Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:
If you think I created Good Omens, I thank you for your flattering mistake.-----
In which Aziraphale discovers good wine:
It had been a Long Time.
Centuries, in fact.
This did not particularly bother Aziraphale. He could have done with another decade or two, really.
"Crowley." The demon's name clung unpleasantly to Aziraphale's lips as he spoke it.
"Angel." Crowley smiled. Smirked. Every smile to touch Crowley's mouth became a smirk.
Aziraphale sat silently for a moment, not quite sure what to say. What, exactly, did social protocol call for in this particular situation? Crowley was one of Them. From Below. A Demon. The preordained tension between Above and Below required exhausting amounts of mental capital letters. So what was the appropriate civil reaction to sitting across from a demon at a feudal lord's feast?
Probably to stab him, Aziraphale considered. That was how the humans did it. After some speculation, he decided not to.
"What have you been up to, then?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale blinked.
"Heavenly deeds and all that. What are you working on hereabouts? Keeping the Book in the hands of priests? Or getting rid of those . . . indulgences, are they? They're spending a lot of time arguing over what Heaven wants from them these days. Which side are you on?"
The angel sighed. "It's hard to say."
"Ah." Crowley nodded. "I expect it would be."
Aziraphale wondered briefly what was meant by this. He suspected Crowley was merely being Vague. He disliked Vagueness. To his growing annoyance, the demon's casual manner was making it difficult to dislike Crowley. It made things . . . more Vague.
"What about you?" he wondered.
Crowley grinned. "Many things. Riling the peasants, hoping for a revolution."
"Freeing the common folk doesn't seem like your style," Aziraphale commented. "Ending centuries of oppression doesn't seem like the sort of thing that earns much praise . . . Below."
Crowley quirked an eyebrow. "If they win, they'll just set up a new oppressive government. If they lose, the survivors will be put to death. Either way, there will be piles of bodies."
Aziraphale paled. "Whatever happened to tempting holy men?" he gasped weakly.
Crowley waved a ragged-looking servant over. The boy poured wine into two large, rather clumsy vessels, and scurried away with the air of one who had often been kicked for not getting out of sight quite fast enough. Crowley stared at the liquid (which was not much like blood, really) for a moment, then set one of the two glasses before his companion.
"Not my style," he replied.
Aziraphale swallowed hard, avoiding the serpentine eyes that studied him. He took a long draught of the wine. It burned not unpleasantly in the back of his throat, chasing away the chill that settled over him.
"Although," Crowley added, "I'm not sure revolutions are, either."
At this, Aziraphale looked up. Angels were not, and still are not, and never will be hateful creatures. Yet it seemed hate was only expected between an angel and a demon.
If this was true, Aziraphale was not sure he was a very good angel at all.
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