Early afternoon in the bookshop. Crowley enters, lugging some large boxes and shopping bags. Drops them by the sales table. Claps his hands once, loudly.

Everybody out, we're closing for the afternoon.

There are only a few customers, most having had to return to work after their luncheon break. He herds them toward the door like a skilled border collie sending sheep to the pen. Locks the door, turns the sign to "Closed."

Aziraphale has been struck speechless through this entire proceeding. Not just by the demon's effrontery in shooing away his clientele. Crowley's wearing a kilt.

And not just any old kilt. The tartan is a vibrant multicolor, the Pride of LGBT weave. He's gone for style rather than punk or docs and a hoodie. Trim dark charcoal argyle jacket of a modernized suit cut with a bit more of a cutaway, sans the gauntlet cuffs, epaulets, and scalloped pocket flaps. Perfectly tailored in back to rest smoothly over trim hips with nary a fold. Eschewing a waistcoat, showing instead his favorite belt with the black jade snakehead buckle. He carries the kilt colors aloft with another sinfully soft Italian pullover in ultra violet. Black leather hunting sporran with a tooled celtic serpent medallion and similar pattern in the silvery frame. Dark charcoal Lewis hose with the celtic cabled cuffs. Flashes match the tartan. Loathing ghillies, he's sporting Prada ankle boots. His nails are enameled in rainbow colors to match the tartan.

Crowley! You look . . . Well. (He swallows.) Beautiful.

So, you like it?

Aziraphale can't take his eyes off the demon. Breathes softly,

Yes.

Crowley rubs his hands briskly together, starts unpacking boxes and bags onto the desk.

Glad you feel that way, 'cause I had some things made for you, too.

He opens a large tailor's box to reveal a kilt, done not in the colorful LGBT weave, but a soft cream and cocoa sort of Glen plaid. Wide dark brown belt with a silver buckle engraved with celtic wings in a yin/yang position.

I found a picture of Gene Kelly where he's wearing a suit in this plaid. So I had some woven to match.

Opens a shoe box, to reveal a pair of two-tone brogue derby shoes in chocolate calf and beige canvas.

Had the shoemaker use your last, so they should fit well.

He pulls out a pair of cream Lewis hose, garters, and flashes done from the more detailed portion of the plaid weave. Opens another box containing a cream Aran sweater.

We can have a jacket and waistcoat made on our next visit to Edinburgh. In the meantime, seeing as how it's September, I thought you'd find this comfortable. You can wear a dress shirt under it, of course, or this:

An Irish grandad shirt is pulled from another bag.

And your sporran.

The soft chocolate brown hunting pouch is a thing of beauty. A central tooled medallion of flared angelic wings. Sleek silvery cantle set with a Cairngorm agate cabochon. The chain and cantle feel oddly heavy.

Platinum. Silver's such a nuisance to keep clean. Leaves marks if you don't remember to keep at it. And this (reaches a small jeweler's box out of another bag) goes with the sporran.

Opens the box, revealing an antique silver Victorian kilt pin set with agate and a deep Madeira citrine.

It was probably something made for tourists. But it's nicely crafted, a good weight, and the stones are genuine. At first I thought stag horn, like mine, but decided this matched the sporran better.

Azaraphale looks at Crowley's kilt pin, which is a horn tip in an antique silver cap. Crowley grins.

Horn just seemed more appropriate for a demon, not an angel. These old Victorian pins, though – you could use them as a weapon.

He reaches down and removes his pin, showing Aziraphale the heavy hand-forged silver shank, with a tip as sharp as a serpent's tooth.

Better re-fasten this before I accidentally draw blood.

While Crowley has been fastening the pin back in place, Aziraphale has stepped over in front of him. As the demon straightens up, the angel hugs him as a child might a loving parent.

Crowley. I don't know what to say. You devoted so much thought to all of this.

Crowley hugs Aziraphale tightly, then claps him on the shoulders, ruffles his wooly hair.

A thank-you will do. For now. Let's get you dressed, shall we? Then pick something up at Madame Tracy's. Go for an afternoon picnic.

Thank you, Crowley. Is that a flask I feel under that jacket?

Does it show?

Not at all. Felt it just now. An emergency supply?

Yep. Always be prepared. Boy Scouts, or something like that?

Crowley slips his hands beneath the angel's Fair Isle sweater vest and pulls it off over his head. Aziraphale loosens and removes his tie, kicks off his shoes. Unbuckles his belt, steps out of his trousers. The demon steps behind Aziraphale, slips his hands into the waistband of the angel's boxers and slides them down to his ankles

Crowley . . .

'S traditional. You'll like it. Step out of those things. . . . Sit down. Socks go on first.

Crowley kneels, slips off the angel's socks. Hands him the new pair, which Aziraphale pulls on, making sure the ribs are neatly vertical. Because he always does. Crowley applies the garters, adjusts the cuffs and the flashes.

Shoes next.

Crowley helps the angel slide his feet into the shoes, ties the laces. Starts to rise from his knees, then assumes a thoughtful look. Raises the angel's shirt tails off his lap. Grasps Aziraphale's knees and spreads his legs apart from their habitual tight closure. Runs his hands up the inside of the angels thighs, tickles his blond pubic fluff with one hand while running the other under his shirt and caressing his flank. Places his mouth over the tip of the angel's growing erection. The angel's skin is always cold, and his scent is of desert herbs with a stony mineral overtone.

Mmmmmmmm . . . you always taste like a tequila lolly to me.

Their picnic plans are delayed by a quickie hour of Divine Ecstasy.