Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Here I am. You can call off the hounds.”

Anthony J. Crowley and his irritatingly unbothered voice strutted into the courtroom fifteen minutes late, as he was wont to do. Treating the aisle as his own personal runway and drawing the eye of all present, he was a slinky, swishy apparition of expensive black fabric, slightly tanned skin and perfectly styled red hair. Definitely not the sort of attorney you’d expect to see in such dreary circumstances.

Aziraphale, who had turned towards the door the moment it had opened, unhurriedly stood up and returned his gaze on the gold letters glittering ominously above the bench – IN GOD WE TRUST. He discreetly smoothed his tie, rolled his neck and exhaled under his breath. Only when he felt he had a good enough grip on himself, the reproachful yet detached expression he’d been cultivating specifically to deal with the man firmly in place, did he turn slightly to watch him approach out of the corner of his eye.

Because Anthony J. Crowley was nothing short of a nuisance, a thorn in Aziraphale’s side, a bloodthirsty predator. His specialty? Smelling weaknesses from a mile away and exploiting even the mere hint of one for his nefarious purposes. Which were plenty as well as infuriating.

From the perfectly tailored three-piece black suit he was wearing over a crisp shirt of the same colour (honestly, even his ability in finding garments of the exact same shade of black was impressive), to the slim black tie he always paired it with, to his swanky black briefcase, all the way down to his designer ankle boots and matching black leather belt, Anthony J. Crowley was a sight to behold. Even the faint sheen of sweat on his brow could do nothing to make him look less sharp, more human.

He was the sort that set Aziraphale’s skin alive with approximately six thousand little annoying fires no matter how hard he tried to convince his body to behave. And tried he had ever since the first time they’d faced each other in court (this was seven cases ago, by the way, not that he was counting or anything).

Anthony J. Crowley had nothing of the overworked public defenders Aziraphale was used to dealing with. Anthony J. Crowley was expensive, in possession of a law firm bearing his name (and his name only) and the reputation of being efficient, ruthless and shamelessly desecrating. Recent developments suggested he had a moral code too which, all things considered, was probably his worst crime to date.

That very first time they’d met in court, Aziraphale had found himself lamenting to the judge about the man sporting a pair of sunglasses (after politely asking him if he was wearing them for medical reasons – Aziraphale was not a heathen, thank you very much). The glee Mr Crowley had answered him with, explaining that these were not, in fact, sunglasses, but just prescription glasses with light-adaptive lenses that were going to turn a perfectly respectable shade—“if only ADA Fell had the patience to wait for it” – had told Aziraphale everything he needed to know about the man.

He fed on attention, thrived on getting a rise out of people and he had no problem gloating, and gleefully at that, whenever he succeeded.

Aziraphale, who hadn’t yet learned his lesson back then, had made the grave error of scoffing indignantly while blushing at the same time (never in his life had he been accused of being impatient), something Mr Crowley had noticed immediately, as perfectly demonstrated by the toothy, smug grin he’d flashed at him.

The worst part was, the moment his glasses had turned transparent, those six thousand little fires licking at Aziraphale’s skin had doubled in both number and intensity, with Mr Crowley seemingly aware of this pesky little detail at all times, as demonstrated by the delighted looks he kept aiming towards Aziraphale.

Six cases later, Aziraphale had learned to not engage, to keep his composure and look at the man as sparingly as possible, though he was powerless to stop the occasional eye roll here and there. He was only human after all, and Anthony J. Crowley’s specialty was playing his nerves like Mozart played the harpsichord.

“Mr Crowley, you’re fifteen minutes late,” the Honourable Judge Metatron declared in that even, deceptively soft tone of this. “Very poor form considering you’re the one who requested this last minute hearing.”

“I’m terribly sorry, your honour,” said Mr Crowley as lightly as only someone who didn’t know what ‘terribly sorry’ even meant could. “Traffic was hell, and the heat… oof.”

He turned to his client, a young man with light brown skin and tightly curled hair who was sweating profusely in his seat now that his mother had retreated to the gallery. Mr Crowley gave him a friendly pat on the back before exchanging a few words with him. Aziraphale couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was enough for some of the tension in the young man’s shoulders to soften a bit.

Personally, Aziraphale found it much better when Mr Crowley stuck to shark-like grins and borderline rude shrugs. It was already hard enough to ignore him without him throwing acts of kindness into the mix, really. How dreadfully inconvenient.

Thankfully, Muriel, Aziraphale’s colleague, shifted in their seat next to him, diverting his attention from the man. Muriel was clearly on the cusp of saying something to move things along. But that wouldn’t do, Aziraphale knew, because any sign from any of them acknowledging how disruptive Mr Crowley was being would only go to the man’s advantage.

So Aziraphale gently nudged their shoulder with his elbow and slightly shook his head. Muriel glanced up at him and sighed, but eventually busied themselves with reviewing their notes about today’s hearing and the motion to dismiss the drug possession charges against Mr Ramirez. The plea bargain had unsurprisingly fallen through the moment Mr Crowley had replaced the public defender first assigned to the case, much to Aziraphale’s dismay (and relief, but he didn’t like to think about that when he was in court).

“Shall we begin?” judge Metatron asked.

Mr Crowley pulled out a black monogrammed folder (how gauche) from his briefcase and shrugged as though he’d been only marginally responsible for the delay. “Sure thing, your honour.”

(The black-rimmed glasses were almost completely transparent now, and no, they didn’t soften his features at all. They did something rather despicable to them instead, something Aziraphale would soon find an appropriate word for.)

Aziraphale cleared his throat and said as evenly as possible, “We’ve been ready for some time, your honour.”

It was a matter of a split second, probably nothing more than Aziraphale’s brain playing tricks on him, as it always did when he happened to face Mr Crowley in the courtroom. 

As annoying as it was, Aziraphale felt the moment Mr Crowley’s eyes landed on him. Every time he hoped it would be the last, only to be denied any such reprieve the next time he found himself in this unpleasant situation. Because Mr Crowley’s attention was like electricity zapping the surface of Aziraphale’s skin, static energy buzzing all around him. Aziraphale could swear Mr Crowley’s attention was a thing he could hear, touch, smell, taste – not that he could or had or even wanted to, mind. But he felt it all the same.

He knew it, his body knew it, even Mr Crowley knew it, damn him. His whole brand was getting under people’s skin, of course he knew what to look for.

And yet, the man always found a way to surprise him.

“Objection, your honour,” Mr Crowley said, which was ridiculous enough a statement for Aziraphale’s head to snap in his direction with an aghast expression on his face.

So much for being cool and detached, Aziraphale scolded himself.

“We haven’t even started yet,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but bite back from his side of the room. “You can’t possibly have something to object to.”

Mr Crowley’s face split into an insouciant grin. “And yet I do.”

Judge Metatron sighed. “What are you objecting to exactly, Mr Crowley?”

“No one informed me ADA Fell had grown a beard,” Mr Crowley said as though that was a perfectly reasonable grievance to air out like that. Then he furrowed his brow and he turned to Aziraphale, who was doing his absolute best not to blush like a fainting maiden. “Really, Fell? That’s what I call a cheap shot.”

See? Abominably insufferable.

“My facial hair is none of your concern, Mr Crowley,” Aziraphale said as loud and clear as he could. He straightened and rolled back his shoulders for good measure. 

“Isn’t it? Well, care to explain why I feel attacked by it, then?”

“Forgive my bluntness, but that’s something you should probably discuss with a therapist.”

The glimmer that sparked to life in Mr Crowley’s light brown eyes – now perfectly visible through his glasses – could only be described as utter delight. Aziraphale made a point of not abusing the word ‘hate’, but good lord – he so hated the man.

“That’s not very nice,” Mr Crowley pointed out with a little pout.

“You should know something about it,” Aziraphale shot back before he could stop himself.

That’s the thing with Anthony J. Crowley: he was maddeningly skilled at chipping away at Aziraphale’s truly impressive well of self-control.

“Order please,” judge Metatron interjected, already bored by their antics.

“Should we approach the bench?” Mr Crowley asked gleefully.

“Stay where you are,” the judge said. “I’m ready for you to present your motion. We haven’t got all day.”

Yes, this was good. Jumping right into the nitty-gritty of things.

“So is the objection to ADA Fell growing a beard sustained or not?” Mr Crowley piped up after a second. “I still think it counts as badgering the defence.”

Aziraphale scoffed, Muriel giggled next to him and judge Metatron fixed the man with the most withering of stares. “For the last time, let us get back to the case at hand, or I shall have no choice but to hold you both in contempt,” he threatened, sounding nothing if not exasperated. “Let’s start.”

They did.

The prosecution presented their reasons why the motion to dismiss the charges against Mr Ramirez should be denied.

And Mr Crowley did what he did best.

He completely annihilated them.

Aziraphale would have loved to say he wasn’t expecting Mr Crowley to be the first thing he would see the moment he stepped out of the toilet, but that would have been a lie. (Aziraphale was very good at them, actually. Lies, that is. Such as: his stomach didn’t flip every time he turned to find Mr Crowley’s gaze already fixed on him, and there was no such thing as a victory thrill going through him whenever he had reason to believe he too held some sort of magnetic pull over the man, and he absolutely didn’t think about these things when he was lying alone in his bed at night.)

Mr Crowley had developed the terrible habit of following him around after their hearings. To gloat mostly. Possibly assert his dominance as the best attorney between the two of them. Most probably to annoy Aziraphale some more. (If there was such a thing as ‘badgering the prosecution’, this would be it.)

“A fellow as successful as yourself should find a hobby that does not involve lurking in bathrooms while other people pee,” Aziraphale said as he approached the sink. “If it’s not too bold to say.”

He ignored Mr Crowley’s half-sprawl on the counter, tucked his vintage leather briefcase (which he had been keeping in tip top condition ever since his uni days) between his legs and proceeded to wash his hands as carefully as possible. Problem was, he could ignore the man all he wanted, but he could still feel his gaze boring into him. Very annoying, that.

“You’re not other people, Fell, and it’s not the pissing that does it exactly,” he mused. “Not that there would be anything wrong with that. In fact, is there a particular reason your mind immediately went there?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips to stop himself from scoffing and finished rinsing his hands. “You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. It’s not like you were literally waiting to ambush me in a public toilet.”

“Ha! That’s exactly why I like you so much, Fell. You’re a little bit of a bastard.”

Flustered against his better judgement, Aziraphale turned his back on Mr Crowley to dry his hands as pointedly as possible. The loud whoosh of the air drier was a balm for the soul, a shield of sorts, short-lived as it may have been.

Unfortunately for him, when he turned back around Mr Crowley was still there, staring at Aziraphale like he was some sort of decadent cream-filled pastry ready to be devoured. (Oh gosh, he was projecting again, wasn’t he?)

“If you think I’m interested in hearing what you have to say about my character,” Aziraphale began as calmly as possible, “well, do I have news for you.”

This didn’t deter Mr Crowley in the slightest. Nothing ever did, in Aziraphale’s experience. Any bit of attention he earned only served to spur him even further down his evil ways.

“So, what’s with the beard?”

“None of your business.”

“Did your one-hundred-fifty year-old barber die unexpectedly? May Someone rest his soul.”

“My barber’s a she, actually, and she’s still quite alive. I’ll be sure to pass your regards to her.”

“Oh, so it’s an intentional style choice. Very interesting. It suits you, you know? It’s curly like your hair.”

“Well, at least we know your prescription glasses are working.” And so was the beard, because it was doing a pretty good job of hiding most of Aziraphale’s blush, judging by the sneaky glance he managed to steal at himself in the mirror. 

That is until Mr Crowley tilted his head to the side and gave him a slow once-over that made Aziraphale wish he could grow a beard all over his face. He didn’t even care if it went over his eyes at this point, he would have done anything to smother that prickle he could feel wreaking havoc all over his skin.

“Doesn’t that clash with the fancy English solicitor thingy you’re going for?” he said after the longest of seconds. “You know, tapping into the Americans’ love for Holmes-type figures. And English accents too.”

Aziraphale swallowed and lifted his chin. “I don’t know what you mean.” A less experienced Aziraphale would have argued that Mr Crowley was also half-British, but he now knew that such a retort would only result in the man pretending to be absolutely appalled before gracing Aziraphale with an extremely obnoxious rendition of Flower of Scotland.

“Oh, come on. Let’s not play this game. It’s no fun when you play dumb.”

“You’re no fun.” How very mature, Aziraphale.

“Ha! Yes, that. I like that.”

“Stop it, Mr Crowley.”

“‘S just Crowley, how many times do I have to tell you?”

Aziraphale sighed and forced himself to divert his attention back to the mirror. “Can I help you with something?” he asked, keeping himself occupied by fixing his tie while also carefully avoiding his own stare.

“‘M sorry I got in the way of another conviction. Your boss will be pissed.”

“I don’t see how that’s your problem.”

“‘S not, but still…” Mr Crowley gave him another appraising glance, something clearly bothering him. “Are you sure the beard isn’t meant for something? You’re not going into politics are you? ‘S already weird enough an old-timey English chap like you has decided to live in New York and work for the worst institution in the whole wide world.”

“Yes, you’ve made your point abundantly clear. Repeatedly.” And Aziraphale had just as repeatedly fired back, which had brought him approximately… well, nothing but a slight headache and even more guilt churning in his gut.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing here, is all. Aside from trying to give innocent kids a criminal record so you can boost your boss’ success rate.”

Aziraphale could feel it, his self control, slipping little by little, careening towards his arsenal of trite, well-practiced arguments that echoed in his head with a voice that sounded a lot like Gabriel’s. “Mr Ramirez was found with–”

“He works at a community centre,” Mr Crowley cut him off, more serious now. “He requisitioned pot from a bunch of fourteen-year-olds and he called the cops because he didn’t know what to do with it.”

“He refused to cooperate,” Aziraphale heard himself say, stilted even to his own ears.

“No, he refused to give the kids’ names to the cops, so the cops took it out on him. He’s basically a kid himself, a good one.”

“Good people can make bad choices.” He had to believe that.

“So? Should they have their lives ruined over them? Or they should, but only if they’re called Jesús Ramirez and not, say, James Raleigh?”

“Mr Crowley, I’m in no mood to be having philosophical–”

“This is not philosophy. This is real life, real people.”

A very familiar mixture of frustration and shame struck Aziraphale like thunder, because how dare he! “You’re one to talk, Mr Crowley. You’re a corporate lawyer.”

Mr Crowley’s eyes widened in mock-shock. “Fucking hell, who told you?”

“You’re just bored enough to do some criminal defense on the side.” And if he did so at the behest of several organisations who helped provide legal representation to people who couldn’t afford it, well… that didn’t make an impression on Aziraphale at all.

“Wait. Does this mean you’ve made inquiries about me?” The way Mr Crowley pronounced the word inquiries, in a long off-putting hiss, practically made Aziraphale’s frayed nerves sing with… something.

“No. I just happen to be around when you strut down the corridors and become the talk of the New York Supreme Court.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Rumour has it you have a forked tongue.”

Mr Crowley’s smirk turned mischievous. “Imagine the possibilities.”

“Either way, I’m not going to let a man who sold his soul to the most despicable big corporations of the country lecture me on what is appropriate and what is not.”

“What can I say? I have expensive tastes. And defending the little guy doesn’t exactly pay for my Hermès boots. Doesn’t pay for anything, really.”

Aziraphale gave him a side-eye glance. “You’re one of those, aren’t you?”

“People with taste?”

“People who think that high quality equals hefty price tags.”

“That’s not always the case.”

“Exactly.”

“But it is sometimes the case. Besides, I’ve got morals. Granted, not many. But some. I only help big corporations go against other big corporations. If there’s one thing you can count on is that you won’t find me dead on the wrong side of a class action.”

“How noble of you.”

“I just like to see rich, mostly white men in fancy suits rabidly go at each other’s throats. ‘S entertaining. Sue me. And, as I said, it pays the bills and buys my designer stuff.”

“Very inspiring.”

“You, on the other hand, work for the worst guy around.”

“Gabriel is hardl–”

“I meant the federal government.” Of course he did. “I mean your track record is abysmal, so maybe you’re actually working against it? Is that what you’re doing?”

For the first time since he’d seen the man slip through the doors of the courtroom, Aziraphale felt a cold shiver run down his spine, freezing the wretched, hungry creature that came alive in his belly whenever Mr Crowley was around.

He pressed his lips into a thin, flat line and finally adjusted his hold on the handle of his briefcase, only barely suppressing the urge to look around and confirm that no one was here beside them, listening in on their conversation and the deafening pounding of Aziraphale’s heart.

“You’re rude and unpleasant,” Aziraphale heard himself say, harsher than he’d intended. “Not to mention a terrible sport.”

“Oof, you went straight for the big words. Really hurt my feelings with that last one.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and moved past him. He’d officially had enough. “Good day, Mr Crowley.”

“You know that feeling you had right there? The one that made your face shut down like that?” Mr Crowley called after him as Aziraphale pushed the door open. “You should probably speak to someone about it.”

Mr Crowley was right about this at least. (Oh, who was he kidding? Mr Crowley was right about a lot of things.) Only Aziraphale didn’t have someone he could talk to. A close friend, a partner, someone he could blindly put his trust in.

Or.

Well.

Technically, he did.

Too bad he lived inside his phone.

Aziraphale had met Mr Harrison (that was his name for that month) a little over a year ago, in the comment section of a Chicago food blogger that had gone viral for her rather scandalous variation on cottage pie. So scandalous, in fact, that it had spiralled into a flame war between her and several British ‘colleagues’, who had repeatedly and vehemently requested she take the recipe down out of respect.

Aziraphale had admittedly zero interest in bloggers and influencers, but he was a man born in the shadow of Buckingham Palace (VeryConcernedBritishCitizen had been his chosen moniker at the time) and he did so love good food, so he’d gone to pry, leaving what he personally felt was a perfectly reasonable (yet anonymous) comment where he reminded people that everyone was entitled to their recipes even if said recipes were fundamentally wrong and the bane of culinary arts the world over.

Mr Harrison (BigBeanEnergy at the time) had replied to his comment complimenting him on his ‘patriotic bitchiness’. Having failed to understand if the stranger was teasing or not and after much careful consideration, Aziraphale had quickly typed a reply – lighter on the patriotism, heavier on the bitchiness. BigBeanEnergy had immediately messaged him back, which later proved that he had been, in fact, teasing Aziraphale, but not unpleasantly.

Next thing Aziraphale knew, they’d gone on for two whole days, exchanging friendly barbs and reminiscing about the British things they missed the most, until the food blogger had kindly asked them to take their proliferating conversation elsewhere.

That was when BigBeanEnergy had introduced Aziraphale to something ominously called Discord. And well, it wasn’t like he’d planned to keep messaging this literal stranger for much longer anyway.

It had just… happened. 

And while Aziraphale would be the first to admit that it all sounded rather silly – something out of those dreadful reality programs from the early 2000s he stumbled upon during his insomnia-fueled late night channel surfing – he still maintained he could be granted extenuating circumstances here.

The thing was that, at least in Aziraphale’s experience, scintillating conversations with fellow countrymen weren’t easy to come by.

He wasn’t even sure it was about Mr Harrison being British, exactly.

Aziraphale had stopped missing the Old Continent almost immediately after moving to the States. He was fresh out of uni and had just accepted  a job offer his mother had secured for him through a family friend who owned a law firm in New York. Leaving his oppressive family behind and enjoying some much deserved independence had been rather liberating, even at the cost of spending well over a year studying US law and passing the bar exam (still the closest approximation of hell Aziraphale had encountered so far in his life).

And yet, after a few exhilarating months of freedom, it hadn’t taken long for his worst traits to catch up with him overseas and firmly plant themselves at his side. Inflexibility, indecisiveness, gullibility, a staunch belief in the well-meaning intentions of all forms of authority.

Independence had soured into solitude, solitude into isolation in the blink of an eye. 

Twenty years later, he was officially a dual citizen and here those traits still were, right next to him. It didn’t help that his most recent life choices – talk about euphemisms – had only served to isolate him even more.

Aziraphale was not what one would describe as an outgoing character and he didn’t exactly have friends. Coworkers? Yes. Acquaintances? A few. But friends? Those had been in short supply ever since he’d let Gabriel (whom he’d dared consider a friend until he’d known better) convince him to accept the job at the District Attorney office in Manhattan.

All this to say, it was no wonder he’d found himself spending his every night texting a complete stranger who had somehow managed to grab his attention through a screen and, even more astonishingly, keep it.

In fact, he was still keeping it.

Maybe it was the mystery of it all, the thrill of something harmlessly illicit. Citing professional reasons, Aziraphale had told Mr Harrison right out the gate that he would not be disclosing any personal information aside from his preferred pronouns. Mr Harrison had agreed and even suggested they move to Signal for some additional privacy.

In conclusion, Mr Harrison didn’t know where Aziraphale lived or what he did for a living, didn’t know why he hated his job so much, didn’t know what he’d been doing unbeknownst to anyone just so he could still look at himself in the mirror every morning without flinching in disgust. Just so he could make a change, albeit small and possibly insignificant.

But he did know about the important things: Aziraphale’s favourite desserts, his top five classical composers (Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Shostakovich, Holst), what sort of book he liked to read when he was particularly stressed, his favourite shades of yellow. Mr Harrison knew how to make Aziraphale laugh with his impossibly long, typo-filled rants, with his ridiculous habit of assigning them new names based on famous couples every few weeks, and he’d even taken on the impossible feat of finding him his ‘comfort movie’, forcing him into weekly ‘group watches’ whether Aziraphale wanted to or not (he always wanted to, only he was partial to a friendly spot of hemming and hawing before allowing himself to be coaxed into it).

Aziraphale chuckled to himself as he selected his own bottle of Châteauneuf-du-pape, just one of the many items in the shared wine collection they’d agreed upon so they could synchronize their tastings despite the distance. He uncorked it with smooth, well-practiced ease while he watched the three dots dance at the bottom of the screen. For how much he liked to grumble about it, Mr Harrison loved explaining things to Aziraphale. 

It had become a sort of weekly tradition. Wine, some nibbles, a film Mr Harrison had picked, Aziraphale’s bitchy remarks about it. It worked rather brilliantly, if he may so himself. More than that, some part of Aziraphale truly believed that without these little breaks in his daily routine he would have gone mad a long time ago.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat and the cheese board he was in the process of gently placing on his coffee table clattered on it instead. 

He tightened his grip around the phone – not his personal phone, but a specific burner one he used to chat with Mr Harrison and do, well, other things – and gingerly lowered himself on the sofa.

Sometimes, even more so as of lately, Mr Harrison would drop hints about his whereabouts, which seemed to change quite often. Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, Miami, New York. A little voice in the back of Aziraphale’s head had tried to suggest more than once that the man was trying to tell him something, maybe ask him to reconsider about never sharing their personal info or even meeting in person.

Whenever those little morsels of information came up, Aziraphale carefully tiptoed around them, anxiously ignoring them until Mr Harrison took the hint and silently agreed to move on.

For some reason, though, possibly because of the awful day Aziraphale had had, what with losing the motion in court and then having to face Gabriel’s condescending wrath about it, the idea that Mr Harrison was closer than usual put him in a rebellious mood, making his skin prickle with the urge to do… something.

So he typed.

Or more accurately, watched as his fingers composed a reply his brain had definitely not approved and would definitely not approve because–

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. And Aziraphale’s heartbeat seemed to fall into the same rhythm. There. And there again. Until…

No sooner had the idea solidified in his mind’s eye that his stomach sank, making him hurl himself off the sofa, impossibly flustered. 

Dear lord, what was he doing? Had his common sense all but forsaken him? 

The three dots’ dance was back in full session and went on for what felt like forever before Mr Harrison’s next reply finally appeared.

Aziraphale didn’t even think before jumping in again, succumbing to the urge of putting as many words as possible between him and that moment of weakness.

The Matrix did not, in fact, bring Aziraphale any sort of comfort. The premise was rather depressing, the cinematography almost completely devoid of colour and all that bending backwards made his back ache with phantom pains. 

So no, comfort had been the last thing on his mind. Not unless you counted how much lighter he felt that night when he took himself to bed and wished Mr Harrison good night before switching off the phone and tucking it in the third drawer of his bedside table.

It was nice, convincing himself he had this one corner of his life that was left untouched by all the unpleasantness marring all the rest. A sliver of something that was just his, a secret that made his chest and his belly thrill with fondness and warmth instead of the ice-cold bite of fear.

Sure, sometimes he did feel like one of those lost people talking to their phones, mistaking Siri, Alexa and all those AI voices for real life friends. Mr Harrison was real, though. There was a possibility he hadn’t been honest with Aziraphale, true, but he was real. He was, or he wouldn’t have offered to meet up.

Unless he’s trying to trick you, suggested the paranoid voice in the back of his head. What if he’s trying to play the long game here? What if he’s actually investigating you?

“That’s ridiculous,” Aziraphale said out loud, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his bedroom. “We met because of cottage pie.”

Maybe he’s just a catfish and he’s biding his time to ask you for money, insisted the voice. That’s quite a popular con with vulnerable lonely people like yourself.

“Or maybe he’s real.” Aziraphale’s feelings for him definitely were.

Go meet him, then.

“What if I don’t like him?”

What if he doesn’t like you?

“What if I lose the one thing I don’t hate about my life?”

Then take the blue pill. Lord knows you love to bury your head in the sand.

“You’re more than welcome to shut up.”

Go ahead. Choose your beloved blissful ignorance and–

Aziraphale slammed the open palm of his hand on the comforter. And why did the voice suddenly sound like Mr Crowley’s? How dare he infiltrate his mind like this?

“Get out of my head, you boor!” he screamed into the dark stillness of the room.

His voice echoed off the walls, making him feel extremely silly.

There was no one here.

Just him.

His fear.

A silent phone.

And no one else.