Disclaimer: I own none of the following: Giles, Aziraphale, Crowley, Chalmers, a café, demonic influences(1), English dithering (2), a sci-fi miniseries, a leather jacket, or a ficus.

Two really short ones combined into one slightly less short one, but rife with footnotes, as--noted so astutely by AnExiledFrank--they have been sorely lacking of late. This one may actually be excessive. You decide. (3)

"Do you deal with demonic influences often?"(4)

"Daily…" Aziraphale muttered

"Pardon?

"Rarely, I said.

It was a little after teatime, and Aziraphale, not having been able to escape Giles' questions without being rude outright, had finally resigned himself to walking and talking with the tweedy middle-aged man. The angel was still morose at his only friend's…well he didn't really know what to call it (5), betrayal sounded too harsh. But he felt betrayed, misused, rejected. Deep down in his heavenly being, he knew that those were just fancy words for self-pity, but he so rarely felt sorry for himself that he decided he was overdue. And so he wallowed in it.

"And yet," Giles continued, musing, "you have such… power over them…." He was obviously a little smitten. "I say, would… would you be interested in, er, meeting some colleagues of mine(6)? Because, well, you-you-you-you just don't know how, how much they'd appreciate meeting someone like you. Meeting you."

Aziraphale smiled pursedly, "Sorry," he replied. "I don't think so."

"Oh…" Giles was crestfallen, but tried to hide it. "Right-o, not a problem." He ventured a smile.

At this, the angel felt a pang of angelic guilt, but on no account would…the Boss, the Man upstairs, the ineffable He, allow one of His angels to get mixed up with this sort, let alone studied by them.(7).

"So, what is it then?" Giles' studious streak had been awakened(8), and it was not so easily foiled. "Are you a priest? A, a, a, a prophet? Is this a gift you've had since childhood, or or or have you only recently discovered it? Were you, were you even aware of it before today? Does anyone, anyone else in your family have have er special abilities? Is this something you learned, or or or does it come naturally?" When Aziraphale made no attempt to answer any of these, Giles continued, "Mr Fell, I'm truly, truly intrigued. Please, I don't mean to intrude upon your privacy, but matters such as these--well--they, they're, they're sort of my life's work. It's been my lot in life--always--to help in the fight against the demonic forces at play on Earth. And… to… to to have discovered a person such as yourself, who-who-who so effortlessly achieved what no one else has been able to for generations… I… I thought I could… learn something from you." (9)

The angel glanced at Giles' earnest face, touched by the humility of the request, and sighed.

"I doubt very much, my dear," he said mildly and truthfully, "that you would believe the truth."

Giles blinked and furrowed his brow.

Crowley owned a leather jacket(10). It was the baddestass jacket of all the badass jackets if ever a badass jacket there was.

It was Crowley. Sleek, black, beautiful, and dangerous. One of the demon's deepest darkest secrets(11) was the satisfaction he derived from pacing around his living room by himself, wearing the jacket. Slipping the jacket on. Slipping the jacket off. Adjusting the collar threateningly. Slinging the jacket over his shoulder. Leaning against the wall with one thumb in the pocket of the jacket. Sweeping the jacket off the back of the chair and thrusting his arms into the sleeves of the jacket in one smooth motion. Menacing the ficus by reaching underneath the jacket and pulling out an unidentifiable spray bottle. Crowley enjoyed this perhaps too much.

But the only thing about his leather jacket that he loved more than wearing it inside the apartment was the thought of wearing it outside the apartment.

Now, in slow motion (12), Crowley stepped firmly and purposefully toward the coat rack, his footfalls echoing despite the plush carpet. His eyes had settled into a determined stare behind his sunglasses. He was a demon on a mission.

With one finger, he lifted the leather collar from its hook and, mindful of all his practice, swung the jacket with both hands around him while slipping one arm, then the other through the perfectly-fitted sleeve(13). He tugged at his lapels assuredly and ran a hand through his inky hair with the sincerity and gravity of a Reservoir Dog. Tossing his keys in the air and catching them deftly, he made for the door handle. As he twisted the knob, he turned seriously to Chalmers and asked, "Coming?"

Caught up in the absurdity, Chalmers adopted the same assassin expression, straightened his tie, and put on his own sunglasses.

"Coming."

"Really?"

Aziraphale smiled congenially and understandingly and nodded, sipping his tea(14).

"Huh." Giles removed his glasses and, as he turned over this shiny new bit of information in his mind, distractedly rubbed his manuscript-besieged eyes. They smiled when he finally looked up at his companion and said, "An angel?"

The latter leaned back in his wiry chair and smiled, still nodding and sipping his tea(15). Giles studied him before asking, "You're not from Ireland, are you?"

Confusion plagued Aziraphale's face for a moment and Giles smiled fully, waving the question away. "Never mind."

Then he leaned back with his tea as well.

"Fascinating."

They both crossed their legs and sipped their tea, each content in the knowledge that he'd finally found someone equally as strange.

1. Only Mercurian influences.

2. Though I excel at American sputtering

3. The chapter hasn't even started yet, and already I'm on #3.

4. Giles' way of kicking off conversation might have daunted most, but Aziraphale had had far stranger confabulations. And yes, he actually thought the word confabulations.

5. Not strictly true; he had a few words, but they all felt just a shade too jealous.(a)

6. That Wyndam-Pryce jackass would freak!

7. That was a science-fiction miniseries just waiting to happen.

8. He went on to pose as a librarian; he had quite the studious streak.

9. Aziraphale had never met anyone with such a propensity for English dithering as he had himself. Coming up against it now, he found himself wishing Giles would just spit it out.

10. Aziraphale had given it a disappointed lip-purse the first time the demon had worn it, to which Crowley's response was,
"Just think of all the billions of tea leaves whose lives were violently plucked and boiled away just for your temporal satisfaction. Think of all the sheep who went naked for your tartan scarves. And what about those poor grapes who were squashed to make your cabernet--"
"You drink cabernet too!"
"Quiet, I'm delivering a righteous monologue. At any rate, I think I'm allowed one little cow."

11.Of which there are only two.

12. Because he could.

13. Like a third skin.

14. It had finally occurred to him that his last good brew(b) had been rather too long ago, and no sooner had the scent of bitter black English Breakfast wafted out to him from a café, than his mood improved tenfold. He began to enjoy Giles' company immensely.

15. Which is not easy.

a. Read: jilted lover.

b. No, you silly American; not beer.