headcanon st. patrick actually drove crowley out of ireland specifically and now he’s not allowed back there
Okay but why am I imagining St Patrick chasing Crowley all the way to the Irish coast with a broom like my Irish grandmother when she sees a rat
imagine aziraphale wants crowley to go take care of something in ireland as per the Arrangement, and crowley has to explain that he Physically Cannot
“What do you mean you can’t go to Ireland? It’s only a minor miracle and I know you’ve got a tempting to do over there!”
Crowley doesn’t drop his head into his hands and groaned but it’s a near thing. Very near. They’re in Aziraphale’s shop—as usual—and although the weather outside suggests otherwise, it’s cold as space* inside the dusty book-filled place.
“Because,” is what he says after a moment, glaring at the angel. His signature sunglasses were tossed on the desk an hour after their arrival at the shop and Crowley somewhat wishes to put them back on. That would, however, infer to Aziraphale that he’s leaving and Crowley really doesn’t want to leave.
Even if this specific line of questioning sort of makes him wish to.
“That isn’t a good enough reason, Crowley.” The angel responds tartly, and Crowley wants to throw the nearest book at him. Unfortunately, considering his serpent-like nature, the heat makes Crowley quite sedate. The cold of the shop, too, does much the same.
He really can’t win when it comes to temperature.
“I’ll owe you for next time, angel,” Crowley tries, actually promising for once, and he hopes that’ll convince Aziraphale to drop it. Crowley offering him this olive branch of sorts.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
“I’ve performed every task we’ve been given in Ireland since the 5th century, Crowley. This is becoming a tad bit unequal,” Aziraphale says, standing directly in front of the demon sprawled on the sofa. It’s the only time the angel is taller than him and can look down at Crowley.
Crowley finds the sight quite enticing.
“I can’t go to Ireland!” Crowley snaps.
“Can’t or won’t?” Aziraphale snaps back, glaring down at the demon.
Crowley really doesn’t want to answer. Because he knows, if he tells Aziraphale the truth, the angel will honestly laugh. And… Well… Crowley likes hearing Aziraphale laugh but not about this. This is… It’s… It’s humiliating, is what it is.
“If I tell you…” Crowley trails off before sighing. “You’re going to laugh, angel.”
Aziraphale gasps, offended. “I would never!”
Crowley gives him a dark look. Never say never.
“You know that Saint fellow the Irish love, yeah? Think you met him once,” Crowley begins reluctantly. Aziraphale nods a little uncertainly until Crowley expands: “Saint Patrick.”
“Oh yes! Lovely chap! Performed a lovely set of miracles assisted by yours truly, absolutely grand man!” Aziraphale exclaims, frowning after a moment. “But what does he have to…”
Crowley nods. There we go. Connection.
“Oh.”
Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley stares back.
“Oh my.”
The angel’s head drops, he looks away. Aziraphale’s shoulders start to shake.
“Angel?”
Crowley sits up, tired sluggishness forgotten in the face of his angel in distress. He reaches out with a hand and touches Aziraphale’s arm.
He’s far enough forward now that he can peer up at the angel’s face, see the expression on it and Crowley blinks.
“Are you—are you laughing?”
That breaks the angel’s silence and loud laughter echoes around the shop.
“You absolute bastard! Stop laughing, angel!” Crowley stands up and grips Aziraphale by both arms.
“I’m sorry. I—it’s just,” Aziraphale hiccups out, still laughing. “You got chased—out of ireland—as a snake!”
Crowley hisses in frustration and it only makes Aziraphale laugh harder.
“I hate you, angel,” Crowley mutters. He doesn’t, not really, but he really really wants to in that moment.
__
* Space is, Crowley recalls, very fucking cold. Too cold to be entirely honest but still miles preferable to the muggy heat of London in summer. At least space doesn’t stink of boiled piss and sweaty humans.