Work Text:
“So, where are you off to with that hamper?” Crowley asked as he came through the bookshop door. He had been about to stash his sunglasses on the horse statue near the door, but now he paused.
“Oh, I’m sorry – I wasn’t expecting you until later,” Aziraphale said. He seemed a little embarrassed to have been caught like this.
Crowley waited, and Aziraphale wilted in the gaze from those yellow eyes, and confessed.
“If you must know, I was going to the Folly. I’ve been trying some recipes that Molly gave me, and I’d like her to taste the results. I’m really rather pleased with them – though I’m not sure I got the lemon and blueberry tart quite right….”
“And?” Crowley prompted.
“Well, Chief Inspector Nightingale did mention that he had something interesting in the Folly Library that he wouldn’t mind me having a look at….”
“That could take a while,” Crowley said, in a suspiciously mild tone. He put his sunglasses back on. “Want a lift?”
“Oh, would you? I would appreciate it, my dear.”
“You’d better,” Crowley grinned, as he held the door open for the angel, and led the way to the Bentley. He opened the passenger door with a flourish.
Crowley’s consideration for the cakes (not the angel, of course not, no) meant that he almost kept to the speed limit on the way to Russell Square. He even came round to open the passenger door for Aziraphale. “There we are, safe as houses,” Crowley said. He stood back to let Aziraphale lead the way up the steps, and looked up at the Folly.
“I’ve never been in here, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “Course, in the old days it was chock full of wizards who’d discorporate a demon soon as look at him, but I think there’s only one left now, isn’t there?”
“Two, technically,” Aziraphale said. “Chief Inspector Nightingale has recently taken on an apprentice. Pleasant young man.” He pressed the brass doorbell.
The door was opened by a person in an Edwardian maid’s outfit. When she saw Aziraphale, her face lit up with pleasure. She smiled, showing lots of very sharp teeth.
“Hello, Molly,” Aziraphale said, fondly.
Molly looked past him to Crowley, and hissed quietly.
Crowley hissed back. “I’ll wait for you out here, angel,” he said. “Lots of magical protection on this place. I don’t think I’m going to try to get in.”
“Why don’t you take the Bentley round to the mews at the back?” Aziraphale suggested. “You should be safe enough there.”
~
Aziraphale was, as Crowley had suspected he would be, some time. He spent some time arguing with idiots on Twitter (he refused on principle to call it ‘X’), but after a while he felt the need to stretch his legs, and he went round to lean on the bonnet of the Bentley. It was surprisingly quiet in the mews for central London, but even so he missed the sound of the kitchen door opening.
Behind him, someone cleared his throat.
Crowley spun round, his arms already going up automatically in a gesture of surrender. “Now, let’s not get hasty….”
Facing him across the yard was a man in a smart and very well cut suit. He was smiling slightly.
Somewhat embarrassed, Crowley dropped his arms. “You must be Nightingale,” he said.
“And you must be the Demon Crowley,” Nightingale replied. “I left Aziraphale in the library. He may be some time.”
Crowley shrugged. “Figures,” he said. “Pry the angel out of that bookshop of his, and his first instinct is to glom onto books somewhere else.”
“To be fair, I did invite him to look at the manuscripts,” Nightingale said. He stepped a little closer. “Do you mind if I have a closer look?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen a Bentley like that since the War.”
Crowley grinned. “3 ½ litre 1934 Thrupp and Mabberley Coupe. Course, the hood ornament isn’t original – I just liked the flying B better.”
“And – the bullet holes?”
“Ah, they were giving them away at petrol stations to advertise the new Bond film – in 1967, I think.” He shrugged. “I just fancied them at the time.”
Nightingale smiled. “That’s about when I bought my Jaguar,” he said. “Would you like to see?”
Without waiting for a reply, he strode over to the garage door and threw it open. “Mark 2, 3.8 litre engine – I dare say it could give your car a run for its money.”
“My car has certain – demonic enhancements,” Crowley said. “I dare say your car has certain wizardly enhancements too.” He grinned wolfishly. “It would be an interesting race….”
“Crowley, dear – are you making unwise wagers again?” Aziraphale came out of the kitchen door, swinging the empty hamper in one hand. He held his other hand out to Nightingale, who shook it.
“Thank you so much for showing me your manuscript,” he said. “I’ve left the notes as to its provenance on the library table. Now, my dear, I can see you’re both getting on spiffingly, but I do think we’ve presumed on the Chief Inspector’s hospitality long enough.”
Crowley made an inarticulate spluttering noise. “All I’ve been doing is hanging around in the courtyard,” he pointed out, “not being able to get in the house.”
“Ah, yes, about that,” said Nightingale. “I’m sure I could make some minor adjustments to the wards to let you in, as long as you were with the angel, of course.”
“Oh, of course! Absolutely not trustworthy enough on my own, am I?”
“We do rather cancel each other out,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “And now that you two have met, I’m certain you are going to be good friends. Look, you’re already bonding over vintage cars!”