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For tonight’s temptation, Crowley was a fly on the wall. An actual, literal fly, in every sense of the word; six black legs, two opalescent wings and an iridescent body perched inconspicuously in the corner of a stuffy hotel room in Southern California. He wasn’t pandering. The covert nature of the operation necessitated a disguise. If Lord Beelzebub got a kick out of it as well, Crowley wasn’t going to complain.
The setting for the temptation was an exclusive high stakes card game in Los Angeles, California. The Italian-American mafia had its claws sunk deep in illegal gambling rings across the country, and the bustling Hollywood neighborhood was one of its most lucrative locations. Which is to say, this was no nickel and dime piece of work. Games like this could go for two days straight, with no one leaving until it either broke up or the place took on the sight and smell of a warzone.
It was still early days. Right now, the room was merely smokey which, combined with the mosaic effect of his compound eye structures, made it infinitely more difficult for Crowley to see.
What he could make out was this; an opulent hotel suite and a rather large, felted octagonal table, around which sat about a dozen men. Half of them wore a stripe in their suit, the tell-tale sign of a mafia soldier, while the other half included a lawyer, an actor, a politician, and curiously, a rare book dealer based out of London, with white-blond hair and a soft, angelic face. No one seemed to think it unusual that the English gentleman sat among them, a complete and utter stranger, whose manner of speaking and style of dress might have better suited their grandparents' generation. If they did, they chalked it up to the general unfathomability of the British.
The target of tonight’s temptation, whose name was Dick, sat on the immediate left of the Englishman. He was the senator of California, a real up-and-comer. The sort of powerful, easily corruptible man whose soul Hell practically foamed at the mouth over. Yet somehow he had made it to middle age untainted, which was probably an oversight on Hell’s part and NOT a reflection on Crowley’s inability to do his job, as a certain dark Lord had suggested. Not that it mattered, anyway. Soon enough, the senator’s mortal soul would belong to Hell for all eternity. All he needed was a little push.
Crowley was meant to be that push.
Instead, he’d passed it on to the frumpy angel already seated at the card table, as per their standing arrangement. When last they’d spoken, Aziraphale had admitted to business on the West Coast of the United States, and after a coin toss to decide which of them would be performing both the miracle and the temptation, he’d ended up with the gig.
So, technically speaking, Crowley had no reason to be there. Aziraphale certainly didn’t know he had been followed off the airplane and into the back of the taxi cab by a demonic fly, and if confronted with the evidence, Crowley would deny it to Hell and back.
Off the record, he was here for a bit of spying.
It wasn’t the first time he had watched Aziraphale uphold his end of the bargain. But it was the first time he had done so deliberately, the other two instances being more or less accidental. This time, Crowley had made the conscious decision to monitor the angel, to ensure tonight’s important temptation was done right. He was just doing his job, really. Satisfying some strange, nascent curiosity was merely a side effect of the mission.
Aziraphale, for his part, didn’t seem too bothered being there. The hotel was acceptably middling, neither seedy nor fancy, and most importantly, discrete. Celebrities and other high profile humans who frequented events of this nature required a certain degree of privacy, which suited Aziraphale just fine. The rooms on either side had been rented out, one for the attending associates who poured the wine and emptied the ashtrays, and the other, as it was put with a wink, "for Chantal.”
Thus far, Aziraphale had remained calm, cool and collected. He seemed for all the world content to brush elbows with the underbelly of society, to interact with the lowest and most flagrantly immoral humanity had to offer, while somehow managing to keep his feathers immaculately clean. After spending hours of observation on the wall, Crowley thought he knew why.
Aziraphale was a filthy hedonist.
He liked the wine, the never-ending room service, and the expensive cigars. He liked being around exciting people and making human friends with anyone and everyone. And he liked the money, miracle-free and exempt from taxation. Under these circumstances, heaven was happy, Aziraphale was happy, Hell was happy (though they didn’t know all the details) and Crowley was…
Actually, Crowley’s feelings were irrelevant, thankyouverymuch.
Aziraphale had an official explanation for his willingness to commit temptations (other than the convenience and freedom the agreement allowed for, that is). On more than one occasion, he had explained to Crowley that he believed his presence to be inherently good, that just by being near him people were influenced toward the light. Now, watching Aziraphale suck thoughtfully on the tip of a cigar, Crowley doubted every word.
They’d been at it for hours now. Hours without even a single surge of temptation, the barest sizzle of it. The room was inordinately tranquil, considering the stakes at hand and the number of violent criminals present, which Crowley could only chalk up to a minor miracle. As the night wore on, the angel controlled the emotions in the room with an iron fist, diffusing arguments and instilling a sort of mandatory courtesy that sounded forced and stuck coming from the mouths of men whose talents in blasphemy could have shamed even the damndest demon.
Night became morning. Brandy turned to coffee, or in Aziraphale’s case, tea. Two men were asleep, one on the sofa and one on the bed. Others showed signs of tiring, including the senator, whose eyes were bloodshot and heavily bagged. The poor man had had a remarkable stroke of bad luck, thanks in no small part to the angel sitting beside him.
Whenever Dick had good cards, Aziraphale’s were better. Whenever Dick checked, Aziraphale would raise. To a certain fly on the wall, it was clear that the angel was not playing to win, but setting Dick up to lose, slowly but surely running him down until the pile of chips in front of him had become frighteningly sparse.
From his perch on top of the champagne bucket, Crowley could see the senator’s hand. Ten, Jack, Queen and King, with an Ace in the Hole. The pot was stacked, and he’d gone all in. His cards were unbeatable. He was about to earn back a great deal of money in one fell swoop, and he couldn’t have been happier.
The dealer announced the round, and Dick spread his cards in front of him triumphantly.
“Royal Flush,” he declared.
There was a moment of confused silence before Aziraphale spoke up.
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid not.”
What minutes ago had been a winning hand was now nothing, not even a single pair or high card with which to salvage a little dignity. A flicker of confusion passed over his face as the pot was divided amongst the winners, leaving the felted space in front of him saliently empty.
The senator was out of chips.
At that exact moment, a wave of energy enveloped the room, distinctly non-demonic but powerful nonetheless. It was imperceptible to the humans, who continued to drink and smoke and speak, but Crowley felt it rush over him like a pulse of electricity, or a gust of cosmic wind. The temptation was subtle, yet masterful, and Dick’s vulnerable human brain was no match for it.
Within moments he leaned discreetly toward one of the pin-striped mobsters and murmured, ”You think you could spot me 5 G?”
The mobster gave him a long, calculating look. Then he stood and left the room with another soldier, closing the door to the associate’s suite behind them. When they returned, he nodded to the dealer, and a fat stack of poker chips in primary colors was pushed in Dick’s direction. In that moment, the senator’s fate was sealed.
The tempting energy sizzled and popped out of existence like the bursting of a light bulb.
“Right. Anyone closin’ the lights?” The dealer asked, talking out one side of his mouth and smoking out the other.
Aziraphale raised his index finger.
“Anyone else?”
No one spoke, and the dealer cashed Aziraphale out. The angel came away with modest winnings in the realm of eight large. He was only okay at cards. If Crowley had to guess, it was one thing for an angel to manipulate circumstances for work, and another to cheat for personal gain. Still, he’d done well for himself. If Crowley weren’t currently an insect, he might’ve smirked. Instead, he rubbed his fuzzy black feet over his eyes and buzzed.
One of the attendants grabbed Aziraphale’s belongings from the adjoining suite and helped him into his coat. With his battered hat once more atop his head, he turned and beamed around the room.
“I must say, it’s been a wonderful evening, gentlemen. But I really must get a wiggle on - things to do, places to be, you understand. Thank you so much for the invitation. I wish each and every one of you the very best. Toodle-oo!”
The door to the hotel room clicked shut behind him. Mission accomplished, Crowley was already flitting out the torn window screen as a low, bemused voice behind him muttered.
“Toodle-oo...?”