Chapter Text
To an angelic observer, many things that happen on Earth look fairly absurd, but only a few every century are head-banging-on-heavenly-wall stupid. World War I was one of those things[1].
There was some latent speculation among the angels that humans were ticking right along towards the prophesied End, and so much destruction was wrought that the more tender hearts of Heaven felt little relief upon discovering that things were very much still in the Middle. Down below, many a demon wondered if humanity had finally developed the taste for mutilated limbs and pointless bloodshed that had long marked the height of refinement in Hell.
As in every human conflict, no matter how arbitrary or unfair, Heaven and Hell saw ample opportunity for the collection of souls. Angels believe war is a good time to win souls for Heaven because people do not otherwise lay down their lives for their neighbors. Demons believe war is a good time to win souls for Hell because people do not otherwise spend their time devising the best ways to blow their neighbors to smithereens.
At the close of the war, Aziraphale was exhausted, heartsick, and hadn’t had a decent cup of tea for years. The trenches of Brittany were not particularly welcoming places to those used to lounging about on clouds, and they were even less pleasant to those angels who make themselves at home in cozy Soho bookshops. Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, if trying to inspire courage in individual humans at the front was really the best use of celestial resources. The archangels, at least, had the ability to end the war directly, and it seemed to Aziraphale that souls were rarely at their best when tossing hand grenades. Such thoughts were improper for a principality[2], however, and he tried to put them out of his mind. He’d had lots of practice.
The war ended. Pomp, circumstance, and a smiling Gabriel made their way in a heavenly delegation to Versailles for the signing of the peace treaty. Aziraphale, feigning an ethereal headache, made his excuses to the other angels and paced the streets nervously until he found a secluded and unfortunately sticky wine bar, Le Canard Courageux. The tables needed a thorough cleaning and the room was far too hot, but the angel was disinclined to be picky. With a bottle of vinegary Merlot ordered, he poured and downed two glasses before sparing a glance at the bar's other occupants.
A thin angular man sat hunched over a nearby table. Crowley was scowling at the last drops in his bottle of cognac as though personally disappointed in each of them. Aziraphale approached until he was almost touching one of Crowley’s spindly, well-dressed elbows and gently cleared his throat.
“You know, I do believe that’s intended to be drunk in increments of glasses.”
Crowley started, then his serpentine eyes focused behind his dark glasses and a corner of his mouth curled upwards.
“Oh hullo angel. ‘M just having a nightcap[3]. Your people came out for this song and dance too eh?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Do you mind if I join you? Human company has been rather trying of late.”
Crowley moved one leg, then lurched awkwardly after it. Aziraphale lifted the tails of his coat to sit on the same bench.
“Awful work, trying to get those poor creatures to watch out for one another. They have such pitifully short lives as it is,” Aziraphale shook his head. “The food was something dreadful as well.”
Crowley exhaled. “Well, so sorry you didn’t like the food . I was just supposed to be running telegrams for the Downstairs Office but our building got bombed in 1915. Had to miracle myself some unbroken bones.”
“Oh don’t go measuring your suffering against mine, this never goes well,” Aziraphale snapped. Crowley opened his mouth to retort and the angel decided to steer them towards higher ground. He was never more anxious to rise above petty argument than right after he had concluded a jab.
“Look, Crowley, why don’t we meet up back in London? I’ve hardly seen you since you woke up from that frightfully long nap and it would be, well, good to catch up.”
The demon softened. “Would be nice. Though if anyone needs to catch up , it’s you. Look at that coat.”
Aziraphale made a spirited defense of his old-fashioned clothes, and they fell to arguing for a bit about who made a more convincing 20th Century human. At a pause in the conversation, Crowley tipped the bottle of cognac skyward and probed the final drops with his snakelike tongue, which Aziraphale pointedly avoided watching. He could feel the wine bubbling below his eyes.
“Do you still have that automobile?” the angel asked. “Last time we met I thought your driving was going to discorporate us both.”
“Oh no,” Crowley said, clunking the bottle on the table and waving at the bartender for another. “Picked up a new one in ‘16. You’ll like it, goes much faster.”
“Oh. Wonderful.”
The demon grinned[4]. “You know, I think I did such a bang-up job with the telegram system, Downstairs might actually let me alone for awhile. If Upstairs is willing to do the same for you, we could take a break for a bit.”
“A break? Angels don’t have breaks ,”Aziraphale reached for his wineglass and found it conveniently in his hand, although he’d left it on the other table.
“Well, p’rhaps it’s wishful thinking.” Crowley accepted the second bottle of cognac from the waiter and clumsily wrenched the stopper off “But I think you could use a holiday.”[5]
Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the too-warm air or the relief of sitting besides an old, living friend after a war, but he found himself very much wishfully thinking.
Footnotes
1 So were instant coffee and telemarketing, but there are only so many atrocities one prologue can contain. [ return to text ]
2 They would only be slightly less offensive in a seraphim, and rather gauche in an archangel. [ return to text ]
3 It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon. [ return to text ]
4 Demons do not like to admit to smiling. For the sake of Crowley’s dwindling dignity, let us say he bared his teeth with infernal amusement. [ return to text ]
5 He had never told anyone, but Aziraphale had attempted going on holiday five times before, most of which he had abandoned within weeks out of a mixed sense of duty and nerves. The last time he had been inspired by Walden, or Life in the Woods to rent a small cabin next to a pond, which he had abandoned out of a sense of extreme itching from mosquito bites. [ return to text ]