#but if youre gonna be Very niceys about it all then Yes please ask Before we make your pizza. jesus

[foilflingza]

hey, PSA. if youre a vegan that doesnt even like it when your food is /touched/ by meat. you need to tell the restaurant youre at /specifically/ to use meat-less dishes. we are Not taught to seprate meats from the veggies and, every so often, we'll get a complaint about it -__-

[kaesaaurelia]

More stuff from my fic about Aziraphale and Crowley in Prohibition-era Chicago!

(Btw, this fic will be called Hustler’s Blood.  I’m not planning to post it as a WIP because I’m hoping it will only be five or six chapters.  Title from Nelson Algren, because Nelson Algren.)

In a few minutes the car arrived, and in a few more minutes they were at the restaurant, which smelled of cinnamon and bacon and diner coffee.

Crowley looked slyly over his menu after they were seated.  "I hear their specialty is apple pancakes."

Aziraphale swatted him over the head with his own menu.  "Stop that, you fiend!"

Crowley flashed him a grin.  "Got to be better than the Dutch baby.  Bet it's not even Dutch."

"Or a baby," said Aziraphale.  "We should complain.  Tea please?" he asked the waitress who was hovering nearby.  "Milk, two sugars."

"Black coffee," said Crowley.

When she was gone, Aziraphale said, "You were going to tell me about Mr. Capone, I believe?"

"Ah.  Yeah," said Crowley.  "He's.  Well.  Let's just say he's been a boon to every memo I send Downstairs."

"Ah.  Not a nice fellow, then," said Aziraphale, flipping over his page to contemplate the sandwiches.  "Hang on, this is going to be a difficult decision."  The waitress came back with their drinks; Aziraphale hemmed and hawed over his order and finally narrowed it down to three things.  Crowley ordered the apple pancake, and Aziraphale resolved not to touch it no matter how good it smelled.

Once they'd ordered and handed over their menus, Crowley spilled a little of his water out onto the tabletop.

Aziraphale grabbed his napkin and pulled it out of the way just in time to avoid getting it soaked.  "What are you --"

"I'm drawing you a map, angel, relax," said Crowley, and, indeed, the puddle of water did not spread very far, in defiance of all tradition; it stayed in a long, narrow line along the right side of the table.  He took out a tin of breath mints and plonked one down by the edge of the water, near the top of the 'map.'  "We're here right now."  He looked speculatively at the condiments before grabbing the salt and pepper.  "This," he said, showing Aziraphale the salt, "is Hymie Weiss and the North Side Gang."  He put them slightly more towards the center of the map.

"What an imaginative name," said Aziraphale.

"And this," he said, showing Aziraphale the pepper shaker, "is Al Capone and his Outfit."  He put it down well to the south.

"That's all well and good, Crowley, but where are they going to put your apple pancake when it comes?"

"Over there in Naperville, probably," said Crowley, with a vague gesture to Aziraphale's left.  "Plenty of room there, nothing happens in Naperville.  Anyway.  I, Crowley, work for Mr. Weiss, in a procurement capacity, obviously.  I didn't really know what I was doing when I started working for the North Siders, so I didn't think to come up with a different name.  But!"

And here he placed another mint carefully, somewhat to the north of the pepper shaker.  "I, Lilith Cambion, work for Mr. Capone, in a similar capacity.  I've got a house out there too, but the neighbors here are more fun to upset and Capone throws bigger parties than I could so I don't really bother."  Here he grinned.  "You see, my poor sainted husband died in a mysterious boating accident, leaving only his gobs and gobs of cash to comfort me, but the authorities think I killed him.  So I escaped to the States to avoid all that unpleasantness."

Aziraphale should have been telling Crowley off for his ridiculous plan, for all this dastardly deception, and for making a mess of the table.  But he couldn't help it; this was exactly the sort of harebrained nonsense Crowley loved most, and it probably wasn't even hurting anyone much, so Aziraphale didn't feel guilty about not thwarting it.  "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, dear."

"I'm not done!' said Crowley.

"Of course not," said Aziraphale.  "Please, go on."

"So this," said Crowley, reaching for the sugar, "is --"

"Uh.  'Scuse me?"  They both turned to look at the waitress, who was precariously balancing Crowley's apple pancake, and Aziraphale's omelette, corned beef hash, mushroom sauce, and side of extra-crispy bacon.  "Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is, but where'dja want me to put all this?" she asked.

"Naperville," said Crowley, pointing once more at the empty space to Aziraphale's left.

"Uh.  Sure," said the waitress.  "You had the, uh --"

"Apple pancake here, everything else is his," said Crowley.

She put the dishes down carefully, managing to avoid damaging the map.  "And I'll get you a fresh napkin to clean up the --"

"No, that's the lake!" said Crowley.

She paused to look at the map, then studied it with the expression of someone who thinks the street preacher is probably wrong about the End Times but is more interested in correcting him on a small detail about the life and wine preferences of Christ.  (Not that Aziraphale had ever done such a thing.)  Finally, she said, "You got the lake coming out too far west, I think, but I'm impressed you got Montrose Harbor on there.  How'dja get it to curve like that?"

Crowley shrugged.

"I'm expecting a helluva tip," she told them.  "Enjoy your meal."  And she left them in peace.

"Right," said Crowley, seizing the sugar bowl, "so this is City Hall."  He plonked it down on the map, dividing salt from South. "Now, I, Felix, used to --"

"Felix hasn't got a last name?" Aziraphale asked. He examined his omelet, which smelled amazing, and took a little taste of the mushroom sauce. Delightful.

"Nobody asked," Crowley said, while Aziraphale dumped sauce on his omelet. "To be honest I think they assumed it was fake when I gave it to them."

"Convenient for you, then," said Aziraphale, sampling the omelet. The egg was nicely fluffy, the mushroom sauce was extraordinarily creamy, and the overall effect was delicious. "This is wonderful, Crowley, would you like to try some?"

Crowley looked across the table at the apple pancake, exiled, as it was, to Naperville, whatever that was. It was bigger than his head and smelled of cinnamon and future dental cavities. "Think I'm good for now," he said. "You can have some if you like." He turned back to his impromptu map. "So, as Felix I used to work for the old mayor. But he ran off to the South Seas to look for a climbing fish."

"A climbing fish?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, I don't think it's a thing. Not sure what that was about, really. Anyway, Big Bill left us all in the hands of this appallingly incompetent wet blanket Dever who likes things to be --" here he used his fingers to put quotes around his speech "-- 'above board,' or something, so I don't work for him. Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John are still in the game though, so I do odd jobs. Mostly encouraging people to vote."

"Hinky Dink," repeated Aziraphale, distastefully.

"Yeah, and you're called Aziraphale, what's your point?" Crowley asked.

"My name was given to me by the Almighty, and cannot, therefore, sound absolutely ridiculous," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, is it so demonic to encourage voting?"

"It is when the voters have been dead for years," said Crowley.

"Ah. And they don't... question...?" He was glad Crowley was having such a good time, but really, using resurrection to gain political advantage really was fiendish, in an actively distasteful way, and he thought he'd better at least register his objection.

"Oh, they don't check," said Crowley. "Really, they're just like my lot. Long as it gets done they're pleased. They pay a lot better, too."

"Seems a little gauche if you ask me," said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. "Well, good thing I haven't asked you. Less fuss than doing the paperwork to make it say they voted, at least for me."

"Ah, well. As long as you put them back when you're finished with them, I suppose," said Aziraphale. He had another bite of omelet.

"'Put them back when you're finished!'" said Crowley, doing a very bad imitation of Aziraphale. "Well of course I do, what else am I gonna do with them?" he snapped. "They'd ruin my parties." He reached for the tabasco sauce, and put it just west of the sugar.

"You're going to run out of condiments soon," Aziraphale said.

"Nah, we've still got ketchup," said Crowley. "Anyway, this is Jane Addams."

"And what band of cutthroats does she run?" Aziraphale asked.

"The most dangerous ones, at least to me.  They're social reformers.  Do-gooders."  Crowley made a face.  "I've been working on this woman for years now and I think the only dent I ever made is that she contemplated lying once and then wasn't good enough at it to follow through.  It's maddening."

"Poor Crowley," said Aziraphale.  "Still, it sounds like you're making a little progress!  If you keep trying maybe you can budge her a little more?"

Crowley gave him a wide grin.  "Thank you for trying, Aziraphale, but I really think she's got me beat. She's already in her sixties, and her health's never been good, so I think she'll be gone before I can get her soul.  But I haven't quite given up yet.  Besides, hanging around there is fun, really."

"And I suppose you're somebody called Merit when you're hanging around tempting her?" Aziraphale prompted, mopping up the rest of his mushroom sauce with the last of his omelet

"Yes!  Merit O'Malley!" said Crowley.

Aziraphale paused, omelet halfway to his mouth.  "Please tell me there's not a bad Irish accent involved, Crowley.  Please?"

"Well, there was but both sets of O'Donnells sussed me out," said Crowley, "and then I had to wipe their memories and stop being a safecracker in a hurry.  Which was fine, really, being a safecracker is dead boring actually, unless you do it by miracles.  Anyway, I decided to try and corrupt all the nicey-nice reform types.  But most of them are very... churchy, and it's difficult to get at them."

Aziraphale smiled to himself.  "Quite."

"Also most of them are full-up on Pride and Greed and Envy already," said Crowley.  Aziraphale stopped smiling.  "Not really as fun if you're going to corrupt someone who's already almost there, you know?  So I found Jane Addams and I started volunteering at her... thing, and I thought, aha, I'll work my way into her confidences and find out what her weaknesses are."

"What are they?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged.  "I mean she second-guesses herself quite a lot.  But that's no good, it means I can't get her for Pride.  Greed, Gluttony, and Envy don't really seem like her thing.  And Sloth is right out, her schedule would drive anyone to madness.  Except her, apparently."

"Wrath?" Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley shook his head.  "I mean, she's quite angry a lot, but..."  He gestured at his map.  "I think that's fair.  And she's a total pacifist, she'd never hurt anyone."

Aziraphale couldn't help notice Crowley'd been leaving one out.  "Is she married?  Maybe Lust--"

"She's got a wife, sort of.  Very much in love.  I couldn't do anything there," said Crowley.

"Oh!" said Aziraphale.  "Are the humans letting themselves do that sort of thing now?  I hadn't realized."

"They're not," said Crowley, "but nobody particularly lets Jane Addams do things, she just does them."

Aziraphale started on his corned beef hash, and stared at the map.  "I know it's a bit out of fashion, my dear," he said, "but what about Acedia?"

Crowley looked appalled.  "I would never!"

"All right, sorry, I was only trying to help," said Aziraphale.

Crowley sighed.  "I know you were.  You always do."  He rubbed his eyes under his glasses.  "I was thinking of turning her over to you, actually.  I can introduce you if you like."

"Oh!  That sounds very nice, actually," said Aziraphale.

"I will warn you, she is a bit insufferable about Prohibition," said Crowley.  "Don't talk about wine around her, she'll just give you this disappointed look and you'll feel you've let her down."

Aziraphale considered this.  "Are you sure your lot won't take her?"

Crowley laughed, and waved a hand over his mess of a map, and in an instant the water and the breath mints were gone, and the condiments were back where they started.  He reached across the table and retrieved his apple pancake from its long exile, and a delicious waft of cinnamon reached Aziraphale's nose.

"Oh!  I was looking forward to seeing what the ketchup was for, though," said Aziraphale.

"I think some people like it on their eggs," said Crowley, making a face.  He took a small piece of the apple pancake.  "This is good.  Aziraphale, you've got to try --"

"No thank you," said Aziraphale, primly.

"Oh come on, it's their specialty," said Crowley.  Aziraphale tried not to watch as Crowley licked the fork off.  Licking anything like that in public could probably get you arrested in some places.  Safer to look at the pancake.  Which also looked good, definitely.  "Will you at least come with me to Al's birthday party?" Crowley asked.

"Well."  Aziraphale hesitated.  "I don't know that it's really the place for me..."

Crowley gave him a pleading look that was only slightly less effective for the dark lenses covering his eyes, and said, "It won't be half as fun without you there."

He's only tempting me.  It's false flattery.  He wants to lead me into a den of iniquity, Aziraphale thought, watching Crowley pick at the apple pancake.

"Ah, well.  I understand, angel," said Crowley.  He sounded a bit disappointed.  "I'll have to find out when Miss Addams is going to be around, though, I still think you'd like --"

"No, no, I didn't say I wouldn't go with you," said Aziraphale, quickly.  "Of course I'll go.  Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."

"'Course.  Definitely.  You'll keep me out of trouble."  Crowley looked skeptically over his glasses, and Aziraphale could see the yellow slits of his eyes, and he was looking so fondly at Aziraphale that he didn't think he could stand it, so he swallowed and tried to pay attention to his corned beef hash.  "Your food was good, then?" he asked.

Aziraphale nodded.  "The apple pancake?"

"It's pretty good," said Crowley.  "Sure you don't want any?"

Aziraphale resisted for all of two seconds.  "Just... just let me take a look at it."

"A look?" Crowley asked.

"Just a glance.  Here, we can switch," he said, offering to exchange his small plate of corned beef hash for the enormous apple pancake.  "Just.  Just for a moment."

It was a very good apple pancake, and Aziraphale ate most of it.  He tried not to notice Crowley's soft smile as they chattered about local theater here and in London, and reminisced.

When it was time to go, Aziraphale left a hundred-dollar bill on the table for a tip, and Crowley left a scrawled note to the waitress, with a suggestion as to where and how long to invest it; then they paid their bill and went back out into the fresh, chill air of January first.