“No. Absolutely not.”
A weekend trip to the countryside hadn’t sounded so bad. True, it wasn’t Crowley’s favourite place to be (All that space? All that time? Appalling.) but the countryside was an excellent place to encourage some gentle mayhem. He’d invited the angel along, thinking that he’d be appreciative of the picturesque village, the local pub, and the quaint (read: excruciating) way everyone seemed frozen in time.
What he hadn’t expected was for Aziraphale to become enamoured with sightseeing every blessed day.
“But Crowley,” Aziraphale protested, looking up at him with wide eyes that made him go weak in the knees, “the local dairy farm is giving a tour on how they make cheese. We love—”
“—the point is, cheese is lovely. And how often do we get the chance to see it made in London?”
“Kappacasein Dairy is in London.”
“It’s not the same,” Aziraphale insisted, flipping eagerly through a brochure he picked up from Satan-knew-where. He pointed to some grainy photos on the flimsy trifold. “See here, they make it in the traditional way going back five generations! Isn’t that fascinating? Kappacasein was established in 2008, so it’s hardly even a single generation.”
He paused, then murmured, “You know, it’s really a shame that some things don’t stay in style longer. Like tartan. Or the gavotte.”
There was a twinge of regret in his voice that made the pit of Crowley’s belly twist. Pinching the bridge of his nose in defeat, Crowley nodded.
“Fine. Let’s go to the dairy farm.”
He couldn’t help the smile on his face as Aziraphale headed for the door, his nose in the brochure.
“Oh look, my dear, they’re holding an animal auction, including the sale of some of their dairy goats. Isn’t that something?”
“Oh for hell’s—just don’t buy a goat, angel. I don’t care what we do, just no goats.”