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1588 – Lisbon
It was Crowley's turn to fulfill the Arrangement. Aziraphale had taken the last three, and probably would have taken this one as well, had Crowley not insisted. The angel was altogether too generous with his time, and too willing to make sacrifices for Crowley's comfort.
So, he had sent Aziraphale, protesting, off to England to enjoy the theaters and bookshops of London, while he finished their respective jobs. He promised to join him in the city in a couple of days.
Aziraphale's job, as the angel had explained it, was to convince King Phillip II that it was in his best interests to focus his attention somewhere other than England. In other words, he was supposed to spread a message of peace. Peace wasn't Crowley's strong suit, but hey, Phillip was a Spanish monarch. All he really wanted was some busty, lusty chambermaids to bed, some rich food to eat and some fine wine to imbibe, right? If he could distract him with Earthly pleasures, thus fulfilling Hell's side of the job, the King would forget about England, and Queen Elizabeth I would become but a distant memory.
Yeah, so the English Queen had King Phillip's wife executed, but it was a political marriage. It's not like he loved her or anything. He was probably glad to be rid of her, to be honest.
And so, posing as an advisor in his court, Crowley made sure to place many temptations in the King's path, and to whisper in his ear suggestions that strengthening alliances with other Catholic powers might be more advantageous than dwelling on old grudges.
Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Crowley took his leave of Spain and returned to London, where he had a … well, not a date exactly... but a meeting, arranged with Aziraphale. And if this business meeting should involve a lot of alcohol, well, so be it.
London
Aziraphale didn't get furious often. Frustrated, yes. Irritated, all the time. But not fury. It was not in keeping with his status as an angel.
Angelic nature or no, Aziraphale was furious. He was pacing back and forth across the length of his room, seething. He hadn't raised his voice, yet, but it was obvious that he was exercising about as much restraint as possible.
They hadn't even made it to the tavern. Crowley had knocked on the door of the angel's room at the inn, and Aziraphale had slammed it open, grabbed Crowley by his shirt and manhandled him into the room. It would have been quite arousing had Aziraphale not turned a dark, angry gaze upon the demon, and then started the whole pacing-and-gritting-his-teeth thing.
“I specifically instructed you,” the angel hissed, “to discuss peace. What I did not do, was ask you to incite King Phillip II of Spain to launch a full-scale naval invasion of England! I don't recall listing SPANISH ARMADA as one of my goals!”
“You really are getting a lot better at the whole sarcasm thing,” observed Crowley.
Aziraphale inhaled deeply through his nose and closed his eyes. He appeared to be actively attempting to avoid smiting Crowley on the spot.
“Listen, angel,” said Crowley. “How was I to know that he was some kind of religious zealot? I thought he was just your typical inbred monarch. Throw some temptations at him and bam! He's distracted and happy, and it's all sorted.”
“You didn't think to, I don't know, actually conduct any research on the target of our assignment?”
“But that would involve a lot of reading,” reasoned Crowley. “Reading's kind of more your thing.”
“EXACTLY WHY I WANTED TO HANDLE THIS ONE!” Aziraphale finally lost his temper. “But nooooo...
“Don't worry angel, I've got this one. You just go get us a table and I'll be back in a jiffy!” Aziraphale did a frighteningly accurate impression of the demon, even slouching his way over to the wall and leaning against it, one arm cocked over his head against the door frame, the other dangling a wine glass at his side.
“Well that doesn't look or sound remotely like me,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale took another deep breath and collapsed into an armchair in front of the fireplace, tossing back what was left in his wineglass.
Crowley cautiously approached, sliding into the second armchair.
“Before you hyperventilate yourself into discorporation, tell me what I can do,” he said. “And don't ...” he continued, holding up a hand, “tell me I've already done enough. I fucked up. I know. I'm a big enough demon to admit it. Now let me help you make it right.”
“We can't do anything about the battle itself,” said Aziraphale. “The Spanish Armada is badly outgunned. They'll be turning tail any day now.”
“Wow,” said Crowley, impressed despite the tension in the room. “Go, England. Didn't know they had it in them.”
Aziraphale pointedly ignored him and continued. “My biggest problem right now, is that Archangels Michael and Uriel have called a meeting with me, tomorrow. They want to know what went wrong, and why I wasn't able to ensure peace. They suspect that I'm being too soft on you.
“If they find out about the Arrangement, and that I allowed you to go to Spain in my stead, I'll be recalled to Heaven and demoted down to 38th level scrivener within the day.”
“Well we can't have that,” said Crowley, lightly. “Who would I have brunch with on Wednesdays? I don't have time to train a new angel. I have way too much invested in you.”
“Hilarious,” said Aziraphale.
“What time and where is this meeting, with their Royal Archangelnesses?” asked Crowley.
“Here, in my room, at noon,” said Aziraphale, glumly. “Why? Do you want to come say goodbye before they drag me off the planet?”
“Nobody is dragging anybody anywhere,” Crowley said. “Just, be ready, and follow my lead.”
“Why, in all of God's creation, would I trust you?” said Aziraphale.
Crowley frowned. He removed his dark glasses, so the angel could look into his eyes unhindered. “You've trusted me before. Many times. And haven't I always come through for you?”
He could see Aziraphale's glare and demeanor soften, just the slightest bit. Moving from murderous fury to, perhaps, simple rage of the non-homicidal variety.
Crowley seized the moment of grace, nodded at the angel and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“I'm so sorry,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against the wall.
The next day, around noon.
Crowley stood nervously outside the door to the angel's room. The timing was important. He had one chance, and he'd be damned (again) if he was going to fuck it all up. Again.
He couldn't make out all of the words that were being thrown about, but he could pick up the officious, threatening tones of the two Archangels, and the conciliatory, softer tones of Aziraphale.
When he judged that the tensions were at their peak, he kicked open the door in a spray of splinters and stalked into the room, glasses off, eyes burning, fangs bared. He didn't even glance around the room. He zeroed in on Aziraphale and closed the distance to him in a matter of seconds.
Grabbing the angel's shirt, he pushed him up against the wall, roughly. Glaring into his eyes, he hissed, “Foul, meddling angel! I had them! All of them! Now all of bloody England thinks that God herself is on their side. They're celebrating with prayers in the fucking streets, and it's all because of you!
“I warned you,” he continued, slamming Aziraphale harder against the wall. “I told you what would happen if you interfered with me again. Now I have to ...”
“Stop right there, demon!” an imperious voice called behind him. Michael. “Aziraphale, stand back ...”
“No!” said Aziraphale, angrily. He shoved Crowley away from him, breathing hard. “If anybody gets to smite this loathsome creature, it's going to be me!”
“Do your worst!” growled Crowley, eyes narrowing. “Whatever you do to me will be paradise compared to what Hell has in store!”
Michael and Uriel exchanged glances, and then moved between Aziraphale and Crowley, who were still glaring at each other, chests heaving, fists clenched.
“What, exactly, does Hell plan to do with you?” asked Uriel.
Crowley scoffed. “They'll throw me in the dung pits,” he said. “I'd rather be smited by some stupid, ridiculous, self-righteous angel than have to listen to Beelzebub curse me while I'm shoveling shit for the rest of eternity.
“So go ahead! Smite me!” he yelled at Aziraphale. Baring his teeth, the angel raised his hands to the heavens …
“Wait!” said Uriel. “Hold on a minute.”
Michael laughed, “Smiting's too good for him. I say we leave this to Hell.”
Crowley gasped. “No! You can't!”
“Watch us,” said Uriel, smugly.
Crowley looked around the room, his eyes moving from Uriel, to Michael, to Aziraphale.
“All of you can burn in Hell,” he hissed, and stormed out of the room, hoping against hope that it was enough.
Three Days Later. An inn in Amsterdam.
“I'd rather be smited?” asked Aziraphale, trying to conceal a chuckle.
“Loathsome creature?” responded Crowley, indignantly, as he poured out a glass of wine for each of them.
“Well, you are,” said the angel, with a smile that said quite the opposite, as he accepted the proffered glass.
“So, how's it all working out with your Heavenly overseers?” asked the demon.
“They've … decided that perhaps I'm doing my job after all. You were very convincing. Uriel thought you were going to sink your fangs into me and eat my face.”
“Well, I thought about it.”
“I could tell,” said Aziraphale. “You were … quite fierce.”
“Were you scared, angel?” grinned Crowley.
Aziraphale tutted. “I could have smote you any time I wanted.”
“What stopped you?”
“I've too much invested in you,” said the angel. “The replacement demon that Hell would send may not be so willing to take me to brunch on Wednesdays.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “You wouldn't want to take any of them out in public. They'd just drool all over the place and set things on fire.”
Aziraphale turned serious. “But Crowley. What about Hell? What are they going to think? I mean, you weren't lying when you said England was praising God in the streets. Their victory sparked quite a bit of holy fervor. I can't imagine your bosses would look favorably on that.”
“Are you kidding?” said Crowley. “Hell loves a religious war. Protestants, Catholics, all wiping each other out in Her name. That's like opium for demons. I'll probably get a commendation.”
Aziraphale sighed, and turned his gaze to the flickering fire.
“What's on your mind, angel?” asked Crowley.
“Are they ever going to just … leave us alone? Heaven and Hell? Or are we going to have to spend all of eternity sneaking around, pretending like we hate each other? You know I don't like to lie. But it feels like that's all I do anymore. How can I be a good angel when I'm constantly lying to Heaven?”
Crowley thought for a minute, trying to think of some answer that wouldn't push the angel further away from him. But he couldn't think of any response that wouldn't be a falsehood.
“I don't know, Aziraphale,” he said softly. “All I can tell you is that I think you're a great angel. For whatever that's worth, coming from a demon.”
Aziraphale smiled. It wasn't his usual bright, joyous smile, but it was something.
“Crowley?” he said. “Next time I tell you to let me handle a job, you're going to listen to me, right?”
“Oh, no doubt,” said Crowley. “In fact, I think you should just do all the jobs. Clearly, you're much better at it.”
“No, no,” said the angel. “You're not going to use weaponized incompetence against me. I'll just give you all the easy jobs. You know, the ones that even an idiot could handle.”
“Good. More time for me to drink and sleep.”
The angel and the demon continued to banter into the night. For right now, they were focused only on each other. Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not secrets or lies or what would happen next.
Just this moment in each other's company.
And it was enough.