Chapter Text
London - November 4th, 1966
Aziraphale stood out like a beacon, garnering curious looks from humans who probably wondered if he’d gotten lost, or considered him ridiculously “trad”. The artwork and fashions worn in the Robert Fraser Gallery were cutting-edge, vehemently unlike any of the galleries the angel typically visited. It had been Crowley’s turn to pick their rendezvous spot, and he thoroughly enjoyed the politely unimpressed moue Aziraphale had for the ‘glorification of consumerism’.
“Waiting long, angel?” Crowley murmured, circling around to stand to the angel’s left by a brightly painted muscle car - a psychedelically coloured blend of Art Deco and Pop Art - parked incongruously in a room with no access for it.
“Only for a little, dear boy, and I had this cheerful fellow to admire.” Aziraphale replied.
Crowley gave it a critical look - he liked the paintwork and admired the skillfulness of the beautifully clean lines, but he had thoughts about the actual car wearing it. Mostly that it wasn’t a patch on his Bentley. “Definitely makes a better sculpture than a car.” He stated.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Aziraphale said, before nodding his head in the direction Crowley had come from where a dark haired young man was now speaking to another patron, “You seem to be rather popular.”
Crowley shrugged, “Bob’s got interesting connections s’all. The Stones, The Beatles.”
“What about stones and beetles?”
“You are hopeless.” Crowley sighed exasperatedly, “They’re only two of the biggest rock bands in the world.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale replied, entirely nonplussed, “And you are…?”
“Taking credit for all the drugs and lewdness.”
“Oh.”
There was a world of disapproval in that single syllable.
“Don’t pretend your poets and writers were any more civilised,” Crowley warned, “I remember parties with Byron and the other ‘Romantics’.” 1
Aziraphale winced as if afflicted by the ghosts of hangovers long past. “I take your point,” he conceded, “They were rather boisterous.”
Crowley grinned. The angel truly had a gift for understatement.
“Yeah, this lot are rowdy too. I just have to look stylish, offer my sparkling wit at parties-”
“That must be incredibly taxing for you.” Aziraphale remarked drily.
“-and take all the credit for what they get up to.” Crowley soldiered on, glaringly.
“I'm sure your perseverance is paying off.” Butter wouldn’t have melted in the angel’s mouth.
“Ngh.” Crowley faltered before rallying himself, blithely asking, “Did you know Bob there is on trial for obscenity later this month?”
That cracked Aziraphale’s cool.
“Dare I ask why?” He hazarded as they made their way to a series of five reliefs of the Guggenheim museum, rendered in highly polished monochrome black, gold, in black and white, and in flat minimalist colours, with a blazing rainbow one centred.
“Actually nothing to do with all the drug-sodden parties, surprisingly.” Crowley admitted, “Coppers stormed in about a Jim Dine show and he got served with some vagrancy law from eighteen-thirty-something prohibiting ‘public dissplay of obssscene materrial’”2
“Oh Good Lord.”
“Mhmm. Losing the Lady Chatterley trial lit a fire under the puritans, they like to keep the dirty squad3 busy. ”
“There’s nothing shameful about erotica within an appropriate context. It’s a very natural part of the human experience.” Aziraphale stated decisively, “Honestly, trying to use the law as a blunt instrument to bludgeon sensuality out of the arts - it’s despicable. A total failure to comprehend the value of human creativity and expression.”4
Two young ladies within earshot looked thunderstruck to hear someone as old-fashioned as Aziraphale defending smut so vehemently. Crowley briefly met their eyes as they passed and grinned impishly, if only you knew just how old, he thought. “The establishment is slipping badly when you’re more aware of the times.” Crowley said breezily.
Aziraphale levelled him with a sardonic look. “Perhaps Ingersoll was right about whom we have to thank for the sanctimonious attitudes prevalent - that ‘author of modesty’.” he suggested.
“Ngk.” Crowley spluttered.
Aziraphale smugly waited for him to recover, examining a printed canvas of a grainy seaside scene.
“That’s dirty pool,” the demon grumbled.
The angel was unconcerned. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” he replied, “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask if you have any assignments in the next fortnight or so?”
“Nah, not since I’ve been taking credit for all this,” Crowley’s hands flitted in a sort of encompassing gesture, “just a general ‘keep up the bad work’.”
“So you would be available to do a bit of travelling next week?”
“What assignment are you hoping to avoid?” Crowley asked, at least partly smug.
Aziraphale puffed up in offence, “I’m not trying to avoid anything! I travelled up to Manchester for you in February -”
“You can just as easily spin that as a success in your performance review as I did.”5
“And I may have been a bit…” Aziraphale struggled for a different word for a moment, before sighing, “frivolous-” Crowley, predictably, sneered at the term, “with my miracle usage.”
“Honestly, it’s not like they’re running out! Right, what do you need me to cover?”
“I’ll need to do the big miracle, bound to come up in my next audit.” Aziraphale explained, “But if you wouldn’t mind assisting with travel and such, I’d be very grateful.”
Crowley’s whole body telegraphed as he rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, but the corner of his mouth was ticked up. “You still haven’t said what the job iss.”
“Hmm? Oh! I think you’ll enjoy it - it’s a rocket launch! Would you be amenable to a trip to America, my dear?”
1 Not all of them. But neither did Aziraphale. Laudanum had been involved in slightly more responsible doses than that time in an Edinburgh graveyard. return to text
2 Several canvases of isolated penises and vulvas in fun colours and patterns.
Crowley had offered some creative suggestions on the placement of the art, though in truth Robert hadn't needed any help. return to text
3 The Metropolitan Police Forces' Obscene Publications and Public Morals Branch return to text
4 Aziraphale's first edition of Lady Chatterley's Lover was signed 'To my friend Aziraphale. Live, and don't repent it.'
Aziraphale had taken great pleasure in helping to find witnesses for the books' artistic merits in the trial defending Penguin House's publication of the banned novel, particularly the Bishop of Woolwich. The dedication to the jury in the 1961 edition had been his suggestion.return to text
5 'That' being Sir Bernard Lovell's miraculous realisation that the Luna 9 probe was broadcasting an ordinary fax signal, and the Jodrell Banks Observatory scooping the publishing of the first pictures of the moon's surface from under the Russian's noses.
Not that they published entirely accurate pictures -Human error in guessing the aspect ratio, or perhaps the slightly guilty conscience of an angel.return to text