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The man didn’t look like a detective. Fluffy white hair, eyes that he can’t pin down the colour of but manages to be enchanting anyway, and … is that a bowtie? God help him, it is. An actual bowtie.
Crowley reaches out on autopilot. The man’s hand is larger than his, impossibly gentle. A few callouses that might be from a pen. And warm. Far warmer than he ought to be thinking about right now.
‘You must be Anthony Crowley?’
He nods. Remembers that he’s got to let go of the man’s hand sometime, and it might as well be now, while he’s still on speaking terms with a few of his braincells.
‘Aziraphale Fell, Metropolitan Police.’ There’s just a hint of a warning in his eyes, enough that Crowley stamps down any possible curiosity about the name and for once in his lie, keeps his mouth firmly shut.
‘Now, I believe that’s sufficient introduction and it seems to be threatening rain. Should we move this discussion indoors? Unless there’s anything here you’d like to show me.’
Crowley gestures at the empty garage. There’s a few stains on the floor, a litter of tools and clothes spilled around the bottom of the two shelving racks. The door hangs drunkenly. And in the middle, impossible to ignore, the emptiness where the Bentley should be.
‘Came down to go to work this evening, discovered the car’s missing. Someone cut through the door, as you can see.’ He tries, very hard, to make it sound like it doesn’t matter.
It’s not the first thing he’s had stolen, after all, even if all the others had been a lifetime ago. If the insurance pays out, and there’s one for sale from nearly the right decade, he might be able to get something that’s vaguely a replacement. It’s just a car.
He’s never seen anyone look quite so disbelieving as Aziraphale does while he explains that.
The detective’s old fashioned clothes look oddly right in Crowley’s hyper modern front room. Even the hint of tartan on his waistcoat fits.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Tea would be fine, it’s a little early for wine I’m afraid.’
He’s finished making it and is walking back into the room before he wonders why he’d made it like that, without asking, without thinking.
Aziraphale takes the cup without comment. The steam rises, glistening around his head so that he appears to have a halo against the dim London light.
Crowley blinks and it’s gone.
He’d have thought that the police would have better ways of taking statements now. But Aziraphale’s got a notebook and a pen that’s hardly a step up from a quill, and he listens to Crowley in fierce silence.
It’s a very brief statement. There isn’t much more he can say, and he’s never been much of a one for words anyway. Images; painting and sculptor and glasswork are more his thing when he’s not working.
Aziraphale frowns once he’s finished. ‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’
He’s weirdly sure, for a moment, that he remembers Aziraphale’s eyes, the ever changing hues of them. And then the man’s getting to his feet, offering another handshake that Crowley reaches for without thinking, and turning to leave.
‘What happens now? Do I get… a number for my insurance or something? A reference?’
A smile as bright as dawn. ‘I don’t think you’ll need that, my dear. Trust me.’
It sounds like a command. He watches the man leave, watches him walk down the street. For a moment, streetlights cast wings of light behind his back.
***
Crowley blames work for the calls not getting through. Surely they would have called him? Or messaged or something? Bentley’s back in her garage as though she’d never left, the door repaired and the shelves tidied. He lets himself in, rests a hand on the paintwork to convince himself that she’s real.
A white feather, larger than his hand, is laying on the passenger seat.