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Stardate 2245.79

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"You need to get with the times, get your groove on, get jiggy with it," Crowley says, waving his arm in the direction of all the Star Fleet Academy students milling around, as though they're the ideal upon whom Aziraphale should model himself. "Embrace the moment," Crowley adds for good measure.

Aziraphale is quite certain that Crowley just dated himself appallingly — apart from the last phrase, which they keep hearing on a holovid advertisement — but he doesn't have the heart to point that out. He's too glum.

"It's all very well things changing and humans getting so terribly clever and building space ships and meeting up with other races, but if they can't replicate a decent chocolate digestive or cup of Earl Grey, what is the point of it all?" he asks. It's not just in America that the tea is so awful. That he expects; after all, Americans never have had a proper respect for tea. But it's everywhere. No one on Earth knows how to brew a decent cup of tea any more. As for biscuits, he's not sure his language would be appropriate for an angel if he were to say what he thought about twenty-third century biscuits.

Crowley looks perturbed. "You're not losing your faith, are you, Angel?" he asks.

"No," Aziraphale assures him, because he's not. "It's just a case of the doldrums. We're nearly halfway through the century, and what's happening? Earth's about to go to war. Again. It seems never-ending." He sighs.

"Hmm," Crowley says slowly. "We could—" he pauses, and takes a long drink of tea, flicking his tongue a little as though he's savouring it, which he really can't be because it's truly foul.

"We could what?" Aziraphale asks, because although patience should be one of his many virtues, it's worn a little thin at the edges these days, and truth be told, he never had that much to start with.

"We could interfere," Crowley says, and even behind his glasses Aziraphale can see the corners of Crowley's eyes slitting into a smile.

"It's been a while," Aziraphale says, because one of his roles is to be the voice of reason. "We're rusty. Besides, it's all very well me being down about the thought of another war, but aren't you supposed to be encouraging it?"

"I can cause a little mayhem somewhere else to make up for it," Crowley says, dismissing the issue. They have grown rather good at, well, fudging the details and parameters of their responsibilities. Aziraphale doesn't even feel guilty any more. "As for stopping an apocalypssse or a war, that's like riding a bike. You never forget," Crowley carries on, beginning to hiss a little in his excitement. It's been a while since Aziraphale's seen him this excited. But then it's been a while since Aziraphale felt this excited, either. This animated. It's almost enough to take away the taste of the replicated tea.

"Where should we start?" Aziraphale asks.

"Well," says Crowley, and Aziraphale gets the feeling he's been plotting this for a while. "There's a young boy — bit of a tear-away right now — but with a nudge in the right direction, he could be just what we need."