Rasputin eng

Oscar

A month later it's the Bentley. THE BENTLEY grinds its tires in front of the bookshop for the first time, parking with a skid, setting a precedent that should make all of Soho feel a disturbance in the universe. "Prepare to see that Bentley out there dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens of times."

The owner, grinning because he's perfectly parked it on the first try in the coolest move in the short history of automobiles. He steps out, pulling a box from the back seat and resting it on his hip.

He slams the door hard because we still haven't mastered the necessary force to close it, then crosses the street, tapping on the glass door of the bookshop.

"Closed!" shouts the angel's voice from inside the store, which Crowley must have noticed has modernized QUITE A BIT... A LOT since the last time he was here.

Crowley snaps his fingers to open it anyway and sticks his head in Flintstones-style. "Wilma! I'm home!"

"It's me."

"Ahh... umm... ahh... come in", then SOMETHING falls in Aziraphale's back room. "I'm back here, don't throw anything!"

Crowley enters, closes the door behind him, goes to the counter, and looks around because a century ago he would have bet that there was no more room for books here. "No, sir. Not one more. Like I'll go around the world in seventy-nine days if you manage to fit one more book in this place." And... surprise, surprise. Not only had he fitted ONE. He should have gone around the world in a bloody millisecond, if that was even a real measure of time. He stacks the books on the counter a bit to make space and carefully places the box down.

"It's hard not to throw anything, still not sure if it would fell to the floor... What are you doing?"

"I'm busy," the angel concludes. He's sitting at his desk without turning to Crowley.

"Will it take long? I brought you something," he approaches, poking his head to see if he's visible. "And it's Thursday."

"Thursday. Yes, yes it is Thursday," the angel nods, making sure he is there before turning, just for the dramatic effect.

"Come on, let's go... or I'm opening it without you!" the demon smiles, hopeful.

Aziraphale squints.

"And I'm going to install it without you, wherever I want!" he continues, tempting.

The angel raises his eyebrows now. INSTALL. Okay, he takes off his glasses and turns to where Crowley should appear, who's there, waiting, standing, leaning on something, and holding something else, feigning disinterest.

"Before that..."

The demon tilts his head, looking at him.

"I think it's your turn to dance," he looks intensely into his eyes with a gaze that makes him falter a bit and even swallow.

"Oh, come on!"

"Ohh, yes" he straightens his clothes leisurely.

"No. No, no, no, no" the demon refuses, frowning.

"It's not a question," the angel holds his gaze.

"Come on, I refuse! I've already brought you a gift! What about the non-aggression pacts!?" he protests, dropping what he had in his hands and pointing to the counter.

"This has nothing to do with that. It's only fair that after a hundred years... and a month more. It's your turn to do the little dance."

"And what about you with the holy water?!" he protests, taking a step back.

"That's not for apologizing, I still maintain it's very dangerous, even more after a hundred years," he gestures with his hands and head, unfazed.

"I'm perfectly capable of handling it!" he protests.