There are thousands of mint condition first-edition beautifully bound volumes within Aziraphale's private collection, and none of them mention an intelligent gay English angel or his snarky yet approachable demon friend. It's probably for the better; whenever the two of them meet, strange things tend to happen and it was well documented that humans as a whole really tend to react toward strange things negatively. On occasion, they've even chased the strange thing with pitchforks and burning torches, but that was years ago. Time, however, is the equivalent of a spot of dust in the eye of a celestial being. A lot of things are, really.

(You can find Crowley mentioned in one book - just one - but not by name, and certainly not by appearance. And you certainly won't find the name 'Crawley' in the good book either, although the snake who once owned that name is still slithering about, except now in snakeskin shoes that he keeps in pretty good shape.)

The time is now 1969, and it's a cool autumn season in Westminster. The night before, Crowley had been slumming it in Soho, hanging out at the front of Ronnie Scott's until he got tired of wailing saxophones and left, taking a few seconds to turn all the lemons behind the bar into yellow limes before he did. He ended up on Old Compton Street, where he promptly allowed himself to get "drunk" with a couple of gay old cabaret boys and fell asleep in the back seat of his own Bentley, being insanely careful not to drool on the fabric of the seats.

Crowley is now walking around lower Westminster, nursing a foam cup of coffee and feeling grateful for his ever-present sunglasses hiding an unusually puffy pair of red-rimmed eyes when he runs into the almost irritatingly elegant angel stepping out of a whimsical book shop carrying a canvas bag and looking anxious to get home - that is, until he spots the demon and a smile spreads across his face.

"Oh, it's you, Crowley," Aziraphale greets. He takes a sniff of Crowley's drunken aura and winces. "Err, had another long night again?"

"Was making whiskey sours extra sour," Crowley grumbles. "And setting off a couple of car alarms after midnight. You?"

"Picking up a first-edition copy of Absent In The Spring from a fellow collector. Nice lady, Agatha. Think I made that bookkeeper's day, he's been trying to sell the book for years." They're soon stepping down the street side by side, acting as if they'd been sauntering together down the street for decades.

"So just a typical day for old Aziraphale, is it? Good for you." A stray beam of sunlight strikes Crowley in the eye, and he winces even with his sunglasses on. He usually recovers a lot better from migraines, but today just isn't his day. And to think, people have the gall to call alcohol the devil's drink. "And me without my camera."

Aziraphale tugs at the collar of his shirt. "Erm, well. I could fix that headache up for you, if you'd like."

Crowley swats away his friend's outreached hand with a frown. "Thanks but no thanks. Some of us prefer to suffer in silence." His eyes flicker over Aziraphale's morning get-up - all immaculate in his usual frock coat over a dark blue sweatervest with slacks to match - and can't be arsed to comment on it. "Besides, I've been told that pain befits my complexion."

"Your complexion doesn't need any more suffering for its benefit," Aziraphale says helpfully, and at the remark Crowley's complexion flares up in a very un-demonic way that clashes with his darkly colored suit. His pace quickens by a minute amount that only the keen eye of a fellow angel can detect, and he ignores the look of a well-dressed posh boy that passes by.

They pass seamlessly into St John's Wood, all painted villas and equally painted people. Aziraphale makes a comment about how some fictional man named Bingo 'originated' from the area, but it flies over Crowley's head. He's never been that big of a fan of satire, not when his own daily life feels like one. If his life was turned into a novel, he always mused, it would probably be all about Crowley, the littlest demon that couldn't even curse someone properly and was friends with someone from the holy side. It would be a major flop - or read like In Cold Blood. Maybe with more murder and bitchiness on behalf of the writer, though.

They pass by an older businessman exiting his home who gives the two of them a look, and Aziraphale wonders what he's thinking they're up to while Crowley just happens to twitch his eyebrow at the same time the handle of the businessman's briefcase snaps in two. When they're out of earshot, the angel asks the demon if that was his doing, and the demon puts on an innocent front - which he quickly drops after hearing the man cursing after trying to get into his mysteriously locked-from-the-inside car and smiles in a fashion that is almost wicked. It slips slightly when he hears the man's car unlock as if by magic and wonders why a certain someone is so intent on being good.

The sunlight brushes across the sky and strikes Aziraphale in such a way that it looks like he's haloed in soft light, and Crowley groans at the utter gooeyness of it. Then he notes mentally how the light brings out the golden layers in the man's blond hair, and he bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste a little blood. He isn't checking him out, mind you. Just appreciating his good friend's physical features, man to man. At least he isn't wearing one of those odd little turtlenecks that he likes so much.

"Are you hungry, Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice brings him out of his thoughts, and he realizes he is actually kind of hungry.

"The Ritz again?"

"Of course. Ride the tube or walk?"

Crowley frowns. "The tube? Seems a bit odd when the Ritz is almost right there. And my Bentley is . . . "

"Of course." Aziraphale looks a little disappointed. "Just thought it might be nice for a change. A different route to the Ritz, that's all."

"Oh, all right, get that bloody pathetic look off your face." The idea of leaving his beloved Bentley unattended in the poshy part of Westminster makes his stomach drop into his shoes, but the idea of spending the rest of his day around a mopey effeminate angel makes him want to crawl back through the gates of Hell naked and singing Lulu songs in a wailing falsetto. "But if there's any guitar players with open cases, don't expect me to toss in a coin."

"I'll toss in two to cover us both then." They reach the zebra crossing together; Aziraphale shifts the bag holding his latest purchase and looks brightly at Crowley. "You're not going to delay the train on the tracks are you?"

"With us on it?" Aziraphale lifts one eyebrow in mock surprise. "Heavens no."

Ignored by passer-bys as just flickers in their periphery, the two men walk across a zebra crossing shoulder to shoulder, unaware of the bearded man in the white suit slowly coming up behind them, and miss being caught in the photographer's frame by six seconds. That's all right; they were never one for making records.