"Perhaps for a value of 'caved'," Aziraphael replies, the sound of a smile briefly revisiting his voice. "The stove certainly hasn't been on its best behaviour, but we seem to have reached an understanding."

He steps a little closer to Crowley's back, the set of the demon's shoulders achingly visible through the fraying layers that aren't a uniform on the desolate satellites of the in-between places, but might as well be.

"Though I shouldn't like to think I've been lax. Can I offer you some tea?"

At two days' journey from Jubilee, he doesn't doubt that it's too soon by far for Crowley to attempt anything like drinking hot tea. But that's hardly the point.

Aziraphael usually makes the tea.