Chapter Text
Aziraphale settles into his first-class seat with an audible sigh. Oh, but he truly hates flying; the hassle of it, all of the bustle and the people and the rules! — as if he’s supposed to be able to pack his toilette in a carry-on for a six-month business endeavor! Three ounces, absolutely not. It’s become ridiculous. Plus, the Los Angeles airport is just ...despicable. Too large, too busy, too... too much. Then again, that applies to most of LA, by Aziraphale’s standards; he doesn’t often admit that he misses the calm of his old life in London, but the feeling’s still there.
He glances over to watch Warlock settle into his own seat. Warlock has traveled with him before, but he’s new to this first class deal - courtesy of the Food and Travel Adventures corporation, their new benefactor - and Aziraphale can at least enjoy the way Warlock grins at the seating and the space and the water bottle that’s been left for them. Back when Aziraphale and Warlock were doing this on their own, they flew coach on lines like the absolutely traitorous Delta; now, here they are, being offered a warm lemon towel and their choice of the drink menu.
Although - Aziraphale pauses - he’s probably wrong in that assumption; it’s highly likely that Warlock has traveled first class before, in the life he had before he became Aziraphale’s, well, employee. Well, it’s the first time Warlock has flown first class with Aziraphale, at least.
Aziraphale takes a moment to wonder what Warlock puts on those business cards he orders for himself. What’s the proper term: Editor? Manager? Personal Assistant? Aziraphale isn’t even sure he knows. What he can say is that Warlock Dowling has been earning his (recently bumped) salary and then some, these days. He’s so incredibly lucky this young man has decided to hitch his star onto A.Z. Fell’s rising popularity. There’s no way Aziraphale would be able to manage all of this nonsense on his own.
He’ll have to ask Warlock for a business card, Aziraphale decides, so that he’ll know how to introduce him at wineries. Maybe a few; he can mail one to the poor boy’s less-than-stellar parents in an attempt to make a subtle point.
Aziraphale takes a moment to murmur thanks to the lovely flight attendant currently offering him a pack of peanuts and a one-serving bottle of Laboure Roi Chardonnay 2017 Vin de France, which he expects to be truly awful and plastic-tasting; but he’d promised Gabriel that he would take the brief flight to San Francisco to write at least part of his first article for this endeavor, and Aziraphale’s not one to turn down wine.
Once they’re settled, Warlock grins over at him. The boy has a Bloody Mary; Warlock is unapologetically American, which should be a strike against him, except that Aziraphale finds himself quite fond.
“Everything alright over there, dear boy?”
Warlock’s grin grows wider. Boy might be a misnomer - Warlock has been with him for years, in a capacity growing from online editor to agent to personal assistant to Aziraphale’s increasingly chaotic life - but he’s younger than Aziraphale and tends to act it, all charming and sleek. His long dark hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail and he slurps through the straw of his drink loudly because he knows Aziraphale hates it.
“This isn’t my first time in first class,” he tells Aziraphale, and well, that settles it. His parents were — well, his father had been some sort of Ambassador for the United States, and his mother had apparently been a Professional Wife, and Warlock had likely experienced more of the blessed life than Aziraphale has, yet, in his entire career.
“I’m not asking your history, I’m asking whether you’re settled,” Aziraphale tells him; it comes out snippy, but that’s okay, because Warlock likes that Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard. Gabriel keeps trying to clean up the edges of his ‘image’ - whatever that is supposed to mean - somehow thinking that because Aziraphale is a soft high-British man who prefers waistcoats and trousers, he needs to present some kind of soft, friendly, angelic image. He gets that enough with his name, thank you very much.
“Yeah,” Warlock says, stretching his long legs out as far as he can. First class for a flight this short is a little ridiculous, but Gabriel had insisted on setting them up with all kinds of perks. He’s showing off, of course - Aziraphale may cultivate the perception that he’s a bit slow, but he isn’t stupid - since this is the first big project they’ve assigned to him since they picked up his work three years ago. Gabriel seems to want to show Aziraphale all of the perks that can be possible if he stays with FTA; his newly branded blog, A Taste of Heaven, has been quite successful, and for all Gabriel’s annoying qualities, he recognizes quality when he sees it. Thus: first class for a flight only a bit over an hour, and Aziraphale’s sure they’ll have some posh luxury car waiting for them in San Francisco for the drive.
Warlock breaks through Aziraphale’s train of thought. “How about you, alright over there?”
Aziraphale shifts himself in his seat, a little wiggle, trying to settle in a bit better. He’s neither as young nor as slender as Warlock, and he absolutely hates flying besides — but all things considered, it isn’t an absolutely abysmal experience. “I’m perfectly fine,” he says, but then he raises the little bottle of Chardonnay and gestures at Warlock. “Except for this.”
Warlock snorts. While A Taste of Heaven is possibly the blandest blog name Aziraphale can think of, and says nothing about the actual content - again, Gabriel’s doing - A.Z. Fell is known for a few specific things, and the most famous of those is his palate for wines. “Be nice,” he tells Aziraphale. “You know I hate reworking your meaner reviews.”
“They should let them stand,” Aziraphale insists, but this is an old argument between the two of them. Back when his blog started, he could post whatever he liked about wines, meals — and he did. Aziraphale isn’t out to be cruel to the food business, but he believes in honesty, and it always irks him when Gabriel or Michael rewords one of his blog posts to be more generically pleasant. Then again, he’s learning slowly in this business that it‘s considered a bit gauche to give a poor review to a brand that might someday be a sponsor bringing in money. It makes his blog writing terribly complicated, sometimes.
“Besides, I’m never mean,” Aziraphale adds, piously. “I’m simply being honest.”
“Az.” Warlock rolls his eyes, bringing an unnecessarily thick set of headphones up towards his face. “I am going to sleep for the next hour. Write your article, be nice, and wake me up when we’re there.”
Warlock is the only person currently allowed to call him Zira or Az or some other kind of short name; Aziraphale doesn’t really enjoy nicknames. He allows A.Z. Fell as his publishing name because it gives him a small bit of anonymity; he can tell the waiters and owners at the places he visits his first name, and it’s unusual enough that normally no one connects Aziraphale to the famous (famous! He still denies it) wine and food blogger. By the time he’s offering someone his credit card, they’re usually deep in conversation, and for whatever reason people rarely look at Aziraphale Fell and connect the dots.
Aziraphale waves a hand in the air towards Warlock, and settles in for takeoff with his little bottle of wine. He’s been given a plastic glass for it, which he uses mainly as a chance to try to aerate the poor thing; whites normally don’t take much air at all, but he isn’t really all that hopeful for the little overpriced plastic bottle. He’ll give it any advantage he can, really.
The aroma’s mostly mineral, as expected; that bright fizziness that hisses in the nose almost like medicine. But his first sip is surprising: it’s bright and hard with that mineral flavor, but it carries in a bit of citrus, lemon and grapefruit flavors which end up somehow harmonizing with that brightness, similar to a pinch of sea salt or the scent of wet stone. It’s far too harsh for a Chardonnay - it’s obviously bulk-produced - but as acidic as it has ended up, it isn’t as disappointing as he had expected. In fact, with the richness of the peanuts, it’s a sort of amateur match, and Aziraphale decides he’ll make Gabriel happy for once and write about it in that way.
He sips his way through the bottle while composing the plot of the post in his head; he might be known for his sensitivity to taste, but Aziraphale also subscribes to the theory that while life is too short to drink bad wine, decent wine should never be shunned. The first time he’d said that to Gabriel, wow, he’d gotten quite the shutdown; we need you to be a snob! Gabriel had emoted at him. We’re branding you for your palate and your good taste, Fell! Thinking of it now, Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the clouds moving along below them. It isn’t that he’s changed his ways at all; he’s just learnt to be careful about what he tells his new client / manager / whatever title Gabriel has decided to use on any given day.
Gabriel likes to play games. He’ll call himself Aziraphale’s manager one day, his boss the next, his director after; Aziraphale simply lets it slide. There’s a reason he has Warlock, and that’s to manage his actual affairs; he and Gabriel are on more equal footing than he thinks the other man likes. Then again, that’s an unfair thing to think about the man who has, singlehandedly, set them up for a six month writing vacation in America’s best wine region.
By the time he’s done with the bottle, Aziraphale is feeling the pleasant warmth of it in his cheeks, and he pulls out his current notebook to make notes. Yes, he’s moved on from the handwritten pages he used to give Warlock for transcription and posting when he’d first started his publication, mainly because Gabriel had insisted. But Aziraphale still feels that a good quality pen on good quality paper is the best way to note down the qualities in a wine and, more importantly, how it feels to drink. Warlock - who is in fact asleep, legs sprawled over an armrest and snoring lightly - would be rolling his eyes and telling Aziraphale to go direct to his brand new tablet, but Aziraphale can’t bring himself to leave the handwritten part of it out entirely. He’ll hunt and peck through his first article tonight, once they reach the villa, and everyone’s just going to have to be happy with that.
It isn’t that Aziraphale doesn’t like being able to post his own pictures and text, now that he’s learnt how to do it - again, he might be particular, but he’s not an idiot - it’s more that the more ‘freedom’ he seems to be given over his articles, the less free he actually feels while writing them. These days, his work starts in his handwritten notes and then is typed up into the drafting software for his shiny new blog. The text then goes through Warlock, who checks for any typos and adds the self-promoting kind of links Aziraphale can’t stand thinking about, as well as the tags and categories that make it easier for users to sort through A Taste of Heaven looking for similar posts. Warlock’s work then gets sent to either Ms. Uriel or Mr. Sandalphon for final approval and posting; Mona and John are the final editors that work with Gabriel to ensure ‘anything posted under the FTA name meets the high expectations and matches the brand the FTA family puts forward’ — whatever that means. Warlock has tried to explain branding to Aziraphale probably a dozen times. It isn’t that he doesn’t understand the concept; he just truly doesn’t care.
This is a dream job, though: being paid to go on an all expenses paid six-month vacation in California Wine Country? Where else on earth would Aziraphale end up with an opportunity like this? It’s absolutely worth the little hassles and hindrances to be able to pursue opportunity like this, and he knows that very well.
With this cheerful thought, Aziraphale makes notes about the little plastic bottle, keeping in mind he needs to avoid potentially upsetting any vendor that could become a sponsor. Happily surprised, he writes, in carefully curving script; certainly not to be compared to anything coming out of Burgundy (a gentle comment to appease his inner critic), but for a wine coming out of a plastic bottle, remarkably pleasant. Minerals and sharp citrus. Bright on the tongue. Pair with peanuts to get the most out of that nasal acidity.
His real mental review reads something more like: it isn’t hogwash, which means I drank it, which means I enjoyed it well enough. Needs to taste less like a Brillo pad. He’ll leave those notes alone in his mind for Warlock when he wakes up, though.
Wine consumed and notes taken, Aziraphale relaxes his seat back a few centimeters and settles in, shutting his own eyes. A brief nap before they land sounds absolutely lovely.
———
The San Francisco airport isn’t anything remarkable - same busy people, same airport stench, same clutter and noise - but it’s relatively simple for he and Warlock to make their way to the baggage claim, and then to the car rental. As expected, Gabriel has reserved some sort of luxury sport utility vehicle - why he thought they’d need to seat seven people is beyond Aziraphale entirely, although it does leave them plenty of space for wine - with multicolor LED lighting inside and a sunroof and a console that makes it look like a spaceship with real wood accents. Aziraphale leaves that all to Warlock; he absolutely abhors driving, while Warlock loves it, which is one of many reasons their odd partnership works out.
“A fucking Benz,” Warlock’s saying as they approach the sleek behemoth. “Gabriel gave us a fucking Mercedes-Benz. I will never get tired of this shit.”
“Language,” Aziraphale says idly; he absolutely doesn’t care and can himself be as foul-mouthed as the next young millennial, but he likes to tease Warlock about it occasionally.
“Bugger off,” Warlock tells him cheerfully in an absolutely awful British accent, and Aziraphale giggles despite himself.
It’s nearly two hours in the car, because Warlock wanted to take the scenic Route 1 up the coastline rather than the quicker, hour-and-change route through the midland. Aziraphale doesn’t mind; the coast is gorgeous, all rocks and sea and surprisingly lush greenery for this early in April. Specks of color mark where flowers are starting to speckle the landscape. Warlock opens the windows and sunroof and speeds terribly, as is his wont, occasionally whooping aloud when fresh sea air rushes through the windows. Aziraphale hangs on to his armrest and the handle and breathes very, very deeply.
The drive back east, into wine country, is even more intriguing. It’s made nearly entirely of hills and turns and hilly turns and turny hills and the kind of thing that might make Aziraphale ill to his stomach. Warlock’s need for speed has been humbled by the bulk of their vehicle, though, so what they notice most is the temperature. It’ll be near 75, and humid, and then Warlock makes a turn and heads down a hill and it’s somewhere round 50 and the heater’s on.
“Yeah, it’s the way it works,” Warlock tells him when Aziraphale closes his window for the fourth time and asks whether this is absurd. “Looked it up when I was checking out Route 1. The mountains make these little pockets — hot from the sea, then cool in the shadows. Pretty neat, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale thinks it’s inconvenient more than anything, but he admits it’s interesting. Part of why California’s wine country is so diverse, really; all of these little microclimates mix with the earth and the weather to create unique little spots all over that are perfect for some sort of grape varietal.
He’s quite exhausted from the car and the flight and the strangeness of it all, so when they first pull up to the villa, Aziraphale’s first thought is, oh, thank heavens. His second thought, much less charitable, is, what the bloody hell?
This isn’t a villa. It’s a mansion, almost: the sign reads Le Petit Voile, which is the name Gabriel gave them, but this is not what Aziraphale had been expecting in the slightest.
“Holy shit,” says Warlock, his eyes wide.
“Holy shit indeed,” Aziraphale echoes, which makes Warlock laugh. “Are you sure we’re at the right address?”
“Yeah,” Warlock tells him, waggling his mobile. “I just. Did Gabriel mention it was...?”
“What, a place that sleeps twenty-four? No, he absolutely did not.”
Aziraphale manages to get his stiff limbs out of the car and stops to stretch as best he can while Warlock rummages around in the back of the behemoth, pulling out the luggage they’d traveled with. He notes the lights are on, and steps up to the door to ring the doorbell as Gabriel had instructed.
It opens on a charming lady, already smiling at them. “Coo-ee,” she says, simpering and yet somehow genuine. “You must be Mister Fell and Mister Dowling! Do come in, I’ll put the kettle around, send the Sergeant out for your luggage, if you will?”
Aziraphale extends a hand, already smiling. “Aziraphale, if you please, ma’am.”
“Call me Tracy,” she tells him, with a flash of teeth: “or Madame Tracy if you’re a bit naughty.”
Aziraphale hears Warlock snort behind him, and moves out of the way to introduce his assistant. There’s an odd-looking old man pulling their luggage from the boot; this must be Tracy’s Sergeant. She’s already bundling them through the door, and the place is spacious and ridiculous all at the same time, and it’s absolutely as lovely as it is gratuitous.
“Come right through here, then,” Tracy tells them, gesturing, “it must have been a long day for you, dearies. Look, there’s a sitting room off to your right, the library to your left. This will be your main living room, as they say, and here through the dining room is your kitchen. I’ve stocked the fridge, like your man asked, do take a seat while I start the kettle.” Her accent is — not as stale British as Aziraphale knows his own can sound to Americans, but familiar; she’s from somewhere on the continent, although her vowels have rounded enough that Aziraphale can tell she’s been American for some while.
Each of the rooms Tracy points out is at least the size of the studio apartment Warlock had been living in, if not larger. The ‘main living room’ is more a great room, and the dining room table could easily seat twelve. The decor is a blend of the simple and the ostentatious, leaving the place with a charming and slightly off-putting feel. It’s lovely, Aziraphale has to admit, even if it’s not entirely his taste.
Warlock meets his eyes over the table as they sit and makes some kind of gesture with his hands that’s meant to encompass — heavens only knows what. Aziraphale shrugs, because what else can he do?
“I don’t think you’ll need a tour of the upstairs quite,” Tracy continues, starting up the burner on the stovetop and filling the kettle. “It’s just bedrooms and baths up there, plus a nice big room with a telly and some couches for relaxation. There’s a master suite right round that corner, Mister Fell, got it all nice and ready for you. Mister Dowling, all of the bedrooms upstairs are fresh clean, pick whichever one suits you.”
“Uh,” says Warlock. Aziraphale adds, “Thank you,” with what he wants to be a stern look; it just makes Warlock grin.
“Now, I’ll be round in the mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to do your housekeeping.” Tracy pulls four mugs out from a cabinet and sets them on the counter. “Right now all I can find is English Breakfast, lads, will that do?”
“That’ll do nicely,” Aziraphale replies, shooting a look at Warlock that should tell him you’ll drink your tea and be polite about it! Warlock, unashamedly American, normally drinks coffee or nothing.
“I do my shopping on the weekends,” Tracy continues as she pulls the kettle and pours the hot water, “so I’ve left a pad on the refrigerator. If you want anything extra, write it down and I’ll do my best to get it. Otherwise, I’ll just top off whatever you’ve used that week, come round Monday and make sure you’ve got a full pantry.”
“This is too much,” Aziraphale hears himself saying out loud, and immediately shakes his head. “I, em — I mean no offense, dear, it’s just that this is a lot of work for you. We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves for—”
“Nonsense.” Tracy gives him a sweet smile backed with steel. “First off, this is our industry, lovies, and you’ll let us do our jobs as we intend, no nonsense here. Second, it’s already up and paid for by your man. Wanted to spare no expense, make sure the two of you were well taken care of.”
Aziraphale’s mind fills with the unexpected image of hitting Gabriel with a book, but instead he merely says, “Right, then.”
“The Sergeant’s your maintenance man, then.” Tracy sets two mugs before them and brings over a sugar bowl and a little ceramic milk pitcher. They’re even sugar cubes, Aziraphale’s preference; Gabriel has absolutely gone round the twist. “Does the work on all our properties. If anything’s fudging up, do leave a note, or call if it’s an emergency. He comes round Mondays and Fridays with me, makes sure everything’s still running smooth as necessary.”
Aziraphale takes the spoon she hands over to stir his tea. It’s a bag, of course, but not bad; Gabriel must have made recommendations. The man may be an interfering busybody, but he certainly knows how to make an impression.
“Wednesdays we do linens,” Tracy continues, settling down into a chair with a sigh. The kitchen table only seats a respectful eight. “That’s bedding and towels, of course, plus whatever you leave for me in the hampers. Laundry services already paid up as well, dearie,” she adds, cutting off Aziraphale’s next question.
Aziraphale resists the urge to rub his hands down his face. He doesn’t need this Madame Tracy laundering his underthings. Gabriel! This is entirely too posh even for him.
“As you go on and adjust to some kind of schedule, if you end up needing any extra or different services, we can work something out. Your man’s left me quite a retainer,” Tracy says glibly, dropping a single sugar cube into her cup. “Anything you need, the Sergeant and I will be happy to provide.”
“Good lord,” Aziraphale says finally. “I wasn’t at all expecting anything this... lovely.”
“Oh, really,” says Tracy, with a breathy tone that makes him, of all things, blush. “We just hope you’ll be happy here.”
The door blusters open and in walks the Sergeant: elderly, although strong enough to carry both of their valises, grunting like an odd pig. “Ah,” Tracy coos. “Here’s my Angus, then, Sergeant Shadwell. Shadwell, say hello to our lovely visitors.”
“Hello to our lovely visitors,” Shadwell mimics back at her, but he does doff his odd hat at them once he sets down their luggage. “You’ll find the luggage you shipped in the living room, laddies. Good day.”
“Don’t mind him.” Tracy’s gaze follows the strange man out the door, an obvious softness on her face. “He loves this place like I do, he just doesn’t… Well. Anyway. Not his job to do all the talking, is it? Do you think you gents will be needing anything else this evening?”
Aziraphale is properly overwhelmed, and Warlock looks the same. “My dear lady,” he says, giving her his warmest smile. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’ve everything in a notebook, over there under the window, if you need. There’s directions in there, some recommendations, and - oh! - the wireless password, of course. And instructions for the hot tub.” She grins at them, winking at them both as she turns to leave. “Do phone if you need anything, otherwise I’ll be back Monday morning for your housekeeping. I usually arrive here around nine.”
Aziraphale can’t do much but nod as she takes her leave, smiling the entire time. The door shuts and he can hear Warlock exhale behind him.
“Well,” he says. “I guess I’ll go settle in.”
“I’m going exploring,” Warlock announces, dashing around Aziraphale to grab his suitcase and tug it towards the stairs. “No one on Instagram is going to believe this.”
Aziraphale pulls out the handle of his luggage and tugs it along around to where Madame Tracy had indicated. The master suite is, in fact, a suite: there’s what appears to be an honest-to-earth sitting room, portioned off of a bedroom twice the size of the one in Aziraphale’s LA apartment, and a master bath that consists of a sunken-in tub with jets that could probably seat six, and a shower that’s nearly an acre on its own. Heavens, but this place is ridiculous.
Aziraphale knows why. This is his first big deal with FTA, and Gabriel Archer is not at all subtle. Here’s what you can have if you can follow our rules! He’s telling Aziraphale, right up front. Years of this, and more, and all we need are your words. It’s also some kind of a threat, between the lines: this is also the least of what you’ll lose if you can’t keep up.
Aziraphale doesn’t want to think about that, though, so instead he drops his luggage into the bedroom. The sitting room has a lovely rolled desk, right beside a window looking out into the vineyards around the house, so he pulls out his trusty tablet and sets it up. A quick trip to the kitchens nets him the wireless internet password, and a few minutes later, he’s opening his inbox.
To: A. Z. Fell <[email protected]>, A. Z. Fell <[email protected]>
From: Gabriel Archer <[email protected]>
CC: Michael Rosa <[email protected]>, “Warlock Dowling” <[email protected]>
Re: WELCOME!!!!!
Hello, Az,
I’ve timed this email so that it’s the FIRST thing you’ll read once you settle in to Le Petit Voile — so WELCOME to WINE COUNTRY!!! I’ve visited a number of times and I am SURE you’ll have such a lovely time. As I’m SURE you’ve seen, we’ve set you up so that you don’t have to worry about a THING except your wines, your foods, and your WORDS!!
I know you don’t need the reminder, but you may already be drinking (Haha! And if not, why not!!!) so let me reiterate for everyone’s understanding: We’re expecting a post at least every two days, preferably daily, detailing what you’ve enjoyed that day for your readers. Ideally 85% of your posts will contain a review of either a winery, a wine, or a wine and food pairing you’ve enjoyed — this number needs to stay above 75%, or we’re going to have traffic issues. I’m assuming that won’t be an issue, though, because you’ve got SO MUCH out there. In addition, there’s that little book issue…. We’ll need a professional level first draft ready to go by the time your trip ends in October, at least 50K words describing the joys of Wine Country and why people would want to come and spend their money out there!! Don’t worry, though, you’ve got all 6 mo … even YOU can write at least 250-300 words a day, can’t you!
I’ll also expect an update on your progress once a week, preferably on Mondays, so that I have something to look forward to. Send your poor old manager some pictures along with those word count updates!!!!!
If anything comes up, contact us immediately. WE are here for YOU!!!
Have fun,
Sincerely,
Gabriel A. Archer
Director, Content Management
Food & Travel Adventures (FTA, INC, All Rights Reserved)
In the time it’s taken Aziraphale to make his way through this note, two additional emails have pinged their way into his inbox. The first is from Michael; the second, from Warlock, apparently from upstairs. Aziraphale first clicks on Michael’s, a reply to Gabriel’s email, sent privately to him.
Aziraphale — sending the good wishes of Gabriel’s email without the exclamation points. If you have any trouble, contact me first. -M
Warlock’s is also a private reply, simply saying WHAT AN ASSHAT!!!!!! Aziraphale snorts at it, but then deletes the evidence. This is the main reason he works from a Gmail account; of course he has an FTA email, but he prefers everything be sent through an independent inbox, even if Warlock scoffs at Gmail. Warlock gets his own share of ribbing back since he’s required to have a fancy complicated government email because of his father’s government work. This is a longstanding source of teasing between them.
Aziraphale sets the tablet up to recharge, and meanders out into the kitchen to see what sort of groceries a woman like Madame Tracy might have bought. To his pleasant surprise, most of it is fresh, vegetables and fruits, and the pantry cupboard is full of classic staples even Aziraphale should be able to manage. Food blogger he might be, but he’s certainly no master chef himself — that being said, even his clumsy hands can handle a pasta dish with some of these lovely fresh tomatoes he’s found in a basket in the pantry.
To his even more pleasant surprise, there’s a Chardonnay in the fridge and a Pinot Noir on the counter, both from some Hanna Winery; the note Tracy has attached to the Pinot Noir tells Aziraphale it’s one of their local favorites. He hums as he opens up the Chardonnay, tipping a splash into one of the glasses he finds after a few false starts. Oh, heavens, it’s a lovely nose, soft citrus and a bit of that vanilla warmth, all just in the aroma; it’s a combination that he hasn’t experienced before, either, something a bit wild. He spends a long moment breathing it in, and then decides that after such a horrid trip, they deserve a little treat.
“Warlock!” Aziraphale calls upstairs. “Come downstairs, dear boy, I’ve opened our very first bottle of the trip.”