(no subject)

Aziraphael is outside the bar, enjoying the early spring sunshine and the smell of outdoors that's never quite the same in London, no matter the size of the parks. Sometimes he thinks - when he's far too content to be wary of tempting fate (or worse, Himself) - he thinks about the future. And he thinks... maybe somewhere on the South Downs. Somewhere pretty, with a garden.

For the moment, though, he's happy enough on the swing with Chaucer. Not literally, of course, since Chaucer really Wasn't the Sort of Person that Aziraphael should have Been Seen with (and certainly wouldn't have spent nights upon nights chortling with in taverns, oh no.) A pocket sized version of the Cantebury tales is held open with one hand, a carefully level cup of tea is cradled in the other, and there's a small smile of almost perfect satisfaction on his face.