At the declaration that he intends for them to have a collection of instruments, Aziraphale smiles fondly. Truthfully he does have a collection, kept back at the castle where he raised Lancelot, safely tucked out of human perception. Humans just keep inventing new ways to make music, and he’s fascinated by all of them.

“Sundown tomorrow,” he purrs, relishing the gentle press of Crowley’s hand on his back. “When the sun’s gone down, we’ll hire a carriage. Ride through the night till we get to Florence.”

(Granted, there will likely be a touch of demonic magic involved so the journey doesn’t take them days on end. It’ll attract less attention and take less energy out of Crowley than if he were to suggest the two of them fly.)

“And then we’ll find a house, and a harp, and a bed with a soft coverlet. First order of business.”