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“I don’t know why they keep sending me here,” said Crowley, looking over the top of his sunglasses down the length of George Street. Aziraphale hummed in what might be agreement, but might just be a noise of disgust at the taste of his plastic cup of wine. “I mean you, I understand. This place could use a few more miracles, a little divine intervention. Maybe a great flood or two.”
“They had one of those last week,” Aziraphale said. “It lasted less than a day.”
“That’s not a great flood then, is it? That’s a rubbish flood. Fitting though, I suppose. Promising something big and getting disappointed. That’s what the whole festival is about.”
“Not always.”
“I just couldn’t do a better job. Look at it all.” Crowley gestured and as Aziraphale followed the sweep of his hand he found himself inclined to agree. “I mean, how much was that wine you’re drinking?”
“Eight pounds,” replied Aziraphale, “and I’m not certain it strictly qualifies as wine.”
He took a sip and wrinkled his nose.
“Is it too old-school to… well, improve this a little?”
Crowley barely acknowledged him, too intently focused on the crowds of tourists covering every inch of pavement. Even the subtle motion of Aziraphale improving the taste of his wine using a little divine intervention didn’t seem to cheer him up.
“I take credit for a lot, you know. Wars and the like. Never really my taste. But this? This is… perfect.”
He practically spat the words. Aziraphale looked at him in confusion.
“You don’t sound pleased about it.”
“They stole my idea.”
With a half-hidden smile, Aziraphale reached out and squeezed Crowley’s hand.
“But people are having fun, dear boy.”
“The tourists? Yeah, I suppose, but what about everything else? Look at the weather! Hundreds of thousands of people flocking here on holiday, outdoor bars taking up half the roads, and what does it do all month? It rains.”
“It’s not raining now.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
Crowley folded his arms across his chest, muttering something else bitter under his breath. There was a heavy magazine discarded nearby, which Aziraphale picked up and began to flick through, knowing that once Crowley began on one of his little rants the best thing to do was to just let him.
“It’s too expensive for tourists,” he blurted out after a moment, his hands twitching. “And yet somehow even the staff end up worse off at the end of it. Nobody wins.”
“Are you complaining?”
Crowley shot him a glare. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and continues to flick through the magazine, which he now saw to be an events program.
“I just don’t see why I’m here when it’s already as miserable as I could make it. A city full of people bickering and shoving all day, every day, for a month, and they’ll do it voluntarily again next year too.”
“But people are happy, Crowley. They come here to laugh, and to share their art with each other. People are allowed a platform to speak and to celebrate one another. I think that we should celebrate that too.”
“Okay, so you don’t want to be here either? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m simply trying to point out that it isn’t all miserable,” said Aziraphale primly. “Although I do see your point. There could certainly be improvements made.”
With a stretch and a distinct crack of stiff joints, Crowley turned to look at him. The sunglasses shielding his eyes hide his emotions to a degree, but Aziraphale has more than enough practice reading his body language. Crowley is trying to persuade something from him.
“Head office are going to believe we made this happen one way or another anyway,” he said. “Can’t we just do a quick one each and go? Look-“
Crowley snapped his fingers lazily. A few seats away, a man in his thirties looked away from his pint and eagerly scribbled something in his notebook.
“See, he’s just started brainstorming a solo show about how mad political correctness has gotten. Evil spread. Misery accomplished. Your turn.”
Aziraphale sighed and folded away the program.
“Fine. But we’re staying in Scotland for lunch, there are some beautiful highland restaurants-“
“Absolutely. It’s on me. Please, Aziraphale?”
With a shake of his head, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Across the street a tired-looking teenager straightened up a little.
“There. Less worn out by the incessant tourist-wrangling, and that cheap coffee now tastes like something worth drinking. Should make today’s shift better, and have a nice ripple effect through the rest of the venue staff and guests.”
With another snap of his fingers Crowley shifted the world on its axis, until the two were sitting at a table outside a restaurant somewhere in a highland glen. Aziraphale frowned.
“I do hate travelling like that.”
“I know, Angel, but really, getting a bus from Edinburgh in August? Not even a miracle could manage that. Besides,” he said with a smile, tilting his head in his usual affectionate manner, “this way we beat the lunch rush.”