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There's always a moment — Crowley remembers them all now, part of the beautifully overwhelming riptide of memories that dragged him in over his head last week — where the first to arrive at the designated meeting spot wonders if this is the time when it all falls through. If Aziraphale hasn't remembered too, or died before being able to remember, or —
“Or maybe I'm just crazy,” Crowley says aloud, looking up at the roof of the bandstand. It's old, the paint peeling, and he wonders if next time (next time! there isn't even a this time!) they'll have to meet somewhere different. Does anyone even use bandstands anymore? How often does a band need to stand these days, really? And what if Aziraphale decided he was hallucinating and went on meds instead of traveling halfway across the world, like Crowley maybe would have done if he wasn't an idiot?
“Settle down,” he snaps at himself, aware that he isn't exactly proving his own sanity by arguing with himself out loud. He stalks away from the bandstand, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Someone has to get here first, don't be stupid.” And Aziraphale hasn't let him down once. Not in all these years.
Doesn't that make it more likely for something to go wrong, if it hasn't yet?
Crowley spins on his heel, ready to pace back to the bandstand, but there's someone already there.
Someone's already there.
“Oh,” he said, feeling wonderfully stupid. “It's you.”
“Hello, my dear,” says Aziraphale, with the smile that's been just for Crowley for a thousand lifetimes. “I do hope I haven't kept you waiting.”