Disclaimer: To be brief, I own none of the objects, places, or characters in this chapter, except a tartan scarf. Mine is green.

This is just a short little insert to get from what happened before to what will happen after.

Aziraphale strolled down the sidewalk, hands in tweed pockets, a tartan scarf wrapped round his neck, and a matching beret on his head. It wasn'tquite cold enough to justify it, being mid-October, but he rather liked the way the ensemble came together. And he was trying to make himself feel as good as possible.

The truth was he was totally socially inept, as far as most English human males of his assumed age were concerned(1). He didn't make a practice of going to pubs or football games or town council meetings. Obviously he'd come in contact with several humans, but to be perfectly frank, he saw them more as clients than potential relationships. Not to say that he didn't care for them: he did. But when you care about everyone, it's hard to distinguish between the people you want to smile at from across a cafe and the people you want to invite to sit with you.

He sighed and pulled his jacket a little closer. He'd been walking rather a long time without paying attention to the direction. Suddenly, he paused. He looked to his right. There stood a ramshackle building with the words Ye Library Occulte.

Aziraphale shivered. For an instant, he had felt that he should go into that building. Now, seeing what it was, he couldn't imagine doing such a thing. He tried to walk away. A few steps later he stopped again and looked back at the doorway. Other people on the pavement simply walked past it, not noticing the contrast between this ancient crumbling place and the well-kept shops on either side.

Aziraphale stood oscillating on the pavement for what seemed to him to be many hours(2), and finally, deciding that he would just pop in, have a look round, and leave, paced purposefully toward the old wooden door, hesitated one more moment, and turned the knob.

The door opened silently. Looking from side to side with his eyes only, Aziraphale slowly sunk his head into the library. He held his breath(3), and very cautiously slipped his tweed-and-tartan self into what he saw wasa fair-sized round room.

It was covered with books. Old books. Very old books. Aziraphale's mouth was slightly open as he looked at all the books. He had to keep reminding himself that they were not Bibles. They were the opposite. Do not give in. Have a look round, and get out.

He looked round. There was only one other person in there. A man. Early forties(4). Totally immersed in and surrounded by the oldest books and manuscripts.

He was... tweedy.

"Well?"

Chalmers and Crowley were still standing over the remains of Crowley's PC, the former staring the latter in the eyes as best he could.

"Er..."

Crowley was having a sort of moral dilemma. Actually, it was more like a logic dilemma. He could either tell Chalmers the truth about himself, and honestly, it was bound to come up if they just kept in touch for a few more years, or he could make up some fantastic lie that Chalmers may or may not believe. Or he could do a bunk(5).

He seriously contemplated the third and second options- in that order- before deciding that trying to con Chalmers(6) would take far more effort than he had available.

He sighed and sat down on his pure white couch. "All right," he said. "Sit down then. You're probably not going to like what I'm about to tell you, but..."

(1)On the other hand, had he been a member of the Foreign language department at a certain high school in the U.S., he'd have been oh-so-totally at home.

(2) This from someone who knows what eternity is.

(3) Not that he meant to, or even realised that he did so.

(4) Actually, he was forty-two. No seriously, he was.

(5) American Transl. "Book it."

(6) The rough equivalent of which is trying to insult the French.