The spaceship landed in the middle of Soho. Not that anyone cared. The minds of the people who bustled about on daily business had already explained the phenomenon away. Humanity continued on, firmly convinced that both the ship and its gray skinned alien occupant were Somebody Else's Problem.
Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged double-checked his list, dimly cursing the fact that the pair of rubber bands responsible for his sustained existence weren't higher on it. Once assured of the correct location, he determinately set out for the small dingy bookshop across the street.
The bookshop itself could have been considered by many to be Somebody Else's Problem as well, although for reasons that were far more esoteric than technological. This seemed to account for the large number of people who would pass by, seemingly unaware of the small little-used "Open" sign reluctantly lingering in the corner of the window.*
"Aziraphale?" The alien announced with crisp efficiency as the shop's bell jangled.
This drew the attention of the serene man sitting behind the counter. He had been serenely sipping a cup of cocoa and reading what was more than likely a serene book. Everything about him seemed to obnoxiously ooze serenity in Wowbagger's jaded opinion.
The serene man wasn't really a man at all. He was, in fact, an angel - one of the universe's small number of truly immortal beings and as such he instinctively knew how to deal with the inexorably passage of time. Wowbagger instantly loathed him as only a frail mortal mind that had been rudely thrust into an immortal body could.
"You," the alien paused, trying to put these sentiments into the most concise and insulting terms possible. "Are a complete bastard."
Aziraphale for his part was unsure of why this was an insult or even a surprise. He was, after all, used to hearing far worse from Crowley on a good day. His lips twitched into a smile that on any other being would best be described as sinister.
"So I've been told." He replied.
Whether it was the smile or the admission, Wowbagger suddenly recalled that he had some funerals to attend and some long tem investments required his attention in distant parts of the galaxy. His eyes scanned the room looking for the nearest exit but instead came to rest on the wall clock. He stared -transfixed- as its hands climbed slowly but surely onward to four o'clock.
It was a Sunday afternoon.
Dimly Wowbagger noted that Aziraphale had placed a second cup on the counter.
"Would you care to stay for tea?"
*Angelic interference did not account for this so much as the proprietor's notoriously offensive attitude towards potential patrons.
Chracters created by Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Used without permission.