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Shaun had almost forgotten how damp England was.
Oh, he was a proper Englishman, born and bred in the fog and rain and mud of Brighton, and that never left one's blood.
But he'd spent the last several years in Egypt. He'd even gotten a tan.
It had been a shock at first, going almost straight from Oxford to the Assassins' office in Alexandria. Shaun spent the first few months of his time as an Assassin complaining about the heat to anyone who would listen, making Rebecca, who had recruited him into the Brotherhood, regret her decision vocally.
After he had gotten through his first summer and his training, he would remark on how high above 100 degrees it actually was only if someone mentioned the weather first, but he would never admit to actually liking the heat; the way he never had to wear a raincoat (which he always found frightfully hideous,) or how he never had to shovel snow just to be able to go down to the shop.
Egypt had been his home base, but he had been sent to all sorts of delightfully not-England places to research and spy and brief/debrief/assist Assassin field agents. Belize, Madagascar, (though the insects there nearly did him in) Norway, (mercifully in the summertime) Washington D.C. Well, D.C. was the reason he had been shunted back up to Britain, for what was obviously a time-wasting, get-him-out-of-the-way mission...
So it was with great irritation and a hint of shame that Shaun found himself in the middle of a London downpour, having left his temporary flat without a hat or an umbrella, while wearing those Italian leather shoes he had found for a steal in Tripoli (reports of Assassin involvement in Muammar Qaddafii's downfall are highly accurate but downplayed on the part of the Assassins, since they embarrassingly did not quite finish the job.) which he knew were ruined the moment the clouds rolled in from nowhere and opened up.
He ran the rest of the way to the Soho bookshop, praying it was open this time, hoping the proprietor hadn't changed the operating hours for a third time this week, and he wouldn't have to go back and write up another email to his superior explaining that he hadn't even been able to enter. Saleh had already been miffed when Shaun had told him the place didn't have a website and that the phone was intermittently disconnected, didn't have a voice mail, and on one occasion had been re-routed to a funeral home in Leeds.
Against what Shaun assumed were astronomical odds, the shop was open, and he entered, grateful to get out of the torrential downpour. A small bell chimed, the door shut, and for a moment there was silence, and Shaun found himself smiling the same slight grin he had always held when entering the Oxford library. Books were stacked neatly on the shelves, to be sure, but such books. His eyes found a copy of the Old Testament written in Sanskrit, and his hands went for it immediately. Before he could touch what couldn't possibly be a version of the Bible written before the first church was built in Europe, a towel was handed to him and Shaun stopped short.
“Good morning,” said the owner of the towel, “I couldn't help but notice you're a bit, er, damp.”
Shaun took the proffered towel with a thank you and also took in its owner. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, (or perhaps twenties...but then, Shaun couldn't even decide if the man was older or younger than himself.) with wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was a bit on the pudgy side, but in a way that politely suggests metabolism rather than too many jammy dodgers. He was decidedly normal in a slightly off-puttingly too-normal way, but his clothes were odd enough to make up for it.
Shaun felt he himself had cultivated the geek-chic aesthetic fairly well, but looking at this other man gave him a slight urge to run out and buy something fashionable and expensive just to get as far away as possible clothing-wise. However old the man was, he was certainly too young to be wearing that much tweed, (Shaun had been in academia and had seen his share of tweed) a sweater vest that would have been out of place on someone Shaun's father's age, and glasses that had gone out of style before Thatcher was in office. On the whole, the effect was odd, yet slightly charming, and Shaun felt himself feeling fairly and indescribably good, if not entirely at home, as well as a niggling sense of shame that he'd tried to touch a book with wet hands.
“Good morning,” Shaun said, offering his now-dry hand “I'm Shaun Hatch.” Generally the Assassins provided him with a false identity and corresponding papers, but they hadn't bothered with it this trip, assuming it was extremely low-risk and that the chance of Shaun running into someone he knew was too great to stick to a fake name. This was also slightly worrying to Shaun, who thought perhaps his actions in D.C. had rendered him expendable, and he made up a last name on the fly.
The man shook Shaun's hand and replied, “Ezra Fell, I suppose. Please, come in, you're dripping on the mat.”
On the surface that sounded like a warm invitation, but Shaun felt rather than heard the accusation in Ezra's voice.
“Are your the owner of the shop?” asked Shaun, as Fell led them further in, ushering the younger (?) man into a chair in the kitchenette.
“Yes, I believe so,” he said. Shaun was beginning to notice a pattern in Fell's way of speaking.
Shaun tried again, “I tried coming by yesterday. Er, twice, actually.”
“Yes, we were having a bit of trouble with the books yesterday, you see. Tea? You do seem quite chilled.”
“Yes please,” said Shaun gratefully. It was such a habitually British thing, to be offered tea by a complete stranger, that he almost forgot his training, but a casual sniff test produced no scents, and his palate detected nothing but tea, so he swallowed. Having a bit of tea in him allowed Shaun to process Fell's last statement.
“You were...having trouble with the books?”
Fell blinked, “Yes, they wouldn't...keep themselves stacked properly. Were you looking for something in particular?”
Supremely confused and feeling the hair on the back of his neck standing up, Shaun let his many questions go, “Yes, I don't know if you'd keep it in the bookshop proper, but I'm looking for a book, or a photocopied collection, perhaps. It's probably in some kind of proto-Arabic or Indo-European, or even cuneiform. A, er, friend of mine said he'd seen it here. I'm working on my thesis, you see. Any cultural or religious relevance to the first communities in the Fertile Crescent.”
Ezra looked pensive for a moment, “No. No I don't believe I have anything like that. I mostly deal in Medieval European books and Current-Era religious texts. There are some exceptions, though. I certainly don't have anything photo-copied,” he looked somewhat insulted at the thought.
Shaun leaned in a bit closer, “Mainly, Mr. Fell, what I'm looking for is any reference, any at all, to something called Those Who Came Before.”
Nothing, no sign of recognition.
“I am sorry, dear boy, but that term is not familiar to me at all.”
“I see,” said Shaun. Damn it all; another email back to headquarters explaining he'd found nothing.
Still, there was always time for hobbies, “Is there any way I could take a look at that Sanskrit Bible I saw in the front of your shop?”
Shaun got his answer in the form of Ezra exclaiming loudly about how late the hour was, and my goodness how time does fly, and though Shaun would swear it had only been fifteen minutes since he entered the bookshop, when he found himself deposited back onto the street, a 'closed' sign at his back, he was shocked to discover his phone reading that over an hour had passed.
But both the rain and the clouds had scattered, and Shaun was in unexplainably good spirits as he whistled back to the underground station.
His flat was clean and serviceable, if a bit dingy and unattractive. He sat in front of his laptop and an empty email and tried to sum up the day's events.
S,
Went down to the bookshop J reported on. Shopkeeper very odd, very uncooperative in a very polite way, but did not seem to be lying when he said he knew nothing about TWCB. Do not think he is Templar related but cannot be sure yet. Run name through database please; “Ezra Fell.”
Will try again tomorrow if shop is open.
-H
Writing it all out cleared Shaun's head a bit. He'd been so unexplainably content since leaving the shop that he almost hadn't been thinking of the incident itself. Fell was clearly odd; the strange way he'd spoken, how he basically threw Shaun out of the place at the very suggestion of looking at a book.
Hitting send, Shaun realized he needed a drink.
-
There was a pub, a standard wood-and-brass-encrusted British pub, just down the road. It was fairly crowded since Shaun's area was mostly populated by university students, but Shaun found a corner of the bar, ordered a fish and chips and a pint, and kept to himself. The bartender, an admittedly attractive young woman, attempted to be what Shaun estimated as “too friendly,” but sarcastic barbs went a long way to guarantee Shaun his privacy.
Until a youngish man sat down directly next to him.
“Afternoon,” Shaun said stiffly, trying to pour as much irritation into the word as possible. He stared around pointedly at the other empty seats in the bar area. There weren't many, but there were enough that Shaun felt he didn't need a neighbor.
The man had on slim-fitting black dress trousers and vest and a red button-up, the combination of which was somewhat arousing, though the effect was offset by the stylish sunglasses in spite the dim lighting, and Shaun was immediately irked.
“Good afternoon,” said the stranger, grinning a grin that Shaun could only describe as 'twattish,' before catching the bartender's eye and ordering a scotch. An old one. An expensive one.
“Anthony Crowley,” said the man, grin firmly in place. His dark hair was perfectly styled, with no sign of the mass of product that Shaun associated with people he generally thought of as newly-wealthy twits.(Shaun himself never thought of his own little blond faux-hawk as anything close to twattish, of course.)
His skin was distinctly olive, his accent odd; almost Manchester but a bit too posh. Snakeskin boots rounded everything off. But those sunglasses... Shaun shifted uncomfortably. Irritation was having hate-sex with arousal and he did not appreciate it.
“Shaun.”
“What are you drinking, Shaun?”
Suddenly sweaty palms clutched a nearly empty beer that he could have sworn was half-full a moment ago. “Arrogant Bastard…” (If Shaun was going to drink American, it had better be rare.)
The bartender appeared as though summoned and refilled the glass, winking saucily at one or both of the men, Shaun couldn’t tell. But she left just as quickly, and he was left alone with Crowley.
Shaun was nervous for a variety of reasons. Despite his bookish look, he had supreme faith in his abilities when it came to social situations, something he felt no shame in referring to as his ‘assholish charm,’ but words and niceties just wouldn’t come.
It wasn’t just that this Crowley fellow was dressed like an extremely attractive dickhead, it was D.C: the last time Shaun had been with a man had been three months prior in America, and it had not ended well. It had ended in this embarrassing shuttle off back to Britain, in fact. And it wasn’t that he had been with a man; (though the same situation could have occurred easily with a woman) the Assassins were fairly lassaiz-faire when it came to the personal lives of their recruits: nothing being true and everything being permitted lent itself well to all sorts of things. As long as nothing interfered with the Brotherhood's work.
Which is where D.C. came in. An unreasonably attractive student from Brazil sent to work for the semester at the Smithsonian turned out to be an unreasonably attractive Templar from Brazil who had been sent to grift Shaun's research from him by any means necessary. It turned out to be far simpler than the Templar had imagined. They hadn't done much talking.
His expertise was in research, but Shaun had been trained in the basics, of course, and he wished Crowley would take off those damned sunglasses, eyes gave away much more than simply facial expressions. Not that that had helped in D.C.
“Come here often?” asked Crowley, and Shaun wanted to either sucker punch the man for such a hideous line, or snog him senseless for having those lips that curved perfectly around every intonation of that smooth, sensuous voice.
A snarky rejoinder didn’t form and Shaun went ahead and decided to be genuine, “Er, no, actually. I just moved into the neighborhood. Needed a bite to eat and a drink. Long day.”
Crowley turned slightly to regard Shaun, “Student?”
“…yes,” answered Shaun. Crowley’s trousers hugged his hips obscenely, “Working on my doctoral thesis…”
“What are you studying?”
“Pre-Akkadian civilization in the Fertile Crescent,” Shaun said, a bit snappishly. His cover story was ridiculously close to his actual mission out of necessity, but it made him feel especially vulnerable, “Look, I don't really want to talk about my thesis...”
“Of course,” interrupted Crowley smoothly, “You must be at it all day, who wants to head off to the pub and talk about work? But I'm sure we can find other things to talk about.”
Shaun froze, heart pounding. Crowley had just placed a hand on his thigh.
“I'm sure we could...” Shaun said, wishing his voice didn't have such a noticeable tremble.
The dark-haired man leaned in closer, whispering into Shaun's ear, “I can tell you've had a long day. Perhaps lunch, tomorrow? I would love to see you again.” Without waiting for an answer, Crowley plucked Shaun's phone from his pocket, plugged in a number, and replaced the phone. Another slow run of a hand back down Shaun's thigh, goosebumps forming over hyper-aware skin, and Crowley was gone, both tabs paid for and a very nervous and aroused Shaun in his wake.
Shaun went back home to a very hot shower that went on so long it turned cold.
The next day, Shaun woke up hating everything. He hated the Assassin Brotherhood, the bookshop owner, the bookshop, Crowley, that stupid bar around the corner, London, Washington D.C, whomever had done up the plumbing wrong in his building, Those Who Came Before (whoever the fuck they were,) and the Templars.
Shaun was not in a good mood. He didn't want to leave the flat at all, but received a terse early email from Saleh.
H,
A search of the name you gave us rendered nothing but what we already know. Fell is normal -entirely too normal – but we can't find any noticeable red flags. I have someone investigating further but I do not think he is high priority.
Please do go back to the bookshop again. You can't just pretend to be browsing? I know you weren't born into the Brotherhood but I did think you had high enough scores during your training.
-S
Prick.
Shaun took the underground back to Soho, a place he had hated on principle, but now even more so. Shaun found a coffee house across the street and down the road, glared a trendy, keffiyeh-ed Soho resident out of a window seat, and parked, watching the idiotic “rare books” shop. It was closed, of course, but damned if Shaun wouldn't stare at it all day. What did Saleh expect him to do?
He didn't actually have long to wait. Shortly before eleven, the bookshop's door opened. Already on his feet and halfway out of the coffee house, Shaun watched Mr. Fell turn around and lock the door up again before heading down the street.
Shaun followed him.
It wasn't like he had anything better to do.
If he were honest with himself, Shaun might have almost thought it fun to tail the shopkeeper. He hadn't done anything like it since his training, when he'd done well at just about anything that hadn't involved physical exertion. Luckily, the area they were walking through was fairly busy, full of wandering hipsters and aging hippie holdovers, and Shaun was able to blend fairly well with the crowd as he watched Fell whistle through the streets, smiling and greeting passersby. Losing track of his prey at one point, Shaun hurried around a corner and caught the tail end of what seemed to be Fell helping an elderly woman across a road.
Shaun knew Ezra Fell was an odd person, there was no mistake.
Their destination seemed to be a park, and Shaun inwardly groaned when Fell approached a duck pond and brought a bit of bread out of his pocket. He did not want to have walked so far only to watch Fell feed the bloody ducks.
And that's when things got interesting.
Anthony Crowley walked down from the opposite direction and stepped next to Fell.
Awfully close to Fell.
Shaun nearly tripped himself getting closer. He managed to crouch in a clump of bushes, muddying his pant legs. He had to know what they were meeting about. It had to involve him. It was too much of a coincidence, the day he finally met the shopkeeper, he'd gotten a phone number (not to mention an erection) from Crowley? And it was definitely Crowley, he had on a charcoal gray suit on today, and a matching jacket, but the same sunglasses, same hair.
But try as he might, Shaun couldn't hear a damned thing they were talking about. Ducks honked, cars blared from the distant road, an ice cream vendor shouted just beyond the pond. It was maddening. Shaun did the only thing he could think of and fumbled for his cell phone.
hey, it's shaun from last night. you mentioned lunch?
A moment passed and Shaun watched the two intently. Crowley pulled out a sleek silver phone from his jacket pocket and smiled at the notification that appeared. Fell looked on almost bemusedly as Crowley quickly texted back and pocketed his phone.
Shaun stared at his phone, adding slow satellites to the list of things he hated that morning.
Finally;
absolutely, darling. noon work for you? i can meet you down in your area if that's alright with you. there's a lovely bistro about a block further than the pub.
Shaun was already trying to fumble out of the bushes while texting his affirmative. Once out of range, he pelted towards the nearest underground station. He would be cutting it close.
–
Shaun ducked into the bistro, heart pounding but only ten minutes late. He’d had to go home and change, telling himself it definitely wasn’t to impress Crowley, just to make sure there were no awkward questions about his muddy trousers. If he spent some extra time on his hair, well, that was just coincidental.
Speaking of, Crowley waved at him nonchalantly from a corner. The bistro was a small, upscale place, brightly lit but still lending itself to a degree of privacy.
It looked expensive. Shaun privately hoped lunch was on Crowley. He made his way over to where the man sat, sipping a cup of tea.
“Sorry I’m late,” Shaun hated apologizing for anything.
“Not at all,” said Crowley. He was still wearing his sunglasses, “I just got here myself; I tend to be fashionably late.” He flashed Shaun a brilliant smile, “lunch is on me, darling. Please, get whatever strikes you.”
Something about the smile and the way he’d spoken made Shaun wonder if he’d somehow given away his feelings about the bistro's price. But Crowley kept talking, idly chatting about how delightful the food was, what a lovely little place, etc. and Shaun sipped his tea and tried to calm down.
The waiter came around and dawdled taking their orders until Crowley gave him a Look and he sped off.
“But how has your morning been?” asked Crowley, casually leaning over the table to rest his hand only inches from Shaun’s, “Busy with the thesis?”
Nodding, Shaun decided to take the plunge. Or, as much of it as he dared.
Sighing theatrically, he began acting, “It’s difficult. There's practically no information to begin with, and what information exists is behind closed doors."
"Academics, I've noticed, tend to make things difficult for each other," said Crowley smugly.
"Exactly my point. There's a highly infuriating bookshop, for example, down in Soho," Shaun steeled himself, "It's never bloody open, and the proprietor seems daft..." Crowley shifted for a moment, but said nothing, "he's almost against me taking too close of a look at his books, like he doesn't even want to make a sale."
"You know for sure this shop has what you need?"
Shaun nodded, taking a sip of his tea with as long-suffering look on his face as possible, "I do think so, at least something to help me. A friend of mine said they'd read something in there pertaining to this concept called "Those Who Came Before."
As with Fell, Crowley betrayed no emotion or recognition at the words. Shaun pressed on, "They're a central theme in my work, it's not something that's really been explored before. They refer to some kind of primitive deities worshiped by early agricultural societies in the area."
"How very interesting," said Crowley, looking the furthest thing from interested, "I certainly hope that Fell character comes around."
Now that was interesting.
Popping a deviled egg in his mouth, Shaun winked at Crowley, "Those are wicked sunglasses, where did you pick those up?"
--
Lunch proved fairly fruitless, but Crowley still seemed interested either in Shaun or in having sex with Shaun, so it was a relative success.
At least he'd discovered that these two new additions to his life were definitely connected.
The next day, Shaun felt uncharacteristically lazy and decided the Brotherhood's wild goose-chase be damned, he was going to take the day off, ordered take-out from a nearby Indian restaurant for lunch and lounged around reading.
The buzzer sounded and Shaun let the delivery boy up, leaving the kid in the door while he went digging around for his wallet. He'd looked familiar, and it wasn't until Shaun was on his way back, counting out a tip, when he realized the delivery boy had been their waiter the previous day.
About to casually remark on how horrid it must be to have two jobs in the food industry, Shaun stopped short.
A scarf. A gray and green keffiyeh. The kid waited, leaning against the wall, sporting the same gray and green keffiyeh that the student in the coffee shop had been wearing, the one who'd been banished from his window seat by Shaun's angry glare.
Heart beating wildly but training and self-preservation somehow taking over, Shaun handed the boy money and smiled his thanks.
"I'll need to let you out when you get back downstairs," Shaun said levelly, "Just...hit the buzzer.”
The door shut and Shaun sprinted away, changing out of his sweatpants and t-shirt, wrapping a scarf of his own around his neck to partially obscure his face. A newsboy hat was dug out of luggage. No time to replace his glasses with contacts, the buzzer sounded and Shaun slapped the door button, waited about ten seconds, and raced out of his apartment.
Out on the street, Shaun found himself tailing someone for the second time in as many days. This time, his quarry led him to an underground station and Shaun embarked one door over, but the same car. It was mercifully busy, and Shaun was able to put a harried mother with four terrible children between him and the delivery boy. Waiter. Student. Whatever.
A twenty minute train ride later, they both disembarked in an unfamiliar part of town.
Another short walk brought Shaun to a shiny corporate office building, where the kid entered. A moment later, Shaun followed, in time to watch keffiyeh enter an elevator in a marble and mahogany lobby. Moving to follow, Shaun found his way blocked by a large security guard. There hadn't been a sign on the building, but the security guard's uniform had the Abstergo logo emblazoned on the chest.
"Can I help you?" asked the guard.
"Yes actually!" exclaimed Shaun, "I'm looking for an attorney, this is the third building I've been to. The website said it was this office park, maybe you've seen it, Picard Family Law?"
"Sorry mate," the guard said rather amiably, "check across the way there, the big black building, lots of lawyers from what I've seen."
"Right," said Shaun brightly, "Cheers!"
Shaun did go over to the building the guard had mentioned, slightly amazed that he'd gotten away with a Star Trek reference. There was a Starbucks on the lobby floor, and he bought a muffin and a coffee and took them outside to eat within sight of the Abstergo building, thinking ruefully of the Indian food cooling in his empty apartment.
Several hours passed, and Shaun sent an email through his phone to Saleh, updating him on the state of affairs. Shaun privately hoped Saleh would get in contact with the London Office (why they weren't involved already was beyond Shaun) now that there was clear Templar involvement, and send out some reinforcements; people who actually knew what they were doing and had been on a few more stakeouts than he had. Besides, Abstergo knew his face; prior to his recruitment into the Brotherhood, Shaun had spent considerable time investigating what he saw as a massive government conspiracy. He hoped they hadn't managed to get footage of his face during his exchange with the Abstergo guard.
The sun had set, and still no email or call back from Saleh. Shaun turned to tinkering with whatever terrible games he had on the phone.
At least it gave him some time to think. As much as Shaun wanted to hate Ezra Fell, he found that he couldn't dwell on the feeling too long, finding himself thinking things like "he's just a chap trying to get by" and other such rot. Anthony Crowley, on the other hand, was fairly easy to hate, until Shaun thought about him too much and found himself unnecessarily turned on.
And it was odd; the first time the two had met at the pub, Crowley had pushed Shaun's libido into overdrive, an effect few men had ever had on him; women actually being his preferred gender of interest. Their second meeting, however, Shaun hadn't felt as helplessly lustful. He'd been aware of the other man's inherent sexuality (and the way he filled out a suit) but maybe it had been the harsh light of day, or the effect of tea rather than alcohol, or the fact that Shaun's encounter at the park had led him to strongly suspect Crowley might mean him harm. Whatever it was, the second encounter had left Shaun still interested in Crowley. It was only the emergence of a Templar agent that had dragged Shaun back to actual work.
Shaun was starting to curse out loud at Angry Birds when the door to the Abstergo building finally opened again. Through the twilight, Shaun recognized Keffiyeh boy, who had changed into a heavy black coat. He immediately took off down the length of the building, Shaun not far behind.
For a moment, Shaun wondered why the kid had changed into such an oddly heavy coat, and then London did that thing it'd been doing recently and started raining. In half a minute, Shaun was soaked through, but he persevered, thinking he'd request to use some of his vacation time when this was over. Perhaps Belize, Belize had been lovely. Or just Egypt, it never rained in Egypt.
Down into the Underground. Back up again a short ride later, swing a hard left (Shaun blended with some tourists to avoid detection and had to run to catch up) and they were in bloody Soho again, approaching that god-forsaken bookstore.
This time, Keffiyeh (despite lack of keffiyeh) slipped down a back alley, Shaun a short distance behind, using dumpsters and rubbish bins for cover. The kid was being careful now, looking around, before picking a lock on an emergency fire escape ladder and quietly climbing. Shaun gave him a minute, then followed, cursing everything silently as he slipped over the slick and cold metal.
The kid pulled out a shortened cro-bar and pried off the vent at the top of the building, pulling himself inside.
"Sloppy," Shaun said to himself. Espionage was not this kid's forte. However, Shaun himself had little choice but to follow him into the crawl-space.
It was dry, the sound of rain reduced to a dull patter, but Shaun did some more silent cursing as he attempted to pull himself over the ceiling beams rather than risk a tumble through the fiberglass insulation into whatever lay below.
He'd also managed to lose sight of Keffiyeh in the darkness. No matter, thought Shaun cheerfully. He'd probably die of inhaling the insulation before any confrontation.
Instead of dwelling on how he was starting to covet one of the hidden blades his field-agent colleagues used that he'd always scoffed at (it's the twenty-first century, a computer virus does more damage) Shaun concentrated on how he could hear voices.
Below him.
Pressing an ear to a beam, Shaun could hear almost perfectly;
"...you'll excuse me for trying to clean up the mess you made, angel."
"I didn't make any sort of mess, dear. I gave her the sword for her own protection, it's my Nature to be kindly, it really can't be my fault what her children..."
"...just lucky...I like blondes..."
Heart beating wildly, Shaun knew, knew it was Fell and Crowley. And why now, for that wild heart beat to turn into a sputter because they were talking about him.
"leave...poor boy alone, he's not even...the sword."
"Is that jealousy...angel?"
Bugger, thought Shaun. He'd gotten himself mixed up in some weird poly-amorous thing. Weird being the operative word in this situation; what sword?
No matter. Shaun heard a scuffle a bit down the attic from him. Keffiyeh was struggling with something, but Shaun grabbed his ankle. He'd never admit it, but it felt quite gratifying and almost American-ly
bad-ass
to grab the kid by the ankle and whisper, “You've got to work on your sneaking,
Templar
.”
What the Templar did not need to work on was his kicking skills, and Shaun took a foot to his nose before he could do anything else. Dazed, Shaun launched himself (from an almost horizontal position, mind you) blindly in the general direction of the kid, succeeded in tackling him, but did not succeed in remembering that they were in an attic with very little solid floor space.
So they crashed through the ceiling.
At least the kid broke Shaun's fall.
Coughing and swearing, covered in blood, drywall, and fiberglass, Shaun rolled off the very unconscious Templar and found himself staring at an outstretched hand.
The hand belong to a shocked but concerned bookstore owner. Shaun had been here before. He took the hand and was pulled up with surprising strength. Crowley stood in a doorway, looking as cool as possible with his eyebrows raised. He was still wearing his bloody sunglasses, but had his jacket off and shirt mostly unbuttoned and cuffed to the elbow, a glass of wine held lazily in one hand. He was very attractive.
But now was not the time for that.
Nobody spoke for a long moment.
“Er...I think he was trying to bug your apartment,” said Shaun, indicating the kid on the floor, “I think he's still alive...”
“Yes,” said both other men at the same time, but Fell continued, “He does seem a bit worse for wear. As do you, dear. Come along, we'll get you patched up. Crowley, be a love...?” he waved at the Templar, as he pushed Shaun from the small living room area, down a set of stairs and into the kitchenette.
“A hospital, please, Crowley!” shouted Fell at the stairs. Crowley shouted back something muffled that almost sounded like “Damnit, Ezra Fell, you never let me have any fun,” but the name was different.
He sat Shaun down and started fussing about his face. 'Fussing' was the only way Shaun knew how to describe it, his eyes were half-closed and he didn't really feel any pain from his broken nose anymore; soft, manicured hands came and went over the damaged area with little notice.
A few minutes later, Crowley came down the stairs, drink still in hand and a wicked grin on his face. Fell gave him a Look.
“What? I sent him to a hospital!”
“Did you send him to a Canadian hospital, like last time?” intoned Fell with a long-suffering sigh.
“Not a Canadian hospital, no.”
“Crowley!”
“What? We're not allowed to mess about with them, but they can mess about with us?” Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh of his own, “Fine, I sent him to a lovely Finnish hospital in a small town. He may or may not only have Yuan in his wallet and no I.D. In the midst of his ordeal, he'll find a young English-speaking doctor and they'll fall madly in love and he'll leave the Templars to become a shepherd.”
At this, Shaun opened his eyes and stood up, pushed Fell off of him and backed away from the two, “Ok, alright. Somebody had better start explaining what in the fucking hell is going on here. You are psychopaths, the both of you, but how do you know about the Templars? Are you with the Brotherhood?”
Crowley burst into peals of laughter and Fell smiled, “Of course not, dear. We've just been sort of... along for the ride.”
Shaun didn't know what that meant, so he pressed on, “Why do you have a Templar agent bugging your attic then? Mind you, I heard some things while I was up there too, something about a sword, and how I wasn't after it, but you've been seducing me for some reason anyway.” he spat the last part at Crowley.
“Crowley was just trying to distract you, dear. He didn't mean any harm about it. And he wouldn't have actually had sexual relations with you, in any case!” he said it brightly, as though it were a consolation.
“Distract me from what?” Shaun shouted, growing increasingly desperate, “I came here on Brotherhood orders to find some book that referenced Those Who Came Before, we'd gotten evidence from a spy in the Templars that it was sold to this place.. I wasn't after any goddamned sword.”
“Yes, er... it turns out we rather mucked that one up. It was actually your attic friend who was investigating the sword, but when we sensed that someone was Interested in the bookshop, and you were the one who came by, well...”
“We seem to have gotten rather lazy,” said Crowley, nonchalantly drinking his wine.
“Then you do know what Those Who Came Before refers to?”
Silence. The two men looked at each other. Crowley answered, “Well, I suppose the name sort of speaks for itself. Always thought that lot was a bit off. Not His best work.”
Shaun groaned in frustration, “Ok. Well I, for one, think my visit to the mental asylum is over. If I'm not getting a straight answer out of either of you, I'm leaving.”
Shaun edged out of the room. Crowley was grinning like a maniac and Fell was nervously dithering, but neither made any move to stop him, until Fell pulled something out of what seemed to be his back pocked and handed it to Shaun.
“Be careful with it, please. It is very old. I saved...I mean, it was in the Great Library at Alexandria before the fire. But I know you will make use of it in the long run. Just, try not to remember that we knew about the sword.”
Shaun didn't. He looked at the object in his hands. It was a scroll. It was wrapped in some kind of protective animal skin. He tucked it under his jumper, which was now not only completely dry but seemed to no longer be spattered with blood.
“Thanks,” he said numbly to Fell, who nodded and clapped him on his shoulders, smiling, “I'm not sure how much good it'll do you, but it can't hurt. Good luck, dear. I fear you'll be in the thick of things soon.”
With that, Shaun found himself walking down a Soho road. He only peripherally registered that his nose was no longer broken. The rain had stopped. A taxi idled outside the coffee shop across the road. Shaun took it directly to the Brotherhood's London office and set the scroll down in front of the Head, who happened to be pulling a late night.
“I don't want to read it, or translate it,” he said, “I want nothing to do with it. And I want to cash in on some vacation time, unless you're firing me.”
The Head pursed her lips and looked at the book, then back to Shaun, “No, I'm afraid we're not firing you, and we can't let you take vacation time. You've been reassigned. You'll be meeting your new team in Italy in a week.”
Shaun sat down heavily. Another damned assignment. Bugger.
“Can I at least get an early flight out there?”
Luck appeared to be on his side. By the next morning, Shaun was on a plane to Florence, the events of the past week blurring comfortably in his mind. He settled back into his seat (he'd sprung for business class on his own, bloody cheap Assassins) and opened his laptop to try and find the most upscale hotel he could. One with a pool, perhaps. And a masseuse on staff.
–
“That could have been worse,” said Crowley, pouring Aziraphale a glass of wine and settling into the garish but comfortable tartan sofa.
Aziraphale sighed and took the glass, “Much worse. We really are slipping, love.”
“Templars,” scoffed Crowley, “You lot really buggered that one up.”
Aziraphale looked affronted, “I doubt that. It certainly wasn't something I had anything to do with, at any rate. Some humans do like to seek power, and powerful objects, wherever they can. I'm actually quite proud of them for maintaining a force against the Templars. Even one so rooted in violence. At least this agent didn't have one of those beastly wrist blades. He seemed a nice enough boy.”
Crowley took off his sunglasses. Aziraphale was not at all shocked by the snake-like, golden pupils underneath. He'd seen them.
“He reminded me a bit of Leo,” Crowley said, swirling his wine expertly, “Not nearly as intelligent, of course, and far less friendly. Or maybe it was that Salai boy he reminded me of,” the wine seemed to be getting to him. He was rambling, “I'm glad I got Leo off of those sodomy charges, if it was only to spread a little Lust at the time.”
“If you try to take credit for getting Leonardo involved with the Assassins and that Auditore boy I'll accuse you of being on Our side this whole time,” said Aziraphale.
“Bugger off, angel, you know that wasn't me. Sometimes things just work out for themselves.”
“Yes, I suppose they do,” said Aziraphale, “And I suppose they'll smooth everything out this time around as well. It seems like that's the tack the Ineffable Plan has been taking these days; letting the humans sort out their own affairs,” he sighed, “I hope the sword will be alright where I hid it. I am glad it came back to me, after all those years. But if the wrong sort get a hold of it again...”
“It'll be fine where it is, angel.” Crowley didn't know any more firmly than Aziraphale did, but it did give the angel a slight feeling of relief to hear his demon say it.
Crowley downed his wine and reached for the bottle, which had suddenly refilled itself. Pouring another for himself and topping Aziraphale's off, his snake eyes flicked to the angel for a moment, then away, “I really wasn't going to sleep with Shaun, you know that right? Human sex is so messy.”
Aziraphale beamed, “of course, dear. But did you really need to spike his libido quite that much? I could sense it before he dropped through the ceiling, but I thought it was coming from you!”
“Seductions are one of my specialties,” grinned the demon, “which you'll know quite a bit about.”
Turning pink, Aziraphale buried his face in his wine.
Outside, another storm began to brew.