Chapter Text
Frivolous Miracles
A Good Omens fanfiction
Part 1 of 3
France, 1783
Damn horse, Crowley thought sourly as one of the sparks shooting off from the great brute's hooves zapped the side of his arm, singeing his sleeve. (If the demon had been more fussy about clothing in general, or if the jacket he was wearing had been real, even, he might have been quite put out about it.)
Crowley hated it when Hell put him on an assignment that required riding horses – he usually fell off.
Not to mention it was bloody murder getting the horse to go where you wanted it to.
The only horses Hell let out (and – on top of that – made you jolly well sign for, so that you were held accountable if the blasted creature got itself shot in the head or broke its leg – and then got shot in the head – or poisoned and ended up back where it started from, even if it wasn't really your fault, when you got right down to it) were these big black numbers with flaming red eyes and big old nostrils that blew ashy smoke all over the place whenever they snorted.
These were not the kind of beasts that liked to do what they were told, or let a rider hold consistent dominance over them (not even if the rider in question happened to be Hell's Employee of the Month three times in a row and was looking like a shoe-in for a fourth).
It wasn't that Crowley wanted to go about on a pinto or – Satan forbid – a white Shetland with a silvery mane named something utterly trite, like Snowflake. No respectable demon – barring, perchance, a grand piano should fall upon his head – would.
The very thought made him cringe and shudder. Just Imagine Aziraphale seeing him riding up on something like that!
Not that he'd seen the angel for a while, but you could never be too careful – it wasn't unheard of for their respective sides to put them on assignment in the same damnable place without thinking it through. Even with their personal, highly beneficial Arrangement in place ever since 1020, there were still the odd...well, what they liked to call 'double bookings' happening from time to time...
So, no.
No, nothing like that.
But Crowley wouldn't have minded some slate-grey, tired, generally neutral-natured nag of a mare that did what it was told once in a while.
With a grunt, he tried to urge the horse into a sharp turn which would set them on the path to cut through some aristocrat's field. The sooner this was over with, the better.
The horse allowed itself to be forced into the field, then it reared, knocking Crowley off.
The demon landed – on his side – on the ground with a thud the useless grass didn't do nearly as much to soften as one would have expected.
"Oi!" he shouted, raising a defensive fist at the horse without any real malice.
There was somebody's voice far off. They were a blur on the other side of the field. "Monsieur?"
Shit, he'd been spotted. He could potentially lose out on another stint as employee of the month if anyone downstairs found out about this. Demons were, as a rule, supposed to be stealthy. It was just hard to do so when you had an enormous, loudly whinnying, black horse trying to knock you off its back for no apparent reason, making you cry out. Not really what you'd call inconspicuous.
A hoof nearly struck him. Crowley rolled onto his back, narrowly avoiding the kick that would have crushed the front of his head in.
The bugger was being particularly nasty about it, and he vaguely wondered why that was. Perhaps because horses didn't like snakes and were, thus, always trying to trample them?
Wait, did horses – real ones, not the Hellish sort – even really do that? Or was he thinking of a different animal entirely? He made a private mental note to find out sometime.
"Monsieur?" The voice was closer now. "Are you all right?" It was a young woman's voice.
Contentiously, Crowley reached up to touch his face, felt no dark spectacles there, blessed profusely under his breath, and scrambled to his knees to search for them in the grass before the girl got any nearer.
The horse aimed another kick, this time at the demon's temple, and it struck.
Groaning, Crowley slumped forward, face-planting into an a loamy patch of soft earth.
"Monsieur!"
The horse neighed triumphantly and – going strictly by the rapidly departing clop-clop-clop sound that reached Crowley's ringing ears as he began to black out – cantered off.
There was the sound of water being rung from a cloth, and then something damp rested on Crowley's brow.
His eyes flew open.
The tall, thin contour of a girl – of about fifteen or sixteen years – with dark blond curls jerked away from him. A cool cloth slid off his forehead and plopped on the dirty floor of what appeared to be a barn.
For a second he was doubly confused. Then he realised. No spectacles. Right. Damn.
"Merde!" the blond girl gasped, recoiling, tripping over a bucket which sloshed ominously and then tipped over. "Jésus!"
"Just the opposite, actually," he told her.
"Qu'es-tu?" What are you? She was coming blearily into focus as she – with what Crowley considered rather impressive composure – crept forward again.
"Je m'appelle Rampa."
Her shoulders relaxed. A creature – any creature – even a creature with glowing yellow snake eyes – is always just that little less frightening once it reveals its name.
She lifted a hand towards her heart. "Zezolla."
"Pas le nom Français habituel." Not the usual French name.
She smiled, much more at ease with his wry tone. "My mother was Neapolitan – that means she was from Nap–" She stopped, apparently taking into account that Crowley had lifted an arm and was making a hand-rolling motion, as if to say he wasn't an idiot and knew what Neapolitan meant. "And – yes – as you've doubtless picked up on – I can also speak rather a lot of English, if it helps."
Probably not a peasant, then, Crowley thought, despite the crummy dress. More likely some bored nobleman's daughter mucking about on the land in her play-clothes. You didn't exactly meet a slew of multilingual peasants or well-educated field-working servants.
"I'm afraid your lovely horse has gone, Monsieur Rampa." Her gaze dropped apologetically.
"Mmm, like a bat out of Hell, I'd imagine."
She wasn't in on the joke, and so it passed her by entirely. "I am very – très, Monsieur – sorry I was not able to catch him for you. I did try."
After quickly informing her there was no need to keep referring to him as Monsieur – Rampa, just Rampa, was fine – Crowley looked around, squinting in the low, late-afternoon light.
There was nobody else.
"You didn't drag me here all on your own?"
She nodded. "You were hurt." Then, shifting slightly, cheeks flushed, "You also do not weigh so much. You are very skinny."
"Nonsense," the demon deadpanned; "you're just inhumanly strong."
Zezolla giggled at that. She wasn't exactly plump herself.
"And I take it this was your property I was crossing on my" – Crowley cleared his throat, choking back a twinge of humorous disgust – "lovely horse?"
She shook her head. "In name, my father's – at present run by my stepmother while he is away on business."
"Is your stepmother English?"
"No, she's about as French as you get." Zezolla's tone grew notably weary, as if the woman in question was a wholly unpleasant subject, however unavoidable. "I've got an English parrain." Godfather. "Stepmother doesn't care for him much, you see, only Père sent word mon parrain is to stay with us until his return – at the very least – so she's moved Monsieur Fell to one of the attic rooms – that way she doesn't have to see him except at supper. It's right next to mine. He goes back and forth between French and English quite often when he speaks."
Crowley just looked at her for a long, incredulous moment. "Oh, Monsieur Fell is it?" He arched a gingery eyebrow. "No chance we're talking about a fussy blond man who really looks forward to mealtimes?"
She blinked. "How did you know?"
He let himself fall backwards into the mound of straw behind him and sighed, "Just a guess."
Double bookings. Damn double bookings. It never failed. Neither side ever bothered to check up.
Not, of course, that the demon didn't have to bite back a smile at the thought of seeing his principality friend again. So it wasn't all bad.
"You can stay here tonight, Rampa," Zezolla told him, dropping a girder in front of his – still somewhat fuzzy – assembly line of thoughts as she hastily brushed dirt off her skirt and motioned at the barn door with splayed, anxious fingers. "I have to be getting back to the manor or my stepmother will be angry. I'll return here around midnight – sneak by this way again; bring you something to eat and blankets and things."
The little furnished attic space Aziraphale occupied in the elegant French manor resembled a respectable English gentleman's sitting room more than it did a place where one might actually sleep. There was no bed. Aziraphale had had it removed (he never slept, so from his viewpoint it was simply cluttering up the limited space, which he desperately needed for the three heavy trunks of books he'd been lugging around with him for over a century by this point). He'd then promptly replaced it with upholstered velvet-seated chairs and a respectable tea-table. Which, frankly, he'd been quite put out Zezolla's stepmother had not merely offered to him of her own volition. He had standards, after all, and merciful angel or not, he generally expected people to know it.
On this particular day, the angel was drinking cocoa, not tea, because tea prices were up and chocolate was a great deal less expensive at the moment. It certainly didn't hurt that Aziraphale was developing rather a fondness for cocoa over tea regardless. He had a sweet tooth, and found the foamy chocolate brew went a great better with the – rather dry – plain tea cakes that were brought up to him around four each day.
Aziraphale was just bringing one of these cakes to his mouth when he heard a knock on the other side of the attic wall. "Oh, do come in – mind you don't trip on the rug, it's been lifting at the edges."
A wooden plank slid out of place and Zezolla, looking rather exhausted, stepped into his room. "Bonjour, mon parrain."
It was always reasonably comfortable in the angel's little room, even on the dampest, rainiest days, and he never begrudged Zezolla (who he rather pitied) her visits, even when he would clearly rather have been alone.
"Well, you certainly look worn out," he sighed, shaking his head. "I do wish they wouldn't work you so hard."
"It wasn't Maman and the girls this time, Parrain," she whispered, a little breathlessly. "I had to help a man who fell off his horse."
"Good lord," said Aziraphale, by way of commenting without actually commenting. "I do hope he was all right."
"I expect he will be." She looked askance, playing nervously with her fingers. "I have told him he can stay in the barn tonight, as long as he is not seen."
The angel smiled approvingly. At least Zezolla wasn't a total moral failure. He'd hoped to have a positive influence over this household during his time here, but the other young ladies, Zezolla's stepsisters, would have been more likely to send the hurt man packing in her place. He'd tried many times to explain the finer points of goodness and charity to them, only they were too thick. Not to mention rather vapid and selfish. Zezolla was no angel – not that Aziraphale would have wanted her to be one – but she was doing fathoms better than the other women in this house. Which was why he'd privately resolved to arrange for something better for her before he left France.
"The thing is..." She paused, then swallowed. "He isn't, how do you say, normal."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know what he is," she explained quickly. "He's got... Well, his eyes are like a serpent's – and they're yellow."
She had Aziraphale's full attention now; he was visibly struggling not to smile. "This snake-like chap... I don't suppose he left you with a name?"
"Rampa."
The smile spread wider. "Rampa, you say?" No three guesses as to who 'Rampa' was.
"Do you know him?" asked Zezolla, intrigued.
"Know him?" He forced the corners of his mouth downward. "Of course not. Certainly never met any snaky chaps before. I simply wished to inquire as to this unfortunate soul's whereabouts."
"If you say so, Parrain." She did not look, the angel thought – rather to his dismay – particularly taken in.
"Have a piece of cake." Aziraphale gestured at the tea-tray by way of changing the subject. "You really do look so pale, child."
"What manner of creature is it," Zezolla went on, undeterred, "that we have got in our barn?"
"Oh, at a guess, something from the bowels of Hell, but I shouldn't worry about it if I were you."
"As mon parrain, aren't you supposed to be worried about the state of my immortal soul?"
"Well, to be fair," said Aziraphale, taking a sip of his hot cocoa, gone rather philosophical, "I shouldn't worry about that very much, either – no human is immortal. And you haven't got a soul, Zezolla, you are a soul. S'not so difficult to comprehend, really." He took a another long sip. "Simple fact of the matter of creation, what."
"Oui? Then how do you explain the damned of Hell? Like in the paintings by Hieronymus Bosch?"
"Ineffability."
"I begin to suspect," she said primly, "ineffable is simply a word that means 'a manner of thing Monsieur Fell doesn't know'."
He gave her a look, one pale brow lifted. "Just eat your cake, Zezolla."
Half after midnight, something knocked on the glass pane.
Aziraphale glanced up from the book he was reading and rose from his chair, gently placing the book down on the seat behind himself. Pulling back the blue silken curtain, he saw Crowley – golden eyes aglow in the murky darkness – perched like a gargoyle outside his window, peering in. He rolled his eyes.
Crowley waved.
Sucking his teeth, Aziraphale unlatched the window.
The demon hopped gingerly into the room, landing lightly.
"I thought you might be Zezolla's Rampa, when she told me about you," Aziraphale announced by way of greeting. "What are you doing here?"
"I fe–" Crowley stopped himself. "I had some minor trouble on the road."
"I heard it was in a field – and that you fell from your horse."
"Right, then. What's all this about you playing godfather to this random French family?" Crowley began to pace around the room, scrutinizing this less than ideal living space; he arrived, plainly, at the conclusion that it wasn't dismal, the best had been made of it, but he'd hardly set up somebody he liked here. Aziraphale could certainly do better.
"If you must know," sighed the angel, gathering as much from his expression, "I needed a base of operations – I was already in France to pick up a new prophesy book – a splendid autographed edition – and then Gabriel put me on assignment...
"It's not easy lugging trunks of books around from place to place, you know.
"So then this nice fellow – widower – needed someone present for the belated christening of his only child... I doubted anything was amiss – it seemed positively providential. How was I to know he'd remarry, go away, and leave me and his daughter to be demoted to an attic in his absence?"
"You haven't even got any shelves here," Crowley pointed out.
"Yes, I'm well aware of that."
"Have you ever considered opening a bookshop?"
"A bookshop?" Aziraphale's expression twisted into one of pure horror, as though Crowley had just casually suggested he feed a newborn baby to a crocodile. He began to splutter slightly. "But I don't want to sell my books!" Perish the thought!
"No, angel – I meant as a place to keep them all." Crowley tapped the side of one of the trunks with his foot. "Then you wouldn't have to carry them with you every time you had to deliver a blessing."
The coin dropped – slowly, but it dropped. "Oh. When you put it that way, it does give one something to think on!"
"Glad I could help, now where's the bed?" Crowley began turning about in a circle. "Think I'll sleep for a bit. Gotten into the habit."
"Haven't got one – I don't sleep."
"Uggggh," groaned the demon.
"The chairs are quite comfy," Aziraphale suggested.
Crowley shifted into a snake and began to slither over to the nearest chair.
Zezolla stood in the small space between her attic room and Aziraphale's, rather confused as to why her godfather appeared to be blocking her path with his bulk. He'd never kept her out of his room before. She thought there might be a rat on the loose, as she heard some scuffling, but unless the rats planning on wintering in the manor's dark corners now that late Autumn was upon them had suddenly learned to swear under their breath and grown opposable thumbs with which to unlatch creaky windows, she had the suspicion that somebody else was in there.
Which, really, was even more intriguing, as he'd never had any company before that she could remember.
No, wait, that wasn't strictly true – once, and just the once, there had been the strange man with the striking purple eyes; he had the coldest, most disinterested gaze Zezolla had ever seen.
But she'd been quite small, back then, and there were times she was almost certain she'd dreamed that.
"L'homme serpent – he's not in the barn this morning."
"I suppose he had the good sense to be on his way," Aziraphale said pointedly.
Something cursed again; the window rattled.
"Up, you lift up!" Aziraphale called over his shoulder, growing exasperated. "No, not like that! You pull it out, then up!"
Zezolla craned her neck. "Who are you talking to?"
"Er..." he stammered. "No one, my child, no one."
"It won't open, angel!" whined a familiar voice.
Zezolla's brow furrowed; she placed a hand on Aziraphale's arm and tried to look behind him. "Rampa? Whatever are you doing in there?"
Aziraphale stepped back and let her in – there was no point now. He stomped back on his right heel in frustration. "Crowley!"
"S'not m'fault," sniffed the demon, defensively.
"What exactly–" began Zezolla.
"If you must know," sighed Aziraphale, "Rampa and I" – and here he glared at Crowley – "go way back. Though, to be fair, I wasn't expecting him to turn up here."
"You should have just said so," Zezolla told him, point blank, folding her arms across her narrow chest. "This would have saved me two extra trips to the barn today."
"I wasn't sure your stepmother – among other persons – would approve of our acquaintanceship." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "I'm afraid I panicked."
"Et vous!" And you! Zezolla turned on Crowley next, with slightly less ease and confidence. She could not guess at his reaction to being called out the way she could her godfather's.
"Eh?" said the demon, rather too innocently. "What'd I do?"
"You lied as well."
"Well, it's only to be expected of him," said Aziraphale, in a tone that might have been either defensive of or else despairing towards his snaky friend. "You can't blame him for that. Be rather like blaming a bird for singing."
"Oi, now, that's not–" began Crowley, rising in pitch.
From somewhere downstairs there came the grating sound of a ringing bell. It was not a proper bell for ringing, which would have sounded nice enough, but one of those porcelain bells that are more for decoration and sound absolutely awful when they are rung to get the attention of another person.
It was like two pieces of broken china being clanged together.
"Zezolla!"
She stopped, looked apologetically at Aziraphale and Crowley, and gestured sadly at the door to the attic stairwell. All this, of course, was much more interesting than whatever her stepmother would want, but she hadn't any choice.
"I know, dear girl, but you mustn't keep them waiting or they'll have both of us out on the street by the end of the morning, I shouldn't wonder." Aziraphale picked up a wooden tray with used plates that were – unexpectedly – immaculate and placed it in Zezolla's hands. "Do go on. Chin up. Everything will be fine if you keep your spirits raised and your nature good."
The bell kept ringing. Crowley made a face of pure discomfort. Zezolla briefly wondered if it was because of his serpent-like qualities that the sound bothered him. Then again, perhaps he was just normal. The sound would bother anyone.
As soon as Zezolla was gone, Crowley turned to Aziraphale and asked if the family – who could be heard screaming abuses under the floorboards before the girl even made it halfway down the stairs – were always like this.
"Worse, sometimes," the angel admitted, cheeks reddening.
"And you're never tempted to do anything to them?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean, you're an angel – you could cause any number of problems for them."
"Miracles are not to be used like that, Crowley," he replied severely.
The demon's brow lifted. "Mine are."
"That's because demonic miracles are purely selfish – all about gratification, what's good in the moment." He shook his head. "You couldn't possibly understand."
He could – he'd been an angel once, after all – but that was not a point Crowley would ever argue, as it wouldn't be good for his demonic image. "I don't suppose, when you leave this place and take up a new base of operations, you're bringing her with you?"
"No, it wouldn't be allowed – not by her family and certainly not by Gabriel."
"What are you going to do?"
Aziraphale smiled – he'd been longing to be asked that. "I've come up with a very good plan; I'm quite proud of it."
"Oh, yes?"
"I happened to pay a visit to Marie Antoinette last month, and–"
"Hang on! You know Marie Antoinette?"
Aziraphale frowned at the interruption. "Yes, we're friends. She's really a very nice young lady, once you get talking with her. Now, listen. The queen's got this young duke at court she's trying to marry off, and I immediately thought..." He gestured towards the stairwell door with his head. "You see, it's obvious Zezolla would be much better off with the French aristocrats than she'd be in this ghastly place..."
"How sure are you about that?"
"As I was saying, he wants a wife, and it's about time Zezolla had a new family – so I suggested a ball, doors flung open, invitations spread wider than per usual." He looked quite proud of himself. "The queen agreed."
"And I take it you're just going to ask Zezolla's stepmother to loan her a party dress so she can meet this duke? Just like that?"
The angel's face twisted into a grimace.
"You didn't think of that, did you?"
Aziraphale gnawed on his lower lip pensively, then brightened, reaching for Crowley's wrist. "Come along, dear boy, I've got an idea!"
Crowley was never entirely sure how Aziraphale had managed to drag him all the way from the French countryside into one of the most lavish boutiques in Paris, much less induce him to spend hours shopping for somebody he'd only met the other day (by pure chance of that stupid horse throwing him), but that is what happened.
At least the angel seemed to be having a good time comparing fabrics and occasionally asking the demon his opinion on various ribbons and matching lace. Crowley – though he'd never have admitted it – liked seeing Aziraphale contented and was enjoying his enthusiasm, bearing up well enough for that much alone, and things were going perfectly fine until Aziraphale realised none of the shop mannequins had the right shape to gauge what might fit Zezolla.
Zezolla was tall (only a little shorter than Crowley, in fact) and thin, and the mannequins were of the short, curvy variety.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, once, flatly, then glanced at Crowley and brightened considerably. "I say! You're about the same shape as Zezolla."
Crowley caught on. "No, no, no, no, no." He made a face. "Have you seen me in a skirt?"
"I have as a matter of fact – Culloden, a few decades ago."
"I thought we agreed never to speak of that again!"
"Honestly, my dear! I don't know what you're so embarrassed about – we've all worn kilts before. I had to wear one during the entire Heavenly rebellion – part of my platoon's uniform."
The face Crowley made then wasn't meant to be mocking – or complaining, for that matter. He simply didn't like thinking about the original war between Heaven and Hell – he thanked...well, not God, obviously, but somebody...every single night before he went to sleep that Cosmos War part two, to be known as Armageddon, was – apparently – such a gloriously long ways off.
Could be a hundred millennia until Satan decided to create an Antichrist and so much as get the ball rolling on that, which suited Crowley just fine.
Aziraphale didn't realise the direction the demon's thoughts were actually taking, however. "Don't be petulant, Crowley, just smile and lend a hand for once." And he tossed a length of silk and taffeta over Crowley's head as the irate demon tried to say something which got muffled by the yards of frilly fabric. "Oh, hush – nobody's looking!"
As Aziraphale pulled (and merrily fluffed out) the bunches of gathered material around him, Crowley caught a glimpse of his reflection in a bejewelled floor-length mirror. "Angel, I look ridiculous."
"That's because it's pink and you're a redhead," the angel told him dismissively.
Crowley turned away from the mirror and bit back a vicious blessing.
"Hmm," he mused, tapping his chin with a plump, smooth finger. "It'll of course look much...er...grander...once it's got a pannier..."
"Don't you dare," hissed Crowley, noticing that Aziraphale was reaching for a nearby set of hoops.
The principality was quite put out. His hands flew to his hips. "Really! How'm I meant–"
"C'est toi, mon ami?" Is that you, my friend? Suddenly standing beside them was, flanked by two ladies with high cheekbones smeared with too much rouge, a woman smiling brightly under a high platinum wig carrying a snapping, snarling spaniel Crowley would have readily believed was a hell-hound if anybody present made the claim.
"Maria!" Aziraphale lifted a hand and waved.
"Monsieur Fell!" she reached over her dog and extended a hand to him. "A pleasure as always."
Crowley groaned. How the deuce had he ended up – in a frilly pink dress in the middle of Paris – in front of the queen of France?
The young queen blinked at Crowley. "This is not your goddaughter, I hope?"
Crowley glowered behind his – thankfully newly replaced – dark spectacles. "Your duke friend could do worse."
"Who is this rude person?"
"Er," said Aziraphale.
"Rampa," Crowley told her.
"This one I do not like," she decided. "He is very skinny and very terse. His only redeeming features are his cheekbones."
"This one's not too crazy about you, either," snapped Crowley. "Your Majesty."
"Oh, deep down he's really a very n–" Aziraphale began, then stopped – noticing Crowley shaking his head angrily. "That is to say, yes, he is a very bad person indeed. Quite wicked, what."
Crowley grinned like a snake.
"You may bring this wicked person to the ball if you wish, if he's a companion of yours, but only provided he does not wear that awful dress – it is altogether not a flattering shade on him. I recommend gentlemen's clothing, but that is of course between the two of you in the end."
Aziraphale spread out his hands. "I'm trying to find something for my goddaughter – they're about the same shape."
Marie Antoinette examined the dress again, circling Crowley in a way that made him feel uncomfortable and also briefly wonder if this was how Aziraphale felt when he habitually circled him as he talked. "This dress on a thin girl would not be so bad – in white, perhaps, though. The pink is too garish. I would also lower the hemline and add silver embroidery to the bodice. Have you considered brocade over the top, rather than all taffeta?"
The queen's dog – all but foaming at the mouth by this point – took a vicious nip at Crowley, who lifted the spectacles just enough for the shocked animal to see his gleaming eyes, whimper, and duck under his mistress's silk-enshrouded arm.
Crowley and Aziraphale left the boutique with considerably less bounce in their step than when they'd entered. All the same, Aziraphale was reasonably satisfied, as he had a tightly wrapped parcel under one arm he was very much looking forward to presenting to Zezolla along with the personal invitation to the ball from Marie Antoinette herself.
Then he realised... "Oh, no!"
"What is it?" groaned Crowley.
"I... I forgot all about shoes!" The angel looked aghast. "Zezolla won't have any respectable shoes to–"
The demon – despite everything, despite being just a little tempted to shove Aziraphale in front of a moving carriage and discorporate him after what he'd just put him through – had mercy on him. "Don't worry about the shoes – I'll take care of that one."
He brightened. "Oh, really? Thank you."
"Don't mention it – ever." Crowley saw a vaguely familiar face across the street and furrowed his brow. "Aziraphale, isn't that–"
"Who? Where?" The angel looked where Crowley indicated – a moment too late, seeing nobody.
"He's gone now." He'd thought he saw Famine – all in black, as always, smooth and thin, grinning like a lunatic. "Never mind."
It's not yet, Crowley reminded himself. All that nonsense starts ages and ages from now – I'd know if it were starting now.
If it really was him, he was just killing time.
Time, and also – very likely – some people.