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Crowley leans back against the train’s cushion, one of his legs crossed over the other, and he looks out of the window as the train chugs along to Blandford Forum, running over the tracks with a rhythmic clatter. The trains are smoother than he remembers, but then, it’s been nearly eighty years since he’s been on a train - it makes sense that they’d have improved somewhat.

The year is 1907.

Crowley got out of bed on Tuesday.

Aziraphale, he suspects, hasn’t yet forgiven him. He turns to glance at the angel, who is very pointedly not looking at him, although they sit shoulder to the shoulder. He’s looking instead at his newspaper, doing the crossword.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

Don’t speak to me,” Aziraphale mutters darkly. 

“Are you going to ignore me the entire day?”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Aziraphale said. “We’re on the train to Blandford Forum, aren’t we? We’re going to a fete together. I’m not ignoring you, Crowley. I just don’t want to hear you talk.”




Here,” Aziraphale says, pressing a packet into his hand, and Crowley looks down at it, feeling his brow furrow. He examines the paper, taking in the pink and red of it, and then he draws it up to his nose, inhaling.

“What is it?”



“No. Try some. You’ll like it. It might keep you quiet.”

Uncertain, he breaks off a little square of it, smelling it once more. It doesn’t smell like the Cadbury’s Cocoa. There’s more sugar in it, and milk, and… He nibbles at the side of the square, and then he exhales heavily, feeling it melt on his tongue, and he swallows in surprise.

Aziraphale is watching him now, his lips quirked slightly up at their edges, his expression smug.

“S’good,” Crowley says.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and opens his mouth to go on, but Crowley moves too quickly, pushing the rest of the square onto Aziraphale’s tongue, his finger and thumb drawing over Aziraphale’s plump lips, and he watches Aziraphale’s eyes close as he leans forward, his mouth closing to take the square of chocolate from him. Crowley’s skin feels tight, and his chest feels warm and open as Aziraphale draws away, his hand over his mouth as he chews and swallows.

“You like it too?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, a little redness showing in his cheeks. “Ah. Yes. You missed– You missed rather a lot, my dear. Sleeping for most of a century.”

“Sorry,” Crowley says. His hand is lingering on Aziraphale’s knee, and Aziraphale glances down at his fingers, but doesn’t ask for him to move them away. His knee curves closer, touching against Crowley’s. 

“More?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah. I like it.”

Yes. Good. Well. Good.”

They each take another square, smiling as they look at one another, and Aziraphale starts talking, thank– thank someone. He talks about the last few decades, about what he’s enjoyed, about it all… And Crowley listens to him, lets it all wash over him. 

Aziraphale’s crossword is abandoned, after that, until they look at it together.