On a quiet Tuesday morning in Soho, a rare event was unfolding. Aziraphale, angel, bookshop owner, and proud lover of all things ineffably British, had finally convinced Crowley, demon, fast car enthusiast, and reluctant doer of good, to accompany him on a grocery run.
"Why are we even doing this?" Crowley drawled as he slouched against the doorframe of the bookshop, sunglasses firmly in place despite the overcast sky.
"Because, dear boy, there is a certain charm in acquiring things the human way. Besides," Aziraphale said, adjusting his tartan scarf, "I'm in dire need of those delectable scones from Mrs. Featherstone's shop, and I do want to get a look at that new local honey."
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark lenses. "You do know that with a snap, I could fill your shop with enough scones to feed the entire British Isles, right?"
Aziraphale wagged a finger. "Ah, but where's the joy in that? It's about the experience, Crowley."
Resigned to his fate, Crowley followed the angel out onto the cobblestones. The Bentley purred as they drove the short distance to the marketplace, Crowley's fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. The moment they parked, he shot Aziraphale a look that said, we're in and out, right? Aziraphale's answering smile was far too innocent for his own good.
Inside the quaint market, Crowley slouched by the entrance as Aziraphale floated through the aisles, humming with delight. Crowley found himself trailing after, arms crossed and a constant mutter of "this is ridiculous" under his breath.
"Oh, look at these!" Aziraphale exclaimed, holding up a jar of marmalade with such reverence that Crowley half-expected a choir of angels to burst into song behind him. "Made by hand, no less. Isn't that delightful?"
Crowley shrugged. "Wouldn't know. I don't eat."
Aziraphale ignored the comment and tossed the jar into his basket. As they wove past pyramids of oranges and displays of artisanal cheeses, a small child waved at Crowley, her eyes wide with curiosity at the strange man in sunglasses who radiated an aura of barely contained chaos. Crowley scowled. The child giggled.
Before long, the angel's basket overflowed with an eclectic array of items: lavender shortbread, imported teas, and a suspiciously large wheel of Camembert. Crowley watched, half-amused, as Aziraphale struggled to balance everything while reaching for a jar on the top shelf. With a sigh that screamed if I must, Crowley flicked his wrist, and the jar floated gently down into Aziraphale's grasp.
"Oh, thank you, my dear!" Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley's smirk softened, just a little.
"Don't mention it," he muttered, shoving his hands back into his pockets.
Finally, they approached the register, where Mrs. Featherstone herself smiled at them both. "Why, if it isn't Mr. Fell and his mysterious companion! A lovely day, isn't it?"
Aziraphale nodded, placing his items on the counter with the air of someone preparing for a grand banquet. "Indeed it is, Mrs. Featherstone. And you must tell me—did you add the cinnamon to the scones like I suggested?"
Crowley rolled his eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall. But then he looked back at Aziraphale, who was chatting about the merits of clotted cream as if the fate of the world depended on it. Crowley didn't sigh this time. He stood there, in a little shop filled with human chatter, surrounded by the faint scent of oranges and honey, and for once, he didn't mind the wait.
After all, some things, he figured, were ineffably worth it.