Crowley.

"How long have you been down here?"

"Couple of days. Not that you noticed."

"Ah. That would explain so many things. Tell me, have you ever considered getting out once in awhile? It would do you a world of good."

"And risk getting blown to bits in the street? I'll pass. Not the way I had in mind."

"My, you're picky for a demon."

"Oh, stuff it up your…"

A series of hammering blows on the door resounded through the shop. Both angel and demon froze. Neither dared breathe, not that it mattered. The bell over the door chimed, and three sets of footsteps trailed in. Not the heavy tread of soldiers, but—

"Ow!" exclaimed Aziraphale, whose thumb had just been hit with dripping hot candle wax.

"Someone's here! Quiet!" said a voice from upstairs.

A child's voice. There were children running around in this.

"I want Mummy!" wailed another voice.

"Mummy's not here," said a third, an older boy from the sound of it. "We all have to keep each other safe now."

The younger child began to cry. Aziraphale, feeling a twinge of compassion, headed up the ladder. Crowley grabbed his ankle.

"What are you doing? Do you want to get us both discorporated?"

"Crowley, they're just children. You're not really afraid of children, are you?" Aziraphale teased.

"You never know what kids might do these days. Little buggers running off with their daddies' pistols and whatnot."

"You're starting to sound frighteningly like me."

"And you're starting to sound mental. Who cares about some snot-nosed little cretins hiding out in the shop? Leave them there till it's over. Or better yet, kick them out."

"You know as well as I do it's not safe. And they're scared." argued Aziraphale. "I don't expect you to understand things like compassion, but it's my duty to help however I can."

Crowley looked almost offended as he released his ankle. The angel scampered up the ladder with surprising agility.

"Hush, Charlie!" whispered a voice, a girl this time. "Someone's coming!"

Aziraphale stepped into the back room through the trapdoor in the floor and headed out to the main part of the shop. Candlelight fell upon the frightened faces of three children cowering in the corner furthest from the window.

"Hello there," he said, slowly approaching them. "My name is Mr. Fell. I'm the owner of this shop."

The three—two boys and a girl—said nothing. The girl had her hand clamped over the youngest boy's mouth. The older boy, who looked to be no more than ten, stood up and approached the angel warily.

"Sorry for coming in," he said sheepishly. "This was the only open door. Our house was hit, and our parents…"

"Mummy!" sobbed the younger boy, who had managed to pry his sister's hand away.

"Quiet!" whispered the girl harshly.

"It's quite all right," said Aziraphale, not exactly knowing how to comfort three children whose parents had just been killed. "There's…there's a cellar." he said, pointing with the candle. "In the back room, through the trap door. You'll be safer down there."

"Thank you, sir." The oldest boy. "I'm Jack, by the way, and this is Emily and Charlie."

"Pleasure to meet you all," said Aziraphale. "Now, we should hurry. Are you hungry? I'll get you three settled and then I'll see what I have in the kitchen."

The oldest two followed him down the ladder; he had to carry Charlie. Crowley had taken the liberty of opening a bottle of Burgundy.

"Move over," ordered Aziraphale. "And put that away."

The demon sighed and corked the bottle, putting it aside.

"This is Mr. Crowley," he explained. "An old friend of mine. I'm afraid he's not very used to children, but he shouldn't give you any trouble. Isn't that right, Crowley?"

"Whatever you say," Crowley said wearily, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back against the wall.

"I'll fetch some food and blankets," Aziraphale fussed, heading back upstairs.

"Ooh," Crowley said, perking up. "Do you have any more of that…"

"Not for you."

"Hmph," The demon crossed his arms across his chest and pouted like a petulant child, eliciting a giggle from the three actual children in the room. Charlie wandered over and plopped down next to him.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Charlie and I'm almost four."

"Hello, Charlie." Crowley grinned, snakelike. "I'm Crowley, and I'm almost six thousand."

Emily and Jack chortled. Charlie merely asked, "How much is that?"

"A lot," said Crowley.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Well, now that you're acquainted, I suppose I can leave you to it."

"I suppose you can," Crowley said.

"Just…don't try anything while I'm gone."

The serpent smirked. "I'd cross my heart, if I had one."

Aziraphale grabbed some blankets from a cupboard and dithered just long enough to make it seem like he was looking for food. What he really did was miracle up roast chicken and vegetables, piping hot, and for a treat, chocolate sponge. Rationing being what it was, the children probably hadn't had much in the way of decent food in quite some time.

Balancing a laden tray while climbing down a ladder was quite a feat, even for an angel. When he had managed, he was greeted with the sight of all three children with cigarettes dangling clumsily from their lips, and Crowley holding a lighter to each one.

"All right, now take a drag." the demon instructed.

"Crowley! Put those out this instant!" thundered Aziraphale, with terrifying authority.

"Aw, come off it, we were just having a bit of fun. Weren't we, kids?"

"Out. Now."

"Fine," huffed Crowley, taking each cigarette and extinguishing them on the stone floor.

The children, now free of temptation, saw the food piled high, and clambered around and descended upon it.

"Thank you, sir!" they chirped happily. "Oh, look, chocolate sponge!"

The angel smiled benevolently down at the poor unfortunates. Crowley shot him a withering look over the top of his sunglasses, which said, quite simply, Oh, for Someone's sake, stop simpering.

"Legions of Oliver Twists roaming the streets, that's what you always get with war." he said, propping his head on his arms against the wall again and stretching his legs in front of him.

"Stop it," warned Aziraphale. "They can't help what's happened."

After the three had completely polished off the contents of the tray, they took up the blankets and fell asleep, the youngest choosing to nestle up next to Crowley, much to his chagrin. But with one admonishing glare from Aziraphale when he tried to shove the young boy off, he figured it was best to let sleeping kids lie.

The bombs continued to fall all night. Both angel and demon had grown accustomed to the sound of distant—and sometimes not so distant—whistling and impact, and the inevitable accompanying tremors. It was going on two and Aziraphale had taken up one of his old favorites, which he was attempting to read by the light of a single candle. Crowley had dozed off with his arm slung around Charlie's shoulders, the little boy leaning into him (1). Emily was curled up on her side against the long wall, and Jack had disappeared behind a shelf.

It was from this direction that the angel heard a muffled sniffling sound. Putting his book town, he picked up the candle and maneuvered his regrettably somewhat portly corporation through the narrow space between the shelf and the wall, rattling some bottles as he did so.

"Jack?" he asked in a low voice.

A blanketed form sniffed, wiped at its face, and turned in his direction.

"Are you all right?" he took the precaution of asking even though he already knew the answer was clearly no.

"What am I going to do?" asked the quavering voice. "I have to take care of them now, I'm the oldest. We don't have anywhere to go. No money. No family. Nothing."

"That's what I'm here for," said Aziraphale. "I'm going to make sure you're taken care of."

The boy caught his breath and let it out in a great shuddering sigh. A pale hand poked out of the blanket to meet the warm surety of an angel's grasp.

"Thank you."

The next morning, an angel and a demon bundled three homeless children into the backseat of an old Bentley and drove to St. James church. Aziraphale had insisted, because it was his duty as a guardian, to ensure that anyone he helped would be helped in a righteous and virtuous manner. Crowley had rather callously—even for him—suggested that they toss them off one of the lesser-used bridges over the Thames, weighted down with cement blocks (2). In response, Aziraphale had uncharacteristically dealt him a smart cuff across the back of the head, after which he relented. He'd let the angel have this one.

They pulled up in a back street near the church. Aziraphale ushered them inside while Crowley waited in the car. He lit up a smoke and leaned his head back. He hadn't been able to get any decent sleep with a fidgety toddler curled up next to him all night. At one point the boy had crawled into his lap to curl up against his chest, and had wet himself shortly thereafter.

Kids. He couldn't understand what humans saw in them.

After what seemed like an eternity, Aziraphale came back to the car.

"So?" asked Crowley gleefully. "What'll it be? A cruel orphanage, one meal a week and a bath every two months if they're lucky?"

"Certainly not!" clucked the stuffy old bookkeeper. "There's a charitable organization nearby that handles these sorts of things. They'll be put on a train to the country and fostered."

"Good riddance either way," Crowley said, flicking the dog-end out the window and putting the car in gear. "What a nuisance. Couldn't even get properly drunk."

"Alas, such is responsibility," noted Aziraphale dryly as they drove through the rubble with impressive speed.

(1) Which Crowley would later deny ever happened. Aziraphale would never tell him what an adorable tableau this made.

(2) Crowley had been reading a lot of Dickens lately, and had found the idea of "decreasing the surplus population"—not what Aziraphale had hoped he would have garnered from his reading—rather a good one in wartime. He had spent enough time with a few rather unsavory characters in America some twenty years prior to have developed some particularly nasty ways to go about doing it.

I imagine both of them would be uncomfortable around kids. Aziraphale, being his angelic self, would try to be nice. But Crowley would probably just find them revolting.

OOC? Good? Bad? Otherwise?