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The memo had arrived on a Tuesday, which Crowley had always considered the most bureaucratically sinister day of the week. It was printed on the usual hellish stationery, slightly warm to the touch and faintly sulfurous. It read:
Assignment 7,742-B.
Target demographic: lapsed practitioners, coastal regions. Method: temptation via sins of the flesh.
Completion expected within the fortnight.
Do not fail us, Crawly.
They'd spelt his name wrong. Two thousand years, and they'd still spelt his name wrong.
Crowley read it three more times, hoping it would resolve into something more specific.
“Sins of the flesh,” he muttered. The Bentley offered no suggestions. Crowley pressed his sunglasses up his nose and drove to the bookshop.
Aziraphale was doing something fussy with an ancient copy of Dante when Crowley slipped through the door, memo in hand, wearing the expression of someone handed a jigsaw puzzle with pieces from three different boxes.
“Right,” Crowley said, dropping into the worn armchair without invitation, as he'd done for approximately two centuries. “Got a temptation. Easy one. Your turn.”
“Wasn’t it your turn next?" Aziraphale looked up. "I'm quite sure I did the last one.”
Crowley shrugged. “Eh… maybe? Who’s counting?”
“I am. Manchester, last month. I did both the blessing and the tempting.”
“Fine. I’ll do the next two, yeah?”
Aziraphale eyed the memo suspiciously. “Why? What is it?”
“Sins of the flesh. Your expertise, I think?” Crowley waved a languid hand. “Bodies, sinful appetites, all that." He tossed the memo onto the table beside a half-eaten biscuit and what appeared to be a monograph on medieval bookbinding.
Aziraphale’s hands stilled. His face did something complicated and went rather pink.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sins of the flesh,” Crowley repeated, stretching his legs out. “You know. The whole business. Thought you’d have ideas.”
“Ideas,” Aziraphale said faintly, a flush creeping up from his collar. “You want me to… He stopped. "Crowley, I really don’t think that’s…”
“Why not? Besides, you’re far better at the subtle stuff than I am. I was thinking—nice bit of cake, maybe a nap? Convince someone to stay in bed an extra hour instead of going to the gym?”
Aziraphale blinked. “Cake?”
“Yeah. Or those little pastry things you like. Eclairs. Very sinful, eclairs.” Crowley nodded. “Or maybe just… really soft blankets? Convince people to be lazy. Comfortable. That sort of thing.”
The pink flush receded, replaced by dawning comprehension. “You think ‘sins of the flesh’ means… pastries?”
“And naps,” Crowley said defensively. “Very tempting, naps. Sloth and all that. Classic.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale set the manuscript down carefully. “When you said ‘sins of the flesh,’ I thought you meant…” He cleared his throat. “That is to say, the phrase generally refers to, well…”
“What?”
Aziraphale’s hands fluttered. “Carnal matters. Physical… intimacy. That sort of… flesh.” He did not look at Crowley as he said it.
There was a long silence.
Crowley’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You thought I was asking you to—”
“I didn’t think you were asking me anything specific!” Aziraphale said quickly, the flush returning with vigor. “I simply thought the assignment was of a more… sensual nature.”
“Sensual,” Crowley repeated, as if testing the word for structural integrity. He shifted in his chair.
“...Yes.”
"Right. So you thought I walked in and said ‘Here, Angel, go seduce someone’?”
"I thought you were being exceptionally presumptuous, yes.”
Crowley worked to suppress a grin. "You think I’d just waltz in here and hand something like that to you?”
“Well, you did rather waltz in here and attempt to hand it to me!”
“Angel, I was talking about convincing humans to have a second slice of cake.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered that now.” Aziraphale adjusted his cuffs, his lips twitching slightly. “Though I maintain the phrasing is rather ambiguous.”
“And when I mentioned bodies and appetites—”
“Yes, thank you, I think we’ve established the misunderstanding quite thoroughly,” Aziraphale said, still rather pink. He straightened. “Though I suppose, in a way, you weren’t entirely wrong. Gluttony is rather my area. I do have extensive experience with eclairs.”
“Knew it,” Crowley said triumphantly. “So you’ll do it?”
Aziraphale considered. “I suppose I could encourage a few people toward overindulgence. For your sake. Though really, Crowley, you ought to learn to do your own minor temptations.”
“That sounds like work.” Crowley stood, retrieving the memo. "Besides, you’re much better at the food thing. I’d probably just make things better instead of worse.”
“By accidentally encouraging humans toward self-care?” Aziraphale gave a small, sly smile.
“See? Your department," Crowley said.
He headed for the door, then paused.
“And Angel? Next time I need help with something sensual, I’ll be sure to be more specific.”
The book Aziraphale threw missed him by inches, but only because Crowley was already out the door, laughing.