Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing.
Author's Notes: Umm...I might have gone to a slightly dark place with this one.
In Crowley's mind, reservations happened to other people.
Trendier restaurants in London usually required table bookings a day or so ahead of time. A very trendy restaurant, run usually by a chef who had his face all over the telly and various cookbooks required up to two months in advance.
Crowley usually just walked in when he felt the need to eat and the location was convenient. The first few times of doing this with Aziraphale, the angel had protested, doing the verbal equivalent of wringing his hands about etiquette and decency. But after seeing what most of these restaurants charged its patrons, Aziraphale never said another word about decency.
Unlike Aziraphale, who had a surprisingly fine palate for a creature who was technically supposed to renounce all earthly pleasures, Crowley found most foods to actually taste about the same. Yes, he dined at the best places and drank vintage wines that made some people weep. And he enjoyed it all a great deal. But he wondered if his pleasure had more to do with the general decadency of it all rather than the actual taste of the meals set in front of him.
He idly pondered the notion as he watched the world burn.
It had only been a matter of time, really. He and Aziraphale had gotten away with the whole Diverting the Apocalypse once. But the top administrators of heaven and hell were nothing if not persistent. And even they wouldn't fall for the same trick twice. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or something like that. Either way, in the end, it had to come.
Amazingly, when it did, neither party had much time to deal with the reticence shown by earth's agents of good and evil. If neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were keen to roll up their sleeves and start smiting, their bosses didn't have the patience to argue with them at the moment. What with the apocalypse happening and all.
So the two parked themselves on top of what had once been the British Museum to view the fire and brimstone throwing themselves down from the skies. Aziraphale had been babbling for a full five hours now about ineffability and consequence and divine planning. Crowley sat silently and let him, not interjecting with any of the many points that came into his mind. Instead, he drank steadily from a 1787 bottle of Bordeaux. Like everything else Crowley partook in during his mad, wonderful, indescribable time on this miserably glorious planet, the wine was outrageously expensive. And it tasted heavenly.
But maybe he would have been just as satisfied with wine out of a box if it cost about half a million quid. Crowley supposed now he'd never know since all the wineries and wine shops were now ash. Restaurants too for that matter. So much for anyone who'd made reservations ahead of time for a seating next month.
Next to him, Aziraphale had finally fallen silent and seemed resigned to just watching the destruction pan out. Mentally refilling the bottle a last time, Crowley slid it over to him.
THE END