Dec. 14th, 2006

Aziraphael had asked, somewhat plaintively, whether they had anything built to a normal scale in Vienna when he saw the hotel Crowley had booked them into - tall and imposing yet somehow graceful, effortlessly combining function and form in a way that he rather wished modern architects would take note of. The Imperial had originally been a palace and housed a Prince, of course, before it had been turned into a hotel, and he certainly had no trouble believing it; the interior was even more sumptuous than the Opera House had been.

He had felt altogether overwhelmed, when they'd arrived, and had tugged uncomfortably at his collar, attempting to straighten his tie until he'd caught Crowley's amused glance out of the corner of his eye. Any other time he'd have returned it with an embarrassed glare, quite possibly, but he'd found himself quite involuntarily with a rather ridiculous smile and had been forced to look away. So effectively did he distract himself in fact - as Crowley murmured to the receptionist in far more fluent German than Aziraphael had had at his disposal in a very long time - that he almost jumped out of his skin when a hand lightly grasped his elbow and steered him towards the lift.

Suites at the Imperial, apparently, come not only with 24 hour room service but with a butler, and the fact that Crowley's not even hiding how amused he is doesn't do a blind thing to dampen Aziraphael's enthusiasm. He asks for a paper or two to be brought in the morning, simply to see if they'll be ironed, and after their (impossibly good) late dinner is cleared away and they have settled on the settee with a bottle of (horribly expensive) wine, he reflects that there's really not a thing he can think of that could possibly have made the day more perfect.

It's not actually possible to tell whether he's realised that he said this out loud.



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