WARNING
This chapter has a flashback to the 80's, with the AIDS crisis and a deathbed visit.

Tuesday Evening, outside a bookshop in Soho

All good things come in threes. Wise men. Aspects of divinity. Full-course dinners. It's no guarantee that they are good, however, as bad things have also come in threes since Hell invented the concept of shoddy knockoffs sometime around 4,000 BC. Heaven eventually retaliated by inventing copyright law, but then Hell founded Disney and that was pretty much checkmate.

You'd think that three good things and three bad ones means it all balances out, and you would be partially right. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes you aren't even sure which is which, as blessing in disguise can look a lot like its evil twin Greek gift. What's important is to remember that three is a holy number, and that angels are very particular about numbers.

There has been a total of three times when Aziraphale stood at his front porch and shook too hard to fit his key into the lock. The first was in 1862. Definitely a bad thing, no doubt about it. The second time was 1967, which was absolutely terrible but ultimately, it seemed, a good thing. The third time was just a week ago, when he found the rarest book on Earth in the backseat of Crowley's monstrosity. It did keep the world from ending, but he didn't get to keep the book, so the verdict is mixed on that one.

Those whose minds are so inclined will notice that the number three keeps coming back in the Book, that it's scattered throughout the text like dots lining a pattern of divine geometry that quietly repeats as pages turn. These people may appear to be mad, and could very well be, but it would be rude to presume.

It is dark before Aziraphale stands on his doorstep. The Thames is pouring fog into the streets, as if something is moving through London that needs to be hidden, and the old river heard their prayers in its sleep. It has always unsettled humans, the fog. It blurs lines and robs them of their points of reference in ways that have formed associations between fog and the supernatural, danger, and wandering lost. The same could be said of Soho, granted. And it could definitely be said that in the fog, Soho and its neon lights look positively otherworldly.

It is another world, Aziraphale thinks, as he tries and fails to sift out the right key. It's their world, it's just hard to believe it's happening. That he's making it happen. Aziraphale is a fine balance of anticipation and trepidation, where there is too much of both and the balancing scales are about to snap in half. Angels aren't in the habit of changing; the last major change he made in his life was installing electric lighting in his bookshop in 1912, and that was after 20 years of dithering. There are other things angels aren't in the habit of, too. Quite a lot of things, frankly, but courting demons is in the top three. The other two things in the top three are punishable by Falling.

It's a tipping-edge sort of moment, a feeling of teetering into the unknown, and Aziraphale is working himself into a frenzy with the practiced ease of a man-shaped being who has taken love thy enemy a bit too literally for the past few millennia.

It is appropriate, though. That he is on his doorstep a fourth time, key in hand and trembling too hard to find the lock. The geometry is about to be disrupted, a new page is about to be turned, and say what you will of panic but anything familiar is a welcome comfort.

Then there's a sound.

Most people, when startled by a sudden noise, turn around to search for it. Aziraphale turns his head up. It all happens in the fraction of a second: the snarl of nerves in his gut squeezes, his snare drum heart throws echoes down the street as he makes himself smaller, gives them less of a target for whatever is to come – harsh words or harsh blows.

There's nothing. Nobody there, not above him and not behind him.

Aziraphale's breath shudders out of him. A wisp stained with neon and fear. He wills the tension out of his muscles, soothes his corporation as he would a startled animal. His frantic thoughts aren't as easily convinced to release their death grip on anxiety. The mind is its own place, and all that. Can make Heaven and Hell manifest anywhere, especially if you've seen both. Especially if you can hear the thrum of divine wrath in your ears, cleverly masked as the rush of blood from your thundering heart. Six thousand years is a long time for fear and silence to carve themselves a home in one's bones.

There had been another time, on this doorstep. On a night of prayers and blurred lines. A tipping-edge sort of moment.

It's not uncommon for humans at death's door to say they see angels. Many times, they do. Things look different when you are fading slowly out of your body, like cold air seeping in from under an old wooden door. Things you wouldn't normally see appear more solid as you pass through the veil, and give rise to tales of angels coming to greet departed souls.

Aziraphale wasn't there as an angel. It wasn't duty. He was there because the patients in the terminal ward were part of his Soho as much as he was part of theirs.

And Soho was theirs.

It's a messy business, the birth of a society. There's no real plan. First come the homes, of various materials and ideas of living standards, then the afterthought of streets that frown at the concept of geometry, and the squares that are rarely actually square. The people who do the labouring aren't likely to receive credit for the end result, and at least one person deficient in self awareness will feel entitled to naming the place after themselves.

Soho was more of a planned conception. The gentry had eyed the muddy hunting grounds north of Westminster Abbey and envisioned squares and fountains and grand estates – even adequate sewers, which was saying something about the ambition of the project. Soho, at its time of birth, was meant to be a fashionable haven for the privileged.

It had been, for a while. Most things on Earth come with that disclaimer. Aziraphale had watched the rich and blue-blooded trickle away as the mirage faded and left Soho to destitution and disrepair. He had watched it birth itself anew, built up from the ground by the hands of people who had nothing yet were determined to make a place for themselves in the world even so. Over time the district had become home to refugees of every denomination: the exiles and the artists, the prostitutes and the poor. Elements society liked to rid itself of, like a farmer who keeps the finest fruit on display while throwing the bruised ones to the pigs.

It's a messy business, the birth of a society. You can't build trust from wooden planks, or turn bricks and mortar into camaraderie. It takes a wholly different kind of building blocks, that, and the residents of Soho found ways to craft them, each with their own unique skill set. From high and low, from the discreet gentlemen's clubs to the overcrowded rooftop tenements, they came together to knit that solid, intangible web that makes a society.

You couldn't avoid becoming a regular when you had lived in the same place for 200 years. Aziraphale knew the pulse of Soho like the beat of his own heart, and could trace a direct line from the members of The Hundred Guineas Club in the 1880's to the young men in those hospital beds a century later. He knew their faces, one generation after the other, the web continuous as old queens took fresh hatchlings under their wings and showed them how to gather their threads and knit. How to catch dropped stitches. Where to place anchors.

A.Z. Fell's bookshop had a reputation in Soho, everybody knew that. It was the kind that spread through silence and understanding looks, sometimes with a hurried whisper into the shell of an ear. It was never open, except when the hours at the edge of the night weren't dark enough to hide in. It was always open for those who needed it, one generation after the other.

The next one would grow up orphaned.

Aziraphale tried not to think of that when he pulled up a chair by the single hospital bed. It was a small room, reserved for patients like this one. It had a window facing West and would offer beautiful sunsets when the skies weren't too overcast. A complementary table had been brought in when the nightstand wasn't enough to house the flowers and the little greeting cards. Aziraphale recognised many of the names on them. He also recognised which names weren't there. Which visitors never came.

The man on the bed stirred, and Aziraphale pushed the thought out of mind.

"Mr Fell? You're a sight for sore eyes." He smiled, a motion that almost merged into the thin, white hospital sheets. "Haven't finished the book yet, m'fraid."

"I'm not a librarian, Keith, I'm not going to fine you. And anyway, reading isn't a race: it's a leisurely stroll in the garden in the afternoon sun." He softened into the chair, into that same afternoon sun that crept into the room. "How are you, dear boy?"

"Still kicking." A knowing gleam sparked in his eye.

"That you are," Aziraphale agreed. An old football joke from an old footballer who'd never quite given up the dream of playing the League.

"How's Nick?"

Ah. The young man with the green eyes and the poor taste in haircuts. They'd had a heated argument once, about whether or not slang had any place in literature, and they'd all roared with laughter when Aziraphale finally exploded that William would have bitten his thumb at anyone who lauded his works but was too uppity for slang.

Aziraphale exhaled softly, bringing the glow of the memory into his words: "No longer here, I'm afraid. They didn't tell you?"

Keith made a sound, of sorts. Tried to gesture his response but lacked the coordination for it. Morphine had a way of making things fuzzy around the edges. It was the smallest of blessings on a man beyond the reach of such, though it didn't have the good sense to blunt the edges that were sharpest.

"Bet you he didn't finish that song, then." Keith's throat bobbed when he swallowed the crack in his voice. The sheen in his eyes was not as easily dispelled. "Always told him to finish his fucking stuff before he moved on to the next thing."

"Including his boyfriends, as I recall."

Laughter wheezed out of him, like somebody had punched him in the chest: a startled thing that rattled the cartilage of his windpipe and triggered a fit of coughing. Aziraphale helped him sit and gave him a glass of water that had not been on the table. Drinking didn't go too well, between the coughs and the laughing and the hiccuping sobs, but the important thing was that Keith smiled. They had too much practice with crying these days, and far too little with smiling.

"You're a right bastard, Fell," he croaked and sank back against the pillows.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Aziraphale tutted and pulled the covers up over his thinned chest.

They talked about nothing in particular, like old acquaintances do, and joked in inappropriate ways like they always had. The pale light of streetlamps replaced the blaze of the setting sun and their quips took on another nuance of inappropriate, and everything was the way it used to be except it wasn't. Stitches were dropping, and there was no one to catch them.

Keith looked ever so slightly better than when he had arrived. Not good, but better: the lines on his face were less sharp, the glow of his soul more serene. He drifted off again bit by bit, pulled under by morphine and the pain it tried its best to dull.

"Thanks, Mr Fell. For everything."

One would have thought that a bookseller would possess a treasury of words: that a friend who had sat by so many hospital beds would know what to say in response. Aziraphale did not. Words had been his passion, never his craft. And there had been too many hospital beds. Whatever words he might have had had dried out, gone with each familiar face that left, and filled the hollow in his chest with something else. Not words. Not anymore. An unarticulated supernova grew where his words had collapsed, an unnamed pressure that choked much more than his ornamental lungs.

Soft scales whispered over the paved floor. Soft or heavy, Aziraphale would recognise those footsteps anywhere.

"Didn't wanna come too close before, in case – you know. If they can see angels."

The demon joined him at the bedside, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. He could have looked like a vulture, with his crooked, black brush-stroke of a body in the pale room; the flat, hard glare of his sunglasses; the slight hook to his nose. He could have looked like the plague doctors of the Middle Ages, heralds of death more than angels ever were.

He looked tired.

"S'like the cholera all over again." Crowley dragged his eyes over the thin body like one might pull a white sheet over the dead. "Found you here back then, too," he added in a barely audible mutter.

The cholera, yes. The fluttering memory of a few choice hints to a certain doctor with a sharp mind. Sometimes, miracles could be worked by human hand.

"You don't think you could…? Just one?" His words were small in the quiet of the hospital room. Small things were often missed. Perhaps, if his request was small enough, no one would notice if it was granted. If he didn't demand, maybe, if he were humble and pleaded, just one...

Crowley shook his head, a motion as small as Aziraphale's words. "They always keep an eye on the ones about to go." He didn't pace, mindful of the stillness in the room, but he swayed as if he wanted to. As if he feared he would be spotted if he were still too long.

Neither of them would be. There was no angel in Heaven or demon in Hell who cared to come all the way to Earth just to fetch a soul, not when it could be conveniently snatched up out of the ether once it had left its mortal husk. Aziraphale knew that, and for a moment he thought his chest would burst open and burn the world. Humans had been made to be loved, once. He'd been put on the wall for that express purpose, to guard them and love them like they were the greatest treasure in Creation.

Perhaps that command still mattered, even after their banishment from the Garden. Perhaps that was why this nameless pressure felt like it would tear him apart, too.

If Aziraphale were honest, he had always known. He loved the humans and their human things, their food and clothes and all the marvellous little curiosities they came up with. No one else did. Not Gabriel. Not Uriel. Aziraphale was never like other angels, and they had known that, too. That he was soft. That he was fussy. If they'd known that he had learnt to dance, as well, they probably would have disowned him entirely.

Aziraphale had bought the bookshop with human coin. He'd paid broad-shouldered boys from the docks to move the large, heavy shelves there for him, and then again to move the crates of books by horse cart. Had hired a local painter to make the sign above the windows. The bookshop was of Earth in every bit of its making, the very mud and brick and wood of it. Two hundred years carved into its bones, memories cupped like praying hands around this place on Earth he had made his.

Gabriel had come by just days before the grand opening. To tell him that he would be coming home.

He'd felt something tearing apart inside then, too.

A.Z. Fell's bookshop had a reputation in Soho. Everybody knew that. When he and Crowley returned to the shop there was spray paint sprawled over the front door, stark red letters that proclaimed God's hatred for the men in the terminal ward.

People tend to think of fire as the attribute of demons. It isn't quite as simple as that. Angels and demons are of the same original stock, the same original light that sparked all that is and was, and it is better to think of them as such. As stars.

It was not coincidence that Lucifer was called the Morning Star, and it was not coincidence that he went from white to red when he Fell. Of stars, the red ones burn coolest. It is a fire that bides its time, a cruel and vengeful thing that feeds on the slow torment of the damned and extends agony for eternities. The stars that didn't fall seem gentle by comparison, seem cold and distant, but the truth is they burn white-hot. That fire leaves no time for pain or regret. Heaven's wrath is swift, unforgiving, and Aziraphale was…

"Angel!"

Aziraphale was soft, and fussy, and, beneath layers of fragrant parchment and worn cashmere, he was of the Old Testament.

"Angel, listen, you need to get hold of yourself. Right. Now."

Crowley's miracle had followed immediately after, un-smiting what Aziraphale had done and muddling things to make it harder for their respective home offices to sort out. He snatched off his glasses, captured Aziraphale's eyes and held them fast. There had been no fog that night. Clear skies, electric lights, shadows cutting lines sharp and unforgiving across their faces.

"Get in, I'll make you cocoa, you pick out some nice book – recommended me tons of nice books, you did, and I never read a single one o' them, probably never will unless you sit me down and read aloud to me. Nice book with happy ending, yeah?"

"There won't be a happy ending, Crowley. Not for them." It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. None of it was, and the unnamed feeling within him screamed. "Rejected and abandoned and dying – for loving one another! For love, Crowley!"

They had been given love, unconditional and endless, the very heart of Her placed in their chests, and She had been given to all of them because anything else was unthinkable, unforgivable, because to deny someone love was to deny them to live. And they did this. To each other. To themselves. Fouled Her name, spat blasphemy on their gift, took Her words into their mouths and spoke as if that made them gods, and Heaven let them. For the Greater Good. For the Plan. Everything happening for the Plan. All deaths and pointless sacrifices forwarding the Great Plan in some ineffable manner.

"They were meant to love." It came out broken. Not words, not anymore. A mounting supernova. "We were meant to love them."

"Angel."

There's an elegant tale of what happens when people do things they shouldn't. When they can't resist that thing ghosting at the edge of their fingertips, at the back of their minds, the tip of their tongue: when they know that it's wrong, that it's bad, but they still do it. That sort of thing is called temptation, and the tale is of a woman called Pandora, and a box of things best kept locked away.

"Maybe there is no Plan." His voice unravelled in a rasp, the sound of crumbling mortar on a lid sealed shut and slowly pried open. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we all were. Maybe–"

"Aziraphale." Crowley grabbed hold of his shoulders.

They never touched. It had been an unspoken agreement for thousands of years, more secret than the Arrangement and more dangerous, too. Hereditary enemies didn't touch.

"Not one more word. No more questions, no more doubts, don't even think of it. Yes, they're dying. It's nobody's fault, no part of any plan! Humans die of diseassse every day!" A demon's eyes should not be able to do such things, Aziraphale had thought, as Crowley stared into him with snake-slit eyes that were infinitely soft. "And I know you love them. You know them by name, they come to your shop, you look after them like they were family–"

Aziraphale's chest tore with new sobs.

"Ssso mourn them," he whispered, ever so gently. "Mourn all you need, angel. But keep it to mourning. I don't want to see you questioning who is letting all this happen and why. I don't want to sssee you–"

Maybe he was forgetting himself, or maybe he let slip his glamours deliberately: when Crowley bit his tongue around the unfinished sentence, it was forked. When his eyes pleaded with Aziraphale, they were sulphur yellow through and through. There were scales shimmering across his face, scorched black with all the reasons why they hid from unseen eyes, why in 6,000 years they had never touched like they were touching now: why Aziraphale should swallow his words and hide them until the end of time.

"Crowley..."

He had almost ruined it then. He had almost been ruined. Had ached to touch him back, to reach for the one thing he knew was good and kind in this world, no matter what Heaven said. What did they know? Of suffering? Of family and rejection and moments stolen at the edge of the night, just to feel you had somewhere to belong?

It would have been easy, that time, if Crowley had been at all the demon he claimed to be. The slightest nudge would have tipped the scales and tipped the angel over the edge of that precipice; Aziraphale could feel it, too. The toeing of the line. The lightning charge around them, of air sucking in breath and preparing to let loose the whiplash strike of divine wrath. The taste of a rebellious tongue split to blood.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. Once. Twice. Clear his mouth, clear his mind.

"Thank you, my dear. I'm– getting hold of myself. Tamping me down. Pulling myself up by the bootstraps."

"Don't thank me." Crowley's fingers loosened, but his eyes held him as if he might crumble to dust any moment. He cleared the door and opened it with a snap of his fingers, led Aziraphale over to his armchair and miracled him hot cocoa and a handkerchief, and not for a single second did he take his eyes off him.

"What I don't understand is–"

"Angel," he clipped, low and tight.

"–the humans," he finished, feeling fresh tears heat the corners of his eyes. "How can they, Crowley? Their own children, and they just–" He dabbed the handkerchief at his eyes.

Sometimes the devil is in the details, and sometimes the details are in the devil – or in the devil's lips. Had Aziraphale not covered his eyes that time he might have noticed the tension that shuddered over Crowley's mouth, stopped at his eyes for a brief twitch and slid down in his shoulders, where it made itself at home.

"Nothing new, though, is it?" The demon resumed his restless pacing, carefully glaring any stacked books out of his way. "Too smart, too dumb, wrong nose, wrong job, wrong..." he flitted his fingers about for words, "socks. They can always find something they don't like."

"But it's cruel. And it's wrong. " Humans could be wrong. Were wrong quite often, in fact. Aziraphale swallowed thickly once more, just to be sure he knew what words were on his tongue. "This was not what the Almighty created them for." He choked a hiccup, drying more unbidden tears with the handkerchief. "What they're doing is wrong. They got it all wrong."

Crowley shrugged. The tension in his shoulders didn't budge. He hissed, but that didn't frighten it away either. "Does anyone know what She wants? All they got was that book and it's a confirmed train wreck: you of all people know it's a train wreck."

He waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Aziraphale's misprint Bibles, as if he didn't know how much the angel coveted those books. Not that angels covet. They love things, and some things they love very deeply and very specifically in ways they do not discuss with other angels.

"It is quite clear, if only they'd bother to read," Aziraphale defended.

"In Old Hebrew."

Aziraphale's lips pursed. "I will concede that the translations are somewhat–"

"Like a game o' Chinese whispers."

"–unsatisfactory. We tried to fix that with the update and the no-translation policy."

"Then the humans misread that, too, and you know what the real problem is, with all those messages your lot passes down? They're so damn boring."

"They're not boring!"

"There's a whole book dedicated to numbering turtles and pigeons and that is boring. Nobody reads all that stuff! They skip to the juicy bits, they cherry-pick what they like – who even picks out the cherries, they're sour and nasty – anyway, they miss all context, and when they get to Sandalphon's report on that stunt back in Sodom–"

"Sandalphon is a–" Whatever had been about to come out of Aziraphale's mouth, it caught in the thin line of his lips. "A hands-on fellow. With little regard for... context."

"I believe," Crowley said, stilling his feet and cocking his head to the side, "that's not what you meant to say."

He then proceeded to say what he believed Aziraphale had meant. Mostly in words people didn't normally use for angels. Mostly in words angels themselves didn't use, either, which put Aziraphale in the uncomfortable position of wanting to berate Crowley but not wanting to explain how he had acquired that vocabulary. Then Crowley went on to describe Gabriel, and actually succeeded in making Aziraphale laugh.

"Wily serpent," he chided with no heart in it. No, his heart had been on his lips, quiet and longing in the shyest of smiles. He had far too little practice with smiling these days.

"Soft bloody angel," he returned with a slanted smile, which proceeded to slant right off his face and leave the kind of smudged grimace that comes from eating a chocolate praline only to discover it's rum and raisin. Aziraphale was crying again. The smile wobbled bravely on his lips, but he was weeping like one of those angels on Italian headstones.

"Okay, book, book, book," Crowley murmured as he flitted along the shelves of meticulously cultivated entropy. "Hell's sake, angel, ever heard of the Dewey Decimal System?"

Crowley picked out a book. It gave him a papercut. He gave it a few choice hints about what he would do to its still-photosynthesising botanical relatives when he got back to his flat: the pages fluttered the way pages do when they remember the feeling of having leaves, and the feeling of being turned into pulp. With a properly cowed book in hand, Crowley swayed back to the armchair and the couch, only to stop.

Aziraphale knew what he looked like when he was crying. He was red and puffy and glossy, like those tacky porcelain cherubs people put in display windows at Christmas. He knew because he'd sat in this exact same place, that night in 1967 when he thought he had delivered Crowley his death.

"Can't read the text when you're bawling your eyes out, I s'pose." Crowley sighed and pulled a full-body grimace, like an apostrophe with fever chills, before tossing himself down on the couch. "Fair warning, I am gonna do all the voices."

Demons never say do not be afraid when they approach humans because even demons realise that is a surefire way to make them afraid. But they do know how to pitch their voices, just like angels do. They can sound comforting when they want to, speak reassurance like sweet music, and make people believe everything is fine when they know it isn't. Forked tongues, as the saying goes.

Crowley did all the voices, and none of them was that voice. He did the silly nasally ones and the soft, reverberating murmurs, the daintily skipping staccatos and some odd, rolling accent that probably didn't actually exist. Before long he was speaking with his hands, too. Wide, exaggerated gestures that set the dust motes swirling in the soft light of the bookshop. Mockery always did bring out the wordsmith in him. A shame and a loss to the world, it was.

The lock clicks, the door creaks open, and the bookshop lights turn on. There aren't many ways for a building to say welcome home, but the soft, golden glow from an open door after a long day usually does the trick.

Aziraphale remains on the doorstep. At least in the corporeal sense. His mind is running old, familiar trains of thought past such picturesque sightseeing highlights as Worry, Panic, and Ridiculousness.

The bookshop is mostly tasked with producing unpleasant smells to keep customers away. It is of experimental constitution, however, and could probably double as a perfumery for people partial to scents such as sushi, freshly baked scones, and blueberry pancakes. Tonight seems to require something special, so it greets Aziraphale with a puff of filet mignon with mushrooms and that positively sinful cream and mustard sauce served at The Ritz.

Aziraphale is still not crossing the threshold.

Ever adamant that tenacity is the key to success – and that obstinacy will do in a pinch – the bookshop winds up the old gramophone. It doesn't usually come to this. But if it works for startling persistent customers it might work for startling life back into a spacing angel. A piano piece from The Gondoliers crackles out of the horn. It's a lovely gavotte, as upbeat and heartening now as it was a century ago in that gentlemen's club in Portland Place, and something does indeed seem to spark in Aziraphale's eyes.

Angels aren't in the habit of changing, or of courting demons. Angels don't dance, either. It would be undignified. Frivolous. In fact, not dancing is one of the distinguishing characteristics that marks an angel.

True to his nature, Aziraphale crosses the threshold with a skip and a twirl.

A/N

§ The whole chapter is inspired by Bowie/Queen's Under Pressure.

§ Shoddy knockoffs referring to Ea-Nasir selling bad quality copper in Mesopotamia, and being a little bastard who saved all the clay tablet letters of complaint that were sent to him by angry customers.

§ A Greek gift is something that seems to be a good thing at first but turns out to be bad. See the Trojan horse and Pandora.

§ "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." /John Milton, Paradise Lost

§ A Brief History of Soho that nobody asked for! There's some wonderful Charles Dickens descriptions still existing of certain squares around Soho, where you could hear the singers and violinists employed in various orchestras and theatres practice with open windows on warm summer evenings.

§ To bite one's thumb at somebody was the rudest gesture Shakespearian-era Britain knew, and Shakespeare used tons of slang in his works.

§ The cholera epidemic of 1800's Soho is a milestone in virology. It was Doctor John Snow who first concluded that the disease was waterborne by narrowing the source down to that one contaminated water pump. Before that people had all sorts of superstitions about disease.

§ One of the Biblical books is titled Numbers and it really is just a roll call of every family and clan in the entire area.

§ The Angel of Grief is just one headstone, but it's as famous as the Mona Lisa and has been ripped off in countless forms.

§ The Gondoliers is a 19th century opera, and in the script book the piece "I am a courtier grave and serious" is the song that goes with the scene of Aziraphale gavotting at The Hundred Guinas Club.