Chapter Text
"Hey, wanna hear something funny?" A young man leaned over a table.
His friend nodded.
"Been seeing this guy come in," he said. "Pretty often, seems like. Always getting different things."
His friend furrowed his brows. "I don't get it. What's funny about that?"
"He's always taking notes," said the man. "Careful ones. He doesn't even seem to like the food. I think he's a secret food critic or something."
"Oh," said the friend, blandly. He thought for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. "What if he's a secret spy or somethin'?"
The man drew his fingers thoughtfully across the stubble lining his jaw. "Mmmh, nah. Reckon it's probably food. Why else would he keep coming back if he didn't have to? Besides, what would a spy be coming here for?"
The friend glanced conspiratorially around the room and dropped his voice. "Big Al says the place is run by American firearm smugglers."
"Don't be stupid," snapped the man. "Bert moved here to get away from all that nonsense. He's a — what do you call em' —"
"A pacifist?"
"Yeah."
"You know," said the friend, popping a bite into his mouth, "IfinkIseenah."
"Couldn't understand a word, mate."
He swallowed. "I think I've seen him. Taking notes, yeah? Only, he always seems to be enjoying whatever it is he's got."
"Well, maybe he likes some food better than others. Guess you got him on the good days and I got him on the bad ones."
"Must be," said the friend. "Bit silly looking, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"The bow tie," he said. "The whole outfit, really. Tartan bow tie, brown coat looks like it belongs in a museum — he's always wearing it."
"What?" The young man leaned back. "What the hell are you talking about? No, he's always wearing black. Every time."
The friend frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Am I sure? What do you mean am I —"
A polite, cheerful little ding cut him off mid-sentence. The two of them looked up to see a tall weed of a man, hair flaming like anything, step into the diner.
His eyes were hidden behind large black glasses, and he was wearing a black coat with black jeans. The young man at the table smirked at his friend.
Crowley sidled up to his usual table, took a seat, and withdrew a sleek black leather notebook from inside his coat, which had a matching pen that he set down beside it.
Within moments, an older woman with washed-out, once-dyed-auburn hair came shuffling out of the kitchen doors. She greeted him with a smile and said, "Hello, Mr. Crowley, can I get you the usual today? Tea and chef's choice?"
"Oh, hey Nina." Crowley twisted around to look at the display case beside the register, ignoring the two friends arguing in hushed voices a few tables down. "Er, tell you what — your choice today, I'm in the mood for something sweet."
"I've got just the thing," she assured him as she sauntered away.
Minutes later, a fresh slice of Nina's Most American Apple Pie You'll Find on This Side of the Pond sat beside a hot cup of tea in front of Crowley.
He took a piece and put it in his mouth. And then, he opened the notebook and began to write.
It had all started out as a hobby, really, but of course these things usually did, didn't they? After all, reality TV had only begun as a way to mess with some humans and blow off some steam, and look where that ended up: the insufferable Goliath of modern television. The fact was, he was in too deep. It was mission after mission after mission and he was getting antsy about it — bored, almost.
As he took another bite, he reasoned to himself that this venture had at least given him the opportunity to gather some good intel.
He was in the middle of a note when another pleasant ding rang through the diner.
"I fucking told you!" cried one of the men across the diner.
This was followed shortly thereafter by a familiar voice. "Crowley, is that you?"
The voice was alarmingly close. He looked up to find the angel just about towering over him. In one incredibly smooth fumble, he attempted to slam the notebook shut, found the pen in the way, slapped the pen out of the way, slammed the notebook shut again, and swiftly knocked the pen to the floor in a clatter that seemed dozens more decibels louder than it had any right to be within the laws of physics.
"I've got it," Aziraphale replied cheerfully, picking the pen up and setting it down as he sat opposite to his opposite number. "I had no idea you were in town, what are you doing here?"
"I'm— er— it's nothing, I'm—" He quickly shoved a bit of apple pie in his mouth and mumbled, "Just trying out the cake" — he abruptly choked on a piece, then swallowed hard — "pie! Damn fine pie."
"The... cake, you say?" Aziraphale's expression changed — subtly, but it was there. Six thousand years of reading between the angel's lines said as much.
"Americans," Crowley scoffed with the wave of a hand. "Cake, pie — it's all the same, I'm sure."
"It's really not," said Nina, who had somehow appeared next to their table without Crowley being aware she had come out of the kitchen at all. She turned to the angel. "Mr. Fell! So happy to see you today, you're not usually in on Tuesdays. Do you two know each other?"
"Ohh," said the angel, putting on his best impression of a bad poker face. "Not, er, not too terribly well, no."
"Oh!" She looked between the two. "Is it a, um, special occasion then?"
The look on her face when they simultaneously shouted "no" at her suggested she had made a mistake.
"Complete coincidence, my dear," Aziraphale insisted. "That's all. Er — say, where's Rose? Is she not in on Tuesdays either?"
"Oh, she's—" Nina hesitated. "She's gone on — holiday."
"Holiday?"
There was that look again, Crowley realized. It was the fleeting look that something had just registered, something to be taken and quickly locked away, in the back of an old bookshop where no prying eyes or grubby customer fingers would find it. The problem was, he didn't have any sort of clue what that thing would be.
"And where did she go on holiday?"
"Oh, um, you know—" Nina chuckled, nervously almost. "South Wales, I think? With family."
"Ahh," said Aziraphale, appearing much more comfortable now. "Yes, Wales — it's a beautiful place, if I do say so myself. Perhaps I'd live there in another life. Anyway, could I bother you for a slice of whatever it is he's having, and a cup of tea?"
"That's what I'm here for," she said, also settling back into her usual warmth. "Not a bother at all. I'll be right back."
Crowley batted a piece of broken crust around on his plate with a fork. He waited until Nina had returned with the goods, then waited until Nina disappeared back into the kitchen.
"So," he said. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Aziraphale took a bite and closed his eyes briefly in utter delight.
Crowley set down his fork; perhaps the angel would eat the rest of his too. "The business with the holiday. C'mon, you know I know."
Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. He took another careful bite, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. Finally, he muttered in a low voice, "Just seemed odd, is all."
"Odd?" Crowley quirked a brow.
"Well, first of all, Americans don't use the term 'on holiday'. They'd say she'd gone 'on vacation'."
Crowley whipped his head around to look at the kitchen, then back at Aziraphale, who was nodding smugly as he forked a stray bit of sugary apple into his mouth. Not that anyone could tell from the shades on Crowley's face, but he blinked. "You don't think they're lying?"
Aziraphale did not respond. Instead, he portioned another piece off his slice, and began to eye the one sitting across from him.
"Why would they lie about that? Doesn't make any sense."
"You tell me," he said. "You're here for... 'the goods', are you not?"
"The—" Crowley frowned. "Are you— are you talking about the food?"
Aziraphale cleared his throat before mumbling, "I suppose you could call it ‘food’. Are you going to finish that?"
Crowley absentmindedly pushed the remaining portion of his pie, which ended up being most of what he began with in the first place, towards the angel.
As he watched the angel eat — and make no mistake, it was watching, he did not consider it to be gazing in any way, shape, or form — he wondered if they could actually be talking about the same thing. Would they really send another agent out into the field, to the same place? Without telling either of them? Then again, humans were as bizarre as they were interesting, that's what made them so interesting. And the angel was definitely up to something. So, perhaps they did.
"You know, perhaps they sent her off for new 'ingredients'," Aziraphale suggested.
"You think they're trying to change the menu?" Crowley glanced around. "Without anyone knowing?"
"The menu," he repeated. "I like it. Anyway, yes, I think that's a possibility."
"But I just got all the information on this one."
"As have I," Aziraphale lamented. "Now, if we could only get our hands on that cake."
"Is that what you wanted?" Crowley looked behind him again. "We could just ask about it, you know."
"Are you mad?!"
The two men, who had been discussing something fervently amongst themselves, looked up with great alarm. Crowley chuckled and offered a placating smile as he waggled his fingers. Reluctantly, they pried their eyes away and returned haltingly to whatever conversation they had been having.
"You can't just do that in broad daylight, Crowley," he whispered harshly.
Crowley opened his mouth, and then he closed it again. The angel wasn't usually shy about ordering dessert, but then, he supposed it would probably look suspicious to ask about cake immediately after ordering pie. And if there was anyone who knew the etiquette of such, er, food-related matters, it would probably be Aziraphale.
Yes, he was probably right.
Aziraphale looked up suddenly and affixed a pleasant smile to his face.
"How was it today, boys?" Nina passed two slips, face down, onto the table. Both of them reached, but Crowley grabbed them first.
"Fantastic, Nina," he said, flashing his well-crafted, devil-may-care smile. "This must be where apple pies go to die."
"Oh, not just the apple," she assured him with a wink. "We've got a cherry pie that'll kill ya."
Aziraphale choked on the remnants of his tea, eliciting another strange look from Crowley, though he said nothing as Nina plucked the cash from his hands.
"Keep the change," he said.
"Thanks boys, you're always welcome back in," she called as she walked away. "Even on Tuesdays."
As Aziraphale stood and began to straighten his coat, Crowley hesitated. He looked down at the notebook and his sleek little pen. Then, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pocket with a measured coolness, and began to walk towards the door.
"Headed back to the bookshop, angel? I can give you a lift."
"Oh, yes." A warm smile spread across his face. "Yes, I would like that very much actually."
They had made it all the way out to the car, its glossy black metal shining in the bright summer day, and Aziraphale had even buckled himself in, before Crowley made an animated gesture of smacking his head. "Hold on, forgot my notebook. Back in a minute."
Aziraphale watched him go with furrowed brows. He waited for Crowley to disappear back into the diner, before he pulled out his own notebook: a spiral-bound flip-top, with tartan adorning the cover. Carefully, he flipped through several pages, clicked a pen, and began to write.
It didn’t add up. Nothing added up. They seemed like such nice people – not at all the sort who would be up to any kind of mischief. And yet, he couldn’t explain the panic with which Nina had suggested Rose was simply on holiday, which was not even to mention the fact that she had slipped up terminology to begin with. What were they playing at?
And what was Crowley doing with it all? No one said anything about anyone else accompanying him. Surely, there would be some sort of superfluous overlap by having two of them out there, neither one aware of the other. Then again, Hell had done its level best to introduce as much bureaucracy as possible to the world of mortal government, and it was entirely possible this was simply a bureaucratic error. It was a good thing, then, that they did know each other; perhaps they could even combine their efforts, make some real progress together.
Aziraphale wrapped up his notes and closed his notebook, just as Crowley opened the door, tossed something into the back seat, and slid in behind the wheel.
He looked over with alarm. “What was that?”
“Oh, that?” Crowley shrugged as he put the Bentley into gear. “Nothing. Just, er, in case I get, um, peckish later.”
“You, peckish?” Aziraphale frowned.
“Sure.” He allowed no inclination to show that this was, in any way, bizarre.
Neither of them spoke at the onset of their journey. The trees and the fields whipped by, endless blue sky above them. Even so, a stillness hung between them, a chill contrast to the warmth that teased out all the little birds and squirrels and humans walking hand in hand. Aziraphale thought about that, from time to time, and he wondered if Crowley did too.
Six thousand years had been spent cautiously portioning out the pieces of themselves that cared for one another. These pieces had been exchanged across thousands of times, in thousands of ways. There was the way that Crowley always seemed to know where to go for the best desserts, no matter where they went. There were the times that Aziraphale had stretched out a wing or offered a spot under his umbrella, before Crowley even realized it was going to rain.
It was a delicate song and dance, and when the music stopped, it seemed that neither of them were entirely sure how to move forward from where they were.
Finally, Aziraphale spoke.
“So,” he began, sucking in a deep breath. “Why is it that you were in town?”
“Oh–” Crowley seemed to focus intently on the wheel. “I was, er, gathering information.”
“Ahh. I see.” Aziraphale rubbed his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Well, I, also, was… gathering information.”
The silence settled between them again as Crowley tilted his head thoughtfully, though what he was thinking behind those big round glasses, Aziraphale couldn’t be entirely sure.
He debated on what he wanted to say next. What if he was wrong? He couldn’t just come out and say what it was he was doing there. He thought for a moment, and then he said, “You don’t think this is another Shadwell situation, do you?”
Crowley hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Well then,” he replied, turning to him with a renewed enthusiasm. “Well, do you think we ought to work together then?”
“Is that allowed?” Crowley cinched his brows together.
“Well, I mean, we’re on the same side now, aren’t we?” Aziraphale pushed his brows up.
Crowley looked over at him, regarding him truly and sincerely in that moment. “Yeah. We are. I think.”
“Then we should work together,” the angel announced, feeling the energy course through him the way that it did when a grand idea struck him, the way it did when an opportunity to make some magic presented itself.
“Sure, fine,” said Crowley, rather indifferently.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. “Alright – what were you told before you were sent out here?”
“Well, er–” He thought about it carefully. “I guess I’ve heard they’re good at scrambling eggs.”
“Scrambling eggs,” Aziraphale repeated. “Good one, I’ll have to remember that.”
“Er… Right.” Crowley shook his head imperceptibly. “Ah, someone said the burgers are to die for.”
“Burgers? Haven’t heard that one.”
“You haven’t heard of burgers?” Crowley’s lip curled, almost involuntarily. “That can’t be true.”
“Well, I mean – I have, obviously,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “I guess just… not in this context.”
“You do know that burgers are a real big thing in America, angel, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he shot back. “Of course I do. Just – nevermind. Alright – I’ll go next.” He flipped open his notebook. “I’ve been attempting to work this angle by tracing everything back to their source. They seem to get a standard delivery thrice weekly, except for one day a week, which is the precise day I usually don’t come in. Tuesday is when they seem to get a special delivery.”
“Are… Are we supposed to figure out where they source their ingredients from?” Crowley frowned as he turned the wheel gently around the curve of a hill.
“No one asked me to,” said Aziraphale. “But you have to think: the source is just as important as where the ‘ingredients’ end up, is it not?”
Crowley offered a thoughtful grunt. Humans these days did seem to put an awful lot of thought into the ethics behind what they consumed. He supposed it was a fair enough assessment of the situation, and waited for the angel to continue.
“That’s actually why I went in today,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t see a delivery, and usually Rose is the one to take them. Seems odd, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Crowley admitted.
“I just don’t know what it means,” he muttered. “Say, what would you say to mulling it over once we get back to the bookshop, over a bottle of scotch? I picked up something good on one of my, er, trips.”
“Is that so?” Crowley nodded appreciatively. “Hm, yeah – that is one of the perks of being a restaurant inspector, I guess.”
“Oh, is that what you tell people?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.
“Well, no, I don’t tell anyone what I do,” he said. “That’s meant to be the point.”
“Oh, well, of course,” said Aziraphale with a wink. “Right, I won’t tell anyone either.”
“Right.”
There was something odd about the statement Aziraphale had just made, something that didn’t quite fit into the puzzle. And yet, Crowley couldn’t put his finger on it.
Perhaps because all of them were grasped onto the wheel, while he pretended – as he so often did – that he was actually a spy, being chased by a group of rogue criminals. After all, what better reason to weave across the roads, doing highly excessive speeds to the great dismay of the ethereal being sitting beside him?
“So you’re saying,” said Crowley, teetering unsteadily towards the couch opposite the angel, “that y- you don’t know what a hamburger is?”
“I’ve already told you, not in that context,” Aziraphale insisted with a grand scowl. “Is– is it a weapon? Chemical? What–”
“Food, angel, it’s a food – meat patties, buns, big in America.”
Aziraphale’s face wilted into something mixed between distinct disapproval and sour confusion. He thought about it for a moment, with what little capacity he had for doing so. “But they’re to die for?”
“Oh, I don’t think so myself,” said Crowley, tipping more wine back into his mouth. They had gone through all the scotch, and a few other things, but that was the great thing about the bookshop: whatever stores they had gone through before, it was usually restored by the end of the night, and so the collection only ever grew.
“Okay – well – see here,” Aziraphale slurred. “What – what I’d really like to get my hands on is – the cake.”
Crowley gasped so dramatically that he nearly fell off the arm of the couch altogether.
“Er– are you alright?” asked the angel.
“The cake!” He rocked forward, laughing – giggling, even. “I forgot about the cake! ‘s in the car – be just a minute.”
“Hold on.” A sudden look of panic struck Aziraphale. “Hold – er – you mean to tell me you actually got it?”
“You hold on,” Crowley insisted, disappearing out and through the shop doors before the angel could say anything else.
Moments later, he burst back through the doors, box held aloft as though it were the Holy Grail.
Or, Aziraphale considered, perhaps not; it would probably burn if it was the Holy Grail.
Regardless, Crowley hooked a chair as he sauntered his way back over to the angel, whipping it around and setting the box delicately on the seat. Then, he wandered his way over to Aziraphale’s armchair, and he leaned up against the side of it, grin splayed wide across his face.
“Alright,” he said, nudging the angel. “Go on, open it.”
The tension was palpable. Weeks he had spent, watching the diner, noting the movement of the employees and the deliveries they received. Somehow, in all that time, he managed to miss every time that Crowley had been to the same diner, but he supposed that made sense if they were sent by different parts of the agency. Perhaps he was simply on a different rota, and this one time was the only time they would cross paths.
Regardless, he’d spent all this time not just watching, but plotting. There was something going on, and he had been determined to get to the bottom of it. Such was his job, yes, but it was more than that: it was the principle of the matter. He’d gotten it wrong with the Nazis, but he would be damned if he was going to get it wrong with the Americans. Or, something like that, anyway – he wasn’t quite sure if Heaven would bother with all that business, anymore.
With a deep breath, he held out his hand, and he snapped.
The sides of the box popped away from each other, and then the lid swung up and fell gracefully upon the chair.
Aziraphale blinked.
He drew in another breath, and then he paused, and he blinked again. Several times.
“Well?” Crowley looked down. “Do you like it?”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale squinted. This couldn’t be right. Was he that drunk? “Crowley, this looks like a chocolate cake.”
“It is!” His grin did not falter – if anything, it grew. “I left my notebook on purpose, thought I would surprise you.”
Aziraphale tilted his head. “Is this a joke?”
“Er– what?”
He looked up. “You do know I wasn’t talking about actual cake, don’t you?”
Crowley opened his mouth, but after the only thing that came out was wordless stammering, he closed it again. Now, it was his turn to wonder if he was that drunk.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Aziraphale assured him. “I do – I just – I thought we were talking about the same thing.”
“W– What was it you were talking about?”
“It– well, it–” He looked helplessly up at Crowley. “You really don’t know?”
“No.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. This wouldn’t do. Something was not right here, and he was now entirely certain that he was much too drunk to decipher what that something was. Perhaps he had been assigned a different part of the mission? Perhaps he wasn’t at the restaurant for the firearms at all. But, in that case, what would he have been there for?
“Y’know, I think we should sober up,” he said. Then, a new idea struck him. “We should go there. We should sober up and go back. Then we’ll find it.”
“Sorry,” said Crowley. “Find what?”
“You’ve got to know,” said Aziraphale. “Or have some idea of it anyway. C’mon, Crowley, what do you say? No one will be there. Maybe we can find out what happened to the delivery – maybe we can find out what happened to Rose!”
“I did like Rose,” Crowley remarked offhandedly. “Well, I still don’t know what it is you’re talking about, but I’ve got nothing else planned for tonight, so why the Heaven not?”
Sobering up was hard work sometimes, but not as hard as it was to get as disgustingly drunk as they did from time to time. After all, one had to first gather all of the alcohol – preferably in one place, for easy access once the drinking had begun – and then one had to bother to drink all the alcohol. Of course, just because it was hard didn’t mean it wasn’t fun, and they did often have plenty of that all those nights in the bookshop.
In any case, they concentrated on returning to their full mental faculties, and within minutes they were both attempting to banish the aftertaste from their mouth.
"Alright," said Crowley in a gravelly voice. "I'm good to drive – you?"
"Ugh, I think so," he said, before getting up and searching through the drawers.
"What're you looking for?" asked Crowley.
"I've got a plate in here somewhere," he said.
"What for?"
Aziraphale turned to shoot him a look that said he ought to know better. "For the cake. You went to all that trouble of getting it, I might as well take some with us."
Crowley rolled his eyes, but in all honesty, there was a smile hidden behind it. He wasn't exactly sure what the angel was up to, but he was certain that no matter what it was, Aziraphale was still the same angel he always was.
"Alright, angel. I'll be in the car."
"Won't be long behind you,” Aziraphale called.
And with that, Crowley stepped out of the shop and into the night.