Tadfield. Late Evening. Backroom of the bookshop. Aziraphale is seated in his armchair, reading, feet in fleece slippers on hassock, wool throw over his lap. He's also bundled in his Aran sweater over a wool challis shirt, silk ascot at neck. There is likely long underwear beneath. Crowley is stretched on the settee, wearing himself. Aziraphale looks up from his book.
Crowley, it makes me chilly just to look at you. You're not cold?
Nah. Not really.
I'm surprised. This old building gets a bit drafty in winter.
Hot summer days bother me most. Winter actually feels pretty good. I'll make you some cocoa.
Crowley gets up and goes to the little kitchenette, actually heats the milk, mixes the cocoa and sugar, and does the complete procedure instead of just magicking the mug full.
Brandy?
Yes, please.
Crowley hands Aziraphale his brandy-laced mug of hot cocoa, resumes his slope on the settee, sips from his brandy snifter. Snaps his fingers, and he's wearing his soft ultraviolet Italian pullover. Just the pullover. Aziraphale raises his mug as if in a toast.
Thank you, Crowley. Happy holidays.
My pleasure, angel. Bollocks to holidays. Loathe solstice. I like it dark.
The two sit companionably while Aziraphale reads and drinks his cocoa and Crowley works his way through his glass of brandy. Then the angel rises, pushes the hassock with his foot over against the settee, sits on it and leans over to hug Crowley, his head on the demon's chest.
What is it, Crowley. You've been nervy all evening.
Crowley holds Aziraphale and strokes his hair as if petting a golden retriever.
I can't tell you, Angel. One of those plausible deniability situations.
Dammit, Crowley. Are you doing something criminal?
Angel, pretty much everything I do can be construed as criminal by someone or other. Remember that little discussion we once had about terrorists versus freedom fighters? And when we compared notes, discovered that most agents were in the employ of both Heaven and Hell?
Ah yes. Humans are treacherous creatures.
And vindictive. They have nasty ways of settling scores. I think they learned it from Heaven.
Really, my dear.
Two words: Sodom. Gomorrah. Give me an instance of where demons have actually killed humans.
Point taken.
We wait until they make it to Hell before giving them the business. No point in doing extra work. Test 'em. Tempt 'em. Torture 'em. The Three T's. The humans who think they're virtuous get punished in Heaven, of course.
Whatever rot are you talking about?
You know how Inpu weighs hearts, right?
Broadly.
Well, I've actually sat beside him while he works. Heavy heart, you're marched through Hell Gate, or sent up the air tube to Heaven. Light heart, you disappear into the firmament. Ffwht! Gone. Release.
Do you know, I never actually spent much time in Heaven the past millennia since Earth was formed. Apart from those few centuries at the beginning. Couple of training sessions. Mediocre food. No decent drinks. Crowds of smug and tedious humans infesting the lounges. Celestial harmonies plinking away like elevator muzak. And you were right about The Sound of Music.
That's my point. It's the self-righteous ones who go to Heaven. Their punishment is to be bored for all eternity. Get what they asked for.
Aziraphale sits up and gazes at Crowley, who continues:
Ever wonder why we seem to have been squeezed out of both places, like pips from a lemon? I think you didn't fit in because you actually _are_ kind and loving. As opposed to merely being a virtuous and obedient rule-follower. You try to help humans, instead of just viewing them as tallies on the scorecard.
And you didn't fit in because you're not actually cruel. Wicked, yes.
Thank you. For a moment there I thought you were going to trot out "nice" again.
Nevermore. You're not nice. You're never nice.
They both laugh.
Do you like "sly" and "evil," too?
Oh Angel, you say the sweetest things.
Now tell me what you're up to. I'm keen to know how I'll be endangered next.
Crowley is silent a long moment. Then sighs.
My business associates and I are going to try to hack the mobile phone systems of Hell and Heaven. They haven't given up on their war, as you know. Neither Heaven nor Hell is much interested in preserving human life. They'd both be happy to depopulate the planet and not have to process so much incoming.
Yes. Heaven thought destroying humanity through a nuclear exchange would be "a nice start." That's a direct quote from Metatron.
The level of fuckedupedness on Earth is at record level, I think you will agree. Something's going to blow.
Why don't we just retire from the fray and keep quiet?
I thought that's what we did when we moved the bookshop to Tadfield. Just settle down and enjoy a quiet and pleasant eternity together under Adam's protection. But we keep getting drawn in, don't we.
My word, yes. It's even worse than it used to be. I only got reprimands before. Not murder attempts and torture.
Adam doesn't want me messing with humans. But that doesn't mean I can't mess with H&H. I want to know what the bastards are up to.
You think you can prevent some disaster from happening?
Absolutely not. When were we ever successful in doing that?
Never. Millennia of ineffective actions. Counteracting one another. Having to watch one hideous event after another unfold.
I still haven't gotten over the 14th century.
As Adam said, too much messing around. But you know, in our own bumbling way, we did botch Armageddon.
Do you suppose we're the jokers in The Almighty's solitaire game?
The chaos butterflies flapping their wings?
More like the flies in the ointment.
They both grin. Then Crowley looks anxious again.
I can't seem to not do mischief. A quiet life simply isn't in me.
Well, you're a demon. Devilry is your job.
I'm a demon now. But I didn't start out that way. I just find it amusing to make trouble. Have right from the get-go.
Did you ever read Voltaire's Candide?
Nah. The bastard was fun to hang out with, though. I could listen to him for hours. He had a great garden. Good wine cellar.
He used that garden in the ending of Candide. One of his most famous quotes. "Il faut cultiver notre jardin." "We must cultivate our garden." There's been debate ever since about just what he was getting at. Blithely sitting around imagining that everything works out for the best according to some divine plan is no good? Practical work is the solution that provides us peace of mind in a chaotic and brutal world?
My garden is mischief? If so, it will likely endanger us both. And maybe more than us.
Well, at least life won't be dull. Any more explosions imminent, do you think? So far we're down one helicopter and one parish hall.
Aziraphale, sometimes you are so breathtakingly cynical.
Just trying to cheer you up, my dear. And now, let's slide that sweater off you.
Aziraphale snaps his fingers, his clothing disappears, and he transforms to his delicious female form. Crowley's eyes glow orange.
Warm me up, Crowley.