My Dearest Warlock

Oh, Airplanes And Silent Revelations

"I know," said Aziraphale with a small smile. He walked out, holding open the door for Crowley. He waved at the young couple walking by, despite the fact he had no clue who they were. After Crowley walked out the door, Aziraphale shut the door and locked the place up, refusing to let anything happen to his new shop.

Sitting in the rather small parking lot of the tiny strip where Aziraphale's new bookshop was, was Crowley's Bentley. The car gleaned brightly under the harsh rays of the early morning sun. Despite having the ability to miracle the car to be washed and freshly waxed, Crowley insisted on doing it by hand, finding it insulting that a miracle be used upon the Bentley if it wasn't necessary. Despite Adam recreating the Bentley from a distorted, broken image, the Bentley looked almost as good as when Crowley purchased the car.

Crowley gently opened the car door, gracefully taking a seat in the driver's seat. She then pulled the door closed, sighing in relief. She put the keys in the ignition, ignoring Aziraphale, who was fussing over his outfit getting a wrinkle.

This was her Bentley, her precious car. Even if a few things were altered by the mind of the eleven year old Antichrist, it was still her car. No other car would ever be as good as the Bentley, regardless of the model or brand. Cars, in Crowley's opinion, were made cheaper nowadays so that you'd have to trade them in more frequently. Not the Bentley, the darling car that survived the harsh flames on the M25- even if it was thanks to Crowley having a large imagination. The Bentley was her most prized possession, more so than even her Mona Lisa cartoon sketch.

"Are you going to keep standing there and fixing your outfit or what?" asked Crowley irritably, tapping the steering wheel.

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley's harsh tone, choosing that today wasn't a good day to test the demon's patience. He gently opened the door, plopping on the seat with grace that only an ethereal being could have. He closed the door, immediately buckling up- Crowley's driving would be so much more terrifying without seatbelt, which Aziraphale knew from firsthand experience.

"What time are we supposed to arrive to collect Warlock?" Aziraphale cautiously glanced over at Crowley, smiling to himself.

A silk red shirt was something that Crowley made look stunning, almost to the point that she looked prettier than anyone Aziraphale had ever seen on the front of a magazine. A rather simple, basic midnight black pencil skirt hugged her thin legs, stopping above her knees. The skirt, despite its rather tight fit, didn't cause Crowley's led-foot to waver in the slightest. Nor did the simple three inch heels that Crowley wore, even if they were very uncomfortable- she'd much rather have a pair of simple black flats, they were much less painful.

"Later this evening or very early tomorrow morning," answered Crowley, seemingly more at ease. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was nervous about seeing Warlock again, but Aziraphale figured it was something more than that. Knowing Crowley, it could have been something that happened ten years ago- she did hold grudges, something Aziraphale knew because he knew her well enough.

Aziraphale glanced at her lovingly out of the corner of his eyes, unable to help the pink blush that spread over his cheeks. He then diverted his eyes away from her, glancing at himself in the mirror as though he'd done something awful. Light blond hair was slightly ruffled, which was very likely due to the breeze in Tadfield. He ignored the wrinkle in his light brown suit jacket, focusing instead on his tartan tie.

He wondered, very briefly, if it was time for a style change. After all, so much had changed. It felt weird, almost wrong, that after everything had happened, he'd never bothered to change his style. Every so many years, he would change his style, but he really liked his look. Sure, the look was older, but Aziraphale felt that this look was perfect for him. He loved the tartan pattern, whether it was on his bow tie or a regular tie, and the suit jacket over one of his regular shirts. He almost felt that this style had been made just for him, as if someone reached in his mind and created an outfit from his thought. Of course, none of his attachment to the style had anything to do with the fact that Crowley had complimented him about it- absolutely none whatsoever.