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Crowley had just finished serving birthday cake, and was experimenting with ways of slouching while still looking like the professional caterer he was, when he noticed the stage magician standing across the room. He looked downcast.
Not that Crowley could blame him, after the fiasco of a show he’d just witnessed.
On an impulse, he hissed, “Eric! Can you cover the buffet a minute?”
His coworker glanced at the total lack of buffet line and shrugged. “Sure.”
“Terrific, thanks.”
“Why—”
Crowley was already gone. He made it almost to the magician, who was leaning against the wall, eyes closed… then stopped. What was he thinking? The fellow was already having a bad day, the last thing he needed was a random waiter bothering him.
Crowley turned to slip away again.
“Oh,” said a voice, quieter than in performance but equally smart and British, “hello.”
The magician had opened his eyes. So much for slipping away.
“Hi,” Crowley said. He groped for a friendly, sympathetic remark. “That went down like a lead balloon.”
Smooth. Nothing starts a conversation like telling a stranger his show went badly.
At least the man didn’t seem offended. “It did, rather,” he said ruefully. “I haven’t been so flustered in ages. I rarely do children’s parties, so I suppose I’m out of practice for this crowd, but…”
Crowley nodded, wincing. “I like kids. But if there was ever a group the phrase ‘spoiled brats’ was coined for…”
“Quite.” The rueful expression turned faintly wary. “The slurs didn’t help.”
“They never do,” Crowley agreed, from too much experience, and sighed. “You handled it better than I would’ve. But I’m sorry.”
“It’s hardly your fault.” The magician cracked a smile. “Unless you’re responsible for teaching these children manners?”
“Hah. Nope, never realized my nannying ambitions. Just a caterer.”
“Oh!” A flair of recognition. “You lent me that napkin earlier, didn’t you? Thank you so much; that was very helpful.”
“Nghhh, no problem.” None of the kids had moved to contribute to the trick, nor the secret service. He was glad now he’d helped — Eric’s teasing be damned — because the magician was beaming.
Stage presence was one thing. But face to face, in genuine conversation, Crowley decided the man’s smile was more magical than any hat trick.
The magician cleared his throat while Crowley was still reeling. “What was your name?”
“Crowley. And you’re, uh… the Amazing Mister Fell?”
Laughter, as warm and lovely as the smile. “I go by Aziraphale. And I’m less amazing in real life, I fear.”
“I doubt that.” Faced with Aziraphale’s blush, Crowley took heart to forge ahead. “I actually came over to see if you want some cake?”
“Er. I’m not sure I’m supposed to—”
“If the caterer says so, you are.” He lowered his voice. “It’s temptingly good cake, if I say so myself.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Aziraphale, and laughed again. “Very well, then, temptation accomplished. On condition you have some, too."
For some reason, he no longer looked gloomy.