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“Professor Crowley, surely we didn’t come all this way to dig up some old rubbish heap?”
Crowley pointed a trowel at the student. “Surely we did, Ms Moonchild. And put on your hat, you’re not immune to sunstroke.” She scowled but obeyed.
“But why?” complained another intern on Crowley’s summer dig, Brian wotsisface. “I thought we would be doing cool stuff. Like in the movies.”
“Archaeology is nothing like the movies.” Crowley gave the four students his fiercest all-purpose glare. “Indiana Jones was a looter and a fraud. There are no solid gold idols, mysterious sacred relics, or ingenious death traps. Archaeology is about careful excavation, precise documentation, and placing objects in context.”
The bespectacled student with the cheesy name (Duddleswell? Stilton?) seemed moderately interested at this. But the fourth, who had appointed himself their leader, crossed his arms and looked mutinous. “That’s not what we thought we were signing up for. Where’s the magic? The miracles?”
“The magic, Mr. Young, comes from realising that people who lived over two thousand years ago had ordinary lives just like ours: they ate, they slept, they farmed and fished and fucked; they loved their children and quarrelled with their neighbours and bitched about their leaders, and left evidence of all that behind. The miracle happens when patient, meticulous, hard work allows us to piece together that evidence and get actual answers to our questions.”
“From a rubbish heap.” Adam Young looked at him thoughtfully. He turned to his fellows and clapped his hands. “Right. Let’s get to it, guys!”
“Right. Pick up your tools and get your spots in the grid from Dr. Pulsifer. If you need help, ask Dr. Device, that’s why she’s here.”
“And what about you?” Cheese-boy asked, rather cheekily.
“I will be in my tent, wrestling with a monster that even Indiana Jones couldn’t subdue – paperwork.”
***
Crowley sighed as he ducked under the tent flap, pulling off his hat and tossing it towards his bunk.
“Ow,” a voice protested mildly.
The archaeologist startled, whirling around to see an ethereally beautiful man reclining on the thin mattress. He was soft and plump and wearing little more than numerous glittering chains, bracelets, and rings with loose gauzy harem-style trousers – and a battered hat perched atop silver-blond curls.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley gritted out a harsh whisper that desperately wanted to be a shout. “What are you doing out of your lamp? Anyone could walk in here!”
“I wouldn’t let that happen, master,” the other pouted. “And you need to see this.” He brandished a scroll. “The solstice is tomorrow, and we still haven’t deduced exactly where in this site Merlin’s Wand is buried. Don’t you want that pesky curse lifted?”
“S’too hot for this.” Crowley pulled off his shades, revealing amber eyes with reptilian slit pupils. “What I want is for you to stop calling me master.”
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “I have standards. If it’s so important to you, you still have two wishes left.” He snapped, and manifested a bejewelled goblet, damp with condensation. “Here you go, a nice iced sherbet, you’ll feel much better.”
“Rather have a beer,” Crowley groused, but condescended to take a large cooling slurp from the drink. He sank onto the bunk and eased an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, letting his head fall onto a plush shoulder. “And I’ve only got one wish. Gotta save that last one to get rid of these.” He tapped one of the gleaming shackles around Aziraphale’s wrists.
“You really needn’t, you know. Although you are very kind to say so. But you might require both wishes to –”
“Not kind. S’no fun to have you stick around cause you’ve got no choice. As curses go, it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“That’s not what you said when you had to decline that invitation to the conference in Cairo,” Aziraphale sniffed.
“Well, you know what they say about turning into a giant snake,” Crowley sighed. “It never helps.” He slid down until his head was cradled in Aziraphale’s lap. “That curse led me to you, angel. Absolutely worth it.”
“And I’d never leave, even if you tried to wish me away.” Aziraphale gently threaded his fingers through the archaeologist’s hair. “Sleep for now, darling master. I’ll work on those Enochian translations later. There’s still a chance to locate the Truthful Cup …”