Aziracrow Oneshots (H҉҉a҉҉i҉҉l҉ ҉S҉҉a҉҉t҉҉a҉҉n҉)

#1 'My Weekend Is All Booked!'

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ̀ˋ

Crowley drove a 1926 Bentley 3 litre Le Mans Tourer- not now, of course (the demon preferred not to mix the tasks of narrating and driving at the same time).

Currently his pride of joy was set in park, at the midway point of the Westside junction. He was most fortunate that he needn't fuss over his parking situation: the Bentley was quite a devil for making other cars halt with a screech of their wheels and turn in the opposite direction.

Both elbows were rested on either side of his headrest as the demon arched his back, feet kicked over the Bentley's dashboard. The brim of his Western hat was tugged low over a pair of pinched eyebrows, casting his features in a forbidding shadow. It had been an hour- a couple at most- before Crowley spotted what he had been waiting for. Or for a better description, whom.

Trundelling up the lane, with an eccentric pink tote bag reading, 'My Weekend is all Booked!', the angel, Aziraphale, fiddled with the tassles of his woven scarf.

It was unusually dark and unusually cold for a late Summer's evening. Aziraphale wouldn't have left his shop at all if not for the pressing need to collect some fresh air.

He had been extraordinarily invested in a recently unearthed parcel of historical novels, but decided it was time to take a quick interval when his stack of cocoa mugs had almost raised to the ceiling.

So now his feet were plodding onwards, all until a singular hat shot out of nowhere, and drifted down upon the pavement bestowed before him. Aziraphale skipped out of its way.

He was completely alone in the street. All apart from the exception of a black tinted car roosted some 15 metres far-off.

"Ai." A gruff voice stirred, "Gimme back m' 'at." Those 15 metres away, a hand hung lazily from the rolled down car window. He was wearing four rings.

Aziraphale didn't recognise the car- or the guttural voice from within. Instead, he simply plucked the hat from the pavement and trotted across the road in in its direction. After all, his obligations as an angel outweighed his general safety...

"Here you go, kind sir." Aziraphale strained, holding the hat aloft beside the car window. However, it had been rolled up so that only a small slip of paper could fall through the gash. "Sorry, would you mind rolling down the window?"

There was no response, but the stranger must have heard, as the window began to fall.

A pair of dark slits- like shining a light through a tear in a piece of white paper- stared back at the angel. "Crowle--?"

The angel's tote bag slipped from his shoulder as its contents spilled across the pavement with a heart-wrenching thud.

Crowley wound his arms around the nape of the angel's neck, lips parting with slow, soft satisfaction. Aziraphale gradually bowed his head under the car window, and warmth radiated from the point where Crowley's lips touched his cheek, slowly spreading through him and causing a rosiness to his cheeks to appear under the skin.

Feeling the demon's warm breath against his flushed cheeks, Aziraphale slowly refrained, and dipped down behind the car door to retrieve his spilled books.

"Crow--ley--" the angel hiccuped, "Could you drive me home?"