Although it may seem inconceivable to the casual diner, the Ritz had grown tiresome. It felt as though the tectonic plates in their minds had shifted somewhat, and unlike the geographical phenomenon there was absolutely no doubt that their change was to do with the divine – or at least an eleven-year-old with better decision making capabilities than the deities themselves anyway. And although they had lived in the area for many millennia, that didn't make it any easier to find their way around what Londoner's perplexedly call "the country": the lost they were now was at least ten times more lost than they had been twenty minutes ago, meaning they were getting lost at a steady rate of 0.5 "where are we now"s per minute, which meant that in another ten minutes' time they would reach the destination of "hopelessly lost" and in half an hour's time they would legally be considered missing persons. But frankly, no one would notice they were gone anyway, and that was deeply reassuring.
"I'm finding it difficult to accept that maps weren't a Satanic creation," Aziraphale lamented, frowning into the pages, "even if it is technically a book. Indeed, that makes this even worse..."
The demon who had sped through London at four times the speed limit in the past was now more focused than a blind man diffusing a bomb to go as slow as possible. "Then don't ever try to use a Sat Nav," he grumbled, the Bentley's engine complaining at going just 14mph. He patted the dashboard in sympathy.
Aziraphale was about to question what in Heaven, Hell or somewhere worse a Sat Nav was, but his aggression with the AA overwhelmed him in a crumple of paper that wouldn't fold back in the way it had come out, wrestling with the map in an uncharacteristic fury before being about throw it out the window and instead just tossing it over his shoulder and crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Then in a fluster he plucked off his reading glasses, carefully folding the arms, slamming them into their case, shoving it into the glove box and then returning to his disdainful glare out the window.
Crowley glanced over and eased the car down to around 6mph. The Bentley assumed he intended to stop and so abruptly cut out, jolting them both such that they blinked in reaction to its betrayal. He sighed, his head flopping back against the seat in defeat, eyelids falling closed. "I agree," he murmured, patting the wheel.
The angel, remembering his bearings, hastily told him, "We can't stop in the middle of a single-track road – if someone comes the other way, they could get hurt. Or up behind us for that matter."
Still with his eyes closed, the demon grumbled carelessly, "I'll come up behind you in a moment."
His eyes shot open. He blinked at the ceiling.
"Err. I mean... Err..."
Aziraphale sighed. "I know what you mean. This... forsaken journey is just dire. How can anyone bear to live out here, what with the potholes and the unnamed roads and the... the... hedges..."
"Mm," he responded with a tired chuckle. "I don't even know how to get us back from here. If you went into the middle of nowhere and there was a house there, and you asked them for directions to the middle of nowhere, you'd end up here."
"I believe you're right about that."
They were silent for a moment to try and regain a little bit of sanity after this disorientating drive – and in that moment, both of them realised how beautifully quiet it was out here. There were no other cars, no road noise; if fact the road they were on didn't really classify as a road (according to the AA at least) therefore there were no roads at all. Up ahead it seemed to dwindle to an idyllic footpath overshadowed by homely trees, their branches flopping out like a tired man's arm from the side of a sofa. There was a break in the hedgerow for a small deer-trodden path, and somewhere, soaring, a young buzzard cheered its new-found flight. A gentle wind swept over the cooling Bentley; the engine plinked.
And if either of them wanted to speak, they feared it would ruin the serenity, and neither could express themselves anyway for several minutes. Their postures softened as they basked in the last-afternoon sun.
"I suppose it's, ah... not so bad out here... "This green and pleasant land." After all, it wasn't "this concrete and not-entirely-safe land". Um..."
Suddenly, as if he had long been contemplating the idea, Crowley pushed open his door and slipped outside, glancing around and taking a deep breath, to find with unusual delight that it was... what's the word... fresh. There was a faint aroma of over-ripe blackberries, or wild strawberries: the small ones that don't actually taste that nice but are, for lack of a better word, adorable. (There was also a distant smell of manure, because nothing is perfect.) He heard Aziraphale's door shut after him and his delicate footsteps as he strode down the track in a soft patter of dislodged dirt and gravel and turned to follow him. They wandered along the path for a moment until they were graced with the trees' shade when they looked to each other and smiled a confused and rewarded smile.
"And you said this was Hell..." Crowley teased.
"I think you'll find I said maps were Satanic. But I'll admit, I take back my infuriation: they at least lead us here."
"Accidentally," he added.
"Ineffably," Aziraphale corrected. But then he smirked. "You know, I'm not hungry anyway."
"Neither am I," the demon answered, offering his hand. The angel took it lightly then tightened his grip, pulling them side-to-side as they ambled. "I'll give Him this: He did a good job out here."
Aziraphale hummed in agreement, then couldn't think of what to say in return, his sentiments carried on the breeze. He picked up on, "You know, what with your preventing Armageddon, I'm sure He-"
"We've had this discussion too many times, angel," he sighed. "Firstly there's too much administrative; it'd be too messy. Plus there are the angels I must have pissed off who I'd have to greet in Heavenly circles and stuff. Then there's the trouble with the Big Guy Downstairs – Him hating me means He's less likely to let me go to the other side; the opposite of your Guy. And besides, admit it: you like being with a demon really."
"Well, I for one-"
He'd meant what he'd said: Crowley was tired of this conversation and to stop him talking about it he abruptly stopped walking, spun, whipped off his glasses, wrapped his free arm around his lower back and kissed him on the lips – Aziraphale's surprise at the speed of his strike and the sight of his eyes and the sudden crash of his train of thought made him falter and in doing so lose his focus and the snake's tongue found his own and he made a noise that can be described as somewhere between the squeal of a mouse and the moan of an angel rapidly becoming aroused. (Well, it's accurate.) He struggled for a moment out of pure instinct, then huffing in a way that was meant to convey "I don't appreciate you cutting me off like that" but instead coming across as "hrnng" – as that was indeed all he could really think – the angel managed to wriggle a hand between them and against Crowley's chest, begrudgingly pushing him away, but the demon bit onto his lower lip briefly and Aziraphale flushed redder than the man's shirt, then sniggered a laugh as he let go.
"You- ah- you've made your point."
Crowley's yellow eyes glistened. "Mm, I don't think I have, honestly." And the hand in the small of Aziraphale's back, still clutching his sunglasses, edged lower. The angel blushed more and tried rather half-heartedly to push him away again, glancing urgently up and down the lane. The Bentley seemed to be watching them like a cab driver who happened to have lovers in the backseat, subtly staring while pretending this wasn't the highlight of their career.
And Aziraphale was sure they were alone and he was sure he... his hand bundled Crowley's shirt slightly, but then he shook his head and asked, "Are you sure you can't get us back to London? Preferably, ah, right now?"
His chuckle drawled and he seemed to take pleasure in repeating, "I don't know how to get us back from here."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes a little. "You could be lying, after all, you are a demon. You could be tricking me."
He tucked the sunglasses into the angel's back pocket, drew their hips closer together, stroked up under his shirt. "Would that be a problem?" he whispered, his lips so close to his ear that Aziraphale felt his breath curl down his neck, and instantly felt sweat break on his skin: he honestly wanted to object to that but it felt as though his body didn't, and his fingers knotted into Crowley's hair.
But ultimately he had to – "No, we can't, not here."
"Well, how about up against that tree-?"
"No, stop it, we... Don't get me wrong, I want to, but..."
"What do you suggest, then?"
Slowly they both turned and glanced at the Bentley. Now Crowley was conflicted, and began to squirm slightly. To him the idea of it was like attending a Tchaikovsky performance and taking with you a musical triangle and just randomly joining in – utterly wrong and disrespectful, but Hell, it'd be fun... and metaphorically here he was with his triangle at the ready and it was so hard to just forget about it. Aziraphale sympathised since he had, after all, refused to use his desk previously, but then they had only been a short drive from Crowley's apartment, and here they were in the previously described lostness, and even if they tried to drive home both of them knew that the trip would be interrupted at some point. It was like trying to ignore and go against the existence of gravity.
He would honestly swear after that it wasn't an attempt to sway his mind or to hurry his decision process but nevertheless Aziraphale bit his lip and stared him dead in the eyes, stroking a finger down his cheek – and suddenly Crowley made his choice and still clasping his hand dragged Aziraphale up the track towards the car, heart racing as he pulled open the driver's side door, frowned to think of the, err, logistics, but Aziraphale freed his hand and instead opened the back door, seized Crowley's collar, pushed him down onto the seats on his back, grunting at the impact and about to protest until he felt the familiar tugging at his belt and smirked with pride, wondering how this guy was still an angel after all; he sat up despite the angel's stares and began on his shirt buttons, firmly pressing his hands to his exposed chest as his belt whipped away, his trousers following and then finding himself shoved roughly back down, Aziraphale straddling over him and holding his face in his hands, kissing him deeply, taking the lead for himself this time, his tongue supple and adoring; Crowley hummed and his touches sank lower, lower, reaching the edge of his trousers and then- the angel jolted slightly, hurriedly seized his wrists, breathlessly broke the kiss, cursing quietly. He slipped back, stood up, finished what the demon had started in removing his clothing, neatly dumping everything onto the driver's seat, then returning to the man who had stripped his own shirt off and was watching his partner undress with a steady longing stare and unsteady breathing. He knew the drill; he smiled; he pulled off his shoes and socks. Aziraphale's eyes, had he been so bold, read "God, I love you". Crowley scooted up his knees so the angel could kneel on the edge of the seat before resting his ankles on his shoulders, a shiver of heat racing down his spine then right up to his cheeks; he stared at the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to calm himself, but still his skin flared with arousal; Aziraphale watched him closely before going through his own routine, largely consisting of uttering a quick prayer that for once God wouldn't be watching as that would rather put him off, before letting himself be overwhelmed, stroking the demon's thighs and- "Alright?" "Yep." They both sighed, the lull before the intensity, and then life blared through their veins; Crowley's toes curled and his jaw clenched as he tried to focus on the angel's gentler touches and then suddenly he remembered to breathe – it reminded him to relax – and then he laughed lazily, held the angel's waist; Aziraphale let his head drop forward as he felt the rush of blood through his body, urging him to murmur but he held his tongue, his grip on the demon's skin tightening quickly then releasing, stroking and- Crowley panted haggardly and jerked suddenly, apologising hurriedly, body burning as he felt the sweat roll down the back of his neck and- Aziraphale rocked his hips gently, moaned, and his partner returned the vocalisation, holding his hips tighter, nearly clawing into his skin but refraining and- he blurted the angel's name, tipped his head back, all the while the angel reminded him to hold on, hold on, and he bit his tongue, tried to think of anything else but it was just him, just him and the smell of old leather and-
Both of them panted as though they needed the air, and then laughed as Aziraphale basically collapsed on top of him, Crowley huffing slightly before wrapping his arms around him and savouring the feeling of skin-on-skin; the angel's hair tickled his chin. For a moment it was as though time had ceased to exist, as though they'd entered a corner of the perfect world Adam had created over Tadfield, although they still had no idea where on Earth they were. Or at least-
"You- you do know where we are, don't you?" Aziraphale managed at last, tiredly levering himself up so he could look into his eyes.
Crowley just smirked.
Four hours later, as the sun drained itself from the sky, as the light went streaking across the clouds, the high-rise of London awaited on the horizon. An exhausted demon was straining to stay awake at the wheel while an angel slumped beside him, snoring quietly to disguise the near-comatose depths of his slumber. When the Bentley glided up to the curb outside Crowley's apartment he knew there was no way of waking him now – it would simply be rude. He stepped out and paced round, glancing up and down the road briefly to find it virtually empty, swinging open the door and awkwardly scooping his partner up into a bridal carry; he flicked the back of his hand to lock the car, and blushed below his sunglasses.