Disclaimer: I own none of the following: Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale, Remington Steele, Harry Chalmers, Azrael,The Ritz, or a stylish London flat.
Crowley needed to make a phone call.
He vroomed to the London flat in fourth gear, sprinted coolly up to his floor, and entered without using his key. Picking up the phone, he dialed a long, involved Los Angeles number.
The phone rang twice.
"Steele here," answered a suave, polished, upper-class English accent.
"Please shut up with that, Chalmers, I need a favor."
"Crowley?"
"Who else?"
"Crowley, mate!" The polished voice went a little cockney. "Anthony Crowley! Well, I haven't heard from you in-"
"Yeah, it, er, has been a while."
"How's… er… wotsisname? Azrael?"
"Uhhh…."(1)
"Or was it Azraphael?" Chalmers could sense he'd gotten something wrong.
"Oh, Aziraphale?"
"That's the one! How's the bastard doing?"
"Er, he's fine, Chalmers, and actually, I-"
"Ah, before you say anything- I should let you know that I have left my sordid past behind. I've, ah, gone over to the other side, so to speak."
"…What?"
"I'm the head of a private investi-"
"Oh, yeah yeah yeah. I knew about that. No, it's something else."
"Above board?"
"Completely."
"Well, name it, mate."
Crowley named it.
There was a staticky pause.
"Mmmm…. Yes…. I think we can arrange something."
The something We arranged was a Concorde flight from L.A. to London, upon arrival of which, Crowley met his friend and explained the details of the situation over a laid-back lunch at the Ritz. Things needed to be sorted out.
"In any case," Crowley continued, pouring Chalmers another drink,"I called you because you are absolutely the most well-connected human being I've met in almost two thou- well, in a while, and I want this done right."
"I completely understand, old friend."
"And also if I tried to handle it on my own…. Well, I've found that things tend to go awry when I do."
Chalmers allowed a grin to escape him. "I have some experience there, as well, I'm afraid."
Crowley also smiled. "So we're on the same page, then?"
"Absolutely." Chalmers raised his glass of fine red wine.
Crowley did the same, and they both sipped a silent toast.
"Hmph!" said a man-shaped entity who was named neither Azrael nor Azraphael, and he stormed out of the Ritz as best he knew how.
Aziraphale was slightly miffed.
For one, Crowley had not been returning his phone calls. For two, Crowley seemed to duck out of sight whenever he bumped into Aziraphale in person. And for three, he had just seen Crowley lunching with that con-artist at their usual table, drinking their usual wine. Not that he was jealous, you understand. Angels, by nature, do not feel jealousy, he reasoned. It was just that he simply couldn't understand why Crowley would behave this way. I mean, after all that unpleasantness six years previously, Aziraphale fancied thattheirsituation had become less an Arrangement and more a bona-fide Friendship. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. Maybe Crowley was too submersed in the Demonic side of life, as Aziraphale had always feared.
Oh dear, Aziraphale thought. Perhaps I need to find a new friend.
Now Aziraphale was slightly glum.
(1)Crowley hadn't seen Death since the Almostocalypse.