"How's that treating you, angel? Hmm?" Crowley purrs, stroking the underside of her neck with long, blood red nails, and grinning like anything behind tasteful Gucci sunglasses as Aziraphale polishes off the last coveted bite of his hazelnut crepes. "Hit the spot?"

"Mmm, that was scrumptious." He wipes his mouth with his napkin, indulging in a long, contented sigh. "How is it you always know the best place to eat in every city?"

"It helps that you have very specific tastes. Besides …" Crowley shrugs "… I get around."

"I suppose that's true," Aziraphale says, voice tight, but with concern.

"It's an expression, angel! I don't mean anything by it!"

"But the states? Really?" He tuts with disapproval. "Couldn't Hell send you somewhere less seedy and corrupt? Like Sodom and Gomorrah?"

"It's only for a little while, angel. Besides, I'm doing all right. Believe it or not, I'm fairly inconspicuous here."

"Oh really?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow as a drink appears in front of Crowley, delivered sheepishly by their waiter.

Crowley looks at the sweating flute, filled to the brim with five dollar champagne, and groans. "Let me guess," she says, sliding it across the table to join an ever growing army of unwanted alcohol. Crowley didn't even know those words could go together until recently when Anthony decided, for fun, to troll what remained of the 80s as Antonia. "Compliments of the man at the bar?"

"You got it," the waiter says with a teasing sort of sympathy. "You want me to send him packing?"

"Nah, that's all right. We'll handle it. But thanks."

The waiter nods at her and Aziraphale, then speeds off, avoiding the bar at all costs in case the man in the Miami Vice suit and cheesy haircut tries to grill him for details of his brief encounter.

"Again?" Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder at Crowley's persistent admirer. The man beams Crowley's way, crudely popping maraschino cherries in his mouth and winking suggestively after each one. He catches Aziraphale's eye and scowls, curling his lip and growling in a ridiculous display of faux alpha male behavior. Aziraphale shakes his head and turns his back to him. "That's the fifth drink in the past hour! Can't you do something about him?"

"He's not one of my assignments," Crowley says, pushing the glass further out of the way. "I've been looking forward to having dinner with you. I wouldn't double book. He's just your average, everyday asshole trying to get with me."

"And who can blame him." Aziraphale gazes across the table, expression of worry (and maybe some jealousy) softening. "You look stunning, my dear."

Crowley's jaw drops a trifle at the unexpected compliment. "Do you … do you think so?"

"Absolutely. Red is definitely your color. You should wear it more often. Such a nice change from all that dismal black."

"I was originally looking for an l.b.d.," she explains, crossing her legs and draping her skirt over her knee, smoothing down the silky fabric, "but this one called out to me."

"Thank goodness you answered."

"Hello, gorgeous," a new voice intervenes as Miami Vice suit and cheesy haircut slides an empty seat over to the table and sits down, so close to Crowley she has to lean back to avoid an elbow to the chin. "Come here often?"

"Not at all," Crowley says, "and after tonight, never again."

"My name's David."

"I couldn't care less."

"Has anyone ever told you you're stunning?"

Crowley rolls her eyes at Aziraphale who makes an 'I told you so' face, gesturing at her dress. Crowley giggles. "Why no. No one ever has. First day on this planet, you know."

"Feisty." David grins, too much teeth and too little lip. "I like that. And I'm digging the accent. What is that? English?"

"Dutch. Pennsylvania Dutch."

"Sexy. Look, I've been watching you all night long …"

"We've noticed," Aziraphale says. "It's getting quite annoying, actually."

"… so," David continues, raising his voice in an attempt to squash any further commentary from Aziraphale, "why don't you ditch the loser over here and come party with a real man?"

"Oh! Do you know any real men? Then, by all means, send them over! I've only found the one so far …" She gestures to Aziraphale, the angel smiling so hard his dimples have become permanent. "Must be some sort of dry spell."

"Funny," David deadpans. "I don't know if you realize it, but you're being kinda rude. Now, I'm willing to overlook that …"

"Oh, please, don't," Crowley says. "I'm begging you. I'm being all sorts of rude on purpose and I want you to look it straight in the face …"

"I'm a nice guy here, but I don't think you're picking up what I'm putting down …"

"Likewise," Aziraphale interrupts. "Look, David, as fun as it's been watching you get shot down like a …" He turns his attention to Crowley mid-sentence "… how did you put it, my dear? In the garden way back when …?"

"A lead balloon?" Crowley fills in.

"Ah, yes, a lead balloon. Thank you."

Crowley blows him a kiss. "Anytime."

"So as I was saying - as fun as it's been watching you get shot down like a lead balloon, this young lady and I were enjoying a nice, quiet dinner. Now won't you please be off so we can continue?"

"Okay, Grandpa," David snarls, "I've had just about enough of you. If you're not paying for her time, then I suggest you back off!"

"Excuse me?" Crowley scoots her chair towards Aziraphale and away from David a foot.

"Right," Aziraphale says, clenching his jaw. "Are you tired of him yet, my dear?"

"Beyond. Do you want to handle this, or should I?"

"I recommend you do it. I'm not in the right mind to be kind."

"Okay then." Crowley turns to David and snaps her fingers, putting him in a trance. "You and I had sex in the bathroom," she says, implanting the suggestion in his head. "I was fantastic. You were disappointing. You have kind of a …" She waggles a pinky finger in front of his eyes and makes a disgusted face. "I didn't finish. You finished prematurely. You're going to be thinking about that the rest of the week at least, making you unable to perform in bed for anyone, even yourself."

Aziraphale adds, "In other news, you are currently so racked with guilt, you'll go home to your wife, confess everything, and let her slap you in the face multiple times. Then you'll give her all your money and your assets, sign over everything in her name, and devote what's left of your pathetic existence to tending to the poor. Now, be gone with you." Then he snaps his fingers.

Crowley turns to him, thoroughly impressed.

"Nice touch," she says, biting her lower lip as she watches David get up in a daze and stumble from the table, muttering, 'What have I done? Wha-what have I done?' "Savage."

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale says, meeting Crowley's glowing yellow eyes with a proud gaze, "I learned from the best."