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Manchester, 2009
Crowley stares into the blinding computer screen of Manchester Central Library, disgruntled and quite frankly irritated. What humans are calling ‘modern day technology’ amounts to that of a sloth: spectacular in many ways, yet torturously slow. Although it really depends on one’s opinion on sloths.
The demon’s fingertips tap lettered keys furiously, working up a vigorous storm as he surfs the Web. In particular, Crowley finds himself browsing a new, upcoming site that, surprisingly, he had nothing to do with despite its ample opportunities for evil. The humans ingeniously thought this one up themselves.
YouTube offers a selection of videos from folks all around the globe, accessible to anyone who yearns to put themselves out there publicly. Why anyone would want to do that, Crowley’s uncertain. However, what he is certain of is that this terrifying exhibitionists’ site beholds beautiful prospects of mischief – acts of pure evil that is sure to get him a commendation from Lord Beelzebub zirself.
But Crowley finds himself no longer in need of that validation nowadays, instead opting to do things that make himself happy rather than his boss. He supposes Hell shouldn’t give two shits as long as he’s doing something bad. Such as cohorting with the enemy (or fraternising as his petty but polite friend liked to put it) – that’s a bad thing to do, right?
“Is that you, Crowley?” Speak of the angel, and he shall appear.
Crowley spins himself around in the flimsy, worn desk chair to face Aziraphale. Still, all these years later, his cherubic curls remain soft like snow. And still, he wears an assortment of beige clothing which hasn’t faltered since the 19th century. Seeing a familiar face, one so welcoming and pleasant and nice, subsides Crowley’s frustrations instantaneously.
Aziraphale beams and pulls a chair out from the neighbouring desk to plonk himself down on, rubbing tentative hands back and forth along his thighs, “well, isn’t this a coincidence – you know, both of us being in Manchester?”
“You call it a coincidence, I call it you being bored and wanting somebody to talk to about whatever Good thing you’ve done this week,” Crowley quips dryly, though it’s drained of any malice that a demon should maintain in conversation with an angel. He mentally slaps himself for it.
Aziraphale flushes pink, averting his gaze with a darting-rabbit-esque motion. “I’ll have you know I’m here on special orders from Gabriel himself. He even said I was just the right angel for the job.”
He flourishes the brag with a smug shrug of his shoulders.
“Wow, how very impressive,” Crowley replies weakly. As much as he wants to point out Gabriel’s blatant manipulation, how he only said that so Aziraphale would agree to leave London, he bites his tongue as to not unnecessarily hurt any feelings.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale responds absently, “what brings you here, then? Culture? Leisure? Er – technological advancements?”
“Computers, angel, they’re called computers,” Crowley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Funnily enough, I’m also here on special orders. Not from Heaven, obviously, but Hell wants me to oversee this new operation called Operation: Terrible Influence, or something like that.”
Suddenly Aziraphale pales. An expression of discomfort flashes across his face, his eyebrows knitted together tightly and Crowley, honest to Satan, feels concern for a moment. “Oh. Oh, dear.”
“What’s up?” Crowley asks.
“Well, you see, I do believe I’m here to – er – stop said operation. Gabriel wants to steal your lot’s idea, I suppose, instead it would be called Operation: Good Influence, and pass it off as their own ingenious plan,” Aziraphale admits sheepishly. He doesn’t seem entirely thrilled. Although Crowley reckons it’s because he’s been dragged away from his beloved bookshop for some petty plagiarism on Heaven’s part, more than any distaste for the plan itself.
“Why don't we just leave it, then? Let things unfold themselves, with neither of us to blame for the inevitably shit outcome,” Crowley suggests, finger now hovering over the computer’s off button. Hopefully, if Aziraphale accepts, he won’t need to use this daft old computer any longer.
Aziraphale frowns deeply, the depth of it creasing his corporation in several ways. Despite being an angel through and through, his body has been beaten and worn by Earth and its terrain. Crowley knows of scars from wounds Aziraphale was too proud to miracle away, knows of stretch marks formed from cakes and lunches at the Ritz, thanks to Crowley.
“Heaven wouldn’t like me to disobey orders, you know that,” Aziraphale grumbles, “and anyway, Gabriel’s been keeping track as of late. If he finds out I haven’t even spoken to the humans, it’ll be far worse than a strongly worded note.”
Crowley thinks about it for a moment, racking his brain for all the solutions he can. To be frank, Crowley really can’t be arsed. Honestly, he’d quite like to go for a nap spans a decade or so. That would be halcyon in this measly period of time. Then, he has an epiphany.
“I mean – I don’t suppose we have to influence them more than once, do we? Even just one minor divine intervention on your part sets them up for life. Humans are sensitive like that,” Crowley says, then swings himself back around to scroll through tabs and begin searching through the jungle that is Youtube.
“When you put it like that…” Aziraphale trails off, looking awfully conflicted as he wrings his hands together on his lap.
“Look, angel,” Crowley clicks onto a random video, titled ‘My mum is a lobster’ and stares at the horrific haircut of the man sat behind the camera. Cringes. “All we have to do is grab a couple of humans, set them up for fame, and let them have at it themselves. We could check up on them in a few years, you can update Heaven on your progress, then wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
He claps his hands together, startling some nearby humans who have, in fact, come to this library for silence.
Aziraphale gnaws at his lower lip, seemingly weighing out his options. While the angel ponders, as Crowley knows how fickle he gets when it comes to disobeying orders, Crowley scrolls through the comments of this strange man’s Youtube video. Nothing truly despicable or nice, save from a few obsessive comments from a mister danisnotonfire, who seems eager to reach out. Perfect.
“If you’re sure it’ll work,” Aziraphale says tentatively, “then I’ll do it.”
Crowley grins, roughly pats his friend on the shoulder. “We’ll make a rebel out of you yet, angel!”
Aziraphale deflates.
Shockingly, it doesn’t take much for the humans, Dan and Phil as Crowley has discovered, to connect. Through tweets alone is it clear that the pair have a real – er – bond. As if no matter what, even if Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t interfered, they would’ve been brought together.
Aziraphale finds the Internet entirely fascinating, ooh-ing and ah-ing as Crowley navigates various sites, working his arse off for these humans, whilst Aziraphale marvels.
“Why haven’t you gotten one of these for the bookshop?” Crowley had asked one day, gesturing to the computer. “Or even a mobile phone would be handy.”
But Aziraphale very bluntly expressed his distaste. Said something about getting his information stolen, or something. To this day, Crowley isn’t entirely sure what information there was to be stolen or why Aziraphale cared.
Today they sit in Piccadilly Railway Station, Manchester, out of sight of Phil Lester who anxiously awaits his new friend. Every now and then Crowley likes to poke fun at his whole emo look, but Aziraphale chides him all the same.
“You’re not far off that look either,” Aziraphale retorts, flicking his ear. Crowley yelps. “He’s just young, cut him some slack.”
“When I was young my hair was fabulous, I’ll have you know,” Crowley defends himself, whipping his own shoulder length hair away from his face as if to prove his point.
“You were an angel, then, you oaf,” Aziraphale cries, exasperated. “Although I do miss your hair like that. All curly and such.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Look in the mirror then.”
In the background of the bustle of the station, an announcement echoes the arrival of Dan’s train and Aziraphale and Crowley prepare themselves. Even Phil seems to jolt alive with excitement, swapping his weight from foot to foot.
“So what are you actually going to do?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, “demonic-wise, I mean.”
It suddenly occurs to Crowley that he has not yet thought up a way to influence them negatively. It’s the whole point of the operation and he’s empty-handed. He looks around the station, possibly for a sign, when a joyous man with a baguette saunters by. Crowley grabs his baguette and hides it.
Aziraphale gasps, then miracles another baguette for the man, who seems equally as shocked and delighted. “Really, Crowley, if you were that hungry you only needed to say.”
“I’m not bloody hungry!” Crowley yelps, taking out on the poor angel who has no clue. “Just – look out for our man.”
Passengers depart the train, running across the platforms to either greet loved ones or catch their taxis. No sign of Dan just yet, and Phil stands, patiently waiting, awkward as ever. Only when the last few stragglers make their way along the platform does Dan appear. He smiles, wide, a shy thing that Phil reciprocates only even bolder.
When they meet, they exchange small talk, cheeks tinted pink, and eventually begin walking out of the station.
Crowley uses this opportunity to throw the baguette in their direction, hitting Dan right on the head. The demon cackles.
“Why devil would you do that?” Aziraphale cries.
“It’s my little act of evil,” Crowley replies casually. “Don’t thank me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Aziraphale says with an endearing roll of his eyes. “I think our work here is done.”
He rises from the bench they were sharing, dusting off remnants of an empire biscuit he’d convinced Crowley to get him (convinced is a strong word, it was more that he used his puppy-dog-eyes on Crowley, which worked every time).
“Hold on,” Crowley points his finger at Aziraphale, accusatory despite his lighthearted tone. “What’s your divine intervention?”
Aziraphale only smiles. “I’ve ensured that this meeting of theirs will go splendidly, with no mishaps. I’ve also made sure they’re not, um, disturbed at any point. For their sake.”
Finally, Crowley stands from the bench and the pair stroll along together out of the station. “Good thinking, angel. Now, what do you fancy here in Manchester?”
Aziraphale hums. “Have you ever tried a Wetherspoons?”