Here's the next part.

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*Bloody weather*

Walter was distinctly under the impression that if there was a God, England was His testing ground for Noah's Ark, the Sequel. He had listened to the weather report this time before venturing out and rain had not been listed. But the minute he had pulled on his jacket to step outside, the skies had opened and sheets of water were now falling.

"Shut the bleeding door! You're letting the rain in!" bellowed his father from somewhere inside the house. "And remember to pick up the stationary cards. I want to do them all tonight."

"Yeah, dad."

"Don't forget," warned the low voice.

"Yeah, dad," sighed Walter. He recalled a vision of himself a few years ago when his father had shouted at him with that special tone of anger and indifference that only his father could mix so well. Walter had voicelessly mouthed a hundred curses to his father's retreating back and had barely held in the urge to mime punching his father with impotently flailing fists. Walter felt a slightly self-deprecating grin form on his face at the memory.

Grabbing a battered old umbrella for some protection, Walter set out for SoHo. Part of him wanted to hail a cab to avoid the torrents of rain. But the trip back to England had cost him quite a lot and he needed to save here and there so that he would have enough to catch the first flight back to America the minute this was all over.

The rain pelted hard against the frail umbrella. Its small diameter didn't give Walter much protection as he felt the front of his trouser legs dampen quickly. By the time Walter reached the SoHo area, his legs were soaked.

*Sod it. I'm taking a cab back* he told himself. As he walked in the direction of the stationary store, he passed a small, drab looking church. It's stained glass windows looked like it hadn't been properly cleaned in awhile, but Walter could still see the colors lighted up by the candles that burned inside the little stone construction. The contrast of the grim stone walls to the pathetic, but constant bits of colored light made the place look oddly cozy.

Walter had never given much thought to religion. It had always been a passing topic in his mind's eye when he had lived in England, but soon after his trip to America, he had gotten too busy taking in the New Country to consider anything else. But seeing the friendly looking church now, he decided to light a candle for his mother.

Upon opening the heavy door, Walter saw the church was empty, save for one occupant. Quietly leaning his umbrella by the door, he stepped toward the small cluster of candles to add another flame to the bunch. Despite his careful treading, he could hear his footsteps ringing throughout the chapel.

As he walked past the front most pew, Walter saw the only other person in the emptied place. His blond head was slightly bowed as he kneeled in front of the pew, caught in the middle of a prayer. He half-studied the huddled figure as he lit one extinguished candle. The man was wearing a rather shabby looking coat that looked like it had seen better days perhaps a few years ago. But it was dry and Walter guessed he had been in the church since early this afternoon. The body inside of the coat looked a little tense. Almost coiled to spring at any moment. There was something definitely familiar about the man, though.

Making a slightly clumsy sign of the cross, Walter hesitantly began to approach the still praying figure, trying to sift through his limited file of London acquaintances to figure out just why he looked so familiar. The blond shifted to cross himself to end his prayer when Walter suddenly recognized him.

It was the bookshop owner.

He looked exactly the way Walter now remembered him, right down to eyesore of a jumper he had on. "Excuse me?" said Walter, softly.

Abruptly, a pair of blue eyes looked up at him and recognition flickered quite clearly past the man's features. "Oh, it's you," he said.

"You remember me?" asked Walter, startled.

The man rubbed a tired looking eye with his hand as he rose from his knees to sit back on the hard wooden seat. "Yes, you once bought some travel books from me," he replied. "Mr. Kettich."

"Bloody hell, you have a fantastic memory," grinned Walter. "This is incredible! I've JUST come back from America and here you are." Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped down next to the man with a sudden rush of enthusiasm and gratitude. "Your books were brilliant! You really gave me the best of the bunch. Two days and I felt like I knew every state I visited like the back of my hand!"

A small smile drifted across the former bookshop owner's face, which strangely had the reverse effect of making him look more melancholy. Looking at him properly now, sitting dejectedly on the stiff bench in the pilling jumper and tattered old coat, Walter concluded the man was a sad sight indeed.

"If you don't mind me asking," said Walter. "What happened to your shop? I went round there just yesterday and now there's some computer store."

The other man looked mildly amused. "A computer store? Oh, I just finally sold the space. Many people were asking for it and…" he gestured vaguely. "I just wasn't looking to stay…in the business, I suppose."

"Oh," replied Walter. "Rotten luck." The former bookshop owner nodded in passive agreement. Walter stared at the silent man a bit longer. Under most circumstances, a person would have told Walter to stop staring as it was blatantly obvious that he was studying his companion. But the shabbily dressed man seemed to have forgotten already that Walter was beside him and was now looking blankly up at the old, dusty alter of the church.

There was something about the man, his countenance that made Walter feel like whatever problems he might have had in the present or past were absolutely no match. Looking at the defeated expression, he felt an odd desire to do something. His time in America had re-ignited Walter's former sense of helping his fellow man. But this case just felt different. Maybe it was because he had once supplied him with unusually good travel guides, but Walter felt like he owed a debt to him somehow.

"Look," began Walter. His voice seemed to startle the other man out of his downtrodden reverie. "I'm guessing other than the loss of your bookshop, SoHo is still more or less the way I remember it. I think there's a pub 'round the corner from here. Fancy a drink?" he invited.

+++++++++++++++++

"Bloody lies, I say."

"Oh, what would you know. You haven't seen nothing but that rock since you got here."

"At least I CAN see. My eyeballs weren't weren't trampled a century ago."

"You promised you wouldn't bring that up!"

"Shut your gob!"

"You're bloody lucky my hand at least sixty meters from here or else I'd give you a bashing."

"Oh, yeah? How'd y'see me to bash me?"

"For fuck's sake, SHUT IT THE PAIR OF YOU!!"

A disembodied leg in the near vacinity agreed with the last statement by kicking the two squabbling demons. Or rather the first demon's face that was partially fused into the floor and the second demon's neck that was sticking up at an odd angle.

"I still say it can't be possible."

"But it is. I heard the information came from Taph who's crushed in right by him."

"Taph?"

"Over in the Western Sector!" shouted a voice a few yards off. The owner of the voice, who was also apparently the owner of the kicking leg from earlier was now moving it, gesturing toward one direction.

"But it's impossible. Dreaming? That's ridiculous."

"That's what I thought, but it's true. Eight times now. Just nods off and he's mumbling. Dreaming and smiling and all. Taph's seen it."

"How does a dream get in here? Wouldn't Lucifier...well, wouldn't he prevent it?"

"Maybe he can't?" supposed the first demon, earning a kick from the leg again.

"Are you bloody mad!?" shouted the leg's owner from his position a few yards away. "Don't say that!"

"But he's got a point," agreed the other, albeit reluctantly. "A demon dreaming...now I've heard it all."

"But it's that snake. That native one. He's always been a bit funny," said the first demon.

"I never found him much amusing," sniffed the second demon.

"Not that way!" shouted the leg-owner, overhearing. "He means he's strange!"

"Oh, right. But isn't Lucifer going to do something about it?"

"What can he do?" called the leg-owner.

"I heard he's sent Crouch to look in on him."

"Ooohhh..." winced the second demon with some difficulty as half his face was smashed against a rock. "That's a pity. A real awful pity."

"Yeah, innit?" agreed the first demon, grinning. Had he still had this eyes, they would have been sparkling with tears of glee.

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More to come. Crowley finally gets some lines! Walter and Aziraphale get a drink. More brooding, more dreaming, more torture! Feedback will be extremely appreciated! Thanks and cheers.