London, 1798
For once, Aziraphale had changed his clothes. The suit he had on was nearly identical to the one he always wore, except that it was all black. His cutaway coat and the double-breasted waistcoat beneath it were perfectly tailored, of course, but still Aziraphale felt uncomfortable. And not just because of the color of the ensemble, but because of the circumstances behind it. He fiddled with the jet cufflinks that fastened his stiff new sleeves, blinking furiously as he tried not to cry. Last of all, the cravat: he'd forgotten, somehow, to tie it on before putting on the jacket, and now inserted it awkwardly around his neck. The comfortable rooms he had rented above the haberdasher's seemed to amplify his muted sounds of struggle as he tied it, pulled out the knots, and tied it again, with similarly unsatisfactory results. After the third try, Aziraphale ripped the knots out harshly with a shout of frustration that became a muffled sob as he covered his mouth with one hand, the other supporting him as he leaned into the wall next to the mirror.
From the sitting room door, similarly attired, Crowley appeared.
"You alright?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Aziraphale straightened, but his deep sniff and reddened eyes gave him away. From over his shoulder in the mirror, he saw Crowley raise his eyebrows doubtfully. "Really, I am. I mean, she's— she was a human! They get old, they die, they do it all the time. She was just my landlady. Honestly, why would I care?" But his protestations were belied by another sob as it shook through his body and hunched his shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Of course this had to happen in front of Crowley. Aziraphale heard footsteps crossing the creaky floorboards, and thought perhaps the demon had been embarrassed as well, and decided to leave. To his surprise, a hand came down gentle on his shoulder, and applied enough pressure to make him turn. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, it was to see Crowley standing directly before him.
"Because it's what you do, Angel," Crowley said simply. He let go of Aziraphale's shoulder, and took up the wrinkled, trailing ends of the angel's black cravat. "You care. Too much sometimes, but I think that's the better way to go. She was your friend, and now she's gone." As he spoke, Crowley's clever fingers had woven the cravat into Aziraphale's complicated preferred knot, and now he tucked the ends into his waistcoat, and patted them. "There," Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, whose eyes were dry now, and his lips twitched up slightly, "Shall we go and say goodbye?" With a deep breath in, Aziraphale set his shoulders and nodded firmly. Together they made their way through the rooms and to the stairs. As they started down them, Aziraphale shook his head in wonderment.
"I still can't believe she left me this flat. And the shop! What am I going to do with it?"