Notes: This is my first fic in exactly a year, so my apologies if it's a little rusty! I'd also like to apologize for any historical inaccuracy regarding the Inquisition; I fear I may have exaggerated the torture aspect of that event, among other things. (As a Content Warning, torture is only very briefly mentioned.)

"You mean to tell me you haven't been to Spain since the Inquisition?"

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses at his companion's shocked expression. "Correctomundo, angel."

He winced at his own phrase—he'd been laughed at by a group of snot-nosed kids the other day for calling something "hip" and was very sensitive about his word choice now...apparently his slang vocabulary was in need of an update. He sighed. It was Aziraphale's job to be behind the times, not his—he was supposed to be the up-to-date one. But it wasn't his fault humans changed their slang every bloody second—he could have sworn they'd been using "hip" just a couple decades ago...though perhaps that had only been in America. He'd spent much too much of the eighties in America.

Aziraphale's voice cut through his rambling thoughts.

"But my dear, it is our duty to keep watch over every nation of the world—"

"News flash, Az: I'm a demon. You may have to do everything you're told, but Hell hardly expects me to follow the rules to a tee. I've kept an eye on Spain's news, that seems good enough for them."

"Well, be that as it may, Spain is long past its Inquisition days. It truly is a lovely country. I say we make it our holiday destination for this summer."

"Our 'holiday destination'—really Aziraphale. Could you make our, er, arrangements sound any more domestic?"

But they were domestic, really. The Crowley of not even a century ago would have beheld present-day Crowley with yellow eyes widened in horror. Living in the middle of nowhere, in a cozy little cottage covered in flowers and full to the brim with books, with an angel!

The angel, no less: the same one he'd chatted with in the first and loveliest of earthly gardens, whom he'd battled with and made tentative peace with and now spent long lazy afternoons bickering with like an old married couple.

His angel.

Yes. The Crowley of old would have shuddered. Or else have laughed his infernal arse off.

But the truth was, Crowley was happy with these living circumstances. Very happy. Relying on whatever strange magic their young friend the anti-Christ had performed to keep both his and Aziraphale's superiors from questioning their new living arrangements and relaxed duties, it proved surprisingly easy for the usually fast-moving demon to settle down into his semi-retirement in the South Downs with Aziraphale.

Every time the angel brought home more books, Crowley wondered whether the new volumes would be the straws to break the camel's back, as the old adage went—that was to say, the demon had absolutely no idea how the cottage was physically able to hold as many books as it did, and always have room for new additions besides. But, fortunately, the humongous stack of travel guides Aziraphale now heaved into the cottage did not cause the entire edifice to burst at its seams. These guides joined a mess of bibles and knitting magazines, old romance novels and musty volumes of poetry strewn out across the oak coffee table in the center of the living room.

Crowley would have been perfectly content to fly over to Spain with no more preparation than making sure the forecast didn't call for any bad storms during their flight. But Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, took it into his head to plan out every second of every day of their trip—hence the guidebooks.

"Am I being terribly insensitive?" Aziraphale asked the evening before they'd be taking off for Spain.

"Insensitive? You? Why, angel, I don't think it's possssible for you to be insensitive." They both smiled at the little inside joke Crowley's words evoked; he'd said something similar a long, long time ago, in a wild and immaculate Garden.

"Really, my dear. Is going to Spain going to, I don't know, bring back bad memories? I know you don't like to dwell on the Inquisition, but if you ever need someone to talk to about it..."

"I hardly need you to be my therapissst, Az," Crowley scoffed. "And don't worry about me, I'll be fine. You've said it yourself: Spain's changed since then."

"Well, all right," Aziraphale said, and changed the subject in that brisk way of his. "In that case, let's go over a few finer points of our itinerary. Do you think it would be worth our while to take a detour on the way to Barcelona to see la Tomatina in Buñol?"

"La Tomatina...that's that festival where overexcited Spaniards pelt each other with tomatoes, right?"

"Indeed."

Crowley grinned. Of all the festivals humans came up with, that had to be one of the oddest. "Well, I certainly wouldn't pass up the opportunity to drown all your tartan garments in tomato juice."

Aziraphale considered this for a moment. "On second thought, let's skip Buñol."

Around a week later Crowley found himself sprawled out on a Catalonian beach with his angel beside him, lazily watching pristine waves roll up the sand and down again.

They'd snaked down around the bottom of Spain, making their way through Salamanca, Sevilla, Córdoba, Murcia, Alicante, and finally (skipping over Buñol, as planned) Barcelona.

They'd managed to reach this beach, the demon thought languidly, with only minor mayhem left in their wake.

There had been, to begin with, the incident with the architecture in Salamanca. Crowley had refused to enter la catedral there, which had positively vibrated with the auras of a thousand sacred relics kept within it—enough to leave him feeling queasy for days, he'd complained, if he were to go in. So he'd waited outside as the angel went in, and occupied himself by surveying the countless intricate carvings on the outside of the church: gárgolas and grotescas, flowers and leaves and various animals. He was fast tiring of studying these when a thought popped into his head—what if he added a few carvings of his own?

And thus Aziraphale emerged at last from la catedral to find his counterpart snickering at two rather anachronistic carvings: an astronaut, and a demon holding what was clearly an ice cream cone.

"Having fun?" Aziraphale asked in what he likely thought was a disapproving tone, but Crowley recognized the hope beneath—the angel was desperate to make sure Crowley had a good time on their trip.

"I can understand the demon, but why an astronaut?" the angel asked.

"Oh, I used to dream of going to the moon," Crowley answered. "Until humans actually started going there and it turned out to be nothing but a dead rock."

Az hadn't changed the two carvings back, Crowley mused now, as he let the Catalonian sun seep into his skin...hopefully they were perplexing a good number of tourists.

Over the rest of the week, Aziraphale had only occasionally had to remind Crowley that they were on holiday, and this was not the time for wiles. They'd wandered through markets, eaten at many, many restaurants, hiked (or took to wing, when Aziraphale's feet refused to take him another step) along breathtaking mountain vistas, and toured countless museums and churches—most of the latter of which Crowley deigned to wait outside of. He had gone in La Sagrada Familia yesterday—more even than other Spanish catedrales, that one was as much about art as worship, and it would take a viler demon than him to willingly pass it up.

In all, the week had been a busy one, and Crowley was thoroughly enjoying his lounging session in the sand. "Now this is how you commit the sin of sloth in style. Hey, why don't we just stay here for the rest of eternity, Az?" he asked his counterpart, who was sitting in a lounge chair beside Crowley's towel, reading.

"Mmm," was all the angel replied, too immersed in his book—a musty, thick hardback that didn't look particularly suited to a beach—to pay Crowley any mind.

The demon surveyed his friend, slathered in sunblock ("you don't need this stuff, Az, you can just will the sun not to burn you!" "Shut up dear, and make sure to get my back") and dressed in a truly hideous tartan one-piece bathing suit. He idly considered the wiles he could play on the unsuspecting angel, and then decided against it. Instead, he lay back on his towel, folding his arms behind his head. "I think I'll take a nap," he mumbled to Aziraphale, drifting off without waiting for a reply.

Crowley awoke to high, childish giggling.

"¡Cállate, Rosa, o él va a despertarse!"

What in the name of...Crowley slowly opened his eyes, glad that his sunglasses protected him from the glare of the sun, which was directly overhead now. There were three children in bathing suits surrounding him, wielding buckets and little plastic shovels. What were they...? Ah. Crowley suddenly realized that he was completely encased in sand from the neck down. The children were adding the finishing touches, patting down the sand near his feet.

"Ay, micosos," he yelled, "¡idos!"

The three brats shrieked as he struggled to sit up, sending the sand that trapped him flying. They laughed as they scampered away, and Crowley turned to Aziraphale. The angel wasn't quick enough to hide a snicker behind his book.

"Why didn't you stop them?" he asked, annoyed.

"Ah, well, you know angels, my dear boy," Aziraphale said with attempted innocence; "we can't go around quenching the joy of children, and they seemed to be having such a good—oUCH!"

A crab had waddled up under the angel's lounge chair as he spoke and reached one claw up to pinch him.

"Crowley! That was not funny!" Aziraphale whined, rubbing at his injured buttock. "And don't even try to pretend that wasn't your doing."

"You know demons, Az," Crowley retorted with a laugh; "we can't pass up a chance at petty vengeance, now can we?"

Toledo was their second-to-last destination—Aziraphale wanted to view El Greco's most famous painting, El entierro del Conde de Orgaz.

Aziraphale asked over and over whether Crowley was all right with going there, and though he answered each time "yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?" the truth was, the thought of stepping foot in Toledo made his stomach clench quite uncomfortably.

It was midmorning when they alighted outside the city. They shook the dust from their wings (Crowley more carefully than Aziraphale, which made the demon tsk—he'd be picking specks of dust from the angel's wings next time they had a grooming session) and folded them in.

Toledo was spread out below them, ringed by the thick blue ribbon of el río Tajo. The reddish-brown clay roofing, tejados, famous to Spain, gleamed faintly in the summer sun.

"Looks just like it did back then," Crowley said, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He'd meant for it to sound nonchalant, but he could tell by the look Aziraphale gave him that the angel sensed his anxiety.

"Dear," Aziraphale began, reaching a hand out for Crowley's arm, "we don't have to go—"

"No angel, I want to! It's always fun to walk down memory lane, eh?" He kept his voice steady even as memories of darkness, of screams, of visceral fear, forced their way up behind his eyes. As always when his mind balked at particularly torturous earthly memories, he admonished himself—he was a demon, he was supposed to like evil. And it wasn't as if he hadn't seen worse suffering in Hell. Somehow, though, torment on earth felt worse, wrong even, in a way that all the anguishes of Hell did not—Earth was supposed to be a haven for him from pain, a place of beauty, and so when it was spoiled by the eviler sins of humanity, he felt betrayed.

Aziraphale took the demon's hand in his, breaking through his dark thoughts. They made their way down to the city, passed through la Puerta del Sol, the gate that had served as an entrance into Toledo for centuries.

Through markets they passed—the tourist section of Toledo, filled to overflowing with stalls and stores and people, speaking in a jumble of English and Spanish and a few other languages besides. Tiles, silver, and swords were what Toledo was known for, and so shops displayed bright silver blades and ceramic items. Crowley and Aziraphale passed through, still hand in hand, all without bumping into a single person or getting called to by a single stall keeper—miraculously, a clear way was always available to them among the chaos.

"This isn't so bad," Crowley said, and he meant it. The people shouting things in broken English and quick Spanish were dressed in modern clothing; the stores were lit with electricity—the nightmares of antiquity proved to be flimsy, insubstantial things under the bright Spanish sun.

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to lead him to la iglesia de Santo Tomé, the church in which El entierro del Conde del Orgaz was hung. There was a throng of tourists waiting to get in to view the famous work, but as always with crowds, it proved no obstacle for the angel and demon, who strolled right in and found themselves directly in front of the painting.

It was a very large painting, almost five meters high, and Crowley found himself pulled in by the richness of the colors. Black and grey were contrasted by deep, bright yellows, saturated reds and blues. The Count of Orgaz was depicted being buried in the lower half, while the top half presented his soul's reception into Heaven, where saints and angels, Mary and Christ, awaited the new spirit. Crowley often scoffed at such religious paintings, but this one was too well worked for him to do so.

"El Greco painted this in the 1580s." Crowley started a little at his companion's voice beside him; he'd been so immersed in the painting that he'd forgotten his surroundings.

The 1580s. The Inquisition would still have been ongoing at that time, if less violently—focusing less on the already-largely-expelled judíos and more on los moriscos, who never were subjected to such levels of torture as some of their persecuted Jewish counterparts had been before the second half of the sixteenth century.

Looking at this painting of El Greco's, Crowley was reminded that humans had always been able to create works of beauty during even the darkest eras. The Inquisition uprooted and broke countless lives on the basis of racial and religious discrimination, and Crowley, after getting a message from his superiors to go investigate it, had gotten tangled up in the worst of it. But it had also been a prosperous time for Spain as a country, in art as well as other areas. El Greco had left Crete and lived the life of a wanderer, finally settling in the gorgeous Spanish city Toledo. And there, he had found artistic inspiration that outlasted the darkness of the Inquisition.

After Toledo they spent several days in Madrid. They found some ducks to feed in El Parque Retiro, stumbled across a restaurant that served the best paella they'd had yet, and spent a whole afternoon in El Prado.

For two beings who had walked the earth since its beginning, roaming a museum is rather like flipping through an old photo album.

"See this piece, Crowley?" The pair was standing before a massive painting whose placard proclaimed it Velasquez's La Fragua de Vulcano. "Velasquez and I were rather friendly with each other, I agreed to pose for him in this one. Guess who I am?"

Crowley saw the pride and excitement gleaming in his counterpart's bright brown eyes. "Well, definitely not Vulcan—you've never been that muscular, not in any of your corporations."

Aziraphale huffed. "Yes, well, anyway, I'm Apollo!" The angel struck what was meant to be a dramatic pose in front of the portrait. "Can't you tell?"

Aziraphale's current corporeal form was significantly darker than that presented in the painting, which depicted a golden-locked god. Moreover, the Apollo of the portrait was draped in a majestic orange toga, while Az of the 21st century was dressed in an oversized tartan (when would the angel finally get over tartan?) jumper. And yet, Crowley found he could tell. Any physical form, any style of clothing—Crowley would always recognize his angel.

"It's too bad we're not at the Louvre—then you could see some of the portraits da Vinci did of me," Crowley remarked as they continued on to the next art piece.

"Yes yes, we all know about your little love affair with da Vinci," Aziraphale scowled.

Crowley grinned. "Correct me if I'm wrong, angel, but was that a hint of jealousy I detected in your voice?"

"Oh, you are most certainly wrong, you irksome demon," Aziraphale replied sharply. Crowley heard him mutter under his breath a full minute later, when they had already passed several other paintings, "Jealous, of da Vinci? He wishes. Humph."

Crowley laughed under his breath and linked arms with his companion, pulling them both towards the exit of the museum. "Come on, Az, we've spent long enough in this stuffy old place. Let me take you out to dinner."

The air was finally cooling down as the sun reached the western horizon. They strolled along the streets of Madrid, scoping out a good place to eat. It was their last evening in Spain, and Crowley wanted to treat his angel to the finest meal available—not much could match the Ritz, of course, but he'd find the next-best replacement.

Thinking of the Ritz sent Crowley's mind wandering to home. Home. He, a demon of Hell, had found a home on Earth. A quaint little cottage in a quiet corner of England—shared with an angel, no less. It got a little confining, sometimes, and he'd been glad for the chance to stretch his wings and journey around another country. But now that their holiday was coming to a close, he found himself very glad indeed to have a home to return to.

His colleagues back in Hell would be shocked to see how soft he'd gotten, but he found he didn't care. Walking through Madrid at dusk with his angel on his arm, dreaming of their cottage in the South Downs, Crowley felt a deep sense of contentment warming his chest.

Entering one's seventh millennium on earth'll mellow out even the wildest of demons, he supposed.