A/N: Just a very short, silly-ish, 1970s-set one-shot I came up with. Nothing major.
Here's To All Of Them
A Good Omens fanfiction
1977:
Aziraphale sets his mug of cocoa down beside the newspaper on his desk, a dejected expression on his face. He's been in low spirits for nearly six months (though that's not much time at all by angelic standards and perhaps shouldn't really count) because he had a nasty disagreement with Crowley.
Usually, when they quarrel, they can make it up again relatively fast. This time, though, things went over badly. It was not quite the disagreement they'd had over the Holy Water in... oh, was it 1862?
At any rate, he doesn't expect Crowley to go into a state of full-on hibernation over this argument and not pop in again for a hundred years, but it was bad enough that they haven't spoken since, not even to swap jobs for the Arrangement.
About three or four times they have – in passing – locked eyes while walking in St. James's Park. Or, at least, Aziraphale thinks they've locked eyes – it can be hard to tell with Crowley's sunglasses.
Sometimes, when he's sitting up in the wee hours of the morning, waiting for Soho to come alive, when the words in his books are just the slightest bit stale and the dust motes in the shop have sound, rather like raspy bees, Aziraphale allows himself to wonder if it's really over.
If they'll ever switch places for the sake of tempting and blessing again.
Despite his initial reservations about the Arrangement, the angel fervently hopes – though he cannot pray – this is not how it ends; not with silence and cold shoulders and seeing one another only from a distance.
Easing into his chair and reaching for the angel-wing handle of his mug, Aziraphale glances down at the newspaper, folded in such an odd way that the personal ads are on the top where the headlines ought to be.
With his free hand, he removes the elastic band, unfolds the page, and takes a proper look.
A strange advertisement catches his eye.
A.J. Crowley and Mr. Fell have been estranged far too long. They should meet at noon outside the British Museum next Monday. Crowley is paying for lunch.
After nearly spitting out his cocoa in surprise, and coughing twice in quick succession, Aziraphale smiles and leans back in his seat to check the clock for the hour.
The invitation to make it up again could not be more clear. Monday is today. And it's so thoughtful of Crowley to offer to buy him lunch as well!
In Mayfair, after spraying (and doing this new thing he's gotten into where he verbally threatens) his houseplants, Crowley looks down at his watch.
His reflection – complete with a ginger moustache he's been trying out for the decade – winks back at him in the glass face of the expensive timepiece.
It's good his watch is always exact; he doesn't want to be late.
Sure enough, when Aziraphale arrives on the steps at the front of the British Museum, Crowley is there, waiting, already pacing back and forth, up and down.
There is some confusion, however, when they both remark on how sensible it was of the other one to extend the olive branch, so to speak, first, knowing how ridiculous their argument really was.
Frowning, Crowley insists he did no such thing.
"B-but," stammers Aziraphale, wringing his hands, "you offered to pay for lunch."
"Wot? No! I thought that was you – making a joke."
"Well!" exclaims Aziraphale, eyes wide, cheeks gone red. "This suddenly has become a touch...er...awkward... Hasn't it, my dear?"
"What I don't understand," says Crowley, throwing up his hands in frustration, "is if neither one of us put that ad in the paper, why the heaven–"
Just behind them, a stout, cheerful-looking man wearing a paisley tie and a tweed jacket, cries out to another man wearing a mackintosh and a yellow rain hat fast approaching the museum, "Arnold James Crowley! Long time no see!"
"Henry Fell, you old bastard! How the hell are you? You saw my advertisement in the paper, I take it? Ready for that lunch I offered?"
"Oh!" says Aziraphale, chuckling and side-eyeing Crowley sheepishly.
"That's..." stammers Crowley, lifting his sunglasses slightly despite the risk of somebody potentially spotting his glittering yellow eyes, "...unlikely..."
"Good lord! What were the odds of that?" the principality marvels, shaking his head.
"Crowley?" says Aziraphale, when they're drinking together back at the bookshop after a fine lunch at the Ritz.
"Yeah?"
"You don't suppose there were any other Fells and Crowleys reunited at the British Museum today, all because of misunderstanding that personal ad, thinking it was for them?"
"Nah – not unless the ineffable plan is a whole lot more ineffable than even we can comprehend."
"But, dear boy, that's the whole point," Aziraphale can't help remarking, brow creased. "Isn't it?"
"Be funny," he admits, unwilling now to let such a curious idea pass by unexplored, "if there were a whole lot of 'em and we just missed them all, too busy making our own plans."
"Well" – Aziraphale raises his wineglass – "here's to all of them, then."
"To all of them," Crowley agrees, lifting his own glass.
A/N: Reviews welcome; replies could be delayed.