DISCLAIMER: Only Franz is mine; I do not own anything related to Good Omens other than a paperback edition. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this fanfictionfroma non-LCD, non-flatscreen computer; rather, I would type with a state-of-the-art iMac laptop. One of those nice ones with cool programs that allow you to make your own garage band or edit music.

"Pardon?" inquired the angel. "What was it you were saying?"

"I said, you don't get wings that way," said the demon.

"Oh. Yes," said the angel called Aziraphale. "Well, and why not, dear boy?" He was sitting primly at a small table in the Ritz tearoom, conversing with Crowley, although how they had gotten to be there he was not entirely sure of. "Pray tell."

"You don't get your wings by singing, it's tricky," replied Crowley, and withdrew his sunglasses. Then suddenly Crowley ceased to be Crowley—Aziraphale realized with an oddly muted chill that the person sitting across from him was not the demon he knew, but a pale mustached man with a look of terrible sadness in his eyes. "You get them by kissing," the man continued. "Tricky thing."

Surprisingly enough, the angel remained composed, thinking of his own wings. What a fascinating theory; unfounded, clearly, but fascinating nonetheless. Then he recalled some long-lost image of the demon's own wings, and blushed in embarrassment. The teacup shook in his hand, spilling a few drops of precious Earl Grey, and the maitre d'—looking strangely Franzesque—hastened over bearing cloth napkins.

Aziraphale awoke on the couch to find a near-empty bottle of red wine on the end table and his first edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray lying open on the floor. Taped to the bottle was a scrap of his best stationery, presumably torn from the pad, with the words Out doing errands; will be back soon—Franz scribbled in pencil. Remembering the night before, he sat up as fast as he possibly could and pursed his lips in disapproval. Franz had completely disappeared for almost... well, almost twenty-seven hours now. Where on Earth could he go for so long? Even a motion picture ended after two or three hours.

He shook his head, trying to erase the dream from his memory, but to no avail. The man's words hung in the air, floating around aimlessly and tickling his ears. You get them by kissing. Tricky thing. Such a preposterous idea Aziraphale had never heard in all his lives. And yet it seemed to snicker and increase in volume until all he heard was this one phrase, repeated over and over: Tricky thing... it's tricky. Tricky... tricky... tricky... Soon the word lost all meaning and it merely became a sound bouncing around his skull. It made sense, however, he thought, that kissing would be tricky. Heaven knew that love was tricky enough. That is, he assumed it was; he'd seen enough films and overheard enough conversations to understand the difficulties and dualities of the concept.

Contrary to what one might believe, angels were not specially equipped to deal with falling in love. Aziraphale may have had an abnormally deep understanding of love and its inherent emotions, but at the same time he knew very little. Being created with a profound love and compassion for all living things had its downside, like everything else on Earth. His infinite capacity for love was the exact reason why he couldn't love—he could love everything to an extent, but was almost entirely incapable of loving any one thing more than all others.

It was then, while lying on the couch and looking disoriented, that he decided to get up and do something he hadn't done in a while.

Humans, he thought, did not quite realize how lucky they had it. Today at St. James, for example, the number of visitors was not nearly what it used to be; the ducks circled the pond looking dejected and hungry. In sympathy Aziraphale strayed from his intended meander around the park and stood by the water, producing a loaf of bread from his lapel. He tossed a piece of rye to an imploring young mallard and mused, stroking his chin. On the other hand, it was kind of nice to have the park to himself. The quiet atmosphere(1) recalled his days by the Eastern Gate—beautiful in simplicity.

A cheerful young couple, twentysomething and holding hands, stopped by the pond and stood watching the ducks. The young woman, in typical romance-movie fashion, laid her head on the man's shoulder; Aziraphale felt like a bit of a busybody seeing this display of affection, but they had chosen to stand directly opposite him. Their identically euphoric smiles, however, shamed him into dropping the last piece of bread into the water and walking off.

He wandered down the path until he reached the gazebo. Perhaps the barbershop quartet, he supposed, would make him a bit less melancholy. Since seeing that couple he had been feeling somewhat lovelorn; although he disliked admitting it, he wanted to be the man with someone's head resting on his shoulder. To an extent, at any rate. After being surrounded by humans for several thousand years, one began to wonder what, exactly, falling in love would be like. For Aziraphale, who cherished compassion and love above all else, it was almost disheartening. He wanted to experience something like that; however, his angelic makeup had caused it to elude him. Ah, well.

The quartet was rather talented, wasn't it? The harmonies sounded surprisingly mellifluous coming from such novices. Then it struck him that one of the singers wasn't a novice at all—almost the opposite, in fact. "Franz?"

His cousin waved and broke away from the group, sauntering down the steps. "Why, hello."

"Where were you for the last"—Aziraphale checked his watch—"twenty-eight-and-a-half hours?"

"Out and about," replied Franz, waving a hand in the air. "Revisiting London."

"For over a day? Where were you last night, with drug people?"

"'Drug people'?"

"Well, you're my kin. I have a responsibility towards keeping you safe... or at the very least not inconveniently discorporated."

Franz sighed. He always had a spot of trouble lying to the angel. "If you insist on knowing, I went to see your demon friend."

Aziraphale's face registered massive astonishment. "Crowley?"

"Yes, Crowley. He's not a bad guy, really, for the eternally damned. And he likes you," Franz added earnestly.

Crowley himself was in his flat, feeling newly purged. Over the course of the last few hours he had managed to summarize almost every significant event concerning he and the angel since Eden, as well as the whole of the Armageddon affair. Freddie had sat in silence, nodding every so often—it turned out that Mr. Mercury was an excellent listener—and then proceeded to give Crowley a short pep talk (2). All of this made him feel a tad more cheerful than earlier, and he stood complacent for once as the visitor fixed him with a look.

"Who are you, Crowley?" Freddie questioned.

Crowley mumbled something almost unintelligible.

"Say that again."

"A guna fahsund lubaba" was all he could comprehend.

"Again."

"A good old-fashioned loverboy!" the demon shouted in dual enthusiasm and frustration. "Are you happy now?"

The visitor ignored him, rather responding with another question. "And what is it that you want?"

Crowley thought that perhaps he should not have revealed so much earlier. "To dine at the Ritz at nine o'clock as usual, where we always taste the wine and I pay the bill, right, and drive back in the Bentley."

Freddie smiled, and for a moment it seemed as though he were living. The doorknob rattled.

"And what are you to do now?"

Crowley didn't answer—there was a polite knock on the door and a faint call from outside. "Crowley? Far—er, -eddie?" The demon dodged around the visitor and went over to the door, unlocking it crisply. Franz stepped inside, his hair a little disheveled, as though he had just been tackled by an overzealous rugby player (3). "How are things around here?" he asked, clapping his hands together. "Everything going well?"

Freddie nodded and Franz reciprocated, nearly beaming. "Perfect! Just perfect, as"—he glanced at his watch—"you've got to get back, Freddie, I promised the higher-ups that you would be back by this afternoon. It's an awful amount of paperwork, you know," he added, glancing toward Crowley, "paperwork that increases if one doesn't return with their charge by the indicated time. Not that you are my charge here, Freddie, per se, but you know how things are with management. You know Debbie."

Freddie nodded dutifully. Yes, he knew Purgatory's receptionist for London very well. "If you want to chat later, mate, tell Franz and he'll set up a meeting." It was the afterlife's equivalent of Have your people call my people, the demon mused.

"Good day!" called Franz, smiling, and the two were gone.

Crowley was left standing in his pure-white living room, staring at the pure-white door, and he knew what he had to do.

(1) Excusing the amateur barbershop quartet in the gazebo, that is.

(2) Albeit one peppered with bombastic musical orations and grand arm gestures.

(3) Which, in actuality, is exactly what happened. Franz and Aziraphale had been strolling down the park's bicycle path when a large teenager, in the midst of an informal rugby game, leaped to catch the ball and landed right smack into him.