This chapter is a bit ridiculous, but was SO MUCH FUN to write!

Can a few new clothes completely change the way the world at-large interacts with a person, and vice-versa? Perhaps, but most likely, the change would be a heck of a lot more subtle than this chapter makes it out to be.

But if you think of it in terms of how Aziraphale is carrying himself, what a "quick learner" we already know that he is, and how appearance-obsessed (not to mention money-and-power-obsessed) the modern world is, perhaps it's not so far-fetched. Crowley definitely gets it. Also... again, our favourite angel does have a hugely disarming smile, and a dyanmic and sensual voice. Shrug - see what you think!

Aziraphale has worn his chic new outfit out of the store. We know Crowley's rather taken by it, but how does the rest of the world feel about it?

No smut yet, but leading up to it! Enjoy!

POWERFUL

Once Felicia wrapped up Aziraphale's purchases, they walked across the store to the shoe department, where another young salesperson helped them choose. Crowley agreed that Aziraphale's usual light brown boots would go just fine with the new kit, but that he, himself, needed a pair of dress shoes for the London Philharmonic. They agreed upon a pair of black lace-ups that would complement the Armani G-line, as well as possibly go with some of Crowley's other, less-formal, "cool" wear. Of course, this was after trying seemingly every pair of black shoes in the store.

At that time, it was slightly too early for dinner, so they made a stop in the Perrier-Jouët Champagne Terrace within Harrod's, and shared an hors d'oeuvres plate of crayfish, miniature crab cakes, sliced octopus with soy and wasabi sauce, and of course, oysters. They sipped an entire bottle of Pierre-Jouët's brut, but they did it so slowly whilst chatting about clothes, music, Felicia, the shoes salesperson, Anathema and Newt, and making the occasional innuendo, that neither of them felt the effects of the alcohol.

They sat beside each other, in the area of the lounge where the tables were about chest-high, and the chairs were more like bar stools. They were situated with their backs to the window, so that they could people-watch while they sipped and nibbled. For the moment, Crowley was content just to enjoy the food and the company, and did not insist upon his usual position across from Aziraphale, as voyeur. Although, he knew that state of affairs couldn't last all night, especially not with his partner in his new look.

Both of them noticed different people passing by – couples, groups, girls-night-out types, the occasional individual – and smiling at them as an "adorable" pair. Which almost always happened, especially since they stopped holding back, as it were. But Crowley was a very attuned to human facial expression and body language (it had once been a huge part of his job to read these markers), and he noticed a whole different reaction specifically to Aziraphale. Aziraphale himself only noticed it once, and it was while Crowley was in the lavatory.

Two attractive, professionally-dressed women were taking possession of the table beside him. One of them bumped into him by accident, as she manoeuvred into the space, and said, "Oh! Pardon me." Then, she very, very obviously looked him over. Aziraphale looked down at himself in his new ensemble, and wondered if something was wrong with it. She smiled. "Oh, please tell me you've not been sitting there all on your own."

"What?" he asked, nervously. "Oh, er, no, my companion is in the loo."

The woman's eyes flitted over to the chair beside Aziraphale, along with the plate of oyster and crayfish shells, and the quarter-full champagne flute.

"Ah, of course," she mused. "Should've known you'd be snatched up already."

"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale asked, genuinely confused.

That was when Crowley reappeared from around the corner. He was still out of earshot, but even from afar, he could immediately see the situation for what it was. He could tell, based on the woman's expression, and Aziraphale's cluelessness. He contemplated walking on past, allowing Aziraphale a few moments to realise what was happening, and think to enjoy it, but he reckoned there was no way he could do that without his partner asking, "Crowley, where the Hell are you going?"

So, he took his seat again, and as he did, both women, plus Aziraphale looked at him, and talking ceased. "Don't let me interrupt," he said, swigging the last of what was in his glass.

The woman chuckled, then patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, and said, "I see. I never stood a chance, did I? Enjoy your evening, gents." With that, she turned and sat down, and joined her friend in conversation.

Within ten minutes, Aziraphale and Crowley were leaving the champagne bar, and as they stepped onto the escalator, on their way back down to the ground floor, Aziraphale asked, "What did she mean by, 'I see, I never stood a chance?'"

"She means, you're playing on the other pitch."

Aziraphale frowned, and thought for a moment. "I still don't understand."

Crowley sighed. "It means, she fancies you but you're with me."

"'Playing on the other pitch' means I'm with someone?"

"No, angel… it means… you know what? Just let it go. Take the compliment, and move on with your life."

"Which part of that is a compliment?"

"The whole thing. The whole interaction from beginning to end, it was a compliment. You can't really be this thick."

"Do you know what I fancy?" Aziraphale asked, sliding in on the left side of the Bentley a few minutes later.

"Besides me?"

"Yes, besides you," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "I fancy an evening preparing for our Mallorcan holiday, and more 'fruits de mer,' of the tapas variety."

"You're thinking Barrafina?" Crowley asked, referring to a restaurant in Soho where they'd been, on more than one occasion.

"Indeed!"

"Sounds fine, except the whole restaurant is bar-style, we'll have to sit side-by-side."

"We'll ask for a corner, if you insist on being the lecherous voyeur, as per usual," Aziraphale said, curtly, while blushing.

"Or, we could just do the Ivy, just around the corner from there," Crowley offered. "Always reliable. Plenty of time for tapas when we're in actual Mallorca."

"Oh, very well," Aziraphale sighed. "The Ivy is quite a place. I quite fancy their scallops with cauliflower purée."

"I know you do."

"And the cod baked in a banana leaf is to-die-for. It's really the pickled fennel that makes the dish, you know. I wonder if they'll serve it with the grilled broccoli again... I adore their pink peppercorn hollandaise sauce, but that only comes with the asparagus, and I do hate asking for substitutions."

"You want it, angel," Crowley lilted, becoming just a tad aroused by the enthused musings over foods. "You'll never have it unless you ask. Demand, even."

"Demand?"

"Why not?"

"Because I…" And then Aziraphale looked at Crowley and realised there was a lusty glint in his eye. "Well, I can be a bastard, can't I?"

Crowley smiled. "Mm-hm."

"Well," Aziraphale said, wiggling haughtily in his seat. "I don't know how much I fancy the idea of demanding things, but there are definitely other ways for a bastard to get what he wants."

A young woman named Emily waited on them at the Ivy. Crowley ordered a Zucchini Fritti amuse-bouche, and Aziraphale had Truffle Arancini – two small rice balls flavoured with truffle oil. Crowley skipped the hors d'oeuvre, but Aziraphale chose the seared scallops, even though they had both already had a decadent platter of seafood at the champagne lounge.

"Well, it's just a bite, really," he reasoned, spearing an expertly-prepared scallop with a small fork and popping it between his lips. "Mmm, melts in my mouth."

Then, as a main dish, Crowley asked for the Chicken Milanese as-is. Aziraphale, however, asked for the banana-leaf smoked cod filet, with extra pickled fennel, and asparagus with pink hollandaise, instead of broccoli. Emily blinked at him a few times, but his unwavering gaze (with a smile, of course) suggested that he meant what he had said.

Within a few minutes, a man in a white chef's coat appeared at their table.

"Hello, gentlemen, I'm Chef Andrew Culpepper, how are we this evening?"

"We are well, thank you," Aziraphale said, again, with a smile, and another of his delighted wiggles.

"Which one of you fine men requested the asparagus and pink hollandaise with the cod?"

"That would be me," Aziraphale replied raising one finger.

The chef went on to explain, in what he no doubt hoped would be dizzying gastronomy jargon, why and how the cod had been paired specifically with the grilled broccoli. His reasoning included a specific spice palate, complementary smoky flavours and textures, and using techniques that highlight culinary traditions in particular parts of the world.

Crowley leaned back in his chair with a smirk and a drink, while Aziraphale listened patiently. The latter was, of course, not at all dizzied by the jargon, and when the chef was finished, he replied, "All of those are very reasonable arguments, Chef Culpepper, and I resolutely respect you as an artist. Bravo. But as it happens, you are not the only well-versed gourmet in the room."

Aziraphale then used similar language and reasoning to explain why he felt that the asparagus and pink hollandaise would be an excellent complement to the cod, as well.
Culpepper stared momentarily off into the distance, and said, "I never thought of that."

"Well, now you have," Aziraphale said, cheerfully. "At the end of the day, it is your restaurant, of course. But I'm such a great, great fan of your innovative pink hollandaise… do you dispute that it's a brilliant, flavourful creation?"

"Of course not."

"Then why would an artist deny a paying, enthusiastic connoisseur?"

"He would not," Andrew Culpepper said, with a little bow. "You have convinced me. Well done, sir."

Twenty minutes later, the chef himself delivered both meals with Emily's help. Aziraphale thanked him sincerely, and then proceeded to partake with his usual sensual gourmandise. And Crowley thought, given the entire tableau before him, not to mention the incident in the champagne bar, and the trying-on-clothes episode, that he might burst out of his trousers.

And at the end of the meal, they said they both fancied a cheese course as dessert… after a bit of a breather from all the rich foods.

"That being the case, angel, I have an idea," Crowley sang. "Let's stop at that little fromagerie around the corner, choose a few items and take it back to the bookshop, and have our cheese course there."

"An excellent idea, Crowley," Aziraphale said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "I've even got a nice, seventy-nine-year-old Portuguese Colheita port upstairs in storage. It's exceedingly rare – all wartime wines are. But it's the perfect thing to pair with some after-dinner cheeses."

And then, for the first time in centuries, the two of them left a restaurant without ordering a single dessert.

But before that, for the first time ever, an attendant brought the bill, and set it down directly in front of Aziraphale.

Crowley gave a private smile at this. Aziraphale simply picked up the little wallet, looked at the total, and paid it. But, in the past, when the two of them have dined or lunched together, the server had generally not known to whom to give the bill, so they have set it between them… or else they've handed it to Crowley. They had both always understood the assumption of their couplehood, long before that couplehood had been real. But only Crowley understood the particular assumption being made about them, that led servers to give the bill, almost always, to Crowley.

But no more – at least not tonight. He had said to Aziraphale in the fitting room that in the new kit, he seemed "powerful." This was superficial, of course – Aziraphale had always been powerful, no matter what he wore. But to the outside observer, a man in a modern, stylish, well-put-together, well-fitting ensemble had an air of "I can do and have anything" about him. It suggested that he was wealthy and watchful, lived in the moment, and did so precisely by asking for what he wanted.

Perhaps Crowley was merely projecting, but there was a very specific reason he had suggested at stop at that particular cheese shop on the way back to the bookshop. The whole day had been one long exercise in foreplay…

The two of them entered the cheese shop just a few minutes later, and there didn't seem to be anyone in, not even an employee. Although, a bell rang as they opened and closed the door, so within ten seconds, Craig Huling appeared behind the counter.

He saw Crowley first, whom he had seen multiple times before, and greeted him. "Oh, hello, there. What brings you…"

He had stopped short because his eye had then been caught by Aziraphale, whom he had not only seen before, but whom also he quite fancied. This had been evidenced a few weeks previously, when he had visited the bookshop hoping to woo the former angel into a dinner date and "who knows what else?"

Aziraphale was then reminded of that fact as well, and suddenly understood why Crowley had suggested coming here. He looked at his partner with disdain, but Crowley just winked and pretended to browse the featured fruit spreads beside the counter. But he watched the scene out of the corner of his eye.

Craig Huling was shorter than both of them, but had a robust build – probably spent a fair bit of time at the gym. He had closely-cropped dark hair with a bit of a spike at the front, and pleasing, rounded features – nose, cheeks, lips. When last they'd seen him, he'd been very scrubbed-up, clean-shaven and on display in a striking blue suit of the sort that had been precisely tailored, perhaps at Harrod's. He'd got all done up to possibly entice a man whose company he wanted. But tonight, he was looking more like he usually did while at work in his fromagerie – white shirt, sleeves rolled up, apron over his front, a hint of five o'clock shadow, and exhaustion in his eyes.

Huling straightened out his apron and blushed. He said, "Mr. Fell, good evening."

Aziraphale's first instinct was to react curtly, but all within a few seconds, he thought it through and decided there was no need to make this an uncomfortable experience for anyone involved – especially himself. So, he gave his absolutely radiant signature smile and said, "Good evening, Mr. Huling. Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected, I should think," answered the cheese shop owner with his own, slightly nervous, smile.

"You know Crowley, I think," Aziraphale said, gesturing.

Huling smiled. "Yes, though I've never known his name." To Crowley he said, "Nice to meet you officially, Mr. Crowley."

Crowley gave a nod. "And you."

"Well, we were on our way back to my shop for a cheese course," Aziraphale said. "And were wondering what you would recommend to pair with a Colheita, 1940."

"1940?" Huling asked, with some surprise. "Goodness, how would you have got your hands on that?"

"I bought it at the time," Aziraphale answered without thinking.

Crowley cleared his throat loudly.

"At the time… of the fiftieth anniversary re-release," Aziraphale covered. "A few original bottles went up for auction."

Crowley rolled his eyes subtly. It was a pretty good save, but not a flawless one. The fiftieth anniversary was thirty years ago when "Mr. Fell" would have been about fifteen years old.

Still it made a lot more sense than the truth of his having acquired it himself in 1940.

"I see. How extraordinary!" Huling said. He then began to walk down the aisle between his refrigerated display, and the back wall, gesturing toward his stock. "Blue cheeses such as Stilton, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and Fourme d'Ambert are the classic candidates for a tawny port, of course. My personal favourite with a good port is a well-aged cheddar, however."

"That sounds wonderful," Aziraphale said. "All right, we'll start with two ounces of the Carles Roquefort. Crowley? Any opinions?"

"Pff, no," Crowley scoffed. "About cheese? That's your department, angel."

"All right, then," Aziraphale said, with his own, less-subtle, eyeroll. "How about another two ounces of the Wyke Farms Cheddar, if you think that will go well with an aged port, Mr. Huling."

"Excellent choices," Huling said.

Crowley, by then, had crossed the shop and was looking at the variety of dried figs displayed in the window. Each came with a description, and a nut pairing.

"Nut pairings," Crowley chuckled. "Sounds like us."

Huling finished cutting, weighing, and wrapping up the cheeses Aziraphale had chosen.

"And I suppose I'll choose one more. I'm quite partial to Stiltons," Aziraphale told Huling, inspecting the Stilton tray.

"Mm," Huling commented. He eyed Aziraphale carefully in this unguarded moment, and then seemed to remember himself. Instinctively, he looked up at Crowley, who had been eyeing him, in turn. He smiled nervously, and Crowley responded with a wink. Huling blushed, and said, directly to Crowley. "Can I tell you boys a secret?"

"Please do," Crowley said.

"Since you said you're partial to Stiltons, and you're planning on pairing it with a rare old port… well, I have managed to procure a half-pound of Long Clawson White Gold."

"No!" Aziraphale said. "That's… well, that's the most expensive cheese produced in Britain."

"I know," Huling agreed. "Though most of it is being exported. I'm the only retailer I know of in London who is carrying it. But if I'm honest, that could change any day."

"I must try it," Aziraphale said, with a voraciousness in his voice.

"I'm afraid our policy, however, is to sell only one half-ounce at a time, however."

"Your policy? Whose policy?"

"Mine, and my partner's," Huling said. "My sister, Kath – we own the shop together. We are not sure when we'll be able to get it again, so… plus, it's a good advertising technique, you know, to get people to come into the store. We need to have as many servings of the product as possible, for as many people as possible."

"Well a half-ounce is not nearly enough for both of us to try, and savour," Aziraphale complained, gesturing to himself and Crowley.

"I'm sorry."

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. "What do you think?"

"I have no idea," Crowley said. "This is your show, angel."

Aziraphale went into low-grade fret mode. He screwed up his facial features and began to fidget a bit with his hands, and moved to his left, intending to begin a pace.

But as he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane, and it stopped him walking. He stood up straight and studied himself – the new clothes, an entirely new look, gave an entirely new mood to his appearance. He was almost ashamed to admit to himself, it made a huge difference. Crowley had been correct. Well, correct with horny ulterior motives, but correct, nonetheless.

He'd been using his newfound "power" all evening, but was reminded of it again just now. Confidence infused him, and he put his hands in his pockets, which somehow enhanced the effect of the brand-new ensemble. It was fascinating, something so simple, and yet so potent…

He turned again to look at Crowley in this stance, with mild-mannered determination. Crowley did not have to fake the hitch in his breath that came from this action.

And Aziraphale was infused with another wave of assuredness. And something else. Something that was becoming quite familiar to him, especially with Crowley orchestrating things…

He put on a charming smile, and sauntered back over to the counter. "Mr. Huling," he said, secretively, with a little twitch of the nose. "Craig. I'm going to need at least two ounces."

"I really shouldn't, Mr. Fell."

"Aww. It could be, you know… just between us."

"Well, us, and Mr. Crowley."

"Don't mind Crowley," Aziraphale lulled. "He doesn't know what we know, does he?"

Huling swallowed hard. The scent of "Mr. Fell" was in his nose, and the lilting voice was working, God help him. "That you're trying to manipulate me? Pretty sure he does know that."

Aziraphale chuckled, thinking it best not to actually deny the accusation. "I must ask you, what are two gents to do with half an ounce of White Gold? Sharing something that small would be… well, in the end, intimate, but not very... well, satisfying."

"And I tell my sister… what?"

Aziraphale made a show of shrugging, then thinking. Then he whispered, "That company policy is nothing in the noble pursuit of satisfaction."

"Satisfaction?"

"Mm," Aziraphale continued, low and discreet. His voice was hypnotically musical. "Satisfying an eager customer. A very eager one. And a very experienced one, at that. Experienced in the tasting and assessing of cheese, that is."

"I knew what you meant," Huling mused. "I think."

"And you also know that the evening cannot be complete for said customer and his partner, if a desire goes unsated."

Huling gazed at Aziraphale's incredibly lovely face, and said, "Thirty seconds ago, you didn't even know it was your desire."

"Desire can come and go. If you can bend a bit, perhaps someday I may be able to thank you properly."

If Crowley had been free to do so, he would have cackled and punched the air.

Huling took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. "You're very persuasive."

"Let's just say, temptation is not a foreign concept to me."

Huling now whispered, "You're beautiful and you know it."

Aziraphale smiled. "Well…"

"And you've got that voice."

"It's just a voice, my dear."

"And you're kind of a bastard, aren't you?"

"I'm told I can be."

"I wish I could say it was a turn-off." With that, Huling turned and disappeared into the back room.

"Oh, you are so enjoying yourself," Crowley said, in the same secretive voice. He got very close to Aziraphale, so that their lips were only a couple of centimetres apart. "Looking powerful actually makes you powerful, doesn't it?"

"Shut up, Crowley," Aziraphale said, matching the tone.

"And this is a kind of power you've never much thought about having, isn't it?"

"Listen, I want you to do something for me," Aziraphale said, stepping back a bit.

"Anything, angel."

"Go home. Look in the night stand on my side of the bed, and retrieve the Icicles box."

Crowley's blood pressure ramped up then, quite suddenly, and his body tightened even more. "The spade? Oh, angel, I adore the sound of that," he practically moaned.

"Bring it, and a bit of slippery, back to the bookshop."

Another hike in Crowley's excitement. But he kept his voice low, sardonically aroused. "Okay, you've got it, you naughty thing. But why not just go home?"

"Because I want to be on my own turf," Aziraphale said, with no hint of humour. "If this day and evening have been leading up to something, I finally know what it is. And I'm ready to have it. So go. Bookshop. One hour or less. I can't wait forever."

"Oh, indeed," Crowley sang. Then he asked, "Will you be there alone when I get there, or are you thinking of inviting Mr. White Gold along?"

"Oh, for Somebody's sake, Crowley, I'll be alone. Good grief!"

"Ah. He's just the fuel for the fire."

"No, the fuel is ALL you, and you know it, you conniving old demon. Now go!"

How are we liking Aziraphale with a new look? How are we liking the story, in general? Still soooooo few reviews... make my day and leave one!

Thanks for reading!