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Aziraphale had become quite the fan of public transport once he’d worked out was this climate change business was, so of course he insisted on meeting Crowley on the top of a bus, the bastard.
Crowley, as ever, was early and had to sit on top of the wretched, rattling vehicle for about half an hour, banishing humans from the upper deck with mild curses of car-sickness. After all, it wasn’t fair that Crowley should have to suffer it alone.
His mood was only lifted when Aziraphale climbed to the top deck, looking significantly less smug than he had one month before. Aziraphale sat down in the seat next to Crowley’s, which he overflowed slightly, so that his soft, warm side was pressed up against Crowley. His cologne smelled incredible.
“Hullo,” he said, guardedly.
“Hello.” Crowley kept his eyes on a distant building, more to sooth his stomach than to be cool.
“So. One month in, and how is Operation Omen going for you?” Aziraphale’s voice had the slightly waspish quality it took on whenever he was sure that Crowley’s side was winning at something.
Crowley unbuckled his very expensive Ultra-Slim briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers that was technically speaking too large to fit inside it.
“Well,” Crowley said, flipping through, “there’s a bit of concern, actually. Ashtoreth is not happy with the boy’s progress. She thinks he’s not evil enough. ‘Banal’ she called him. Also ‘not worthy to be a priest in my cult.’”
“That sounds rather encouraging for me,” said Aziraphale, brightening.
“Were you worried?”
“St. Francis, lovely chap though he is, has been a bit stuck on slugs lately. And he didn’t like the fact that the boy wasn’t warming to them.” Aziraphale winced. “Obviously slugs are God’s creatures and any sensible person, such as you or I, ought to recognize their value in Creation. But it is a lot to expect of a small child.”
“Why do I have to recognize their value?” Crolwey spluttered incredulously.
“Because they’re a type of snake, aren’t they?”
Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s beautiful brown eyes and detected neither guile nor mockery. He let it go.
“What else did he say,” muttered Aziraphale to himself as he rummaged through his own briefcase, which was held together with Sellotape, and produced a large piece of parchment.
“You know,” said Crowley conversationally, “Ashtoreth is awfully good with the computer. She writes me a report every night.”
Aziraphale, still tracing his finger along a line of wobbly writing on the parchment, paused and turned to Crowley.
“There’s no use being smug about this. It isn’t my fault, you know,” he said. “Someone else in the department was meant to come up with a list of abilities we were going to give him. Apparently computer literacy, typing, and writing in English didn’t make the list. And of course I’ve gone and let my Mediaeval Latin get rusty. We only found out he couldn’t use a computer after we showed him one and he had a panic attack. Had to have a lie down.”
He went back to reading.
Crowley knew that Aziraphale could feel him shaking with laughter.
The angel cleared his throat with great dignity. “He doesn’t say anything else of consequence. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, won’t we? We shall simply need to have faith.”