neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: May 14, 2000
Setting: Front desk
Status: Private - Crowley, Aziraphale
Summary: Aziraphale is getting restless.

The thing was, Aziraphale was tired. He was exhausted of pushing paper and writing notes, performing only the barest miracles and human interaction at a minimum. He missed his old life (not that this one didn't have his perks) where he got to go out and have delicious food prepared by internationally famous chefs with expensive wines and Crowley's drunken company. He thought of their philosophical conversations that let him lay worries and fears out in a roundabout way, holes in his belief, and replenish that faith, and the angel realized, suddenly, how much he did miss them.

The Manor was becoming too familiar, and Aziraphale itched to leave, go out and have fun. He was finished in four minutes, exactly, and it would be easy to go and ask Crowley about the possibility of reenacting their old habits and finding new haunts. Aziraphale didn't even know the names of the pubs in Tadfield, after all. It was a tragedy.

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Aziraphale gave a long-suffering sigh, decidedly not rolling his eyes, and turned his gaze back to his menu, perusing through the list.

"Gewurztraminer?" he asked Crowley. "Unless you'd prefer something else entirely?"

(The waiter apologized and offered to pay for the blouse, which coincidentally matched a very grand tip he'd been left in the next receipt to pick up. The woman's date also very gallantly gave her his jacket to wear, which miraculously fit.)

Considering this, Crowley asked, "Is it French, Italian, or Eastern European?"

He didn't mind the angel's interference this time. As it turned out, the waiter lost a tip, the woman lost her favourite blouse, and her date lost a jacket because it was now miraculously too small for him to ever wear again and it had cost a lot more than the woman's shirt. Crowley chalked it up as a win and returned to his menu.

"A Gewurz? It's an Alsace one, my dear, most modern. Avez-vous decide?"

Aziraphale seamlessly flipped to the dessert menu as he spoke, reading down the list of descriptions with something akin to joy.

"Well that's all right then. Those Hungarian ones just aren't the same. Bien-sur. J'ai le canard. Et tu?"

Crowley smiled faintly as the angel's face disappeared behind the dessert menu. It had been far too long since they'd done this. He wondered if he'd get more than two bites of his own dessert this evening. Maybe if he played his cards right...

"Cheesecake," he announced, blond head emerging. "Er," the angel added, a bit quieter, "I have a craving for a raspberry cheesecake. It will be a little sweet for the Gewurtz- and don't smirk at me, my dear, I know you, and I know that you're laughing at my dissatisfaction of this detail, but I daresay that I am right in this case. But I will persevere and we shall perish - quite happily, perhaps - from massive amounts of sweets tonight."

The waiter arrived, and they both ordered the duck - although Aziraphale had long found canard to be a ridiculous word, even when he couldn't remember it as a langue de boeuf or a langue d'ouef word, precisely. Probably the latter; the French had a weird sense of humour.

"No, you've got me all wrong, angel. I'm laughing because you decided on your dessert before your dinner. Crappy wine pairing or no. And because I'll be policing your sweets intake. You really shouldn't let your brand new body go like that. Gluttony is a sin, you know."

Crowley smirked again just because he could and his foot found Aziraphale's beneath the table.

Aziraphale raised an ambiguous eyebrow.

"I thought I'd decided on supper, dear. The duck?" He sniffed decorously. "It's not a familiar restaurant, I'd hate to choose something that would turn out awful." As was his luck before in a new restaurant, they both knew. "Remember Russia, not so long ago?" He wore a pained expression simply at the memory.

"How could I forget? I did suggest you keep it simple..."

He squirmed, for more than one reason. "Don't remind me; we are about to eat."