Happy Holidays, Grandlundanna!
The War That Never Was
Rating: K
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: Historical inaccuracy, war time mentions, and corny jokes
Author’s note: It starts off looking angsty, but I promise it’s not! Also, in an attempt to combine two of your prompts, I think this turned into its own thing. I hope you still like it! Happy Holidays, Grandlundanna!
*****
“I knew it! I knew this whole time and you lied to me!” Aziraphale’s pudgy cheeks were a bright fiery red.
“How many times have we gone through this, angel?” Crowley was keeping a cool exterior, but on the inside he was as livid as Aziraphale. How could Aziraphale accuse him of this? After all these years?
“This is different. This is…awful, dreadful. Those camps, the things that happened to those poor people…” Tears welled up in Aziraphale’s eyes as he thought back to the tragedy.
“And you think that means it’s me?” Crowley was about to reach the limit of his cool. “Do you think that poorly of me? We have an Arrangement, I would have told you! I wasn’t even in Germany until after!”
In his frustration, Crowley threw the focus of their argument on the floor. On it was stamped COMMENDAITION FOR THE CORRUPTION OF ADOLF HITLER. Underneath Hastur’s signature was a handwritten note, stating “Didn’t think you could top the Inquisition. Nice work, Crawley”
“Fine.” Crowley said shortly. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want. Stop bothering you, maybe corrupt another genocidal maniac.”
“Fine.” Aziraphale replied. His voice was firm but a tear fell down his cheek as Crowley turned and stormed out of the bookshop.
Unbeknownst to the other, the two of them both fled England. Each thought the other would try to talk to them and wanted no part of it. So Aziraphale, on the pretense of fixing up the declining morals he’d been hearing about in the US, headed that way. Crowley, with no other motive than to be somewhere else, found himself in Russia.1
*****
It wasn’t very long (to an angel’s standards, it was a mere second) after Aziraphale settled in America that Churchill made a very riled speech about iron curtains, and Aziraphale sighed. Did the humans want to go to war all the time? Did they like it? He did realize that war did indeed make money for governments. And it kept citizens in line2. Still, Aziraphale would huff to Crowley years later, that’s no excuse for the tragedy. Crowley would just look at the angel.
So, to attempt to garner peace, Aziraphale “happened” upon a man named Marshall and struck up a conversation. Not about politics, of course only that if, somehow, all of these war torn countries could have some support from the more well-off countries, wouldn’t that be nice. And if he happened to mention how America made so much money off the war they might have some to spare and using that money for good just might garner a re-election, it was just ineffable, wasn’t it?
Crowley, on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, watched this plan develop. As each war torn country got money from America, he knew plan had Aziraphale written all over it. So before it was Russia’s turn to accept the aid, Crowley began talking loudly and drunkenly at a bar about how America must be trying to get something out of everyone. Or perhaps they were showing off their wealth and wouldn’t it just broadcast to the world that whoever took that money wasn’t strong enough to handle things on their own? If a few confidents of one Joseph Stalin were sitting within hearing distance, well, that was just ineffable.
*****
“Refuses aid?!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he watched the report broadcast on television in his American apartment, they called it. “Do they want to go to war?”
Then Aziraphale realized. This had to be Crowley. But how to know for sure?
This time, Aziraphale was frustrated. He wanted access to a lot of agencies, so he had to quickly move himself up in ranks. This was much easier than it sounded. All it took was persuasion to the right people and quite a bit of acting dumb.
In no time, he was sending spies to Russia. No one had a problem with this. He was the head of the CIA, after all. However, his spies did question one aspect of their mission.
“What’s this here about ‘finding a pompous arse constantly wearing suits and sunglasses when he doesn’t need them’?” One of the spies asked.
“That there sounds like a need t’ know sort of thang that we dun’t need t’ know,” another one replied before Aziraphale could respond. The angel took note of this agent, who was clearly from Texas. Most good Americans were. Regardless, he wouldn’t make it as a spy.
That wasn’t Aziraphale’s problem
******
Thing in Russia were…not good. As would be written by a spy novel author a few years later, in history, the heroes and the villains keep on changing parts. Russia was quickly turning villain in ways Crowley should have approved but didn’t. Still, he stayed, out of spite.
In fact, when he found out about the first spy, it only made him angrier. The man was a terrible spy. His thick Texas accent slipped out too often in his poorly spoken Russian. He was a good man, but he wasn’t going to make it. That wasn’t Crowley’s problem.
What was Crowley’s problem was that Aziraphale had the audacity to send spies to find him. They’d never had any problems finding each other and this just meant that Aziraphale didn’t want to talk to him.
Well, Crowley didn’t want to talk to Aziraphale either, and he was willing to retaliate. He sent out the newly renamed MGB to America, with an extra mission to find a man who cared far too much about his nails, would eat any sweet you put in front of him and “had an air of self-righteousness that made you want to punch him in the chin”. No one questioned this mission. No one questioned anything in Russia.
This exchange of spies reoccurred frequently. They would spy on each other, find out who the other was corrupting and why, then subvert it. Of course, the spies were only human, and didn’t realize the underlying causes of a lot of their missions. This resulted in major miscommunication.
Eventually, Crowley and Aziraphale resorted to simply sending messages to each other. The messages were never anything substantial. In one instance, a spy furtively told Crowley, in code, that he was being childish. After that, a spy came up to Aziraphale in a deserted alleyway and blew a raspberry in his face before running away.
In fact, Crowley and Aziraphale had been so caught up on sending each other spies that they neglected to pay attention to what was actually going on in their respective countries. Before they knew it, the strengthening USSR had blocked US aid to Berlin and an unofficial war had started. And with threats of nuclear weapons being involved, Aziraphale and Crowley began to forget that they were mad at each other in the first place.
Crowley, in lieu of the arbitrary spy system, simply appeared in the restaurant where Aziraphale was eating.
“This is a problem, angel.”
Aziraphale nodded, unperturbed by Crowley’s sudden appearance. The waiter, however, was not unperturbed. In fact, he was very perturbed.
“Who are you, sir? You need reservations to get in here.”
“Crowley. Er, Anthony Crowley,” the demon replied quickly3. He’d nearly forgotten that humans use two names. “I think you’ll find my reservation on the list.”
As the waiter turned to check, Crowley focused on Aziraphale. The angel had kept eating during the whole exchange, not even glancing at Crowley.
“Still mad at me eh?” Crowley asked.
“No, dear, simply…disappointed it got this far.”
Crowley sighed. “Me too. Humans always seem to take things so far. You give them an idea and they run with it.”
“That would be a good thing if we could convince them to do it correctly.”
“Not my job, angel.”
The corner of Aziraphale’s lips curved up just barely and Crowley knew their argument was over. The amount of relief he felt was immeasurable. He could never be mad at Aziraphale for long, and pretending was beginning to take a toll.
“So what are we going to do?” Aziraphale asked.
“The USSR has plans to make rockets. They’ll either never launch or be useless. But they would be good distraction.”
“The engineers in America that make the bombs could be…persuaded to focus on rockets.” Aziraphale’s slight grin was a beaming smile now. Crowley felt his heart melt.
*****
It took years for their plans to work.
They did manage to get some of the weapons manufacturers in the USSR to make more rockets when the head of the MGB began talk of how satellites would be a pretty nice way to keep track of countries across the sea. The head of the CIA, in turn, began releasing reports of how spies had taken note of these increases in rockets. Of course none of the spies under Aziraphale claimed to take that mission, but when you’re a spy, secrets don’t exactly get spread, do they? The point was that the American government took it and started quickly building plans for their own rockets.
Still, though, it wasn’t enough of a distraction yet. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could speed up the rocket-development process (without eliciting attention from their superiors) and if word of the plans got out to the public, there was a chance they could be cancelled. So they waited, meeting in various coffee shops all around the world to talk about how to tone down the fear and prevent all out wars.
Aziraphale had managed to get production on a film that not only taught about how to be safe from nuclear attacks but also presented with a cartoon turtle to make it less scary. It didn’t work. Well, it did. The production, called Duck and Cover, was played on every American television and in classrooms. The problem was, it made the fear worse. Crowley was so ashamed at his angel, he would barely talk to the angel during their dinner after it had been released.
And then, finally, Sputnik was launched and the fun began. Just to add distraction and further interest to Americans, Crowley convinced them to launch a dog into space soon after. America responded quickly, thanks to their convenient pre-made plans.
Aziraphale and Crowley met at Aziraphale’s bookstore to celebrate their success, quickly getting drunk4.
“Zzzzziraphale,” Crowley slurred from the sofa, the Z’s sounding more like S’s, “We did sssso good.”
Aziraphale giggled and nodded, falling back down next to Crowley. “I liked that bit with the dog.”
“It was good wasn’t it!” Crowley said sitting up excitedly. But he paused and tears welled up in his eyes. “Poor mutt tough, couldn’t be brought back.”
Aziraphale was still giggling. “But the people don’t care. It’s like a circus! In space!”
The tears were immediately gone from Crowley’s eyes. He could never be sad when his angel was happy. In fact, why not make him happier? “We-we should put more animals in space!”
Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. So enthusiastically, in fact, that he kept doing it for quite some time until he forgot why he was doing it.
“Hares!” Crowley said suddenly.
Aziraphale pulled on a curl of his and frowned self-consciously. “What about them?”
“No, no angel,” Crowley shook his head and accidentally spilled some of his drink. Luckily, it filled itself right up. “The hoppy kind. They should go next-oh no, monkeys!”
“Because they’re so like the humans, that’s genius!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Then he paused.
“Or,” he said, “what about the humans themselves.”
Crowley shook his head fervently. “No, no they could never get that far.”
“No, listen,” Aziraphale said. He was so serious, Crowley thought he’d sobered up. But what the angel was suggesting was so absurd he couldn’t have come up with it drunk. “Can you imagine it-people getting other people in space-it would inspire them!”
Crowley laughed, not taking Aziraphale seriously. “You know what’s inspiring is that English lad. What’s his name?” Crowley frowned, his drunken brain taking years to come up with the name. Then suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Fleming! Good lad, nice author.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He was sober, Crowley realized, miffed at this idea. He leaned back on the sofa. Fine, if the angel wasn’t going to stay drunk with him, then Crowley wasn’t going to remain conscious. He knew it irritated the angel when he slept.
“Really, dear? You can’t simply sober up and go home?” Aziraphale huffed.
Crowley only responded with a grunt.
Just when the demon was on the edge of consciousness, he heard the muttered words of the angel saying “You’ve done a very good thing, my dear boy. I only wish we hadn’t gotten into that petty argument in the first place.”
*****
And so the Space Race continued. It was Crowley who’d come up with the name. It rhymed and practically screamed “fun!” Unfortunately, the next few missions weren’t fun. No matter how catchy the name, communications and weather satellites simply didn’t interest the general public as much as they were hoping. Human nature even began popping up again when a spy satellite was made that carried a camera to take pictures of other countries. Crowley sent spies from Russia to sabotage that mission, and the satellite failed to achieve orbit. Still, Aziraphale took that idea and managed to get his people to take a picture of the Earth from space. That sent people into an uproar of excitement.
It wasn’t enough.
Crowley and Aziraphale met again and again to come up with something-anything. They were so intent, their lunch dates weren’t fun and Crowley hated boring lunch dates. But even his ideas to cheer up not just the humans but his favorite angel were falling short.
A few months later, one of Aziraphale’s spies was shot down in Russia. This sent the humans on edge. The situation reeked of the start of war. Crowley, who felt partially responsible and ashamed at Aziraphale’s pale, sunken face at their next meeting, was determined to make it up to the angel. He managed to convince his people that sending a man up into space would be a monument to how much more powerful Russia was than America.
“Imagine,” Crowley persuaded to the group of engineers and generals, “what we could do to the Americans if we were in space.”
Crowley honestly couldn’t have come up with anything if they’d asked but he figured it would be something inspiring. Indeed, the wheels in their heads were turning at the possibilities. Crowley shrugged internally. As long as it worked.
In no time, a Russian man was launched into space. Crowley and Aziraphale watched it together in a Russian bar. Crowley would never forget how Aziraphale’s eyes glistened. Whether it was gratitude, relief or drunkenness, Crowley wouldn’t know. He just knew that he wanted Aziraphale to look as happy as he was that day for as long as Crowley lived.
*****
Humans are funny creatures. Well, that’s how Aziraphale would describe them. Crowley would describe them as stubborn bloody bastards. But that was only because at the time, not long after his successful mission to get a man into space, the Russians had begun to build a wall around Berlin.
There was also the matter of a missiles in Cuba, but, according to Aziraphale, that wasn’t their jurisdiction. Crowley couldn’t help but protest.
“But there are weapons in Cuba aimed straight-“
“The mutants are there,” Aziraphale interrupted. “You know we’re not allowed to intervene with their matters.”
“But-“
“Not our problem.” Aziraphale’s face was cheery but his words were crisp and Crowley knew to keep his mouth shut.
So their focus remained on the Berlin Wall and attempting to distract from it with the Space Race. It was the fear of most humans that a real war was upon them. The children’s documentary Aziraphale had produced was being played frequently, even on public television channels. It didn’t matter how many people were sent into space, it wouldn’t distract from a constant state of fear.
Aziraphale, desperate for something to work, talked to President Johnson about sending people to the moon.
“I’m sorry I can’t take the risk that they wouldn’t return. Can you imagine what outrage would happen if they died on the moon? I’m on my last term, I can’t have that failure be the last thing historians remember me by.”
“Perhaps, Mr. President,” Aziraphale said gently, “you should be more concerned about the American people than the history books.”
The president didn’t seem to like that, but he knew Aziraphale was right so he remained silent.
“Your people are scared, sir. Maybe it’s time to give them something good to look forward to.”
The president agreed. Of course he did. It was Aziraphale’s job to convince people to do good.
The plan worked. It took years, but it worked. Everyone around the world was inspired by the three Americans who made it to the moon. Though tensions were still high between America and Russia, Crowley and Aziraphale, sitting in Crowley’s flat, watched the broadcast and knew the world was getting better.
Crowley turned to Aziraphale to find that same dewy eyed expression on the angel’s face. He put his finger under Aziraphale’s chin and turned the angel’s face towards his.
“You’ve done a very good thing, angel,” Crowley said, echoing the words Aziraphale had said to him years earlier when the angel had thought he’d been asleep. “I just hope this ends our petty argument in the first place.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Ends it? It’s been long ended, my dear. Have you only just forgiven me?”
Crowley shook his head gently, suddenly realizing how close their faces had gotten. “I can never stay mad at you long, angel.”
Aziraphale, in lieu of saying anything else, allowed his head to slip forward until his lips connected with the demon’s. Somehow, they were softer than he imagined, and Aziraphale felt himself melt into the kiss.
The Cold War hadn’t quite ended yet. There was still a multinational space flight involving an important handshake to be had, and a man named Gorbachev who would tear down a wall. But to an angel and a demon on a famous night in 1969, nothing else in the world mattered.
*******
1: At this point the reader may be screaming something along the lines of “That’s not even subtle!” The author would like to respond that it’s not your story is it? Now kindly sit down and read.
2: A famous science fiction author would make the same realizations and, years later, would write a book about just that. Maybe Big Brother is watching after all.
3: A journalist and former veteran who had been working on a novel about a spy, had overheard this exchange and would be almost divinely inspired.
4: They were drinking scotch and soda, a cocktail that occurred frequently in a new book series Crowley had recently discovered about a spy who had a knack for being classy. He could swear the main character was exactly like him.
*****
AN: I did a lot of research of the Cold War but I admit that I may not be 100% accurate and I may have taken some liberties. I also made a lot of references to Cold War era/referenced media that I hope wasn’t too subtle. The film Aziraphale made was a real and you can watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKqXu-5jw60.
I hope you liked the fic and thanks for reading!
Rating: K
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: Historical inaccuracy, war time mentions, and corny jokes
Author’s note: It starts off looking angsty, but I promise it’s not! Also, in an attempt to combine two of your prompts, I think this turned into its own thing. I hope you still like it! Happy Holidays, Grandlundanna!
*****
“I knew it! I knew this whole time and you lied to me!” Aziraphale’s pudgy cheeks were a bright fiery red.
“How many times have we gone through this, angel?” Crowley was keeping a cool exterior, but on the inside he was as livid as Aziraphale. How could Aziraphale accuse him of this? After all these years?
“This is different. This is…awful, dreadful. Those camps, the things that happened to those poor people…” Tears welled up in Aziraphale’s eyes as he thought back to the tragedy.
“And you think that means it’s me?” Crowley was about to reach the limit of his cool. “Do you think that poorly of me? We have an Arrangement, I would have told you! I wasn’t even in Germany until after!”
In his frustration, Crowley threw the focus of their argument on the floor. On it was stamped COMMENDAITION FOR THE CORRUPTION OF ADOLF HITLER. Underneath Hastur’s signature was a handwritten note, stating “Didn’t think you could top the Inquisition. Nice work, Crawley”
“Fine.” Crowley said shortly. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want. Stop bothering you, maybe corrupt another genocidal maniac.”
“Fine.” Aziraphale replied. His voice was firm but a tear fell down his cheek as Crowley turned and stormed out of the bookshop.
Unbeknownst to the other, the two of them both fled England. Each thought the other would try to talk to them and wanted no part of it. So Aziraphale, on the pretense of fixing up the declining morals he’d been hearing about in the US, headed that way. Crowley, with no other motive than to be somewhere else, found himself in Russia.1
*****
It wasn’t very long (to an angel’s standards, it was a mere second) after Aziraphale settled in America that Churchill made a very riled speech about iron curtains, and Aziraphale sighed. Did the humans want to go to war all the time? Did they like it? He did realize that war did indeed make money for governments. And it kept citizens in line2. Still, Aziraphale would huff to Crowley years later, that’s no excuse for the tragedy. Crowley would just look at the angel.
So, to attempt to garner peace, Aziraphale “happened” upon a man named Marshall and struck up a conversation. Not about politics, of course only that if, somehow, all of these war torn countries could have some support from the more well-off countries, wouldn’t that be nice. And if he happened to mention how America made so much money off the war they might have some to spare and using that money for good just might garner a re-election, it was just ineffable, wasn’t it?
Crowley, on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, watched this plan develop. As each war torn country got money from America, he knew plan had Aziraphale written all over it. So before it was Russia’s turn to accept the aid, Crowley began talking loudly and drunkenly at a bar about how America must be trying to get something out of everyone. Or perhaps they were showing off their wealth and wouldn’t it just broadcast to the world that whoever took that money wasn’t strong enough to handle things on their own? If a few confidents of one Joseph Stalin were sitting within hearing distance, well, that was just ineffable.
*****
“Refuses aid?!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he watched the report broadcast on television in his American apartment, they called it. “Do they want to go to war?”
Then Aziraphale realized. This had to be Crowley. But how to know for sure?
This time, Aziraphale was frustrated. He wanted access to a lot of agencies, so he had to quickly move himself up in ranks. This was much easier than it sounded. All it took was persuasion to the right people and quite a bit of acting dumb.
In no time, he was sending spies to Russia. No one had a problem with this. He was the head of the CIA, after all. However, his spies did question one aspect of their mission.
“What’s this here about ‘finding a pompous arse constantly wearing suits and sunglasses when he doesn’t need them’?” One of the spies asked.
“That there sounds like a need t’ know sort of thang that we dun’t need t’ know,” another one replied before Aziraphale could respond. The angel took note of this agent, who was clearly from Texas. Most good Americans were. Regardless, he wouldn’t make it as a spy.
That wasn’t Aziraphale’s problem
******
Thing in Russia were…not good. As would be written by a spy novel author a few years later, in history, the heroes and the villains keep on changing parts. Russia was quickly turning villain in ways Crowley should have approved but didn’t. Still, he stayed, out of spite.
In fact, when he found out about the first spy, it only made him angrier. The man was a terrible spy. His thick Texas accent slipped out too often in his poorly spoken Russian. He was a good man, but he wasn’t going to make it. That wasn’t Crowley’s problem.
What was Crowley’s problem was that Aziraphale had the audacity to send spies to find him. They’d never had any problems finding each other and this just meant that Aziraphale didn’t want to talk to him.
Well, Crowley didn’t want to talk to Aziraphale either, and he was willing to retaliate. He sent out the newly renamed MGB to America, with an extra mission to find a man who cared far too much about his nails, would eat any sweet you put in front of him and “had an air of self-righteousness that made you want to punch him in the chin”. No one questioned this mission. No one questioned anything in Russia.
This exchange of spies reoccurred frequently. They would spy on each other, find out who the other was corrupting and why, then subvert it. Of course, the spies were only human, and didn’t realize the underlying causes of a lot of their missions. This resulted in major miscommunication.
Eventually, Crowley and Aziraphale resorted to simply sending messages to each other. The messages were never anything substantial. In one instance, a spy furtively told Crowley, in code, that he was being childish. After that, a spy came up to Aziraphale in a deserted alleyway and blew a raspberry in his face before running away.
In fact, Crowley and Aziraphale had been so caught up on sending each other spies that they neglected to pay attention to what was actually going on in their respective countries. Before they knew it, the strengthening USSR had blocked US aid to Berlin and an unofficial war had started. And with threats of nuclear weapons being involved, Aziraphale and Crowley began to forget that they were mad at each other in the first place.
Crowley, in lieu of the arbitrary spy system, simply appeared in the restaurant where Aziraphale was eating.
“This is a problem, angel.”
Aziraphale nodded, unperturbed by Crowley’s sudden appearance. The waiter, however, was not unperturbed. In fact, he was very perturbed.
“Who are you, sir? You need reservations to get in here.”
“Crowley. Er, Anthony Crowley,” the demon replied quickly3. He’d nearly forgotten that humans use two names. “I think you’ll find my reservation on the list.”
As the waiter turned to check, Crowley focused on Aziraphale. The angel had kept eating during the whole exchange, not even glancing at Crowley.
“Still mad at me eh?” Crowley asked.
“No, dear, simply…disappointed it got this far.”
Crowley sighed. “Me too. Humans always seem to take things so far. You give them an idea and they run with it.”
“That would be a good thing if we could convince them to do it correctly.”
“Not my job, angel.”
The corner of Aziraphale’s lips curved up just barely and Crowley knew their argument was over. The amount of relief he felt was immeasurable. He could never be mad at Aziraphale for long, and pretending was beginning to take a toll.
“So what are we going to do?” Aziraphale asked.
“The USSR has plans to make rockets. They’ll either never launch or be useless. But they would be good distraction.”
“The engineers in America that make the bombs could be…persuaded to focus on rockets.” Aziraphale’s slight grin was a beaming smile now. Crowley felt his heart melt.
*****
It took years for their plans to work.
They did manage to get some of the weapons manufacturers in the USSR to make more rockets when the head of the MGB began talk of how satellites would be a pretty nice way to keep track of countries across the sea. The head of the CIA, in turn, began releasing reports of how spies had taken note of these increases in rockets. Of course none of the spies under Aziraphale claimed to take that mission, but when you’re a spy, secrets don’t exactly get spread, do they? The point was that the American government took it and started quickly building plans for their own rockets.
Still, though, it wasn’t enough of a distraction yet. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could speed up the rocket-development process (without eliciting attention from their superiors) and if word of the plans got out to the public, there was a chance they could be cancelled. So they waited, meeting in various coffee shops all around the world to talk about how to tone down the fear and prevent all out wars.
Aziraphale had managed to get production on a film that not only taught about how to be safe from nuclear attacks but also presented with a cartoon turtle to make it less scary. It didn’t work. Well, it did. The production, called Duck and Cover, was played on every American television and in classrooms. The problem was, it made the fear worse. Crowley was so ashamed at his angel, he would barely talk to the angel during their dinner after it had been released.
And then, finally, Sputnik was launched and the fun began. Just to add distraction and further interest to Americans, Crowley convinced them to launch a dog into space soon after. America responded quickly, thanks to their convenient pre-made plans.
Aziraphale and Crowley met at Aziraphale’s bookstore to celebrate their success, quickly getting drunk4.
“Zzzzziraphale,” Crowley slurred from the sofa, the Z’s sounding more like S’s, “We did sssso good.”
Aziraphale giggled and nodded, falling back down next to Crowley. “I liked that bit with the dog.”
“It was good wasn’t it!” Crowley said sitting up excitedly. But he paused and tears welled up in his eyes. “Poor mutt tough, couldn’t be brought back.”
Aziraphale was still giggling. “But the people don’t care. It’s like a circus! In space!”
The tears were immediately gone from Crowley’s eyes. He could never be sad when his angel was happy. In fact, why not make him happier? “We-we should put more animals in space!”
Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. So enthusiastically, in fact, that he kept doing it for quite some time until he forgot why he was doing it.
“Hares!” Crowley said suddenly.
Aziraphale pulled on a curl of his and frowned self-consciously. “What about them?”
“No, no angel,” Crowley shook his head and accidentally spilled some of his drink. Luckily, it filled itself right up. “The hoppy kind. They should go next-oh no, monkeys!”
“Because they’re so like the humans, that’s genius!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Then he paused.
“Or,” he said, “what about the humans themselves.”
Crowley shook his head fervently. “No, no they could never get that far.”
“No, listen,” Aziraphale said. He was so serious, Crowley thought he’d sobered up. But what the angel was suggesting was so absurd he couldn’t have come up with it drunk. “Can you imagine it-people getting other people in space-it would inspire them!”
Crowley laughed, not taking Aziraphale seriously. “You know what’s inspiring is that English lad. What’s his name?” Crowley frowned, his drunken brain taking years to come up with the name. Then suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Fleming! Good lad, nice author.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He was sober, Crowley realized, miffed at this idea. He leaned back on the sofa. Fine, if the angel wasn’t going to stay drunk with him, then Crowley wasn’t going to remain conscious. He knew it irritated the angel when he slept.
“Really, dear? You can’t simply sober up and go home?” Aziraphale huffed.
Crowley only responded with a grunt.
Just when the demon was on the edge of consciousness, he heard the muttered words of the angel saying “You’ve done a very good thing, my dear boy. I only wish we hadn’t gotten into that petty argument in the first place.”
*****
And so the Space Race continued. It was Crowley who’d come up with the name. It rhymed and practically screamed “fun!” Unfortunately, the next few missions weren’t fun. No matter how catchy the name, communications and weather satellites simply didn’t interest the general public as much as they were hoping. Human nature even began popping up again when a spy satellite was made that carried a camera to take pictures of other countries. Crowley sent spies from Russia to sabotage that mission, and the satellite failed to achieve orbit. Still, Aziraphale took that idea and managed to get his people to take a picture of the Earth from space. That sent people into an uproar of excitement.
It wasn’t enough.
Crowley and Aziraphale met again and again to come up with something-anything. They were so intent, their lunch dates weren’t fun and Crowley hated boring lunch dates. But even his ideas to cheer up not just the humans but his favorite angel were falling short.
A few months later, one of Aziraphale’s spies was shot down in Russia. This sent the humans on edge. The situation reeked of the start of war. Crowley, who felt partially responsible and ashamed at Aziraphale’s pale, sunken face at their next meeting, was determined to make it up to the angel. He managed to convince his people that sending a man up into space would be a monument to how much more powerful Russia was than America.
“Imagine,” Crowley persuaded to the group of engineers and generals, “what we could do to the Americans if we were in space.”
Crowley honestly couldn’t have come up with anything if they’d asked but he figured it would be something inspiring. Indeed, the wheels in their heads were turning at the possibilities. Crowley shrugged internally. As long as it worked.
In no time, a Russian man was launched into space. Crowley and Aziraphale watched it together in a Russian bar. Crowley would never forget how Aziraphale’s eyes glistened. Whether it was gratitude, relief or drunkenness, Crowley wouldn’t know. He just knew that he wanted Aziraphale to look as happy as he was that day for as long as Crowley lived.
*****
Humans are funny creatures. Well, that’s how Aziraphale would describe them. Crowley would describe them as stubborn bloody bastards. But that was only because at the time, not long after his successful mission to get a man into space, the Russians had begun to build a wall around Berlin.
There was also the matter of a missiles in Cuba, but, according to Aziraphale, that wasn’t their jurisdiction. Crowley couldn’t help but protest.
“But there are weapons in Cuba aimed straight-“
“The mutants are there,” Aziraphale interrupted. “You know we’re not allowed to intervene with their matters.”
“But-“
“Not our problem.” Aziraphale’s face was cheery but his words were crisp and Crowley knew to keep his mouth shut.
So their focus remained on the Berlin Wall and attempting to distract from it with the Space Race. It was the fear of most humans that a real war was upon them. The children’s documentary Aziraphale had produced was being played frequently, even on public television channels. It didn’t matter how many people were sent into space, it wouldn’t distract from a constant state of fear.
Aziraphale, desperate for something to work, talked to President Johnson about sending people to the moon.
“I’m sorry I can’t take the risk that they wouldn’t return. Can you imagine what outrage would happen if they died on the moon? I’m on my last term, I can’t have that failure be the last thing historians remember me by.”
“Perhaps, Mr. President,” Aziraphale said gently, “you should be more concerned about the American people than the history books.”
The president didn’t seem to like that, but he knew Aziraphale was right so he remained silent.
“Your people are scared, sir. Maybe it’s time to give them something good to look forward to.”
The president agreed. Of course he did. It was Aziraphale’s job to convince people to do good.
The plan worked. It took years, but it worked. Everyone around the world was inspired by the three Americans who made it to the moon. Though tensions were still high between America and Russia, Crowley and Aziraphale, sitting in Crowley’s flat, watched the broadcast and knew the world was getting better.
Crowley turned to Aziraphale to find that same dewy eyed expression on the angel’s face. He put his finger under Aziraphale’s chin and turned the angel’s face towards his.
“You’ve done a very good thing, angel,” Crowley said, echoing the words Aziraphale had said to him years earlier when the angel had thought he’d been asleep. “I just hope this ends our petty argument in the first place.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Ends it? It’s been long ended, my dear. Have you only just forgiven me?”
Crowley shook his head gently, suddenly realizing how close their faces had gotten. “I can never stay mad at you long, angel.”
Aziraphale, in lieu of saying anything else, allowed his head to slip forward until his lips connected with the demon’s. Somehow, they were softer than he imagined, and Aziraphale felt himself melt into the kiss.
The Cold War hadn’t quite ended yet. There was still a multinational space flight involving an important handshake to be had, and a man named Gorbachev who would tear down a wall. But to an angel and a demon on a famous night in 1969, nothing else in the world mattered.
*******
1: At this point the reader may be screaming something along the lines of “That’s not even subtle!” The author would like to respond that it’s not your story is it? Now kindly sit down and read.
2: A famous science fiction author would make the same realizations and, years later, would write a book about just that. Maybe Big Brother is watching after all.
3: A journalist and former veteran who had been working on a novel about a spy, had overheard this exchange and would be almost divinely inspired.
4: They were drinking scotch and soda, a cocktail that occurred frequently in a new book series Crowley had recently discovered about a spy who had a knack for being classy. He could swear the main character was exactly like him.
*****
AN: I did a lot of research of the Cold War but I admit that I may not be 100% accurate and I may have taken some liberties. I also made a lot of references to Cold War era/referenced media that I hope wasn’t too subtle. The film Aziraphale made was a real and you can watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKqXu-5jw60.
I hope you liked the fic and thanks for reading!