“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Crowley’s body reclined in the chair in a very non-Crowley way. “We should be out in the park getting ice cream.”
“Here.” Aziraphale shoved a bowl of peanuts across the table. “Work on that.” His eyes were scanning around the bar, making sure no one came in through the back alley while he was concentrating on the front door.
The bartender brought a bottle of scotch to the table, with two glasses. He gave Aziraphale a long look, from his head to his feet and back up again, and then his face broke into a small smile.
“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale demanded.
“So you’re real, then.” The smile widened. “Lost that bet, but it’s worth the fifty pounds. Anthony, nice to see you again.”
Anthony? Aziraphale mouthed, and Crowley just stuttered through a smile. “Thanks.”
The bartender headed over to the end of the bar, where two men were clustered together, and he counted out two stacks of fifty pounds each, then pointed to the table where Anthony was sitting with his friend. “He’s real after all, lads.”
One of the men gave him a long, speculative look. “Looks a bit poncy to me.”
The other shrugged. “So does Anthony,” he pointed out around his bottle. “Doesn’t bother us none.”
Each man pocketed the money from the bartender, and went back to their conversation.
The door flew open, bell jingling madly. “Crowley, the traitor!” got shouted out loudly, and everyone looked.
“Oh, here we go,” Aziraphale muttered, and slunk down in his seat.
Whatever else Beelzebub would have said was muffled by the scrape of chairs and stools being pushed back. The two men on stools had their empty bottles to hand, the burly looking man with the hard-hat had lifted a wrench to his shoulder, and the rest of the patrons were scattered in between but moved to stand around the table where Crowley was sitting.
“Help you?” asked the bartender, and in his hands was the rifle kept behind the bar for robbery attempts.
Beelzebub blinked, because this was not what they had planned for. “Yezzzz, we’re here for Crowley–”
Two bottles being broken were the answer to that query, as was the racked slide of the shotgun. “Don’t think so, mate. He’s ours, so you and your stupid little hat can turn around and leave,” added the bartender.
Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with surprise, and the angel’s expression was just as confused. “don’t look at me,” he whispered.
One of the broken bottles connected with the fly-shaped hat. That was the strike that broke the dam, and suddenly the entirety of the bar had descended on Beelzebub and the Stunt Demons they’d brought with them. Stools got broken, more bottles were cracked over heads, and a wrench was swung with enough force to draw blood.
Chastened, Beelzebub and the Stunt Demons turned and ran.
A cheer went up from the patrons of the bar, and the bartender placed the rifle back behind the counter. “Round for everybody, on the house!”
Crowley spoke up next. “Round after that, on me.”
“And after that, on me,” Aziraphale added.
More cheers went up as the bartender started pouring drinks. Without fail, every person in the bar came by Crowley’s table and slapped him on the back. Most gave him variations on Good on you, mate and we look after our own.
When Aziraphale went to the bartender to settle their bill before leaving, the bartender made change from the fifty pound note, and passed it back. “Look, don’t let him come alone so much any more, all right? He needs a friend, and with you being the only one he ever talks about, don’t be a stranger, right?”
Aziraphale dumped all the change into the tip jar. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t show up alone again,” he promised.
He was rather glad that the real Aziraphale was still sitting at the table in his Crowley suit, because Crowley certainly didn’t want the angel to know how much he’d been drunkenly pining for him. But having people stand up for him? that was new, and perhaps it was lucky that Aziraphale was in his Crowley suit, because it meant those people got the gratitude that they deserved, instead of the demonic grumbling and blushing they were used to getting.
“Oi, Crowley!” He looked down at Aziraphale’s pocket watch. “Shouldn’t we be toddling off?”
