Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Neither of the two men standing in front of Aziraphale were Alan Mundson, but they certainly worked for him.

“Where is he?” Aziraphale asked.

“Don’t worry, bub. He’ll be here.”

They both wore the same kind of suit. Dark in color, the fit not quite right. The sort of suit you put on every day and hid things inside.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you that we can put this whole matter behind us and I’ll be on my way?” said Aziraphale.

“You can’t talk your way out of this, bub. You’re in trouble.”

Aziraphale began to bring his hands together—to clasp them, and the men moved. The younger of the two grabbed Aziraphale by his upper arms. He had a moment to steel himself as the other man drew his fist back.

The blow landed on his jaw. Static cut across his vision. His corporation reeled. Aziraphale closed his eyes—calmed his sympathetic nervous system’s attempts to further discharge itself.

Perhaps they’d thought he was going for a weapon, or maybe they’d just wanted to take a more hands-on approach to illustrating what ‘trouble’ meant.

He opened his eyes.

A man was standing at the far end of the room.

Aziraphale thought of Lord Alfred Douglas. He had passed away a few months prior—perhaps that was why Aziraphale’s thoughts formed the connection so quickly. They could have been brothers—age difference aside. Because Alan Mundson, and it was certainly Alan Mundson, appeared to be in his late-forties—or early-fifties at the latest. He and Douglas shared the same fine cheekbones, the blonde hair, the arched brows and heavily lidded eyes.

He wore a very expensive suit and carried a cane. In a calm tone, he said, “Alright, Casey. Werther.”

Aziraphale wiggled a little, impeded by Casey-or-Werther’s grip on his arms. “I wouldn’t have expected the manager of a casino to cut such a fine figure.”

“A fitting choice of words,” Mundson said, raising his cane to point at Aziraphale. A blade gleamed at the end, extended by some hidden mechanism. “My name is Alan Mundson.”

He walked over to where Aziraphale and his men stood. He didn’t lower his weapon.

“Mine is Aeneas Farrell,” Aziraphale said.

“And I’m not the manager, I own the joint. And I don’t like to be cheated.”

Aziraphale had been cheating, but only because it was the easiest way to get noticed. It was just a game, hardly anything to worry over.

“I’m sure we can—”

“Nobody wins that much money at 21 honestly.”

“Maybe I had a lucky streak,” Aziraphale posited, guiltless.

Mundson’s eyes narrowed. “A very deft way of cutting cards,” he said, voice dry.

Aziraphale smiled. “Took me years to learn.”

Mundson got very close, close enough that Aziraphale could see himself reflected in the blade pointed at him. But then, Mundson lowered the cane and clicked it closed on the toe of his boot.

“Of course, you ought to be in jail,” he said. “But, I’m not particularly interested in interacting with our local forces, so instead I’ll be forgiving. You’ll get out of here, and don’t come back.”

He sat against his desk. Presumably his desk. It made him shorter than Aziraphale, and it showed confidence in his men’s abilities. Their faces were maybe a meter apart.

Aziraphale aimed for a fond expression, and decided to gamble again. “Now, you know you’re being very stupid,” he said, kindly.

Mundson softened—the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Probably,” he said, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale held the eye contact, and managed to lean forward slightly. “You’d simply had me gambling on the wrong side. Wouldn’t it be nicer if I was on your side?”

Mundson drew back a bit. “I don’t like my people to cheat.”

That was good. Something to work with. Later.

“I may cheat with my own money? But, with yours?” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t have to. Think it over.”

There were several seconds of silence, heavy with potential.

“You know,” Mundson began, and Aziraphale could tell he’d managed to connect. “I think I will. How much time do you give me?”

“Oh, there’s no worry. You can take a minute or two,” Aziraphale said, the picture of graciousness while restrained.

And now for the part he felt preemptively guilty over. But, he’d thought this through, and it was the most expedient plan.

“Excuse me, while you’re making up your mind,” Aziraphale said politely, and he drove the back of his head hard into the face of the man holding him.

The grip on his arms went slack.

Aziraphale twisted free. The other man was advancing.

“You really shouldn’t hit a man when he has his hands behind his back,” he said evenly, and moved into the swing of the hook thrown as he’d spoken. He caught the fist, and struck out with his free hand, connecting with his assailant’s temple. The man went down.

Aziraphale turned back to the remaining, younger man. He’d straightened and was hovering—like he was waiting for his moment to rush forward. His nose was already very bruised. Aziraphale hoped it hadn’t been broken.

He looked at Mundson, who’d raised his cane up again, though the blade remained out of sight. “I think I’ve made my point well enough?”

“Yes,” Mundson said, and he almost looked impressed. His face wasn’t an expressive one. “Casey, stand down.”

Casey did, and hurried to where Werther lay unconscious on the floor.

“I do like your cane,” Aziraphale said.

Mundson lowered it back to the floor. “It’s the most faithful and obedient friend. It is silent when I wish to be silent. It talks when I wish to talk.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Here’s a way for you to have two friends. You have no idea how faithful and obedient I can be. For a nice salary.”

Mundson watched Casey bent over Werther, who was beginning to come around. “This I must be sure of,” he said. “That there is no woman anywhere.”

Whatever Aziraphale had expected Mundson to say, that wasn’t it. “Oh, no,” he said. “There’s no woman anywhere.”

“Gambling and women do not mix.”

“Mmm, quite.”

Mundson fixed him with a look. He was quiet again, for a time. Then, “There was one, once."

Aziraphale hesitated. He wondered what had led Mundson to such a conclusion, and weighed his possible replies.

“Consider this, Mr. Mundson. In the scope of our acquaintance, you could... consider me as having been born today, when I walked into your casino. That way, I’m no past and all future. And I think that’s rather wonderful.” He beamed.

On the second day of September, the war ended.

Over the past few months, Mundson had let Aziraphale ease himself right to the top.

At first, he’d just watched the plays and the check-offs. But as he’d gained Mundson’s trust, he’d found himself appointed as the casino’s acting manager. It was a good position from which to show benevolence, to set an example, etc. He’d been instructed by Heaven to encourage Mundson towards a more honorable way of life and in turn right the paths of his patrons.

Mundson was promising. He had a real sense of fairness, and had been serious about his distaste for cheating. Employees were expected to conduct themselves with integrity, and their respect for the man was clearly a result of fair treatment and earned trust.

Not to discount Mundson’s clear standing as a dangerous individual—but Aziraphale hoped that he might appeal to Mundson’s better nature, and show him a more upstanding path for his intelligence and capabilities.

He entered Mundson’s office, two drinks in-hand.

Mundson stood at a window, staring through the blinds out at the cheering and singing throng beneath him. Switches had been flipped to pipe sound into the room from mics set into the tables below, and the secondhand sound of celebration filled the smaller space. Mundson’s office was elevated above the main floor. When Aziraphale would stop by, he’d often find the man positioned like this. The room was, functionally, a watchtower of sorts.

Aziraphale joined him at the window. “Wonderful news,” he said, by way of greeting. “I thought we ought to celebrate, too.” He offered Mundson one of the glasses.

Mundson looked at it. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, no enthusiasm present, and took it.

“Well,” Aziraphale began, raising his own glass to toast.

Mundson turned and cut the music—switched the blinds closed. He walked away, towards the middle of the room. His shadow moved across the wall, well—shadowing him.

“I have to take a trip, Aeneas. I may be gone for a while, and you’re in charge of the casino. You’ve been promoted.”

Aziraphale hesitated, decided to try for a joke. “Faithful service. Do I get a raise?”

“No. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

“But, you do get five percent of the profits.”

“I’ll take seven and a half.”

Mundson laughed. “You’re sharp, Aeneas. Almost as sharp as my other little friend. But, not quite so obedient.”

He was talking about that cane of his. It went with him everywhere—was currently set across his desk, and Aziraphale reached to pick it up.

“No?” Aziraphale asked, in mock offense. The weight of it felt familiar, comfortable.

“My other little friend would kill for me, Aeneas.”

“Well, I’ve been told that’s what friends are for.” He ran a thumb along the varnished wood, found the small metal trigger hidden along the side, and pulled it back. The blade slid out without a sound.

“To us, Aeneas. To the three of us.’

Aziraphale didn’t want weapons to feel like things he understood completely—didn’t like how every one fit into his hand like a thing returning to its rightful place. “To the three of us,” he said, putting it down and raising his glass.

And then it was a new year.

Aziraphale had kept things running smoothly in Mundson’s stead. He’d even managed to shift focus ever-so-slightly from the gambling that took place in the establishment’s luxe backrooms towards the restaurant and nightclub that fronted the whole operation.

If the food was a bit more delicious, the entertainment more tasteful, and if profits had notably gone up—well, there were other lucrative opportunities here worth exploring. And with Aziraphale’s attention, they flourished.

Mundson would see, when he looked over the books upon his return.

One afternoon, Werther found Aziraphale in the restaurant’s kitchen, looking at the planned menu. Mundson had returned, and he wanted Aziraphale to meet him at his home.

Mundson lived about a mile west of his business, on a street filled with tall trees and huge houses—all set behind walls. Aziraphale had met him there a few times before, and he enjoyed the walk.

The air was crisp, and the sun was bright. He felt full of hope. It lightened his step. An angel’s happiness was contagious, and those he passed would find their worries lessened and their spirits lifted.

He had a key, and he let himself in.

“Alan?” Aziraphale called. He’d been experimenting with their being on a first-name basis, to better establish congeniality.

Alan’s butler, Pete, came to meet him. “Señor Mundson will be down in a moment, Señor Farrell.”

“Thank you. It’s great having him back, isn’t it Pete?” Aziraphale decided he’d make himself comfortable at Alan’s home bar, in the meantime.

“I hope it will be the same, Señor Farrell,” Pete said, as he walked away.

Alan’s bar was to the left of the entryway and outfitted handsomely. Aziraphale approached the counter. He deposited his hat and reached over to retrieve a glass and a bottle of rum.

“Aeneas, is that you?” Alan’s voice echoed from upstairs.

Aziraphale set the drinkware down and walked back out. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Hello, Alan,” he said.

“Come on up here.”

Aziraphale did, and as he drew closer, he realized something had changed in his employer's typically stern demeanor. The man was beaming. It was almost eerie.

“Well, what’s got you so gloomy?” Aziraphale asked.

“I feel great, Aeneas.” He took his arm and Aziraphale tamped down the instinct to flinch. “I’ll show you why.” He began to lead Aziraphale towards some unfamiliar rooms. Most of his previous time in Alan’s home had been spent on the ground floor.

“Where’s the canary?” Aziraphale said, as a joke.

Alan stopped—looked at him more closely. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

Alan’s smile widened. “So you don’t know,” he said. “Come.”

They stood in front of one of the many painted doors that lined the hallway. “This is where the canary is, Aeneas,” Alan said, and pushed it open.

From inside, came the sound of someone singing.

A memory of a window open, the sun low in the sky, painting the heavens in shades of orange, and pink, and gold. The smell of grass on the wind. The sound of a piano. Her hand, resting on an embroidered cloth. The dark lace of her sleeve…

“Quite a surprise to hear a woman singing in my house, ay, Aeneas?”

In what world, what future, would he not recognize her anywhere?

He realized he had been quiet for too long—lost in his thoughts, in a time long past. “That’s quite… a surprise,” he managed.

They walked further in, through a small foyer of sorts and into a bedroom set back through a second set of doors. Alan stepped inside and Aziraphale lingered, still in the doorway.

Of course it was Crowley.

She was bent over, fastening the strap of a golden heel. She’d told Aziraphale before that she preferred to dress with power (’Can’t be bothered with all the buttoning.’) but, Aziraphale surmised, it would have been imprudent to risk a miracle when someone’s houseguest. Her hair was long again. It fell forward in spectacular waves in front of her face.

“Antonia, are you decent?” Alan asked. It was a pointless question. They were already in the room.

“Me?” She flipped her hair back as she straightened, a glorious woosh and bounce of motion. Her sunglasses were delicate and round. She was radiant, content.

Then she froze. Her smile… wilted.

She wasn’t happy to see him.

Crowley tugged the top of her diaphanous, pleated dress more firmly back onto a tanned shoulder. “Sure, I’m decent,” she said. Her voice was low and empty of amusement. She turned away for a moment, to retrieve a lit cigarette from a dish on a nearby table.

“Antonia, this is Aeneas Farrell,” Alan said, as Crowley turned back.

They both just stood there.

“Aeneas, this is Antonia.”

“So, this is Aeneas.” Crowley drew out the ’So,’ and the name Aziraphale had chosen. It was subtle, but it was mocking. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Farrell.”

What was she doing here?

“Oh. Really?” Aziraphale said, knowing Crowley would catch the suspicion he let color his words. “Now I haven’t heard a word about you.”

Crowley pouted, tutted, “Why, Alan.”

“I wanted to keep it as a surprise,” Mundson said, from somewhere off to Aziraphale’s left.

Crowley cocked her head. “Was it a surprise, Mr. Farrell?”

A bell should have rung. There should have been some instinct of warning. But, there wasn’t. Aziraphale had walked right into it.

“It certainly was,” Mundson said. “You should have seen his face.”

“Did you tell him what I’m doing here, Alan?”

Aziraphale watched the end of her cigarette resolve to ash.

“No, I wanted to save that as a surprise, too.”

“Well,” she took a drag, blew out a small cloud of smoke. “Hang on to your hat, Mr. Farrell.”

Aziraphale wasn’t wearing a hat. He’d left it downstairs. He remembered the feel of its wool, and the ribbon band beneath his fingers as he’d stood in the rubble of a church.

“Antonia is my wife.”

Oh.

Well, of course she was. Why wouldn’t she use a sham marriage to get in on… whatever had brought her to Argentina… Crowley couldn’t have expected surprise in reaction to that news. Beyond the shock of encountering each other on a different continent, it was hardly that far outside of her wheelhouse. Though it had been a long time since he’d seen Crowley do something like this for her work. She preferred to keep things less direct, less personal, or that’s what Aziraphale had thought.

“Mrs. Alan Mundson,” Crowley said brightly, showing her teeth.

“Congratulations,” Aziraphale said, with a small smile.

Her face tightened down in annoyance.

“Oh, you don’t congratulate the bride, Aeneas,” Mundson said. “You congratulate the husband.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, not looking away from Crowley. He had the particular sensation of staring down a viper in the grass—the feeling that if his attention strayed he’d find himself struck. “Well, what is a person supposed to say to the bride?”

“You wish her good luck,” Mundson said.

Crowley took another drag of her cigarette.

Aziraphale took a breath. “Good luck,” he said.

Crowley bounced a little, and her reply came with an insincere cheeriness. “Thanks, Mr. Farrell. My husband tells me you’re a great believer…” she trailed off. “In luck?”

“We make our own luck, Aeneas and I.”

“I’ll have to try that sometime. I’ll try it right now. Tell him to come to dinner with us tonight, Alan.”

Why was she asking for that? It couldn’t be anything good. Not with her clear unhappiness. Did she do it purely to annoy him?

“Come along, Aeneas. We’ll let Antonia get dressed. Look your best, my beautiful.”

What a tedious way to bid farewell to a woman one supposedly loves.

“This will be the casino’s first glimpse of you,” Mundson continued. He leaned in to kiss Crowley. Aziraphale saw the edge of her sunglasses past the side of his face.

“I’ll look my very best, Alan,” she said as Mundson stepped back. “I want all of your employees to approve of me. Glad to have met you, Mr. Farrell.”

“His name is Aeneas, Antonia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Aeneas is such a hard name to remember, and so easy to forget.” She screwed up her face in mock concentration and breathed in through her nose. “Aeneas. See you later, Mr. Farrell.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Mundson.” Aziraphale turned and walked off.

From behind him, Mundson said, “I’ll see Aeneas downstairs.”

Aziraphale heard the snap of fingers.

“Angel, come on.”

He turned on his heel. Mundson stood frozen in the doorway.

“We need to talk,” Crowley called.

Aziraphale walked back up the stairs. He ducked past Mundson as he came back into the room. “Oh? You don’t want to keep up your whole…” He flapped a hand in annoyance. “Thing, you’re doing?”

Crowley gaped. “Thing?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. She knew. There were suitcases against the wall—perfumes and lotions on the dresser. “Why are you in Argentina?”

“Why do you think? One of us could have avoided the trip. I’d ask why you didn’t tell me, but...” She fell silent, and finally looked down and away.

They’d seen each other a couple of times since 1941—short meetings initiated by Crowley and pertaining to The Arrangement. Aziraphale had been avoiding Crowley, it was true. He needed time. Time to figure things out. It had only been four years.

“Well…” He thought of trying to make some excuse, and decided to avoid the subject entirely. “Yes. I’m here for the same—well, probably opposite, reasons.”

Crowley didn’t respond. She was standing very still. She did that when she was a particular sort of unhappy—when she hadn’t figured out what to say or do next—and hadn’t chosen to barrel forward with something, anyway.

Was this his fault? Crowley hated inconvenience, it could simply be that causing her discontent. They’d gone long stretches of time without speaking before, centuries, even recently—though that had been born out of unhappy circumstances and… stubbornness. They were both so stubborn. If nothing else, he could have saved her a trip.

He tried to think of what to say.

“I’m sorry for not checking in,” Aziraphale said, and picked up immediately on her resulting suspicion. He tried again. “I’m… glad… to see you,” he said, willing himself past his own mortification and pride.

She seemed distracted. The silence ticked on for another unbearable heartbeat, and then she was shaking her head with a small smile that Aziraphale imagined didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine, angel. We’re both here. I guess.”

Aziraphale tried to think of a new topic. Hadn’t she said they needed to talk? Probably just about The Arrangement, which they’d done. Oh—“So I’m to have dinner with you and your new beau tonight? Why?’

At that, she relaxed. “My new beau,” she mimicked. “Honestly? Because I knew you wouldn’t like it.” She ignored his eye roll. “I’m to lead him into temptation for whatever extent and length of time I think I can content head office with. Was planning on cutting things pretty short, to be frank. I've a feeling.”

“A feeling,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley could read people and situations quite well. Quickly.

“A feeling that he doesn’t need any help from me. Nothing I’ve seen proof of, but I can sense it.”

“Ah.” Crowley was almost certainly right, and that would only make Aziraphale’s job harder. “We’ll have to figure out how to finesse this enough for us both.”

Crowley nodded. “You don’t want to just hand it off to me? I’m already here, the weather’s nice, I wouldn’t mind.”

It would be too complicated. The roles they’d already settled into were too different. A casino manager and a wife. Crowley had the right of things in that she was better positioned to multitask directions of influence but… no, they both needed to stay on. That was—it was a matter of practicality.

He said as much to Crowley, and she nodded consideringly. “I suppose you’re right. Well,” she turned away. “I need to finish changing, and you need to get back downstairs. I’ll see you tonight, angel.”

“Yes, you will,” Aziraphale said. He left, ducking around Mundson and walking back down the stairs. He heard Crowley snap her fingers. He stopped and waited on Mundson to catch up.

“For some reason, she doesn’t like you, Aeneas.”

Aziraphale laughed before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat in an attempt to muddle things. “Really,” he said, trying to sound mild. “What makes you think that?”

“I know my wife.”

“You do?” He’d once seen Crowley spend a week obtaining a place in the Society of Antiquaries, sans any supernatural effort. It had been a wager, of sorts. When he’d brought Aziraphale along to Burlington House, some of the fellows there had claimed to have known Crowley for years. Aziraphale had asked Crowley about it—he’d expected Crowley had some trick up his sleeve after all. Crowley had told Aziraphale that no, he simply hadn’t stopped the fellows from making the assumptions that were most comfortable for them in the face of the lies Crowley presented.

“How would she form an instant antagonism like that?”

Crowley antagonized the way she slept and breathed and complained.

“Maybe it’s…” How did the humans put it these days? “... chemical,” Aziraphale offered.

“She’ll get over it,” Mundson said, far too smug.

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale turned to head down the rest of the way. He was curious. “When did you meet her?”

“The day I left for the interior.”

“When did you get married?”

“The day after that.”

“Ah, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“I said ‘Quick’,” Aziraphale lied.

They reached the bottom. “You should know, Aeneas, that when I want something, I—”

“You buy it quick,” Aziraphale said briskly, facing him. “Love is a wonderful thing, Alan.”

“Do you want to know something funny, Aeneas?” Mundson was still standing on the last stair, doing something adjacent to looming.

“Sure.”

“She told me she was born the night she met me. All three of us with no pasts—just futures. Isn't that interesting?”

How was Aziraphale supposed to anticipate the saying's originator to show up on a different continent? “I think it’s fascinating,” he said, lightly.

Mundson stepped down. “What’s the matter with you?” His tone was sharp. He’d never spoken to Aziraphale that way before. Aziraphale cast his thoughts about.

“I suppose I was just thrown off.” He settled on a good excuse. “You know, we’d talked about how gambling and women didn’t mix.”

“My wife doesn’t come under the category of women, Aeneas.”

There were too many failures of logic and virtue in that statement to try to unpack just now. Aziraphale chose to be gracious. “I could have made a mistake,” he said.

“You did. Don’t make it again.”

“Alan, will you come up and help me into this thing like a darling?” Crowley—calling from upstairs.

“I’ll see you at the casino,” Aziraphale said, taking that opportunity to make an exit.

“Alan?” she called again.

“In about an hour,” Mundson said to Aziraphale as he went upstairs.

Crowley had her arms up and out of the way as Mundson helped her zip her gown. “I can never get a zipper to close,” she mused. She was talking to fill the quiet. “Maybe that stands for something. What do you think?”

“I think you were very rude to him,” Mundson said from by her waist. He was sitting on the vanity’s stool, having pulled it over and taken a seat before beginning. Crowley made sure to stay relaxed. She’d heard the tone Mundson had taken with Aziraphale downstairs. The human was oblivious to his own hypocrisy. Possibly useful. Currently annoying. He finished closing her gown.

Crowley lowered her arm. “To whom?”

“Aeneas.”

“Was I?” she asked, making a show of checking her nails. When she moved to walk away, Mundson took her hand. She let it pull her back around, and made the movement languid, playful. “Oh dear,” she said. “That’s one of the things you’ll have to teach me, Alan. Good manners.”

Crowley waited to see if Mundson would let go. He didn’t.

“I want you to like him,” he said.

That wouldn’t be a problem—beyond being a problem. She’d thought she was getting away from London, where Aziraphale was supposed to be. Things had been off for a while.

At present, Mundson had just given her an excellent piece of material. “You sure about that?” she asked, making it playful and sweet.

“What do you mean?”

Crowley moved towards the vanity and he let her go. “He’s a very attractive man, if you like the type.” She unstopped a bottle of perfume.

“He’s naive,” Mundson said. He stood, and relocated to the chaise lounge.

“Naive isn’t a fixed condition, Alan,” she said, walking over to join him. He was listening intently. She sat beside him. “People change. Almost when you’re not looking.”

“But I’ll be looking.”

Aziraphale was passing time on the casino floor, watching the goings-on. A man, familiar, approached the roulette table. Aziraphale decided to follow.

He’d seen the man here before. He was of small, slight stature—always nervous, uncertain.

“Number 2,” the man told the dealer. His eyes were darting across the table, up to the walls, lingering anywhere but on someone’s face.

“Number 2 black,” the dealer said. He passed chips across the table to the man, and an envelope, which the man tucked out of sight. He took his winnings and departed.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentleman, place your bets,” intoned the dealer.

Aziraphale tapped him gently on the shoulder. The dealer stopped. He turned to his colleague, said “Take over,” and gave Aziraphale his full attention.

“Friend of yours?” Aziraphale asked kindly.

“No, Mr. Farrell.”

“Going into business for yourself? We can talk about it, if so. You know you can be honest with me.” He’d worked hard to build trust, over the last few months.

“Orders, Mr. Farrell.’

“Ah.” Mundson? he wondered. “Not my orders.”

“No.”

Aziraphale gave him a nod and smile of understanding, before excusing himself and returning to the lobby.

“Aeneas! I’ve been looking for you.” Mundson: coming down the stairs from his office in full white tie.

“Gambling is illegal in Argentina, is that right?” Aziraphale asked, skipping past pleasantries and keeping his voice low.

Mundson slowed. “It isn’t right, but it’s true,” he said, and glanced back over his shoulders—checking for eavesdropping, most likely.

“Is that the reason for the payoff?” He couldn’t show disapproval. He needed to use this to build trust.

“Payoff?”

The gentleman from the casino floor was heading towards the lobby’s grand doors. Aziraphale cocked his head towards him.

Mundson looked over at the departing man. “Naturally, that’s the reason,” he said, calm.

“Ah, I didn’t see anything in the books, is all,” Aziraphale managed. “Why doesn’t it, you know, come out of my check?”

“You’re in my complete confidence, Aeneas. You can ask any questions you wish.”

“Well, I did just ask one—”

“Now let’s have dinner, shall we? I left Antonia alone when I went looking for you, and Antonia is much too beautiful to be left alone.” Mundson put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, to steer him towards the dining tables.

“In other words, you’ve changed the subject,” Aziraphale said, letting himself be ferried along and wishing Mundson was less physically demonstrative.

“In other words, I’ve changed the subject.”

Crowley came into view, sitting at one of the tables. She smiled. Aziraphale felt terribly fond.

“Sit down, Aeneas.”

They settled into the booth. Without thinking, Aziraphale took a seat to her right, which left Mundson to sit on her left.

“Good evening, Mr. Farrell,” Crowley said. “You’re looking very beautiful.”

Aziraphale managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, and picked up his napkin.

“Good evening, Mrs. Mundson,” he said.

“Can’t you return the compliment, Aeneas?” Mundson teased.

Aziraphale settled his hands on top of the napkin in his lap. He turned to face her more directly. “You’re looking very beautiful,” he said.

She was. Her hair was still in that cascade of waves, and she had changed into a glittering gown in a grey so dark it was nearly black. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, alongside a strand of delicate, faceted black beads. She’d chosen a matching bracelet.

When Aziraphale had last seen Crowley in London, he’d been wearing a suit—the picture of a leading man from human films. The gowns of this decade suited her just as brilliantly, of course.

“Why thank you,” she purred, leaning in. “If there’s anything I love, it’s a spontaneous impulsive compliment like that.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to force his smile.

Conversation flowed easily for the rest of the meal. Crowley kept things moving, mostly focusing on Mundson. She’d make jokes, probably trying to draw him out, relax him. Mundson didn’t, though he answered her questions and paid careful attention—even laughed sometimes, and Crowley kept on like he was eagerly prompting her various anecdotes and observations. Aziraphale could see how she’d charmed him. If one only witnessed her half of the conversation, they’d assume she must have a spectacular conversation partner.

Crowley reached into her purse and fished out a huge bracelet with clear stones. They had to be diamonds.

“Look, Aeneas. Isn’t it cute?”

“50,000 pesos and it’s cute. Isn’t she fabulous, Aeneas?” Mundson said, taking her hand to kiss it.

“Fabulous,” Aziraphale agreed, lifting his drink to—

“Wait, Aeneas. Let’s drink to us.”

He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t.

Mundson was handing Crowley her drink. She glanced from him to Aziraphale, hesitated—opened her mouth in a little ‘o’ as she seemed to pick up on Aziraphale’s inclination. It was right there. He’d be helping her. He shouldn’t.

“To the three of us,” Mundson said.

“To the three of us,” Crowley said, happily.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

“What’s the matter, Aeneas?” asked Mundson.

“I get confused,” Aziraphale said, doing it.

“Why?”

“Well, just a few weeks ago we drank a toast to the three of us.”

“Well,” Crowley said, sounding delighted. She leaned closer to Aziraphale, “Who was the third one then?” and tilted her chin to Mundson. “Should I be jealous?”

“Hardly darling, it’s just a friend of mine.” A reasonable way to talk about a novelty… sword cane. Not even a proper one that was built to last. That mechanism wouldn’t make it through the decade.

“I haven’t caught a single clarifying pronoun from either of you.”

“Well, what do you think, Aeneas?” Mundson asked.

Aziraphale didn’t look at Crowley, holding innocent, level eye contact with Mundson. “A her,” he said pleasantly.

Mundson’s eyes narrowed. “Why that conclusion?”

“Because one takes the potential to be dangerous for granted, at first seeing only the polished exterior.”

“Well, you haven’t much faith in the stability of women, have you, Aeneas? One wonders what woman brought you to this pretty pass. Doesn’t one, Antonia?”

The energy at the table had gone from easy to uncomfortable, and not just in the direction Aziraphale had expected. He’d made a mistake.

Crowley recovered quickly, of course. “One does,” she said, and then shrugged. ”Let’s hate her.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think it’s—”

Mundson had stood wordlessly and walked away.

“Oh,” Aziraphale finished.

“You were doing so well,” Crowley said.

“Don’t you tempt me,” Aziraphale muttered, reaching for his drink, unsure if his reply even made much sense. He regarded the pair of men Mundson seemed to be approaching. “They’re new.”

“They were speaking to each other in German.”

“Hmm. I’ve never seen them here. But, he clearly knows them. I’ll have to ask later.”

“Don’t push him so much.”

“I—I was being foolish.”

“You were being clever.”

Aziraphale felt his face grow hot and focused on the men that Mundson was walking out with—probably up to his office.

“Do you think that’s your feeling?” he asked.

Crowley nodded. “Could be.”

“He’s paying some people off. Not sure if it’s the local P.D.yet or a different party.”

“You know, we never make sense of half the places head offices decide to send us. Why him, or here… have you given it any thought on how we play this?”

Aziraphale had, did again, and was going to reply when they both became aware of the gentleman standing in front of their table.

“Hi,” said Crowley.

“Señor, I’m Capitan Delgado. May I ask permission to dance with your lady?”

Aziraphale blinked up at him. “Oh, it’s not—”

“Sure, Capitan.” Crowley scooted out of the booth and offered him her hand. He led her away.

Someone tapped his shoulder—a man in the booth next to them. “Left alone? Mauricio Miguel Obregon, at your service.”

“Aeneas Farrell, pleasure to meet you.” Aziraphale recognized him— he’d noticed him on other occasions. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t drink. “I’ve seen you here before.”

“Then that makes us even.”

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Obregon, I’m not quite sure what draws you to an... establishment like this.”

“The atmosphere has always interested me. Now, it positively fascinates me.” He was looking in the direction of Crowley and Mr. Delgado, as he spoke. The two stood close as they danced. Delgado was grinning—probably in response to something Crowley had said.

“You could be a professional dancer,” Delgado said. He placed his hand on her waist as she came out of a turn.

“I am,” Crowley said. “Well, I was.”

They drew closer to each other, and Delgado leaned forward, eyes drifting down to her mouth.

“Uh, that’s against our union rules.”

He nodded and took a small step back—respectful. Crowley liked him. “I always observe the rules and regulations,” he said, with a smile. “How is it that I’ve never seen you?”

“I didn’t dance here. America, last time around.”

“This isn’t America?”

Crowley nodded. He was right. “I mean New York.”

“Ah. So, your gentleman. Is he too a da—”

“He’s not my gentleman,” Crowley said. For some reason the assumption—even though it had been leveled at them for millenia—was newly irritating. How come? “And he’s not a dancer.”

“You know, the expression on his face says he wishes he were.”

She looked back at Aziraphale. Their eyes met and he frowned—looked away to search the crowd elsewhere. Crowley turned back. “A dancer?”

Delgado laughed, and they lapsed into silence. Crowley pulled him in a little closer as the music changed. “Don’t forget the rules and regulations.”

“However changeable, my lady.”

“They change with the weather.”

Delgado was an excellent dancer, and their movements were simple enough that Crowley’s thoughts were able to drift. She was looking at months of her and Aziraphale in the same place. This hadn’t happened since they’d formed the Agreement, and it had been a very busy set of centuries since then. A lot had happened.

Someone cleared their throat. Crowley stopped and turned around. Aziraphale.

“Pardon me,” he said. “But your husband is showing.”

“Sent you over, did he?”

“Quite.”

Crowley turned back to Delgado. “Thanks,” she said, extending a hand to shake. “Perhaps again sometime.”

Delgado took her hand, giving it a sporting shake. “Until that sometime, I shall only miserably exist, Señora.” He gave Aziraphale a polite nod, and left them.

Aziraphale seemed irritated.

“What?” Crowley said. They began to walk back.

“His possessiveness is… decidedly not his best quality.”

“I thought jealousy seemed like the easiest approach with him.”

Aziraphale gave a small nod, his attention on where Mundson once again sat at their table. “I found him wrapping things up with those two men. He didn’t give me any detail when I asked. I asked if he was in trouble. He said ‘big trouble’?”

“Hmm.”

They slid back into the booth. Aziraphale waited on Crowley to move towards the middle before following.

“I’m beginning to think I misjudged your Aeneas, Alan,” Crowley said.

“Oh?” said Mundson.

“He can be quite sweet. So protective.”

“Aeneas takes care of all the things that belong to me.”

She could feel Aziraphale thinking some self-reassurance about grace through silence or something like that. The angel really didn’t like him. Angel.

“He runs the joint,” she said.

“He runs the joint.”

“Hear that Aeneas, you’re supposed to guard me, because I belong to the boss. How will you like that?”

“Well, I do all sorts of odd jobs.”

Oh, that was good. Crowley snorted. “I bet this is the oddest job you’ve had in a minute.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Mundson spoke first, “Now, before we were interrupted, I believe we were about to drink a toast. So, disaster to the wench who did wrong by our Aeneas.”

Wench, who still says wench? Crowley lifted her glass. Aziraphale didn’t. “No, Aeneas?” she said softly. “You won’t drink to that?”

Aziraphale’s face did a complicated thing, and he fixed Crowley with a look that—for a heartbeat—she almost thought was hurt.

“Why not,” he said, and lifted his drink.

Later that night, Crowley lay across Mundson’s bed, still in her gown. The lights were off, and she was lost in thought, floating in the darkness. Well—not literally—because of the husband. It wouldn’t do for a trophy wife to levitate above a four-poster.

For as much as she’d felt Aziraphale’s absence, seeing him so unexpectedly was overwhelming.The complexity of her and Aziraphale—and if they were anything, they were always fucking complicated—was a set of calculations she hadn’t accounted for. It was all weird, these days. Ever since their fight.

She heard Mundson enter, and rolled onto her side to better see him in the moonlight.

“Hi,” she said.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Anything wrong?”

“Everything’s wonderful, but I told you zippers throw me.”

“May I help?”

“Thank you.” She rolled over again, since the zipper was on the other side of the gown. “You know, Alan. There was a terrible robbery in the garden last night. Did anyone tell you?”

He smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nobody but you, now.”

“You see, two clothespins held up a shirt.”

“You knew him before.”

I didn’t, Crowley thought. ‘Before’ meant something else entirely to a demon. Still, Mundson was observant. Particularly perceptive, for a human.

“Who?” she asked.

“Aeneas.”

“Aeneas Farrell?”

“Aeneas Farrell. You knew him before.”

“No.” Crowley lay back down.

“Don’t lie to me, Antonia. Don’t ever lie to me.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t know him. I don’t think I’ve ever known him, Alan.”

You spend six millennia running into a hereditary enemy. And you’re brilliant, properly brilliant, but for once you’re stupid—so stupid. Because Aziraphale might have been special, might have been better company than anyone else in Heaven or Hell, but the last century had made it very clear how many assumptions Crowley had made about their… dynamic... and about how deeply she understood the angel.

“I see,” he said softly, voice gentle. He stroked her hair and Crowley leaned into it, welcoming the comfort, however convoluted this all was. “You hate him.”

Crowley didn’t even know where to begin, and she didn’t want to start, so she didn’t reply.

“But, hate can be a very exciting emotion,” he whispered. “Very exciting. Haven’t you noticed that?”

Oh, Satan. This was all too easy. “You make it sound—”

“There’s a heat in it. That one can feel. Didn’t you feel it tonight? I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that’s ever warmed me.”

Crowley found Aziraphale a few evenings later, what looked like hours-deep in the casino’s financial records. He’d discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His hair was a mess. When she spoke to get his attention (‘Hi, angel.’) he melted with some sort of relief, so eager for an excuse to step away. How long had he been at it?

“He’s a mess,” Crowley told him. “I’ll make out of this just fine but I’m not sure how you can.”

Aziraphale looked pained. “Maybe if I… continue to steer the patrons towards the dining and entertainment—focus my efforts there.”

“You know, you could try to get this place shut down.” Had he considered that?

The suggestion earned an expression of mild distaste. “That seems like a lot of work. And… trading one avenue of corruption for another.”

Crowley gave him a sympathetic pout. “Sorry, angel. See you later.”