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To any normal passerby-er on that stiflingly hot August afternoon, the day appeared like any other. Any normal passerby-er would be wrong, as they often are.
Not that this was a particularly negative take on the human species, it was more of a hearty commendation to the angel and the demon perched clandestinely on a nearby bench. Yes, to everyone in St. James Park that day, no evil appeared to be afoot; the ducks sated by bread generously doled out to them by secret Russian spies, merrily bobbing along the waters, sending Doppler waves refracting in and out of the clear blue lake. Everything appeared to be working comfortably in order and in accordance with humankind’s very specific Laws of How Things Should Be.
And, to give humans partial credit—there was not so much as true evil afoot today in St. James Park as there were two members, respectively of two vastly different organizations that were both conveniently bad enough at their jobs to be able to work in terrible symbiosis with each other.
So, there in that stiflingly hot August day, sat divine principality, Aziraphale, and ex-divine Angel-Who-Did-Not-So-Much-Fall-as-Saunter-Vaguely-Downwards, Crowley.
And there they sat, watching a scrawny young boy named Warlock, also known as Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Truly, it was just a scrawny young boy doing what scrawny young boys do best— and that is, making insurmountable levels of trouble, but Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t know that yet. In fact, they wouldn’t become aware of a certain blunder catalyzed by the scatter-brained deeds of Sister Mary Loquacious, a particularly forgettable member of a certain Chattering Order of St. Beryl until the better half of two weeks later.
It would be one of the many instances where one would come to the realization that the final days of Armageddon were afoot, while seated at a child’s birthday party.
But of course, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t know this yet either, and so they sat, with far more minor issues on their mind.
There, perched on a bench in that stifling hot August day, smack dab in the middle of St. James park, they watched the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness write a rude word on the description of a dinosaur.
“See?” Aziraphale bubbled enthusiastically at Crowley as if Crowley somehow knew exactly what he meant by that one word. And Crowley, in fact, did, which was a weird thought, “This child is surely one of yours.”
Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, the same words had been uttered by a certain Sister Mary Loquacious about a decade earlier, who hadn’t been at all any more competent at her job than the two begrudgingly assigned godfathers of young Warlock.
“Oh, so he writes a crass word on a sign and suddenly he’s the son of Satan?” Crowley said, casting a slightly offended look at Aziraphale, knowing he, himself, had been cast out of Heaven for lesser demeanours.
“You must admit,” Aziraphale smoothed down his waistcoat pompously, “that would be the kind of behaviour you would expect from your lot.”
Crowley turned to face him, “My lot? Tell me, Aziraphale, when was the last time you saw Lord Beezelbub call a Brachiosaurus a wanker?”
The angel simply turned his nose up, still rather caught up in a Holier-Than-Thou complex, “I still refuse to believe he could be turned to the light.”
“For calling someone a wanker? Well, then, I haven’t got a prayer, have I?”
“Do stop saying that!”
“Saying what?”
“I’m not saying it”
“You’re not saying what?”
Aziraphale swivelled to look at him, having left the bench moments earlier, now roaming aimlessly around the park.
“I know what you’re trying to get me to do, you wily old serpent!” he fumed, looking slightly red in the face, Crowley nonplussed by this, lazily staring down at him with a shadow of a smirk on his face.
“Careful, Angel, that almost sounded affectionate.”
Crowley would never thank the Almighty, or be in close cahoots with Her, given their rocky past, but if he ever did— he would thank Her that Aziraphale couldn’t hear his heart thrumming loudly in his chest right at that moment.
“As if I would fraternize with a demon,” he hissed.
“‘Already are, Angel, past it, really,” he grinned.
The angel in question, however, was not so thoroughly amused, clumsily gathering his bearings and leading them out of the park, shooting an annoyed look at the demon, “You really are a cad, you know that?”
“Oh, lighten up a little, Angel.”
“I shall not!”
Crowley simply shrugged, as best as a serpentine creature such as himself possibly could, and shoved his hands in the too-small pockets of his too-small jeans.
“Let there be light,” he mocked in a pompous tone, far out of earshot of Aziraphale, who was already striding ahead.
Things were changing in St. James Park that day indeed, but it appeared that after several millennia, some things never changed.