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May 19th 1536, London
Crowley poured them each another glass of wine. While he himself immediately took a sip, Aziraphale starred at his cup for a few moments, before he picked it up. Instead of drinking though, he just sighed. Again.
If Crowley had taken a sip every time Aziraphale had sighed today, he would’ve died from alcohol poisoning a long time ago, demon or not. And Crowley understood it. Really. At least somehow. An execution was never something particularly funny. Leastways for an angel. As a demon he enjoyed them. Obviously. Worked towards them, even, according to Hell.
(Not this one, though. That was purely the king’s doing. Didn’t need any temptations whatsoever.)
However, this specific execution seemed to have a greater effect on Aziraphale than any other (even Jesus’). So, Crowley had to do something to lift the mood (or just to change it, really. It couldn’t get any worse, could it?).
‘So… what a… horrible event today, hm?’, was the best he could come up with. In his defence, he was already a bit drunk.
‘Mhm’, was Aziraphale’s only responds, pointy refusing to look into Crowley’s direction. Well, if he was trying not to raise Crowley’s curiosity, he was terribly bad at it.
‘Alright, angel. What is it? What’s wrong? Spit it out!’
‘I… I have no idea what you could possible mean’, Aziraphale answered, shooting a quick glance at Crowley before looking away again.
‘You’ve been acting all weird the whole day. Sure, execution’s bad, poor humans, poor souls, need Heaven’s help, blah, blah, blah…’, Crowley waved the angelic thoughts away with his hand like an annoying fly, ‘but ’s not the first one you’ve witnessed. ‘t was not even the worst. You should be happy, really. Couple of centuries ago they crucified people. Humans got nicer. Good for you’, Crowley said, ignoring that ‘hanged, drawn and quartered’ was still a thing.
Aziraphale didn’t look happy. More anxious, panicked even. And also guilty for some reason. That sparked a bit of an uncomfortable feeling in Crowley, a tiny suspicion about what could be on Aziraphale’s mind.
‘Just so you know, that out there? Wasn’t my fault. In case you were thinking…’, Crowley started, but Aziraphale interrupted him: ‘I know. I wasn’t… That’s not…’
Aziraphale looked around the inn as if afraid someone could overhear him, before leaning towards Crowley and whispered: ‘It may have been my fault.’
Crowley raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘The execution was my fault!’, Aziraphale said, louder this time. Immediately after he looked around again, anxious, but no one was paying them any attention.
Crowley opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. That was not an answer he expected. There just wasn’t any way he could imagine Aziraphale, his angel, doing something that would result in an innocent woman’s death, murder really.
‘How?’, Crowley managed to get out.
Aziraphale, finally, looked at him. Sad, guilty, distressed (apparently Crowley had been wrong earlier: it could get worse).
Aziraphale sighed: ‘Do you remember Katherine?’
‘Of Aragon? Henry’s first wife? Sure. Invented his own church to divorce her, did he not?’
‘That might have been my idea’, Aziraphale mumbled.
‘It was your idea to split from the pope?’, Crowley asked with a low chuckle. Mostly because he couldn’t find a reason as to why Aziraphale would advise Henry to do something like this. Didn’t really sound like something Heaven could profit of nor that helped many people other than Henry.
‘No, not that. The divorce part’, Aziraphale said.
‘You told Henry to get a divorce?’, Crowley asked.
Aziraphale looked incredibly uncomfortable. ‘I might have pointed him towards the bible verse that gave him a reason to divorce.’
Before Crowley could say anything to that, Aziraphale started to babble quickly as if to justify himself: ‘You see, Henry was already having his affairs and being in love with Anne. Which made Katherine unhappy. And Henry also had been unhappy in this marriage for a long time, so… I thought ending it in a non-violent way would be best for everyone. Obviously I was wrong, Katherine’s life just got worse, which I didn’t want, of course, and… oh’, Aziraphale stopped with a sigh, looking overall miserable.
(Crowley really started to miss Aziraphale’s quiet mood from before, because this? This suffering expression… he really had been wrong.)
‘And how does that mean you’re at fault for today?’, Crowley questioned.
Aziraphale looked at his as if Crowley was the one being weird for not understanding.
‘If he didn’t divorce Katherine, he wouldn’t have married Anne and couldn’t have ever… oh, that poor woman! And her brother! And…!’
‘Angel’, Crowley interrupted him, because that was a stupid reasoning to feel guilty.
Aziraphale stopped and looked at Crowley, maybe just a little bit hopeful that Crowley would be able to calm him down a bit. Instinctively Crowley was reminded of their meeting after the whole deal with Job.
‘Listen’, Crowley said, ‘not your fault’, Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Crowley continued, ’Henry would’ve found a way to get rid of Katherine, one way or another. Because that man? Not necessary the nicest, you know? Even before today. Was the divorce great for Katherine? No, ‘course not. But it wouldn’t have ended any way better for her. Poor woman was doomed the moment Henry decided to want another wife. Both of them were, actually. And as you said, he already had his eyes set on Anne. Would’ve married her anyway. And the marriage would’ve ended not much different. So… not your fault.’
After he finished, Crowley took another big gulp of his wine. He couldn’t really believe that he was sitting here, comforting an angel and trying to convince him, he did nothing wrong. If Hell were to know…
‘Do you really think that?’, Aziraphale asked, still looking unsure.
‘Absolutely’, Crowley said with conviction.
Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, before taking a sip of his wine and saying: ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t’, Crowley said, waving his hand and looking away.
And Aziraphale still looked not completely convinced, but less anxious, less guilty.
Which, Crowley decided, was a win. Not a win he would mention in his report to Hell, of course, but still… a win. A surprisingly satisfying win.