Chapter Text
'Who's idea was that?' Aziraphale demands with the enthusiasm of the mostly drunk.
Crowley drags his wine away from flailing angel limbs. 'Not mine. You any idea how hard it is to get a flat surface when it's made out of people? The Bentley hates it.'
'You drove her to Hell?' He sounds more surprised about that than the frozen salesman road.
'Sure. Wanted to know if I could.'
'And?'
'The Erics were ice-skating on it. Beez was yelling. She went on strike.'
Aziraphale laughs; Crowley smiles. Wonders if he can persuade Aziraphale to come driving on a proper ice-road.
