Ineffable Husbands Oneshots

who's a heretic now?

Finally, a part 2!! I hope y'all like it! It's a bit of a short one this time.

In 1650, Crowley tempts Aziraphale into a bet.

He's incredibly proud of this because tempting humans is one thing, but an angel is an entirely different ball game—even when, admittedly, the angel in question is far easier to tempt than most. It's one of the things Crowley loves most about Aziraphale, after all.

As with most occasions when Aziraphale gives into Crowley's temptations, they are both a few hours and several bottles into the wine and neither of them are forming very coherent sentences.

"'M telling you, you gotta think big these days."

"Mmm," Aziraphale disagrees, "No."

"You can't do—uh—small things. Anymore." Crowley gestures with his glass and wine splashes onto his lap. "Blast."

Aziraphale has gone rather bleary-eyed, lounging in his desk chair much less primly than he usually does. He watches Crowley as Crowley stands and begins pacing around the dark living room in a wobbly line, hoping to avoid further wine on his clothes.

"One person can still change the world," Aziraphale argues. "Just because cologne—colons—because of those people exploring the world and brutalizing the native communities—"

"No," Crowley takes the opportunity to interrupt when Aziraphale pauses to search for the right word, "Mark my words, you have to let people do the work now. Too many of them. You tempt one priest an' five more church's—church-es have been. Put up. Made."

Aziraphale makes an incredulous noise. "People do the work." He chuckles, which morphs quickly into coughing.

"I bet you I can save more people than you can tempt," Crowley says, "If you don't change with the clocks."

"With the times," Aziraphale corrects.

"Times," Crowley agrees.

"I save," Aziraphale adds, "You tempt."

"That's what I said." Crowley actually isn't sure if it is, but it's what he meant to say, so it's probably what he said.

"Betting is a vice." Aziraphale sniffs. He grabs at the wine to refill his glass and misses twice before spilling half the bottle on the table. "But I'd win."

"Ehhh, friendly competition," Crowley says, "but with prizes."

"Uh." Aziraphale nods. "What prize?"

Crowley shrugs. He's not thinking well enough to come up with anything good—one of them doing the other's jobs for fifty years or something, maybe? All he's thinking right now is when they have to settle the bet, he'll be able to see Aziraphale again. It's agonizing, all this meeting up and parting, going their separate ways for years and years before they so much as write each other again. "Winner chooses."

"Doesn't sound good," Aziraphale mutters. He's looking hard at the tablecloth and seems to be trying to miracle away the wine on the tablecloth; the next moment, there is no tablecloth. "Ah."

"Well?" Crowley wobbles back over to the table, the wine bottle in his hand empty. "How about it?"

Aziraphale blinks several times, his mouth turning down in extremely unconvincing disapproval. "You called it a friendly competition?"

"Uh-huh." It's the same exact thing, but if it makes the idea go down easier, Crowley's happy to indulge. Aziraphale is always much more suggestible when Crowley uses euphemisms, even when they both know it doesn't change anything.