Work Text:
Crowley is leaning against the bar and occasionally sipping the Talisker that has been sitting in front of him for the last hour and a half. He doesn’t have a reason for being as early as he is, well, besides spite. He refuses to be the one who is late, who is being waited for. Another sigh and another sip. He isn’t even sure why he agreed to this.
The bar is blissfully empty. Crowley’s doing. He doesn’t want witnesses to the conversation that would inevitably happen. The bartender would be leaving soon; she just didn’t know it yet. There is a Bluetooth speaker hidden somewhere near the top of the bar, playing some lo-fi nightmare. He clicks his fingers, and the song changes to some awful cover of The Velvet Underground. Another click of his fingers and it goes quiet. Crowley hides a smirk behind his glass as the bartender struggles to figure out what is happening to her speaker.
The silence in the bar is deliciously awkward, the sort of silence that demons thrive on. Crowley still wasn’t used to it yet. It has been a long time since he experienced it. Silences before weren’t demonic; they were just normal silences.
The door opens, and the brass bell dangling from the handle clanks against the door. The being who has just stepped into the pub looks startled at all of the noise. With a tug on his waistcoat, he turns to the bartender who has just found a bottle of amontillado she’s never seen before in her life and pours some of it into a copita she didn’t know she had.
“Leave the bottle,” Crowley says, a subtle raise of his hand drawing his power from hell.
“Hello Crowley,” Aziraphale greets him as he steps aside for the bartender to leave. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“No,” Crowley stands as he waggles his finger at the angel, advancing on him. “No, you do not get to pretend that I called this meeting.”
Aziraphale primly sips his sherry and climbs onto one of the barstools. He tuts his disapproval of the seating. “Alright, you agreed to this meeting. Thank you for that.”
Crowley feels the annoyance he was feeling begin to ebb away the longer he watches Aziraphale wiggle around as he tries to get comfortable. No. He is angry. He will not be charmed by this ridiculous creature.
“Right,” Crowley says, arms folded over his chest as he reclaims his barstool. “Well, what do you want, Aziraphale?”
“Your help.”
“Aziraphale—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Crowley. That I have a lot of nerve asking you for anything. There’s probably a comment about me being Supreme Archangel, so why don’t I do it myself? But we’ve always been at our best together.”
Crowley scoffs and finally finishes his Scotch. “Sounds just like me,” he says as sarcastically as demonically possible. “I think I was saying something similar two years ago.”
“There were circumstances, Crowley!” Aziraphale says impatiently. He’s wringing his hands as he watches Crowley’s face. “They’ve already initiated the Second Coming. Jeshua is somewhere wandering the earth, getting ready for divine judgment or nuclear war. Probably both. We found and stopped the anti-Christ; there’s no reason why we can’t find Christ too.”
“Did we find the anti-Christ, Aziraphale? We were spectators.”
“Well, I found the anti-Christ, and I don’t intend to let Heaven end things this time either.”
Crowley slouches, his spine liquid as he gets up again. “What’s in it for me?”
Aziraphale’s eyes seem to dim, and his face goes from hope to disappointment. He also slides off the barstool, his entire being shrinks right in front of Crowley’s eyes. “You’ve never asked me that before.”
With a laugh, Crowley throws his head back. “That’s impossible.”
“Help me?” The angel’s eyes shimmer blue and green, his bottom lip juts out just enough to let Crowley know he has no chance, and the silence is suddenly normal again.
“Fine.”