1947 - Washington, D.C., USA
For Crowley, the twentieth century, thus far, had been rather easy. Perhaps not as easy as the fourteenth century, when he spent all his time either sleeping or whispering in the ears of goat herders, but very easy in terms of paperwork.
See, whenever he knew a report was due, the demon would grab the nearest newspaper and copy down the headline. Over the centuries, human innovation on cruelty and torture had far outpaced the imagination of most demons, perhaps with Crowley as a notable exception. In fact, the rich nightlife offered in his neighborhood meant Crowley rarely felt the need to leave the greater London area, let alone the country. He preferred being a stay-at-home demon, allowing his creations (or alleged creations) to travel out into the world on their own, leaving grief and chaos in their midst.
Not even three years after the war, Beelzebub had interrupted Crowley's favorite radio program. Despite high commendation for his claimed involvement in the war, Crowley was expected to take advantage of a new power rising to the West in America.
After a few weeks, Crowley had accomplished enough to sit back and let the commendations roll in. A few whispers made their way to a senator from Wisconsin, prompting a witch hunt against the government. Well-placed bribes polluted the rising television industry, prompting more and more people to grow guilty of sloth. Even better, the Americans continued to come up with new ideas Crowley could claim as his own, like the CIA.
Conjuring what was practically a fortune in his wallet, Crowley prepared to find the nearest pub and get fabulously drunk as a reward for his hard work. Sauntering down Pennsylvania Avenue towards a more condensed, likely service-focused, area of the city, Crowley stopped after hearing a very familiar voice behind him.
"Oh Crowley, what a pleasure to find you here in America! I thought about leaving word at my bookshop I'd be gone for several months, but I didn't want to risk a customer noticing, so I just put that I was closed for the season."
Interrupting the angel's rambling, Crowley turned around and lowered his sunglasses slightly.
"What the heaven are you doing in America, Aziraphale? The post-war rebuilding didn't provide enough opportunities for goodwill and peace?"
"I would prefer to stay in London, but the Archangel Michael did issue a very specific request I come here," Aziraphale replied, fidgeting in his white and tan suit. "That's enough about me. Why don't we go for a nice drink? We can catch up on the last few years! I haven't seen you since we had dinner after the church explosion. Thank you again for that, it was very kind-"
"I swear, if you don't stop talking, I might have to disincorporate you myself. Can you imagine the commendation I'd get for that, defeating an angel?"
"I do hope you're joking, Crowley," the angel said, with a worried expression on his face. "That could spark a war, or worse."
"You think I'd kill the only tolerable person in this city? Let's go get a drink, angel."
"Wonderful! I know exactly where we should go."
Crowley didn't pay much attention to the path they were taking. Over thousands of years, one thing proved consistent in his arrangement with the angel - Aziraphale had amazing taste in dining. Plus, seeing a grown cherub bounce through a crowded city was quite a sight.
Apparently, Aziraphale had spent the past few months trying to spread good nature and cheer through the arts. Some film he produced called "It's a Wonderful Life" sought to remind people about small acts of kindness, and a singer named Bing Crosby brought new life to old religious hymns.
"I tried to listen to those new bebop artists, but I thought it was very loud. Probably your type of music," Aziraphale explained. "Here we are!"
Crowley looked up at the sign, realizing this was no pub or tavern. It wasn't even a high-end restaurant where fine wines were handed out more freely than indulgences in the Middle Ages. Aziraphale had brought him to a soda shop.
"I'm not going in there."
"Oh, come on, it's delicious! It will be my treat!"
"I want alcohol. Large quantities of alcohol. Not sugary rubbish meant for children."
"Please, Crowley! I promise, if you don't like it, we'll leave immediately and go to the nearest liquor store."
Crowley hesitated, looking over the soda shop in front of him. The gaudy sign spelled out "Ye Olde Soda Shoppe" in a colonial font, and children of various ages littered the store's plastic seats. Rather than seeing impressionable youth ready for demonic manipulation, Crowley saw the cause of his next headache.
But denying Aziraphale was no easy task. The angel, despite all his good graces and kind manners, was a manipulative little bastard, with his sweet smile and warm eyes. There was something about the angel that brought a glow back into the part of Crowley's heart that had itched ever since he had slipped out the pearly gates all those years ago.
"Fine."
Aziraphale cheered, and pulled Crowley into the shop immediately.
"Two egg cream sodas, one with vanilla syrup and the other with chocolate syrup, please."
"You won't even allow me to order for myself, Aziraphale?"
"Oh, I know what you like, Crowley. I always guess right, don't I?"
A teenage waitress gave a quick smile before suggesting they take an open table by the window. Crowley raised his eyebrows, looking over two bright plastic seats with metal hearts as backs. Aziraphale seemed unphased, and waited for Crowley to take a seat.
"Excuse me sir, can I get a name for that order?"
"Anthony, please. Thank you so much."
Even from behind his thick sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell Crowley was annoyed, but waited until they sat down to discuss it further. The angel sitting upright, he addressed his lounging friend with a degree of concern.
"Are you upset with me, Crowley? I'm sorry if you don't like the decor, but-"
"Why would you give her my name, Aziraphale? I don't exactly want to leave a paper trail when I'm meeting up with an angel, do I?"
"I didn't even think about that, I've been using your name for a few years now. It's the same as a saint's, so I didn't think anyone would notice," Aziraphale said, a bit embarrassed. "I usually use 'A.Z. Fell,' but if the A needs to stand for something, why not Anthony?"
Deep down, Crowley was touched that Aziraphale had been using the name ever since they met up in the church during the war.
"Alright, what's the Z for?"
"I didn't think it needed to stand for anything, just like your J is alone." Crowley continued, "If it really bothers you, I'll find a different name. I just thought it was nice, having the same name as you."
"It's just odd. An angel naming himself after a demon. Really falling in with the wrong crowd, aren't we, Anthony?"
Crowley snickered, seeing the angel sit straighter in his seat and avoid his eye. Fortunately for Aziraphale, the waitress returned with two tall glasses of soda, one an off-white and the other a light, frothy brown.
"The chocolate is for you, Crowley. As much as you might deny it, you have a sweet tooth."
"Alright, I'll try one sip, then you can have the rest of it."
Shrugging, Aziraphale went to work on slurping down his vanilla egg cream soda. Hesitating, Crowley pulled out the straw and lifted the glass to his mouth.
"Oh," he purred. "That's divine."
Aziraphale's jaw dropped, as he gasped, "Divine?"
"Devilish! I said devilish!"
"Oh, you most certainly didn't, Crowley. I heard you, clear as day."
Glaring at Aziraphale, Crowley continued drinking his soda while trying to think of a clever response. But he was too busy enjoying the taste of something other than alcohol for the first time in decades. The sweet cream blended with the chocolate syrup, leaving him with a bit of a foamy mustache when he put the glass back down.
"So, have I made a new soda fountain convert?"
I didn't think angels were allowed to smirk, Crowley thought to himself. But this one has certainly mastered it.
"I still want my alcohol after this. You can share it, but I want to drink at my apartment, not at whatever strange little hotel you're staying in."
"Only on one condition - you have to take a sip of mine, just to try a second flavor."
"I've already had one, Anthony Z. Fell, that was the deal."
Turning red, Aziraphale said, "You drank that one in record time. I'm just suggesting you have a single sip of vanilla."
Aziraphale's soda was only half done, so Crowley took his straw, put it in Aziraphale's glass, and pulled it to the center of the table. Their heads nearly hit as they both went for a sip, but successfully avoided a collision.
What a picture we must be, an angel and a demon splitting an egg cream soda in an American soda shop.
Leaning back, Crowley clicked his tongue. The vanilla had been satisfying, but not nearly so much as the chocolate. The richness just wasn't there.
"You were right, Anthony, you know my tastes better than I do. I officially enjoy chocolate egg cream soda."
"I'm glad," Aziraphale grinned, placing his payment on the table and leading Crowley out the door. "But I have another request before we go buy the liquor you so eagerly desire."
"No promises, Anthony."
"Please, for heaven's sake, call me Aziraphale."
"Not a fan of Anthony, then?"
"No, it suits you much better than it suits me."
"I don't know, I kind of enjoyed the idea of an angel sporting my name out there in the world. Building on the Anthony legacy."
"Crowley!"
Crowley continued teasing Aziraphale as they walked through the city, and drank through the night. Eventually, he promised to stop calling the angel by his adopted name. But even years later, he thought back to the afternoon in the soda shop, where an angel had unconsciously offered their shared name, a secret friendship. And when he thought about it, Crowley couldn't help but smile for his best friend.