Shorts

A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square

*Crowley and Aziraphale walk into the Ritz, Crowley holding the door open for Aziraphale while he walks through*

The two men were greeted by their regular waiter, a man in his late twenties named Walter. He had just the right amount of charm for Aziraphale to enjoy his service, but not enough for Crowley to want to dedicate a significant amount of his time to making Walter's life insufferable with small annoyances. "The usual table for two and a bottle of our finest chardonnay, sirs?"

"Yes, thank you Walter" Aziraphale smiled at the familiar welcome.

"Right this way then, sirs" Walter proceeded to lead the two opposingly dressed men towards the table that had been reserved for them out of habit. You see, these two men had dined together at the Ritz at the same time every week for as long as anyone working there could remember. They always ordered the same bottles of expensive wine, while the one wearing a cream-coloured suit would order something sweet from the menu, and the man wearing a dark suit would just drink wine and watch his angelic counterpart, making casual conversation as he ate.

The darkly-dressed man pulled out his companion's chair and made sure that he was comfortable before seating himself. Their waiter, Walter, proceeded to hand Mr Fell a menu and listed that day's specials. Mr Fell ordered a cream tea and Mr Crowley waved Walter off with a dismissive hand. He almost never ordered anything for himself anyway. As Walter made his way towards the kitchen, he thought he heard Mr Crowley murmur something about the Antichrist, but he shrugged it off as the dining hall was relatively busy, and he could have easily misheard. Even if he hadn't misheard, the two men usually spoke about unusual conversation topics that could only really be about books or TV shows.

Walter informed the kitchen staff of Mr Fell's order and walked over to one of the other tables he was assigned to that day to check if everything was ok. 

The kitchen staff were all well aware of the two eccentric gentlemen who were currently discussing the ineffable plan, whatever that was. They had a bet going as to whether the men were together or if they were blissfully unaware of their feelings towards each other. It was obvious from the outside by the way that Misters Crowley and Fell looked into each other's eyes, but it was difficult to decipher whether they knew how obvious they were being.

Before long, Walter came back into the kitchen to collect the scones and macaroons to deliver to Mr Fell, by which point, his and Mr Crowley's conversation had moved on to aggressive gardening techniques. Walter placed the confectionery on the table in front of the two men and filled their gradually-emptying wine glasses. "Is there anything else I can get for you, gentlemen?"

"That will be all, thank you Walter." Mr Crowley replied, never pulling his gaze away from Mr Fell's eyes as Mr Fell continued to talk about how orchids needed love and affection in order to grow, not being screamed at until they had nightmares. "You're too kind to them," Mr Crowley grumbled fondly at his companion, "they'll never grow if you don't give them a reason to."

The next time that Walter headed over to their table, Mr Fell had finished eating and was swaying slightly to the classical music playing in the background of the chatter in the restaurant. Mr Crowley was by now starting to slur his words, which was understandable after drinking a bottle and a half of chardonnay; however, Mr Fell still seemed to find what he had to say important or, at the very least, interesting. As he saw Walter approach the table, Mr Fell pulled out his wallet from his inside blazer pocket and signalled that he was ready to pay. 

When the transaction was complete, Walter helped each of the men into their coats, which Mr Crowley seemed slightly irritated by, as he was perfectly capable of putting on his own coat. Nevertheless, Mr Crowley reached into his pocket and drew out £100, which was more than a generous amount to tip after just a cream tea and a couple of bottles of wine. Walter watched in curiosity as the two men walked away. Well, Mr Fell walked, Mr Crowley seemed to saunter, close enough that as they moved, their hands brushed against each other with almost every step. As the men left the restaurant, Walter tuned in to the melodic voice of Vera Lynn in the backdrop of customers muttering to each other:

That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square