First things first: This fic is completely finished, all +60,000 words of it, and I'll be posting a chapter up every Friday. Thus, I'm not going to leave anyone hanging mid-way or something.

Those review things: are much, much appreciated! Really, like every writer out there I'm sure, I live for your reviews! One little comment can make my day. So, whether it's a small comment on something you particularly liked, or a long tirade on everything I need to improve on, let me know your thoughts!

With thanks to: my wonderful beta - A Mistake, for all the brilliantly helpful advice along the way, and also Sister to the Queen for being the best proof reader on the face of the Earth :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens, and neither myself nor Crowley own Titanic - whatever he may believe. I also cannot take credit for Paradise Lost or the two italicised lyrical quotes later on. Which is a shame, really.

And finally: You should know that quite a lot of the chapter names are from - or sometimes adapted from - the titles of the tracks from the Titanic OST by the fantastic James Horner. Most of the time these tracks really sit well alongside each corresponding chapter, so I'd recommend giving them a listen if that's your thing.

A Diamond Sky Above Titanic

- PROLOGUE -

A Century Lost

Crowley had been ordered to sink the Titanic. It had come from Beëlzebub himself, of the height of importance. The ship that it was said God himself could not sink, the symbol of mankind's innovation and technological prowess and scientific genius, was to be sunk by the Devil instead. Hope, optimism, ambition: they were all to slowly rust away on the bottom of the abyssal plain. He had got a commendation for his good work, when they'd made it to land.

Only thing was, Crowley had absolutely no memory of his time between Southampton and New York. Ten days of his life – an empty space. This did not bother him, though. He couldn't remember anything to do with Titanic for long enough to feel bothered. He knew that he had done his job, and that was just fine by him. It wasn't a big deal.

Aziraphale knew differently. Aziraphale's superiors had not been so hard on him: he could remember. For more than a century he had known the truth about what had really happened in those ten days of oblivion. Crowley would, in all likelihood, never know. His mind was not allowed to.

It was now four o' clock in the morning, on the fifteenth of April, 2012. What Aziraphale was currently doing was sitting on the stone footpath that bordered the docks of Southampton. His legs were hanging above the water, a metre or so below, and he was sitting on his jacket with his hands behind him, leaning against his arms. He was waiting for Crowley.

He was decades past the heartbreaking anguish of seeing the demon's obliviousness now. Tonight, on this terrible anniversary, he just wanted the company regardless.

In the distance, Southampton's port was starting to come to life. A touch of deep violet, so faint no human would have caught it yet, was tingeing the eastern horizon as the sun finally prepared to chase away the star-studded night sky. Behind him somewhere on a nearby road, a lone car swished past.

Aziraphale crossed his ankles the other way, sighed out a breath, and waited. He would wait all night.