Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:

I wish I could say I owned Good Omens. Think of the ego boost!

Nor do I own Oscar Wilde. There's a quote or two sprinkled throughout the chapter (but only where appropriate, I hope.) I take no credit for his wit.

I was going to be a good girl and take my time going through the centuries, visiting more places, and be really interesting and developed about it all. But then the plotbunny for this chapter wouldn't stop bugging me. So, here it is.

:D CAMEO TIME.

In Which Aziraphale is Oblivious

London again. There was no good explanation for why Aziraphale loved the city so much. Over time, as the women had switched partlets for petticoats, and technology developed, as it became more and more crowded, and boys like Willie Hughes were replaced on the stage by women . . . well, he would have expected it to overwhelm him. But he'd really begun to think of it as Home.

That was dangerous. Heaven was Home. That was supposed to be a given.

Aziraphale was meeting with Crowley today. In about five minutes, actually. This was also dangerous, he expected. Crowley would be in London for no reasons other than the ones Aziraphale was supposed to deplore. Thus, Aziraphale should, by all logic, be ready to prevent this.

That wasn't how it worked anymore, though. Crowley didn't stir up too much trouble where Aziraphale was trying to do good, and Aziraphale didn't thwart any more sternly than necessary. For a long while, they'd each been carefully unaware of what the other was doing. That time was fading. Now they each knew where the other was and what they were working on. They tried not to discuss it, as it tended to be an awkward topic. But really, they shouldn't be talking about much of anything.

However, Aziraphale found that he --dangerous as it was-- enjoyed the demon's company. And so, when Crowley had suggested they meet at a cafe that afternoon, he'd accepted with only the faintest of misgivings.

If he really wanted, he could probably justify this to Heaven. Call it a conversion effort. The idea made Aziraphale smile. What? Would heavenly light . . . rub off on the demon? (1)

Yet more danger. The consideration of lying to Heaven.

It was not long until he reached the café. He found Crowley with some difficulty-- his friend was seated at an outdoor table, and it seemed to be quite crowded with people. The crowd seemed to be centered around a dark-haired man who lounged as if draped across his chair. As Aziraphale drew nearer, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke, edged with another smell, one he did not recognize. It weighed heavy on the air. The man made large, languid gestures with his free hand as he spoke.

Aziraphale reached the table and stood, listening.

"-- and not for some time after her death was it discovered that Aunt Jane had quite forgotten to send out any invitations!" Laughter rose from the gathered crowd about him. He leaned back further in his chair, and then halted. He blinked.

"And who might you be?" he questioned.

It took a moment to register with Aziraphale that the question was directed at him.

A familiar voice broke in. "He's a friend of mine," said Crowley, standing. "Mr. Wilde, I'd like to introduce to you my friend Mr. Ziraphale. And this," he told Aziraphale, "this is Oscar Wilde. You may have heard of him?"

Aziraphale had not. He smiled faintly. "Ah . . . yes. Oscar Wilde, the, ah . . ."

"The writer," Crowley supplied, with a slight amused twist of the mouth.

"Yes. I'm, ah . . . pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilde."

Wilde nodded, taking one last drag on his cigarette before dropping it and crushing it beneath his foot. He lit another immediately. "Have you any other name, Mr. Ziraphale?"

Aziraphale went slightly pale. "Pardon?"

"Your given name."

"Oh. Ah . . ." Aziraphale bit his lip, thinking. "It's . . ."

This was not a common question. Generally, "Mr. A. Ziraphale" was quite enough for most people. Now Aziraphale was stuck wondering what, according to the deeds to his house, the 'A' stood for.

"His name is Adrian," Crowley said.

Mr. Wilde quirked an enquiring eyebrow. "Poor memory?" he wondered.

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. "Ah, yes. I suppose so."

"Well," Wilde said. "Do take a seat, won't you? Join us."

Aziraphale glanced about. There was not an empty chair in sight. Wilde glanced about, and his gaze settled on a pretty young lady wearing a broad-brimmed hat. She stood. "Well," she said. "I really ought to be going. I can't be idling about here all day."

"No," said Wilde. "I expect you should be idling about somewhere else very shortly."(2)

The young woman blinked, and then the words seemed to settle into her mind. She laughed, pleasantly surprised by the joke.

Aziraphale took the now-vacated seat, folding his hands before him on the table. "So . . ."

"So, is your friend going to tell me anything about himself, Crowley, or will you speak for him?" Wilde wondered aloud. "If I must never hear it from him, I should prefer to invent my own ideas."

"I assure you, they'd be more interesting," Crowley informed him.

Aziraphale glared.

The writer laughed. He seemed to be studying Aziraphale, his pale eyes half-lidded, but still intense.

Aziraphale coughed. "Well," he began.

"Yes?"

"I, ah . . . I own a book shop."

"A book shop. Fascinating."

Crowley grinned, and quickly forced his amusement down.

Smoke curled around Wilde's face as he spoke. "A cousin of mine owned a book shop once," he began . . .

It was many hours before the scheduled meeting finally ended. Aziraphale slowly relaxed, the tension working its way out of his shoulders and his voice. He listened intently to the writer's stories, and tried not to wonder too much just what Crowley seemed to be laughing at. When Wilde at last stood and announced that he absolutely must be off, the ground was littered with cigarette butts, and the table still full of nearly untouched plates.

"Hardly seems a point to staying now," Crowley mused. He had not quite managed to smother his own smirk.

"What ever is so funny?" Aziraphale demanded.

"Absolutely nothing," Crowley replied. "Nothing at all."

"I know you, Crowley." What a terrifying thought! considered Aziraphale. "And I know that right now, you are moments away from falling over laughing."

Silence. Then, the edge of amusement softened slightly, Crowley said, "You realize why he was so interested in you, don't you?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. I don't know what it is you're thinking of, but I expect he found we had something in common."

"Angel," said Crowley, "If you knew anything about him, you wouldn't be so quick to say that."

Aziraphale frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"The man will someday drink himself to his grave, he's got terrible taste in his friends, and that smell you were wondering about-- in the cigarette smoke-- that's opium," Crowley informed him. He paused for a moment. "But he's a genius. There's no denying that he's a genius."

So . . . why was he so interested in me? Aziraphale wondered.

Aziraphale was not, exactly, an aesthete's dream. He was certainly no Adonis. He was an angel, and angels are beautiful. But he was, after all, inhabiting a human body, and that body was not particularly extraordinary. (3) However, there was something that made people remember him as such. Maybe it was a little bit of halo creeping through that made his hair seem like gold.

Crowley only once more invited him to spend time around the writer. The next time it was at a smaller, less respectable establishment. The heavy opium-smell was thicker around Wilde this time, and he drank absinthe the whole night through. Aziraphale choked on the cigarette smoke, and never quite managed to relax.

His fascination crept down into a quiet corner of his mind, rather disheartened suddenly.

Crowley seemed to note his glum expression, and offered a sad smile.

"A genius," Aziraphale said later, as they were leaving.

"Indeed."

"I could help him," said the angel.

"No, you couldn't," replied Crowley.

He was right, of course.

Humans had a tendency to destroy themselves. And once they were really, truly determined to do so, there was no stopping them.

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose . . . I mean, you didn't . . ." he trailed off.

"No, angel," replied Crowley. "I've had nothing to do with it. The drinking, the opium, the rent boys . . . all been going on long before I met him. He did it himself. Truly brilliant people often do."

"I know." Aziraphale had already known the answer. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved, or frustrated. He'd have liked to blame someone. But not Crowley. He paused. "Rent boys?" he queried.

Crowley laughed. "Of all things, angel," he said. "That's what surprises you?"

(1) Aziraphale had often wondered, as demons are only fallen angels, if it were possible for one to fall in reverse, back to Heaven. If not, what happened to demons who thoroughly displeased Hell? . . . Then again, Aziraphale decided, he'd rather not consider that question.

(2) For clarification's sake, not mine. Wilde's. Taken straight from "An Ideal Husband," and given Wilde's love of quote-recycling, probably at least two other plays and a short story.

(3) For example, his eyes could only be compared to the sky on a rather miserable day.

Authors rarely improve without feedback. Rescue a story: concrit today!

I'm not sure if this chapter actually advanced anything within the plot of the story, but it has been nagging at me for a long while now. And I do like some of the things that happened, characterization-wise. I'd like some advice as to this bit. Was it a bad idea to use Wilde's name? Would it have been better to create an original character, similar to him? I liked the idea since Aziraphale collected Wilde first-editions in the book. What think you?

To those of you who've left feedback already, thank you very much. It's so nice to hear people's opinions on a story . . . and useful, as I've corrected a few errors people notified me of in previous chapters!