Crowley had been ordered to sink the Titanic. It had come from Beëlzebub himself, of the height of importance. The ship it was said God himself could not sink, the symbol of mankind’s innovation, and technological prowess, and scientific genius, was to be sunk by the Devil instead. Hope, optimism, ambition: they were all to slowly rust away on the bottom of the abyssal plain. He had got a commendation for his good work, when they’d made it to land.
Only thing was, Crowley had absolutely no memory of his time between Southampton and New York. Ten days of his life – an empty space. This, however, did not bother him. He couldn’t remember anything to do with Titanic for long enough to feel bothered. He knew that he had done his job, and that was just fine by him. It wasn’t a big deal.
Aziraphale knew differently. Aziraphale’s superiors had not been so hard on him: he could remember. For a hundred years, he had remembered. Crowley would, in all likelihood, never know. His memories of the incident had been suppressed.
It was presently four o’clock in the morning, on the fifteenth of April, 2012, and what Aziraphale was currently doing was sitting on the stone footpath that bordered the docks of Southampton. His legs were hanging above the water, and he was sitting on his jacket with his hands behind him, leaning against his arms. He was waiting for Crowley.
In the distance, Southampton’s port was starting to come to life. A touch of deep violet, so faint no human would have caught it yet, was tingeing the eastern horizon as the sun finally prepared to chase away the night. Behind him, somewhere on a nearby road, a lone car swished past.
Aziraphale crossed his ankles the other way, sighed out a breath, and waited. He would wait all night.