Aziraphale raised a hand to miracle his tea.
"Ahhh!" The yell of remonstrance made the angel jump. His hand jerked and bumped into the mug. The mug tipped over, and cold tea splashed itself all over the front of his trousers.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried, arising in distress as he shook tea from his hands and took in the state of his damp trousers, which were now sticking unpleasantly to his skin.
"You know what we decided, Angel," the demon said, wagging a finger at Aziraphale as he turned back to the bookshelf beside his chair and continued reshelving, "We have to lay low, live as humans for a while til things calm down. Not attract attention."
"Yes, but—" Aziraphale protested, lips pursed petulantly as he tried to come up with a good reason to keep protesting.
"I never said it would be easy," Crowley raised his eyebrows over his shoulder. But, upon catching sight of the angel's pitiful expression and damp-cat aura, he relented. "Come on, Angel!" the demon said exuberantly, dropping his pile of books, "Get changed and let's go have lunch, that'll make you feel better."
Sufficiently mollified, Aziraphale stomped upstairs. Moments later he returned, dressed in an entirely different suit. Crowley, who had been leaning against the door, stopped twirling his keys around his finger.
"Why've you changed?"
"I couldn't go like that."
"But only your trousers were wet."
"Crowley," Aziraphale drew himself up and fixed the demon with a severe glare, "I could not possibly wear the same suit with different trousers." Knowing better than to argue with the angel on matters of fashion, Crowley shrugged and held open the door. Aziraphale swept past him, and together they slid into the Bentley. Once it had purred to life, Crowley pulled the car away from the curb at an entirely reasonable speed. The Bentley revved in protest, but Crowley merely patted the dashboard.
"We all have to get in on the act," he reminded the car, which immediately began to play a selection of bebop. One interminable drive later, they had arrived at the Ritz, though they had had to search between the cushions of the car to find sufficient funds to pay for parking. This barrier overcome, they passed through the familiar doors and were approached by the maître'd.
"Good afternoon sir, do you have a booking?" the impeccably dress host asked as Crowley swaggered over to him.
"Antony J. Crowley," Crowley, who had of course never before bothered to book, merely ensured that his name was always on the list, said confidently. The maître'd consulted his tablet.
"Mmm, I'm afraid we don't have a booking under that name, sir." Crowley's jaw went slack.
"What."
"Yes, I'm terribly sorry but we are at capacity this afternoon, I'm afraid we will not be able to accommodate you without a booking." With a slight bow, the maître'd slid sideways to greet the next couple who had come through behind them. Crowley, still frozen in shock, only turned his head when Aziraphale coughed lightly and rocked on the balls of his feet, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.
"Well, dear, you never said it was going to be easy."