It was quite a lovely day to speak of. The sky wasn't so much gray as murky blue and the wind had abated to a mild zephyr attempting only to blow off the hats of unprepared gentlemen as they exited the stone buildings on the busy London street.
A gentleman in a pale gray suit exited his Soho bookshop, making sure to carefully flip the store sign to "Closed" and lock the door before he left. He then pulled out a map, frowned slightly over the illustrations of tangled streets and intersections, and touched a spot lightly with his finger. Sighing, he folded the map and stuffed it back into his jacket before making his uncertain way down the street.
Ten minutes later found the gentleman seated quite uncomfortably on an underground train. He had no idea how depressingly filthy the floors in the public trains were, nor how people didn't seem to mind being jam-packed in a moving vehicle, leaving no room for personal space.
"Sorry," a stranger told the gentleman, after stepping on his toes due to a sharp turn.
"No problem," the gentleman said, looking at the footprint left on his polished shoe. Next time, he was just going to ask for a lift. The whole public transport experience was something he hadn't tried since 1863, the first year the underground was used. Back then it was all squeaky clean and the passengers were honest working men, not hobos looking for somewhere to doze off during the day.
He quitted the train gladly and pulled his map out again. Three streets and two misdirections later, he found his destination. Smiling proudly, he rang the flat with the name "AJ Crowley" affixed next to the doorbell.
"Who is it?" came the familiar voice.
"Who else would it be? Aziraphale."
"Why did you have to get here so - manually?" Crowley asked the proud Aziraphale, now sitting on his couch and looking curiously around at his flat.
"Just curious. We've lived here so long and yet do you realize how much we haven't experienced?"
"You're acting like it's going to be the end of the world tomorrow," Crowley said, opening his fridge to offer Aziraphale something to drink - problem was, everything in his fridge was way past the expiry date and although such trivialities would not give Aziraphale the slightest stomachache, he figured it wasn't, well, very stylish to offer a guest Coca Cola that had expired in 1965.
Aziraphale glared. "A few days ago such was the case."
"Oh, come off it. The legions of both Above and Below are a little worked out right now, if you ask me. It'll take another millenia for them to get it together, and by the time they are ready to launch another Armageddon fit of fury earth will probably be extinct due to a meteor strike or some other unpredictable event."
"Nothing is unpredictable. Not to Him, anyway," Aziraphale stated, as if there was no debate to this well-known fact, leaving no loophole for Crowley to counterattack his claim.
The demon shook his head and said, "Look, no point hanging around this flat, it's got nothing in it." (And by "nothing" Crowley meant nothing besides fully furnished rooms, technologically advanced hardware, and expensive artwork.) "Let's Ritz it."
Without objection, the angel followed the demon to his 1926 Bentley and got in the passenger seat.
"Just like old times, huh?" Crowley said, grinning demonically (not that he was capable of grinning in any other way.)
"Just like old times," Aziraphale affirmed, sliding a Bach tape into the Blaupunkt.
"Without Freddie Mercury, though."
The young woman looked at the little white stick in her hand - there were two red stripes on it, clear as day. She tossed the stick into the garbage can in front of her, and it fell among half a dozen similar sticks, some with red stripes, some with digital readings of "Positive" and some with green plus signs on them.
"Oh, shit," she swore, pulling up her jeans. She flushed the toilet and went to get the phone.
She dialled a number scrawled on her palm and waited for someone to pick up.