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Rome, 1992
Underneath their iciness, Michael’s voice was a cry for help. “Do you really think that they...”
“They don’t suspect anything. Trust me—” Dagon lifted their hand to shield themself from the usual objection. “And if you ‘don’t want to trust a demon,’ trust that I’m in the same boat as you.”
The archangel sighed. “Don’t worry, I trust you. I really do.” They sighed again, louder, shrugging their shoulders. “Good Lord. Sometimes I wonder if we should recall him. I like our field agents to be smart, or at least not completely stupid.” They paused, contemplating their cappuccino.
“I thought about it too. But their results are...”
“Brilliant. I know. It’s the same here.” They turned their voice to a whisper. “Gabriel was smiling as if they’d been visited from—Her Name Be Blessed—when they got the report from Moscow in 1955.”
“Beelzebub was ecstatic too.” Dagon sipped their black coffee. “Which one of them did that?”
“Neither. They were on holiday somewhere in... I don’t know...”
“Oh, yes. Scotland. The whiskey tour.”
“Yes! The whiskey tour. Miracleing a full breakfast with haggis—and ripe tomatoes fresh from the vine, in the Isle of Skye, in November,” they groaned. “I had to read the request twice, I couldn’t believe our Aziraphale could be so shameless. And believing is quite an important part of my job description.”
Dagon barely managed to turn their own sigh into a slightly more demonic scoff. “Might’ve had something to do with the complimentary Lagavulin that our Crowley requested in their bedroom. Three bottles, old enough to order their own whiskey—in Boston.”
“Oh Lord.”
“Satan be blessed, yes.”
The Archangel and the Lord of Hell rolled their eyes in perfect unison, then focused all their attention on their maritozzo with whipped cream.
Eventually, Michael broke the silence. “And speaking of bedrooms, still nothing...”
“...on that Other Front? Nothing.” Dagon bared their spiky teeth. “What’s the betting situation like, Up There?”
“I said that Aziraphale will make a move by Christmas 2020. Otherwise, I’ve promised Elgar that I’ll be the soloist in his next three cantatas— don’t say a word—”
“Wasn’t about to.”
“Thank you.” Michael blushed. “Yesterday I told Sandalphon that they’ll skip the queue for the next mass smiting, if nothing happens by the new millennium.”
“Sandalphon?”
“Yes, they finally woke up and smelled the sexual tension.” Michael smiled as angelically as possible without showing their halo. “What about Down There?”
“If those Ineffable Idiots don’t get their act together before 2018, Beelzebub and Yours Truly will spend a day at a spa. Manicure, pedicure, massage, clay treatment for our skin... as if we didn’t spend enough time underground.” Dagon’s face was a mask of terror. “The worst part is that they’re not going to gloat, like any decent demon. They’re going to be... perky. ‘I can really be my own true self with you, Daggie! It’s Infernal Lords’ bonding time!’” They closed their eyes, as if trying to squeeze a particularly annoying black spot out of their mind.
Almost casually, Michael asked, “Wasn’t that idea of turning the pure enjoyment of human relationships into consumerism one of yours? More precisely, Crowley’s?”
“It was human. He just reported it as one of his.”
“Not bad. Or, you know...”
“Terrible. But well done—if he’d actually been the one doing it. Just like CCTV.”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wait. He claimed that CCTV was one of his...”
“Yes, he did.”
“...and he still doesn’t suspect that we’re watching each and every step he takes with his not-boyfriend?”
“What can I say? There’s a reason why Crowley's an agent on earth and not in the main office. By the way, your agent should suspect something as well, because they wrote the CCTV report together. January 1930, if you want to check your files. Between the second and the third act of La Traviata at the Opera in Paris”
“La Traviata. In Paris.”
Dagon nodded. “Opening night. Crowley was wearing a red dress, with a white camellia pinned on her chest. ”
“Oh Lord. And they didn’t...”
“No. Nothing.”
“I can’t believe it. I know that we’re sexless by default, but they really could make an effort. At this pace, they won’t do anything until a day after the End Times.”
Dagon just shrugged. “I told you, we’re all in the same boat. At least we’re all getting great results. And multiple seasons of a CCTV show,” they concluded, stabbing their maritozzo. Michael tried to tame the cream that was overflowing on their plate.
Eventually, the dessert was vanquished. The spring sun was shining, and Rome was trying her best to prove that earth can be more beautiful than any Heaven.
As they were about to leave, the angel and the demon had their usual debate over the bill, with the usual minor variations on a theme of cordial politeness.
“This time’s on me, please.”
“No, please, allow me. I’ve got a very good part of the budget for this sort of thing—after all I am the one who drafts the budget.”
“I really cannot...”
“Oh, fine. But tonight, our dinner at Arnaldo’s is on me.”
“...you spoil me.”
“Part of my job description.”
“Of course. Well, thank you.”
“My pleasure, really.”
“So—see you at eight?”
“At eight. I’ll wear my best dress.”