11 August, year 991 AD
Just outside Maldon, Essex
I. The Battle of Maldon
It was a cold, wet, and foggy morning. Two groups of men, thousands of Vikings, and only a handful Anglo-Saxons, faced each other over a small ford. The Anglo-Saxon's seemed to have an advantage, controlling the ford against the Vikings, but the leaders of each group seemed to be in a bit of an argument. Two hawks watched on from nearby trees.
"See? I'm quite proud of this one. I've got it all planned out. Ah, here it's starting." The black hawk crowed. The leader of the Anglo-Saxons stepped back from his position and the Vikings started filing down the ford towards them, weapons ready.
"You shouldn't be talking to me, it's not going to do anyone any good," The white one responded. The Vikings started tearing the small group of the Anglo-Saxons apart.
"That is the goal, not doing good is what I'm good at. Again, all planned out. Don't you want to know how?" Crowley would have smirked, if his current physiology allowed him to. The leader of the Anglo-Saxons shouted something to his troops, and they started to rally against the Vikings.
"No, I don't at all, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyways." Aziraphale rolled his eyes, or at least tried to express that through his voice, as his eyes were rather stationary in his bird body.
"Exactly. So, I've been watching what you've been teaching these Saxons, about honor and valor and all that, so I thought to have a bit of fun with it. You know, drop a little hint to these Viking blokes about the riches they can get out of these kids, where to hit them, good ideas for hostages, that sort of thing," Crowley said. The leader of the Saxons was struck down by a particularly fierce-looking Viking.
"This doesn't really sound like some grand plan, just some senseless violence. How is this supposed to take souls for your side?" Aziraphale looked at him, puzzled.
"That's the thing, it's not about the violence. It's about the message."
"Message?"
"I thought that you're a hawk, not a parrot. Yes, a message. What do you think is going to happen when the news spreads about this slaughter? People will lose hope, and that idiot Æthered won't do anything about it. You know what people with no hope do, right? Certainly nothing good."
"I've been paying attention to Æthered, he loves his people. He'll take care of them," Aziraphale cooed.
"He'd love to take care of himself first." Crowley laughed.
"Your plan won't work, you know." Aziraphale stretched out one of his long white wings and waved it once. A few Saxons hopped onto a horse and fled. "These men will tell of the heroics of those who died today. It'll be an inspiration to everyone. They'll rally, I'm sure of it."
"Care to take a bet?" Crowley chirped.
"I wouldn't dare to, even if you were the last demon and I last angel in existence," Aziraphale squawked.
"If you say so." With that, Crowley flapped his wings and took off. Aziraphale watched him fly away, then looked back towards the battle, seeing the last of the Anglo-Saxons going down. He felt a bit nauseous, then flew away as well. Just to make sure those who ran away told the story properly.
16 August, year 1776 AD
London, England
II. The Declaration of Independence
Crowley hadn't intended to go this far with it, but seeing how Aziraphale acted, he couldn't help but keep going. He, Aziraphale, and King George the Third had all been living together for the past several years, all after Crowley decided to play a prank while he was a little tipsy one night. He may have 'let it slip' that Ol' Georgie was the antichrist. Of course, it wasn't true. From the grumblings he heard down below, it seemed that there were several centuries until the real one came along. Until then, he could keep having fun, corrupting innocent folk, and seeing that face Aziraphale makes when he gets nervous. Crowley loved that face.
Certainly, this play killed two birds with one proverbial stone. He could whisper all he liked into the King's ear, Aziraphale would try to balance it out with meaningless truisms, and the King would go mad, because no one else could see the two grown men following him around all the time. Or he already went mad, as many were saying. Of course, the letter he received not too long ago didn't help much either. A big decree from his colonies. Something about equality and unalienable rights, whatever it was it sent him into quite the tizzy.
"You two, you must tell me. How can I crush this insurrection?" The king demanded the Angel and the Demon.
"Are you sure they should be crushed? Don't they deserve a say in how they're governed?" Crowley smiled as he talked, this is exactly the kind of moral ambiguity that makes Aziraphale squirm. He liked watching Aziraphale squirm.
Aziraphale made a face as he went deep in thought. On one hand, something rung true in what Crowley said, on the other hand, he's a demon and his only goal is to propagate more evil. Aziraphale had to be careful. He messed up that one time with the Vikings, and the poem certainly didn't help, although it made for a good collectable. Should he disagree? Certainly, the King could consider the colonies his property, but then again, the declaration made some good points. "I think… This merits some consideration. Mr. Crowley perhaps… might be onto something. Maybe."
Crowley was surprised. Aziraphale has never been one to agree with him. Their relationship up until now, all 4000 or so years of it, has been one of constant bickering. Not one time has Aziraphale agreed with him to any degree. This made Crowley feel warm. Not Hell-fire warm, either. This was very strange, and Crowley wasn't quite sure how he felt about it. "George-buddy take 'em out. You got the army, you can handle it." He said clapping the king on the back, then he walked off. He needed some time to think about this new feeling, living with an angel might've been doing him too much good.
Aziraphale watched him walk off. He knew George the Third wasn't the antichrist, but he thought he should humor Crowley, it had kept him distracted for a good few years. It might be in the Greater Good's best interest to keep an eye on what Crowley's up to, though. Aziraphale walked out after him, keeping at a distance, so he wouldn't be obvious. The King, now alone, sunk into his throne, completely exhausted. A good war might cheer him up, he thought. He summoned in his advisors, telling them to send reinforcements to the colonies, this uprising is going to be squashed. He has a reputation to uphold.
24 June, year 2016 AD
London, England
III. Brexit
Crowley sat on a loveseat tucked away in the cramped back room of a dusty bookshop. Azzie's bookshop. He was watching TV. It was a small portable one that he kept hidden behind a particularly dusty stack of books when he wasn't using it, because his angelic something-or-another didn't like televisions in his bookshop.
Crowley always found rules were something to be bent, like a pretzel. He was fond of pretzels, not that he enjoyed eating them, they were a fun exercise in messing with humanity. Their shape was an ancient symbol meaning wholeness and satiating hunger, but humans simplified the original symbol into just a circle, calling it Ouroboros. He remembered one day happening upon some monk baking it for the first time, twisting it up when the fool wasn't looking. Humans couldn't help eating them ever since.
On the news, some correspondent was blabbing on and on about some inconsequential thing, results of some vote.
"Is that a Television I hear in here?" Aziraphale appeared in the doorway.
"No, it isn't," Crowley snapped, and the TV turned into a fresh oven-baked pretzel.
"No, put that back on, are the election results in?" The pretzel became a TV again.
"Yeah, something of the sort. Sounds like Brexit is gonna happen. I bet your lot are excited as all Heaven." Crowley said, while motioning for Aziraphale to sit with him.
"Excuse me, my lot? No, no, no. We're not responsible for this. I thought your people were." Aziraphale responded in a hurry. He looked at the seat, then neatly sat on the armrest.
"Oh no, not at all. Our side haven't meddled with things on the national scale since… You know, the Mad King." Crowley blushed.
"I remember very well. Remember how clever you thought you were being? Trying to pull one over on me. It was cute," Aziraphale grabbed his hand and started stroking it.
Crowley suddenly stood up, yanking back his hand. He turned around to face away from Aziraphale. His face was bright red, and he didn't want to put up with any more of Azzie's teasing. "Don't call me cute. You know how it makes me feel."
"Loved? I know. It's what I'm trying to do, what I'm good at," Aziraphale stood up and slowly wrapped his arms around Crowley. "Just accept that you like it. You can't act like this every time you come over, not unless you know this is how you'll get treated."
Crowley broke out of Aziraphale's hug and faced him, he smiled. "What'd I say? I had it all planned out." Crowley leaned down, laughing, then kissed Aziraphale and they held each other.
"I bet you didn't, you old snake." Aziraphale laughed.
"Careful about who you make bets with, twinkle-toes." They kissed again.