Work Text:
Aziraphale fidgeted in the passenger seat, eyes carefully fixed out the window. He, ever the proper Englishman, felt uncomfortable with broaching the topic he was about to, but knew the conversation needed to be had. He wanted it to be had.
"So, Crowley," he began, and gave a little hem to clear is throat. "It seems to me that we really are going to be let alone for the forseeable future after that switcheroo." He smiled faintly, still a bit proud of the flawless execution. It had been a month; a long, tense month, since then, and the two had heard nothing from above or below.
"Yep, my people aren't very patient, so if they were going to launch a second attack they would've done so already." Crowley agreed.
"Yes, well, see, I was thinking, since we are no longer agents of heaven or hell, and aren't being actively pursued, I thought that, if possible, we might resume our, ah, camaraderie at a proper pace?" Aziraphale had glanced at Crowley as he spoke, but couldn't read his expression, and returned his own gaze to the window. "That is, if you'd be so inclined."
"What are you saying, angel?" Crowley asked. His voice sounded measured, as though he were waiting for a clearer, more direct indication of exactly what Aziraphale meant, even though they were both certain he did, in fact, know.
Aziraphale wasn't keen on taking the lead in such businesses, but he knew that this time, it really was his responsibility, as he was the one preventing it previously. So, with a deep breath, Aziraphale lightly grasped Crowley's hand that wasn't on the wheel, for the first time grateful he wasn't using both hands to steer, and replied,
"I'm saying, my dear, that I think I'll positively die if we continue at our current pace." He tightened his grip on Crowley ever so slightly. "That is, you don't go too fast for me, Crowley. Not any more."