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Summary
“You know,” Crowley said, “demons don’t really go in for fairness.”
“Well, angels do.” Aziraphale was leaning forward in his chair, his hands folded together almost prayerfully. He looked at Crowley with wide eyes as if he were trying to convey something desperately important. “If there’s something I can do for you — anything, really — just say the word.”
"Do you mean like an assignment in America?” Crowley said, naming a place Aziraphale never liked to go because he found it loud and distracting and evangelical. “Bit of temptation in Washington?”
"If you like.” There were two spots of drunken color high on Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Or something else, I only mean to say that I am at your service.”