When we left off, Aziraphale had been staying at Crowley's place for an unspecified amount of time (I'm thinking, a week, maybe ten days, something like that), but this morning was "feeling" something higher-up was trying to find him, and realized he needed to go back to the book shop.

A good chunk of this chapter is fluff... it's supposed to be funny, awkward, squee-fodder, a bit romantic maybe, etc. But its larger purpose is to give atmosphere and stakes to the story, and make you care about the relationship (as if you didn't already).

But what is not fluff to me is Crowley's inner-monologue in the second part. I would be interested to know what you think! Enjoy!

THE BENTLEY AND THE BOOK SHOP

Crowley and Aziraphale stepped off the lift in the lobby of Crowley's building, said hello to Mr. and Mrs. Meehan, who were out early walking Suzy Fly, their Papillon-Corgi mix.

In the previous week, in the corridor leading to both Crowley's and the Meehans' flats, Crowley had introduced them to Aziraphale, and the Meehans had been rather unduly happy their neighbour had found himself a 'flat mate.' When Aziraphale tried to tell them that he and Crowley were not flat mates, they apologised profusely, congratulated them, and then went on their way. Aziraphale had said, "Well, now. That was odd."

Crowley had rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses, but agreed, "Very odd." Even though they both knew it wasn't odd at all.

And today, Mrs. Meehan had said, "Good morning, you two," en route onto the lift, and something about the way she said you two sounded like a great big verbal wink.

"I'm not sure I like her," Aziraphale confessed as the lift door shut behind them.

"Remember that plate of soft peanut-butter candy balls I brought you a couple of years ago?" Crowley asked.

"Oh yes!

"She made them."

"Oh. Well, I take it back, then."

They walked outside and both turned left toward the street, and there, illegally parked but miraculously unticketed, was Crowley's black Bentley.

"Erm…" Aziraphale said, stopping at the kerb. "Let's take a taxi, shall we?"

"What? Why?"

"Or a bus, that would be fine, too."

"A bus? No, come on, don't be daft, angel, my car is right here."

"Yes, but... you're a fiend!"

"Erm, yeah… demon. Ranks of hell's minions, cast out of heaven, et cetera, et cetera. I thought you knew that."

"No, behind the wheel," Aziraphale said. Then an idea seemed to occur to him. "I suppose you could let me drive."

"No," Crowley whined, seemingly with his whole body. "You drive like a little old lady!"

"I do not!"

"You do! You sit too far forward, you grip the wheel like it's going to squirm away from you, and the look on your face is one of constant terror. Not to mention, you're slower than molasses, and the last time you drove my car, you knocked over a rubbish bin."

"We set it back upright again, and even separated the recycling for the gentleman. And didn't you feel good about doing that?"

"Are you kidding me? No!"

"It was improperly sorted!"

"Improperly sorted?" Crowley asked, rather incredulously, imitating his friend's posh accent. "You're improperly sorted."

"Says the man who stores pastrami in the crisper," the angel muttered.

"Really? Now? You want to get into this now?"

"And, I wasn't going to say anything, but you also have cilantro stored in the egg compartment, and last night, I was looking for an extra blanket, and found one in what was meant to be a sock drawer," Aziraphale complained, in a tone that seemed to ask, how can you live like that? "But don't worry – this morning, I returned it to the linens cupboard where it belongs."

Crowley stared at him for quite a few moments, without moving, then said, "Thanks ever so."

"So," Aziraphale said, straightening his jacket. He held out his hand. "Keys?"

"No!"

"Fine, I'm hailing a taxi," Aziraphale said, moving down the block a bit, craning his neck, seemingly searching for a black London cab.

"You don't know how to hail a taxi."

"I do so."

Crowley studied him for a few moments, then he took the five steps to close the space between them. Rather low, quietly, intimately, he asked, "Aziraphale, what are you afraid of? You know I've never hit anyone with the car, except Book Girl, and that was part of the Divine-Fucking-Plan. I won't let you be discorporated. It's not like we're going to run out of petrol or ultimately damage anything important. I can control my car, so when will you trust me?"

Aziraphale let his taxi-hailing hand drop back to his side. "I… I suppose it's not about trusting you, Crowley."

"Then what is this about?"

"I don't know, honestly. Just being silly," said the angel, his tight smile betraying some sort of emotional uncertainty. "I do trust you. I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me… all right, then. You drive."

There was a long, pregnant pause, then Crowley sighed heavily and asked, "You want to drive?"

"I think it might be nice if we could switch off sometimes," Aziraphale answered, with a delighted smile.

Crowley gave a reluctant growl, then said, "Fine. Here," and handed over the keys.

"It smells weird in here," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose as they entered the book shop. The Bentley was safely and legally parked behind the book shop, in the designated area. But the keys were firmly back in Crowley's pocket.

Actually, with two supernatural beings inside, the car didn't need keys, but Crowley liked the idea of them.

"It's the celestial beam," Aziraphale told him. "It's definitely been here. Oh, drat. What do they want now? I thought we'd effectively got them to…"

"Bugger off? Yeah. I thought so too," Crowley muttered, looking about the place as though an archangel might be lurking behind the stacks. "I mean, could they have left a message?"

Aziraphale looked at him with utter tedium. "Crowley, it's a celestial beam from the seat of the Almighty, not a phone call from someone's gran."

"I've got an answerphone," the demon reminded him, barely moving his lips, and now sauntering away, practically positive that something angelic, other than Aziraphale, was hiding somewhere in the shop.

"I'm afraid I'll have to call them back," said the angel.

"Ooh, angelic voodoo. Nice."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that since the fire, I'm rather skittish about candles. I've stowed them away in a cabinet upstairs for safe-keeping."

"Okay, let's go get them. It'll give us a chance to see how poorly your flat's remodel is coming along," Crowley suggested, with a sardonic grin.

They filed into the back of the shop, where there was an old, charmingly plain, refinished staircase that led to Aziraphale's actual home, above the book store. Needless to say, the angel did not desire nor require the luxury of a large, trendy flat in central London, with a view of the Thames and Parliament.

Aziraphale's flat was quite simple: a bed, bureau and wardrobe, two armchairs, a coffee table, and a small kitchen, off to the side. The décor, of course, ran to Victorian, but Crowley found himself continually surprised at the little bits of modern chic that found their way in. He had admired the round glass and brass chandelier ever since Aziraphale had put it in. And the bed was not the monstrous, ornate four-poster that one might imagine. In fact, its posts were made of black wrought-iron, and each one dipped down once, and they met each other above in a circular pattern. It was reminiscent of a circus tent, with no canvas. It was stylish, and Crowley liked it, but it had occurred to him to wonder why the heaven Aziraphale needed it. Until very recently, he'd only slept once every few decades.

The two of them stepped inside the flat, and were surprised at how not-in-shambles the place was.

"Oh. This is homey. Again," mused Crowley.

When last they'd been here, gathering the angel's things for what was to be "a few more nights" (after the initial three nights) in Crowley's spare room, the contractors had been in. All the furniture was covered with tarps, white dust was falling everywhere, and the floor paneling had been ripped up. Now, the furniture was still covered, but the dust was more or less gone, and the floor was done. The new light-coloured parquet gleamed like gold.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no," Aziraphale fretted. "This isn't right at all."

"What's not? I think it looks rather good."

"The parquet floor," he whined. "This is the wrong shade of stain."

"The wrong shade of stain?"

"Yes," sighed Aziraphale.

"Let me guess," Crowley sighed. "It's not precisely as it was… before."

"Adam's a good lad, and he meant well, but say what you will, he didn't restore everythingto its full glory after saving the world."

"He wasn't meant to."

"Well, I don't like it."

It was in Crowley's nature to argue. He would have liked to insist that his friend was being overly fussy, and there was no good reason why the parquet had to be exactly the same as before Adam Young had hit reset. And even if there were a good reason, Aziraphale could just miracle them back the way he wanted them. Though, he knew that his friend didn't fancy doing "frivolous" miracles, even when no-one was watching.

After the apocalypse had been averted, even Crowley himself had noticed that the armchairs were all wrong, given that Aziraphale's originals had been green velvet, and these were red suede. He had also noticed that the wood paneling on the wall was light brown instead of white, and that the fireplace had a circa-1880 woodburning stove, where one hadn't been before. But none of it really mattered, because it was all reverent, it was all Victorian, it was all very Aziraphale.

But Crowley saw the "remodel" for what it was: an excuse for Aziraphale to do a lot more sleeping, and Crowley to do a lot more eating. He was not about to protest. And since Aziraphale had been living in this little ruse, they had worked up to properly sharing food, at home, at Crowley's behest. Likely one day, they'd work up to sharing sleep… but it would have to be at Aziraphale's behest, because the angel would not be pushed.

Crowley had had to learn that, rather the hard way. He could be as audacious as he liked – Aziraphale was accustomed to Crowley being all noisy and biting and flirty and demonic, and he definitely liked it. But ultimately, Aziraphale was good, and beatific, and scrupulous, so coercion didn't sit well with him, no matter how much he actually wanted to be coerced.

And so, there was patience. If a pair of six-thousand-year-old supernatural beings couldn't be patient, then who could?

Yesterday, Aziraphale had announced that he was keen on updating his kitchen while he was at it, and any minute now, he'd say that the contractor was just going to have to re-lay the parquet. Those two things would require weeks, possibly months worth of work…

"Well, the contractor is just going to have to re-lay the parquet," Aziraphale tutted.

Crowley smiled. "You don't say. Another few days at my place, then?"

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale sighed. "Oh, I do hope it's no bother, Crowley."

"It's no bother, Aziraphale. It'll give you time to rearrange my fridge."

And that was when they heard the front door of the book shop open.

"Would you mind tending to that?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm going to look for my candles. And I seem to have misplaced my matches."

"Sure," Crowley said, and he walked down the stairs to see who the customer was.

Well? Thoughts?

You know what to do next, if you'd like to make me smile! :-) Thanks for reading!