When Aziraphale first saw the advertisement for Madam Tracy's Tailoring Emporium and made plans to visit the place, he never anticipated the door to be opened by a woman with bright, flame-red hair and equally bright, flamboyant clothing. He definitely never expected to be greeted with a rambling monologue about "stress relief" or a "leather pinny."

Nor did he expect, upon shooting down that particular offer, that she would then change tacks and, instead, start in on a discussion of "pulling aside the veil" and "communing with the spirits."

Nor did he expect, upon shooting down that offer, too, that she would switch to start rambling about a Witchfinder's army that had taken up next door.

Only then – when he finally got a nervous word in and expressed a little more of his intent – did she actually reach the real reason he was there. After that – with a comment of "Well, why didn't you say so?" that he didn't bother answering – it was a whirlwind of motion as he was pulled through no fewer than three different rooms, barely catching glimpses of scarves and blankets and tables and beds as she ushered him into the room farthest in the back.

Unlike the others, this room was quietly decorated, the walls a light brown, the floors carpeted in a thin layer of tasteful blue, and the clutter confined to racks around the edges of the room. Said clutter, such as it existed, did so in the form of various suits, all supported on hangers latched to small clothing rails. The only other thing in the room was a table with various supplies on it, and Aziraphale just caught a glimpse of a dressmaker's dummy before his attention was drawn back to the woman of the house.

She moved like an actress, confidence imbuing itself in every dramatic, flamboyant gesture, so wild that, normally, it would unnerve him. And yet, as she sat down in front of him on a small stool, looking over at him with a small smile and a raised eyebrow, he could see just enough beyond the drama to feel surprisingly comfortable in the softly humming room.

And so, it wasn't with trepidation that he watched her open her mouth to speak, and it wasn't with fear that he contemplated his answer. Rather, her friendly "Well, then, duck, and what can I do for you today?" simply led to an all-too natural, "I'd be much obliged if you would help me find a new suit."

Friendly as she was, he was most certainly not expecting her mouth to open soundlessly as she shifted forward in her seat and examined the suit he was wearing, much less for her to exclaim, with something bordering on outrage, "But, pet, this is an antique. You can't destroy a lotto-win like this one." She paused, tilting her head with a theatrical flourish. "Geronimo - oh, sorry, dear, that's my spirit guide - says something else is going on. You're with us, now, dear. Spill."

"Well, my dear… I'm afraid it is rather a long story." He looked to her, but she nodded, so he continued. "Well, I suppose…" He took a fortifying breath before continuing, words leaving in a rush. "My name's Aziraphale Fell and I'm currently attending Heaven Law School…"

Tracy interrupted, eyes widening. "That's a good school!"

"I'm very much inclined to agree. However, I came out here to visit my one true love, Gabriel, and now he's… well, he's… I mean…" His words ceased, the trail devolving into an anxious twisting of hands and nervous squint before he braced himself once more. "He's dating a veritable angel."

'Oh, come now… What can this so-called angel possibly have that you don't, hmm?" She paused, then snapped her fingers. "You know, my neighbor goes on and on about women with three nipples… Is that the situation, then?"

Aziraphale fought back a slight smile, then shook his head. "She's… well. She's serious."

Tracy was, apparently, absorbed in her original question. "Seriously, does she have three nipples? Mr. Shadwell could help you with that, I'm sure."

He smiled again, sadness making him unable to turn it fully genuine. "No, unfortunately, she's perfectly normal: a serious blazer with a sensible pant suit. That's what Gabriel wants; so you have to make me one."

Tracy clucked her tongue, frowning as she shook her head. "Do you know the number one reason behind all bad wardrobe changes?" Aziraphale shook his head, but she was speaking before he initiated the movement anyway. "Love. You're lost without it, I'm afraid. But losing your style isn't worth it, I promise. I know, trust me."

She reached over to one side of a clothing shelf, pulling out a small silver frame with the glass turned towards herself. "Normal doesn't pay the bills. I used to be right proper,you know. Normal blonde hair and cardigans and a scooter of all things." She laughed, a trifle sad, then turned the frame around to reveal a small two-wheeler with bright blue paint. "Gave it away in the end. Traded it to these four lovely chaps running a biker joint for the money for this place." She sighed, then set the frame back. "Regretted it immediately, of course, even as I bought this place, made some money."

"What happened?"

Tracy laughed, sounding a tad forced. "I went to buy it back, of course, but I'm afraid they wouldn't sell. Found it funny, I suppose, keeping an old thing like that around." She sniffed once, proper and staid. Then, she smiled, far more genuine. "Anyway… I promise you that it isn't worth it to through out style to fit in."

Nearly as soon as she finished speaking, a voice sounded from somewhere deeper in the house, the one-sided staggering of speaking and resting suggesting a phone conversation. Aziraphale just barely caught a flash of the conversation – something about books and a gathering of some kind – before the figure strode into the room, her imperious face unfortunately familiar.

Aziraphale couldn't help stiffening instinctively, but he kept his voice as calm as possible. "Oh. Hello, Michael."