"Have I ever had the bisque?"
Aziraphale smiled faintly. "You've had everything, my dear. Multiple times."
Crowley fretted a moment, eyes darting over the menu once more, fruitlessly. Of course he'd had the bisque. It was one of the central problems with being as immortal as one was gluttonous—the nicer the restaurant, the less frequently the menu changed. He wished they served a particular lamb dish that he'd once had at a brothel in Mesopotamia, so of course it was the special that evening. When the waiter came by, Crowley was exceedingly genteel about ordering it, but the angel still shot him a look. On the way home, the chef would find twenty quid in a sewer grate.
"So," Aziraphale said, the moment the waiter was out of earshot, "I suppose we'd better get it out of the way."
Crowley looked at him from over the rim of his wineglass and said blandly, "What's that then?" He cocked his head a little to the side, like a confused puppy. It would have been rather endearing if he hadn't resembled the sort of puppy that might rip out your throat if you took away its kibble.
"The Arrangement, or the reorganization thereof," Aziraphale muttered exasperatedly. The muttering was unnecessary, of course, because no one ever overheard Crowley's conversations, regardless of their volume, and "The Arrangement," to the uninformed listener, sounded more like a bank transaction than a philosophical agreement that altered the nature of conflict between good and evil.
Crowley looked up sharply. "What reorganization? Who's reorganizing? If you're going to start thwarting me all willy-nilly again, I deserve some notice. It's not fair to spring that sort of thing on a demon," Crowley said, feigning outrage.
"What? No, of course not, don't be silly. It's just that, well. Things are different, aren't they?" Aziraphale said, with wide, wondering eyes.
Crowley chuckled and his glass refilled itself. A passing waiter noticed this oddity, but suddenly remembered that he'd left the iron on (though he didn't own an iron) and rushed off to right it.
"Good, because I let that minor miracle with the chef slide on the basis that you are going to ignore this—"
The flames of the baked Alaska at the next table leapt inexplicably onto the hair of a posh looking blonde, causing her to shriek and flail about in a manner Crowley found rather amusing. Aziraphale glared half-heartedly and empties his wineglass as several of the waitstaff rushed to aid the flaming woman in her loud, busty distress.
"Was that really necessary?"
"I was making a point!" Crowley enunciated, sounding distinctly self-righteous, which took extra effort considering that he was, by nature, distinctly un-righteous. "Besides," he added begrudgingly, "she's not that man's wife, and her scalp being half-scorched will keep him from committing any adultery tonight, I should think."
The angel smiled smugly and refilled his glass, by hand of course. Crowley glared at him and pointedly replenished the bread basket with a gesture.
"So, back to the topic at hand," Crowley said tiredly. One of the irritations of being immortal and lacking a wide social circle was that conversations you didn't want to have in the first place had a way of resurfacing at really inopportune moments1, so Crowley had made it a point not to let things fester. This applied doubly where Aziraphale is concerned, because all hellish connotations aside, the angel had a head harder than a goat's, and he did not forget things. Ever2.
"Yes, well, it's just that – are you even listening?" Aziraphale sighed, sounding like someone's exasperated mother.
Crowley let out a frustrated huff and stopped attempting to rewrite the reservations book using the names of famous serial killers.
"I am, I am. Do go on," he said, with mock politeness that could only just pass for painfully English.
"The thing is. I am not entirely certain how our tasks are meant to coexist," Aziraphale said seriously.
Crowley frowned. "Angel, do we really have to discuss—"
"Yes, Crowley, I rather think we do. I can't justify spending half my time with someone who is trying very hard to Fell me. I can't justify it to Heaven, and I certainly can't justify it to myself."
Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but stopped short. He was not in the habit of convincing people to like him,3 so it was odd that he felt the need to make Aziraphale stop being an idiot about this, because he didn't want to spend the next several millenniums dinking around London on his own almost as badly as he didn't want to spend them roasting on a spit.
"Then we just, we'll just have to come up with a solution then," Crowley said with a tone of confidence he did not feel but was the world's foremost expert in feigning.
Aziraphale smiled the smile he used when he was being Wise at some poor, naïve human. "Is there one, though?"
"There has to be."
"Perhaps there isn't this time," Aziraphale said meaningfully, taking a sip of his wine for dramatic effect.
Crowley hissed quietly through the next three courses.
1Like when one was trying to incite a revolt, not discuss that unfortunate incident with the Queen's headdress ala flambé, which had happened almost six-hundred years ago, for somebody's sake, and should really be water under ineffable bridge by now.
2 Even if one was high on opium at the time and honestly thought the girl was saying "aardvark."
3Except for when it was to make it hurt more when he inevitably betrayed them (betrayal being an excellent catalyst for all sorts of nasty human impulses.)
