A/N: Because it's a NaNo Friday night and I apparently cannot be stopped, you get a double helping tonight! Chapter 9 will be published immediately after this.

When Crowley turned to climb up the steps that led to the familiar double doors, Azariah came to a sudden halt. One foot on the first stair, Crowley looked back down at the librarian questioningly.

"The Ritz?" Azariah asked, dumbfounded, "Are you serious? I don't think they'll even let me in dressed like this," he gestured to the jumper beneath his open coat, and Crowley snorted.

"You're fine."

"But surely we'll never get in without a booking!"

"Don't worry about it, they know me here." Crowley beckoned Azariah with a flip of the hand and a tilt of his head, and the librarian followed him doubtfully up the steps. The doors opened before them as if by magic (though of course, it was only the efficient and silent doormen), and they were greeted at once by the immaculately dressed maître d', who turned round, tablet in hand, and smiled graciously in recognition,

"Ah, Mr Crowley, it's been too long! And Mr—"

Oh shit shit shit shitshit! They knew Aziraphale here too, of course! The angel was always effusive with his compliments to the staff. How could he have been so stupid? Quickly Crowley snapped his fingers behind his back, and the maître d's greeting became an upward inflection, directed at a welcome new patron.

"—Mr?"

"Feld," Azariah replied, nodding to the maître d', "Azariah Feld."

"You are most welcome, Mr Feld. Your usual table is ready, Mr Crowley, if you'll follow me."

They made their way through the sumptuous room behind the maître d', who deposited them at the round table right at the back of the room where Crowley had sat so many times with Aziraphale. Azariah slid into the angel's usual seat as Crowley dropped into his own, and shed his coat onto the seatback. Almost as soon as he did so, a sleek porter appeared at his elbow.

"Pardon me Mr Feld, hang this up for you?"

"Oh!" Azariah exclaimed, twisting in his seat and rising slightly so the porter could remove the garment, "Yes, thank you." He resumed his seat, and glanced at Crowley, looking flustered. "I've never been here before, a bit posh for me."

"Trust me," Crowley said, lifting the menu from his plate, "you're going to love it. Go on, my treat."

"Are you sure? I mean it's rather—"

"Absolutely." Crowley considered the menu, and had his second moment of discomfit. He was going to have to actually order something. He doubted Azariah would understand or appreciate it if he simply sat and watched him eat, so he'd have to join in this time. Crowley had never given all that much thought to the menu, despite spending a significant amount of time here, and took his time perusing the options. A waitress with impossibly sleek hair materialized at the table.

"Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?"

"I'll have the Old Fashioned." This had been an easy decision for Crowley, substituting his usual short or two of neat liquor for something related.

"I'll take the Elderflower G&T, please." Azariah said, and the waitress disappeared as quickly as she'd come. "How do they do that?" Azariah whispered, leaning towards Crowley, "it's like they're not even human!"

"I think they all moonlight as thieves," Crowley laughed, "the maître d's trained them all to be so silent they can get away with anything." They bantered about the suspicious effectiveness of the Ritz staff until their drinks arrived, and the waitress took their lunch orders. Azariah had resisted the addition of a bottle of wine to the order at first, protesting both expense and the fact that he was supposed to return to work eventually, but Crowley insisted it was part of the full experience, and the librarian gave in.

"So," Azariah asked tentatively once the waitress had gone, "I've been meaning to ask. What is that you do exactly?"

"Do?" Crowley replied blankly.

"For work, I mean. You seem to have a lot of free time to spend in the library, and they know you here, and well…" Azariah trailed of, cheeks reddening. It was a very intrusive sort of thing for someone who appeared to be quite a proper Englishman to ask.

"Oh!" Crowley caught on. "Do, right, well, er—" He'd never actually considered it before, having plunged into this whole spending time with Azariah thing without really thinking it through. "I suppose I sort of don't. Have a normal job, I mean," It was the truth, if nothing else. He went on, inventing on the spot, "I, er, was fortunate enough to inherit quite a bit, including some property in central London. I guess you could say I'm a man of leisure." Or something like that, Crowley added internally. "But I try to keep busy."

"Ah, well, that explains— that is, it must be lovely to be able to pursue things that really interest you," Azariah smiled, "I'm glad one of them happened to be the library. Is the Bentley a family heirloom?"

"Something like that." The car, of course, had been Crowley's since it rolled off the assembly line, but it could just have easily belonged to his theoretical great-great grandfather. All these lies and half-truths he was having to tell Azariah were starting to add up, Crowley thought, and he was going to have to make sure to keep his story straight. Guilt also stirred again in his gut at the thought of the lies he was telling; he knew he had to, knew it was part of his mission to restore Aziraphale to himself, but he didn't like it. It was humanity that told each other all kinds of lies to get to know each other, not him and Aziraphale. But the guilt was swept aside as their food arrived, and Azariah exclaimed at once about how delicious it looked, and the sommelier pulled the cork from their bottle of wine.

As the wine gurgled merrily into the glasses, Crowley looked down at his plate. He'd ordered something he recognized as a classic: duck á l'orange. It did look very pretty, he had to admit, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Taking up his knife and fork with an effort to look normal, concentrating hard on the elegant way Aziraphale always held his utensils, he cut into the glistening duck breast and took a bite. Instantly his mouth exploded with flavours and sensations: warm, moist duck, heavy with savory umami; a bright, zesty punch of citrus; crispy, salty skin, all combining to create a concoction as he chewed that could only be described as sinful. His glasses hid some of his reaction, such as the eyes rolling back in his head, but Crowley must have emitted some sound of enjoyment, for Azariah glanced over at him, mid chew and appreciative sigh of his own, and nodded fervently.

"Absolutely divine! I can see why you keep coming here. I'll have to be careful you don't tempt me here too often." Crowley chortled and reached out for his wine glass, taking a deep draft of the burgundy liquid within.

"Why resist this kind of temptation? Might as well enjoy life, eh?" It wasn't as if he had never eaten before, or indeed never ate, but he'd always preferred alcohol and watching Aziraphale to eating himself. It'd been a long time since he'd consumed excellent food prepared by an expert in their craft, and with each bite of duck Crowley appreciated more and more why Aziraphale was so obsessed with good food, and why of all the temptations the angel had crossed paths with during his existence, this had been the one that stuck. The conversation slid along easily as they ate, and Crowley found that he was still able to spend a good deal of time watching Azariah even though he was occupied with his own meal. The librarian enjoyed his food with enthusiasm and attention to detail, remarking on the subtleties of the cooking now and then, and shyly admitting to being a bit of a foodie.

"Do you cook yourself?" Crowley asked, scraping the final bits of pureed leek from his plate with a knife.

"Oh, yes!" Azariah replied, "I'm no great chef, but I do like to explore in the kitchen. I could, er—" With the air of one whose words had gotten ahead of his thoughts, he reached quickly reached for his wine, and took a swig, before muttering into it, "cookforyousometime."

"What?" Crowley paused, having just licked the leek from his knife. He was pretty sure he had understood, but wanted to make sure of it.

"I could," Azariah said more clearly, lowering the glass and reddening furiously, "cook for you sometime. If you like."

"I think, er, I think I would. Like. Sometime." What the hell was that? Crowley mentally banged his head against the table. Words were stupid. Why was human communication so difficult? But Azariah beamed.

"Well, we shall have to make that happen then!"

Food and drink, including pudding and rather too much wine, being eventually consumed, Azariah opted to take a half day and head home. Crowley opened his mouth to offer the librarian a lift home, then remembered that he was supposed to be human, and therefore probably not driving on the amount of alcohol he had drunk over lunch. Instead, he walked with Azariah to his bus stop, and they stood together in the chill until the vehicle lumbered up.

"Thank you," Azariah said, turning to Crowley as the others waiting for the bus started to get on, "for a lovely lunch." The pause that followed strained as if it wanted to be filled with something, but Azariah was holding it in. Crowley started to try and think of something to say, but before he could, Azariah gave a quick smile, and disappeared onto the bus. Crowley turned to follow him with his eyes as he paused to tap his card with the driver, then stepped onto the staircase to the upper level, reappearing a moment later at the top as the bus grumbled back to life. Crowley watched Azariah make his way down the aisle, and then as the bus began to pull away from the curb, find a seat in the window. He glanced down, and caught sight of Crowley staring. The librarian lifted his hand and waved as the bus departed. Crowley's hands remained in his pockets until it was too late; the moment had gone. He stood there for several moments, lost in thought, until a lost-looking tourist approached to ask for directions. At which point Crowley shrugged, pretending not to speak English, and strode away.