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In the first millennium, someone taught the humans how to use metal. It took Aziraphale ages to believe it hadn't been Crowley. Both of them entertained vague hopes that the humans would get moving on the Industrial Revolution, or possibly spend their time inventing earrings.
They had, of course, not reckoned on human nature.
"My people approve of the increasing violence," Crowley said cautiously, keeping out of smiting distance.
"Mine don't," Aziraphale said. "I've been getting memos."
Crowley looked, wincing, at the bloodshed.
"They should have had a plan for dealing with this," he said.
Aziraphale looked at him, wordlessly.
* * *
In the second millennium, Heaven scoured the earth clean. Crowley and Aziraphale perched on the mountain tops until those too were covered with the freezing water.
"I don't think much of your solution," Crowley said, hanging motionless over the immense, blue sea.
"It's not my solution, and nobody asked you, anyway," Aziraphale snapped.
They were silent for quite some time.
"So, what's the plan?" Crowley asked at last. "The fish inherit the earth?"
They both watched as a whale surfaced and dived again.
"I don't kn--" Aziraphale started, miserably. "What's that?"
It was a boat.
"Race you," Crowley grinned.
* * *
In the third millennium, Crowley got really tired of Egyptian food. Aziraphale was forever hanging round the refugee camps, which meant Crowley had to hang round too, keeping an eye on him. It was quite a relief when the whole blessed lot of them applied for exit visas at the same time.
That was, of course, when the trouble started.
"You're the one hardening Pharaoh's heart?" Crowley said. "I thought you wanted them out of here?"
"Orders," Aziraphale said shortly. "Mine not to question why, mine just to do, and er, well, keep on doing."
Angels, Crowley thought. Bloody idiots.
* * *
In the fourth millennium there were so many wars and invasions both Crowley and Aziraphale lost track of which humans were on their side.
"The Assyrians were definitely yours," Aziraphale said.
"Ugh," Crowley said. "Wait, were they? Bugger, I'd better start fiddling the paperwork. I thought the Persians were mine."
"No," Aziraphale said doubtfully. "Have you been claiming them?"
Crowley grinned and waved a sheaf of parchment in Aziraphale's face. "Largest empire! I win!"
"We'll see about that," Aziraphale muttered, making some notes.
"Hey," Crowley said, paying attention to their surroundings. "Where'd all these blessed Greeks come from?"
Aziraphale smiled.
* * *
In the fifth millennium Crowley decided he was all for the growth of the church. It at least confused Aziraphale, and tricked him into slowing things down until he could work out what Crowley was up to. He wasn't amused when the penny dropped.
"You've made me get behind in my work!" he snapped.
"All I said was I quite liked some of these pope fellows," Crowley said, reasonably. "You're the one with the suspicious mind."
"You owe me," Aziraphale said.
"I hate to remind you, but we're enemies," Crowley said. "I don't owe you anything."
Aziraphale looked craftily thoughtful.
* * *
In the sixth millennium, they devised a plan to simplify paperwork, keep each other notified of major developments and, most importantly, organise a schedule of time off and holidays.
"You're sure this will work?" Crowley said, examining the neat timetable Aziraphale had drawn up. "And don't think I haven't noticed that you've booked every Christmas off till the year 2000." He looked closer. "Western and Orthodox! You lazy bastard."
"Holidays in the sun, with all your projects covered," Aziraphale said cajolingly.
Crowley shook hands on it before the angel could change his mind. It was too tempting to pass up.