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Crowley dropped Aziraphale off in Edinburgh and grumbled with barely hidden affection, "Yes, yes, I'll pick you up again when the Festival's over. Got to attend to some stuff in Manchester, meanwhile."
Aziraphale resettled his coat and bowtie, and nodded. "Mind how you go, dear," he said, and walked away into the crowd.
Crowley watched until he could only sense his presence, rather than see him with his eyes. Then he pulled out of his parking position to the tune of squealing brakes, made a rude gesture towards someone yelling at him, dropped a cassette in the player without looking (it didn't matter, they had all been in the Bentley for more than two weeks) and turned south.
I want it all, sang Freddie. I want it all, and I want it now!
Crowley hummed along absently as he put his foot down, and the Bentley's engine hummed along with him and Freddie. He wouldn't say he wanted it all, still less that he wanted it now, but there were things he wanted that were out of his reach. He wanted to be closer to Aziraphale. An admitted openly closeness would be pleasant, but with their bosses watching over them, it was unlikely. Still, they were damn near immortal, they had time. It had only taken five millennia of Crowley gently drip-drip-dripping away at Aziraphale's should-shoulding for them to go from barely talking to an Actual Arrangement, and another one to get to where they were now. Aziraphale would never admit they were friends, and if Crowley were wise he would never claim it, but they were friends in all but name.
Got to find me a future, move out of my way.
They sought each other out for company, they sought each other out for help with little things, they traded tasks where they could (or at least where Aziraphale felt safe enough to do so). Sometimes he didn't, especially after a visit to Upstairs, when his bosses had had a chance to grind their propaganda back under his skin. Still, it wore off if Crowley gave it time, if he picked slowly and gently away at it with tiny temptations. Little boxes of treats, a pair of tickets to a concert or a show, a rare book or two, a silver snuffbox. Lifts to places he wanted to go, careful signposting of loopholes so that he could pretend to find them himself, a bottle or two of wine to share, meals in little restaurents that knew his name (and some that didn't, yet).
And now, there were promises to look forward to. A picnic. A meal at the Ritz. A pledge that there was something there, something between them, and it would go forward if Crowley just let Aziraphale set his own pace. He could do that. He could inch along at his angel's heels for a millenia or three if that was what it took. He was content with what they had, and there was no hurry really. No deadline. Even work wasn't too much of a chore - the M25 project had gone down about as well as anything ever did in Hell, though he should probably start keeping an eye out for something else to put on his reports. Something to do with bugs perhaps. Flatter Lord Beelzebub and tie it in to the new millenium that would be starting in a couple of decades.
It ain't much I'm asking, if you know the truth.
Come to think of it, they were only a few decades off the first millenial anniversary of the Arrangement. Maybe Aziraphale would let Crowley take him to the Ritz to celebrate that. Not, of course, that they would call it that. Aziraphale would shuffle a bit and deny it, Crowley would wile, Aziraphale would agree under the guise of thwarting - the usual dance - and they could go. Celebrate the past, achieve one of the future promises. That might actually work. Yes, he'd try that.
Crowley grinned openly, with no one except the Bentley to see, cranked the volume on his music up, and snapped a little encouragement to his car so they could see exactly how fast they could go together.
Here's to the future, hear the cry of youth.