Chapter Text
It is dark in Soho, although the lights in a particular bookshop remain on, and the proprietor remains on the phone. An observer would see a fairly normal if slightly old-fashioned man on the phone, and might think that perhaps he’s a little older than he looks.
Really, he’s a lot older than he looks, he’s not a man, and he’s currently on the phone with an old friend. Or several, depending on how you look at the matter.
“Right,” the being who isn’t a man says, nodding to himself. “I’ll do my best. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to do, really, but I’ll try. You said her name was…?”
The individual nods to himself, and begins to write something down on a notepad. “Josefina Ortiz,” he says aloud. “Are you, ah, certain you don’t want to intercede with head office on her behalf instead?”
He listens for a moment, and sighs in resignation.
“Erika,” he says, although perhaps a more accurate word would be pleaded. “You do realize that this likely won’t do any good? Can’t you perform a miracle of your own?”
More listening.
The man-shaped being’s face takes on a sympathetic look, and he says, “Ah. Well. I… would really prefer not dealing with head office at the moment, not that I don’t like talking to them of course! But, how about I pay you a visit, and see what I can do, and if I can’t do anything, we’ll ask them together?”
After a few, tense moments, he nods to himself, and continues writing. “Night… Vale,” he says. “In America. I should be able to get there within the week—”
He visibly pales.
“Oh,” he says. And then softer, again, “Oh. Oh dear. I don’t believe I can… I’m very sorry, Erika, and—oh! Hello, Erika. And Erika. Yes. Hello there. I really am very sorry. There is simply no way I can make it there in time, and even if I could, she may already be too far gone.”
He’s not being entirely truthful. There… is a way, but he would have to be very careful, and he would also need to get Crowley’s assistance. Which…
He’s a demon, of course he wouldn’t help. But he’s Crowley. So maybe, just maybe, he would.
“Erika,” he says, this time with some resolve in his voice, “I will call you… right back. I need to check on something.”
He hangs up, and dials the one number he has memorized.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “it’s me. How do you feel about going to America?”