Quantum Entangled || 1 || (Good Omens Multivoice Podfic) - Master Debating All Over Bohr's Grave

Quantum Entangled. Written by: 50_Shades_of_Octarine Narrated by: She_Makes_Things This is a multivoice podfic. The part of Aziraphale is played by: VixenFics Our Crowley is played by: Nosferatini Finally, our Anathema is played by: Ember [music] [NARRATOR] Chapter 1 - Master Debating All Over Bohr’s Grave The ethics board didn’t know what to do with him; neither did the medical board nor the astrological association. Dr. A.J. Crowley was an academic Rockstar—for all that the term ‘Rockstar’ mea

nt, in an environment where the ratio of knitted sweaters to human beings was an astounding 3.3 sweaters for every researcher in too many layers. His name was plastered somewhere on most of the papers produced by Tadfield University, as well as a hefty chunk of papers produced outside of TadU. (His groundbreaking statistical analysis popping up in all sorts of odd places, although, most notably, in Aziraphale’s pub arguments.) A born contrarian, the sciences had called to him. And of course they

had! Science was the occupation of mule-headed pricks (see: Nicolaus Copernicus), curious entrepreneurial spirits (see: Marie Curie), and madmen (see: Freud). And Crowley just so happened to be all three. There wasn’t a major field of study that he didn’t have a thumb in. If there was a scientific consensus to be had on the matter, then there was also a Crowley to unrepentantly flip the bird at it. These were the foreboding thoughts overshadowing the mind of one young (although only young by th

e standards of post-PhD graduates, which is to say, not young at all) Dr. Fell; as he glanced, awestruck, to the other side of the University cafeteria, where Dr. A.J. Crowley sat, eating a bowl of store-bought salad. Aziraphale had been crushing—academically, of course—on Crowley ever since he had read the man’s first paper on multidimensional approaches to quantum entanglement. That Crowley was wrong in his conclusions about relativity and its subsequent angles of observation was no impediment

in Aziraphale’s appreciation of his intelligence. They might have disagreed on the finer points, but Crowley’s writing was a wonder to behold. Aziraphale had nearly vibrated out of his seat upon spotting him. Never mind that he logically understood that Crowley published papers under TadU, the same university that Aziraphale himself wrote for, and therefore bumping into him was not outside the realm of possibility. It was the principle of the matter. Aziraphale knew Crowley as a photo above a w

ell-read author’s note; It was something else entirely to witness him, breathing, flesh and blood, as he gazed into his salad, wine coloured locks flowing down his back. Odd to know that he had poor posture, or that he forked his food around more than he actually ate it. Intimate, in a strange way; That Aziraphale could quote the innermost musings of a man mere metres away from him. Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s single player staring contest was quite suddenly put into co-op mode, as Crowley—almos

t like he could sense the attention goring into his back—looked up from his salad and into Aziraphale’s, now bashful, gaze. A tense moment of delicate liminality followed, Aziraphale waiting (much like a man at the gallows) for Crowley’s reaction to his impropriety. He was then surprised when Crowley's expression morphed into one of recognition, rather than one of disgust or awkwardness. [CROWLEY] Dr. Fell! [NARRATOR] Crowley called, a grin overtaking the once thoughtful lines of his face. He wa

ved one of his arms haphazardly in a ‘come-over-here’ kind of gesture, using the other to pull out a chair beside him. Aziraphale had the grace to be momentarily astonished before hurrying to meet his academic hero. [AZIRAPHALE](nervous) Dr. Crowley, It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance! I’ll be honest, I-I never expected you to know who I was… Let alone… [NARRATOR] He let his words trail off into pitiful nothings, stuttering and red in the face. [CROWLEY] Just ‘Crowley’ if you will, or ‘An

thony’ if you must. And the pleasure’s all mine! I first read your work, oh… It’d have to be at least five or six years ago now. Your master’s thesis, I believe. On Paul’s doctrines. [NARRATOR] With a leering grin, Crowley leaned forward. [CROWLEY](flirtatious) I will admit, Dr. Fell, your writing had me positively hooked. [NARRATOR] He said it as though it were a secret, the kind you wouldn’t dare repeat to your mother. However, from what Aziraphale could tell, he just sort of spoke like that.

Like someone who was constantly sharing the intricacies of some deviant sexual act for all the innocence of the actual words themselves. Every sentence that fell out of his mouth reeked of an implied ‘you saucy minx’ like the ghost of Fran Drescher past. [AZIRAPHALE] Er. [NARRATOR] Aziraphale replied intelligently, taking a seat. Crowley seemed unperturbed by the sudden verbal ineptitude. When working with academics, you get used to an assorted array of oddball characters. It’s terribly presumpt

uous, and even more so unproductive, to expect them all to conform to the standard back and forth of neurotypical communication. You don’t get to become Dr. A.J. Crowley, pain in the arse to astrophysicists everywhere, by being over-particular about the oratory of one’s downtime. [CROWLEY] You’re wrong, of course, [NARRATOR] He continued with an impish grin, forking his salad cheekily. Aziraphale hadn’t known someone could fork salad cheekily, but nonetheless, here Crowley was, attempting to pro

ve him incorrect on two fronts. [AZIRAPHALE](feigning offence, playful) Wrong? Dear boy, that was my master's thesis. Should you choose to debate this, I fear I’ll have the home field advantage. [NARRATOR] His response was deliberately unaffected, a haughty tune laced with the playfulness that Crowley was absolutely drenched in. [CROWLEY] Unfortunately for you, I’ve read it. And, as such, I fear nothing. [NARRATOR] If at all possible, Crowley’s smirk got even wider, eyeing up a challenge like a

dog would eye a rather large T-bone steak. It made him seem like the same kind of fellow you’d find jumping between skyscrapers in one of those panic-attack inducing YouTube videos. Within the relatively safe environment of academic discourse—long past the days of Pythagoras’ maths fuelled murder, or, for that matter, Plato’s wrestling prime—it made Aziraphale feel brave. [AZIRAPHALE] Those are bold words, Crowley. Especially coming from someone who has genuinely used Schrödinger’s cat to argue

for quantum superpositions. [NARRATOR] Startled, Crowley laughed, mouth opening wide enough to expose the mushy green remnants of the salad he had been chewing. Behind dark glasses, his eyes glittered with a delighted surprise that told Aziraphale, Crowley, hadn't read his paper on modern approaches to unified field theory. [CROWLEY] Just because the sod wouldn’t have liked my stance, doesn’t mean I can’t use his thought experiment to prove it. [NARRATOR] Crowley snorted, looking at Aziraphale s

peculatively. [CROWLEY] Anyway, it figures you’d like Schrödinger. All that religious symbolism, [NARRATOR] he sighed, inching closer. It would have been a suave manoeuvre were it not for the horrible screech of metal chair leg against hard concrete flooring. Aziraphale shuddered at the sound, wincing apologetically at Crowley. Hoping to convey with his eyes alone that ‘Oh no, I did notice your blunder, but I shan’t make a fool of you; I’m kinder than that, see?’ [AZIRAPHALE] Science as an imita

tion of the religious seems more like your sort of thing, actually. I prefer proper works of faith, [NARRATOR] he said instead, realising that the eye message wasn’t getting across all that well (because Aziraphale was about as smooth as Crowley in that regard). [CROWLEY] Proper works of faith, huh? [NARRATOR](embodying AZIRAPHALE’s embarrassment) The raise of Crowley's eyebrows could be seen from space. Not that space would want to see such a thing. Aziraphale imagined that space would feel qui

te silly, indeed, if such a glance had been directed towards it. At least, Aziraphale felt quite silly, watching Crowley’s eyebrows approach his hairline; Knocking—not impolitely—for entry. [AZIRAPHALE] C.S. Lewis, mainly. And I don’t mind a spot of Tolkien, either. I don’t suppose you read a lot of fantasy, do you? [NARRATOR] As Aziraphale was wont to do when embarrassed, he puffed up. And subsequently puffed down; Softening the sulky turn of his tone with the upwards lilt of a question at the

end. [CROWLEY] I don’t read much at all, really. Although I do make an exception for the Screwtape Letters. [NARRATOR] Answered Crowley, trying to find some common ground. [AZIRAPHALE] You seem the type. Devilish as you are in your academic work, [NARRATOR] Aziraphale teased. Regardless, Crowley soldiered on, giving tit-for-tat. (Crowley liked tits.) [CROWLEY] I’m more into the digital age, not that you’d know anything about that. You don’t even have a Twitter as far as I’m aware. [NARRATOR] If

Aziraphale had indeed known what Twitter was, it would have been remarkably telling that Crowley knew he didn’t have one. [AZIRAPHALE] A Twitter? [CROWLEY] Or, X—Whatever! I’m not above dead-naming that twat’s website, [NARRATOR] Crowley waved his arms about, like a man suddenly swarmed by a behemoth mass of particularly irritated houseflies. The movement made the all-too-lanky length of arm that stretched from his rotator cuff to his carpal bones apparent in its unwieldy gaucheness. [AZIRAPHALE

] “So it’s a website?” [NARRATOR] Aziraphale inquired, honest in the innocence of his enlarged eyes. He was distracted, watching Crowley’s impromptu interpretive dance, and thus wasn’t schooling his face into what he liked to call ‘professionalism’. (Although it looked more like the expression one made when handed a toddler’s colourful plastic toy—inexplicably supposed to resemble some antiquated notion of a telephone; tasked with the arduous theatrical performance of ‘Mr. big businessman on his

big business conference call’) [CROWLEY] Oh, satan help me, you are a relic. [NARRATOR] Came the breathless reply of Crowley, who was actually—for all his tight leather ensemble tried to say about his character (tried being the operant word)—giggling. Full on giggling. [AZIRAPHALE] Good grief, I know how the Internet works! (he doesn’t) [NARRATOR] Aziraphale pouted, hurt with a wound far closer to the truth than he was comfortable with it being. He wasn’t anything like Newton, a friend by virtu

e of the fact that they were the only two people in the lecture hall—and maybe the entire university too, if he took a moment to introspect (which he didn’t)—using a typewriter to write out their tutorial notes. Newton, because he catastrophically and irreversibly pulverised any unfortunate instance of modern technology that found its way beneath his sweaty palms. Aziraphale because… Well, he thought it was quaint. [CROWLEY] That argument is less effective when I can hear you capitalising the ‘I

’, you know. [NARRATOR] Crowley told him, still short on the breath, paid in the good humour of his last remarks. // A pause // Aziraphale huffed. [CROWLEY] Fine, fine. How about this: I’ll give you my number, you pop round to my place—if you’re available, say… [NARRATOR] Crowley paused, if only to make himself sound less desperate to his own ears. [CROWLEY] This Thursday—and I’ll show you the Lord of the Rings extended edition. [NARRATOR] He offered, lounging back further than his flimsy univer

sity chair should have allowed him. Maybe the chair liked him. Perhaps it was apologising for the awful noise it had made, scraping against the cement floor earlier. The reason didn’t matter to Crowley’s centre of gravity, which—much like Crowley himself—was currently mouthing a curt ‘fuck you’ to physics. [AZIRAPHALE] I’ve read Lord of the Rings! [NARRATOR] Aziraphale gasped, affronted at the mere notion that he hadn’t. Or, more accurately, that someone could look at him for more than five seco

nds and assume that he hadn’t. [CROWLEY] Ah, but I’ll bet my left bollock you’ve never watched it, Dr. Fell. And you really must. If you like Tolkien, it’s around 20 hours of his original tale adapted into film, although I doubt we’ll get through it all, [NARRATOR] Crowley grinned. He was the grinning sort, Aziraphale decided. [AZIRAPHALE] I’ll bring wine then. And just ‘Aziraphale’, is fine. Do you have a preference? [CROWLEY] On the wine or your name? [NARRATOR] The question was drawn out like

the weave of carpet threads under a disobedient cat’s paw. It left Aziraphale in much the same state as the cat’s owner, exasperated by the torn carpet and disappointed in the untouched scratching post that they had just ordered, shipped, and unboxed. The cat was probably—although unhelpfully—taking a nap in the empty cardboard shell that had once contained the scratching pillar. [AZIRAPHALE] Both, if you’re set on being contrite. [NARRATOR] Aziraphale tutted, glaring at Crowley’s metaphoricall

y smug mug encased in his metaphorically Amazon-prime-themed lair. [CROWLEY] For the wine: I prefer a Moscato. Although, I’ll drink just about anything alcoholic if it’s being offered. And for your name—(trailing off) [NARRATOR] Crowley paused, bouncing an idea around the empty tomb of his skull, like a particularly self-flagellating game of pong. [CROWLEY] I hope I’m not being too forward to suggest—well… I ought explain it first, oughtn’t I? [AZIRAPHALE] Crowley? [CROWLEY] It’s just that, I wa

s reading your master’s thesis and I couldn’t help thinking ‘Satan, this sounds like it was written by an actual angel’ and well… The name ‘angel’ kind of? Stuck? I was going to make a joke about it, but you didn’t have the context and—oh, I’ve just made an utter arse of myself, haven’t I? [AZIRAPHALE] Crowley, give me your phone. [NARRATOR] Confused, embarrassed, and powerless to do much else, Crowley acquiesced. Taking the offered object, Aziraphale, with his tongue poked out in concentration

and his chubby fingers fiddling with the settings, (because, insult aside, Aziraphale was a relic) didn’t spare a glance at the stone still statue that Crowley was pretending to be. When the device was returned to Crowley’s unmoved palm, it had been opened to a new contact, entitled simply: Angel It left Crowley clueless, floundering for something useful to say. Aziraphale, for his part, was happy to watch him gape like a fish. [AZIRAPHALE] I’ll see you Thursday. Say, five o’clock? [NARRATOR] H

e demurred coyly, pinky reaching out so that the cold metal of his ring met with the warmth radiating from the dorsal skin of Crowley’s hand. Still without use of his tongue—the muscle could be an impenitent beast at the best of times, as Aziraphale knew—Crowley grunted an affirmative [CROWLEY] Muh-uh [NARRATOR] sound. [AZIRAPHALE] Wonderful! I’ll see you then. [NARRATOR] Knowing how to quit when he was ahead was one of Aziraphale’s finer skills; And so, with that, he left to go eat his lunch el

sewhere. And also to google what on earth this ‘Twitter’ thing was. He was dissatisfied by Twitter, but not by his lunch. No, lunch sated him quite well (as it often did, he reflected, looking over the swell of his stomach). It was just as he was taking his last bites that he received a text from an unknown number. [CROWLEY] Hey. It's Crowley. I just realised that we never actually got into why your master's thesis was wrong. xx [AZIRAPHALE] That’s because it isn’t, dear boy. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] Oh

, really? I disagree. xx [AZIRAPHALE] We can discuss such matters on Thursday. When I’m not running late for a meeting with my supervisor. I look forward to thoroughly eviscerating you. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] I’ll stock up on wine, then. xx [AZIRAPHALE] I’ll be counting on it! -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] If you think I'm a worse debater while drunk, you’re sorely mistaken. Don’t think I'm blind to your devious tricks, angel. xx [AZIRAPHALE] You wound me. I won’t need alcohol to win a verbal sparring match with y

ou. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] I’m a master debater, you know. xx [AZIRAPHALE] I’m sure you are. -A.Z.F Oh, sugar! I really need to go! Have a wonderful evening, Crowley. If these are my last words, know that I’ve always loved… Schrödinger… My supervisor might actually skin me alive when I get there! Goodness gracious! Lovely chatting with you, regardless. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] Ttyl, angel. I'll wank on Bohr’s grave for you if you get murdered. xx [NARRATOR] Gosh, he was late! Anathema—Aziraphale’s formidable

but quirky supervisor—was going to wring his neck like a repressed housewife in the 1960s, squeezing the last remnants of dirty dishwater out of a hand towel. Only, instead of soap bubbles, it would be Aziraphale’s bloodied guts spilling out onto the linoleum floor. Anathema was a kind young lady, but there was an unmistakable fire in her eyes. It was the fire of a girl who had gotten her doctorate in her mid-twenties. And, with nowhere else for her limitless passion—and it had to be limitless,

because writing a PhD at forty wasn’t an easy feat; doing the same, in half the time, required about as much mental fortitude as one might expect (ergo limitless)—to go, she had adopted Aziraphale as a kind of pet project. If you knew her, and you were gifted with any sense of self-preservation, no matter how small, you wouldn’t willingly get between Anathema and her latest pet project. Aziraphale was currently getting in between Anathema and her latest pet project. Never mind that he was the pe

t project, he wouldn’t put it past her to learn the lost art of necromancy in the wake of his recently corpse-ified body, post-murder on account of tardiness. A trivial little thing like death couldn’t put a stop to Anathema Device. Perish the thought! Supposedly—on account of some author or another—there were only two constants in life; death and taxes. The first of these we’ve already discussed. The second, according to Aziraphale’s blurry memories of the Device estate and its subsequent callo

us disregard for bookkeeping—books of prophecy excluded—was no obstacle either. In the wake of such revelations, Aziraphale wished to propose an amendment to the popular idiom. There were only two constants in life; ‘were’ being the preliminary condition. Because, once Anathema Device was born, death and taxes both tendered their resignations and held hands while they skipped gleefully into the sunset. Aziraphale hoped they had a holiday house, somewhere near the beach, where they could grow old

together. He would do the same if he didn’t fear Anathema finding his proverbial vacation-inn and thoroughly beating the—proverbial or otherwise, Anathema wasn’t much fussed—ever loving crap out of him. The dark storm cloud of his—Anathema themed—violent musings had brought Aziraphale all the way to the faculty staff room. Its thin pine door was a wooden board lacking stature, opulence, and foreboding, but trying its best to make up for it by acting as the sole barrier between Anathema Device a

nd the outside world. It was a futile effort as Aziraphale, easy as anything, pushed it open—the lock had broken an indeterminate number of months prior, and no one was bothered enough to do anything about it—entering the domain of his supervisor. [AZIRAPHALE] Ana? I know I’m late, but I’m here now if that counts for anything! [NARRATOR] Aziraphale called, wafting the gift of crappy university coffee towards the hunched pile of sweaters sitting at Anathema’s desk. The sweater pile turned to look

at him, revealing circular spectacles that enlarged the eyes beneath them. Her elk-fur coloured irises, blown out to proportions more fitting for an alien, or an animated bug in a Disney classic, were not tempered by the human habit of blinking. Anathema had mastered the unmoved stare by the age of four, she was not going to let her streak—almost three decades unbroken—end now. [ANATHEMA] Aziraphale. [NARRATOR] She said in a tone that implied that it could list your sins verbatim, without need

nor want for breath. There was a moment of silence. Then, unlike herself, she sighed. [ANATHEMA] You don’t even have a paper for me to demand a draft of yet. Neither of us have any work to do. For all intents and purposes, this is a social call. You can’t be late to a social call, Azzy. It begins precisely when it does, with no interest in the time it was planned for. [NARRATOR] Anathema explained, making Aziraphale feel a mite foolish, as she was often wont to do. Having deposited the lukewarm

beverage onto her workspace anyway, he made himself comfortable in the cubicle-desk hybrid opposite her; where she was regarding the cup with the conditioned wariness of someone who had already known the taste of the grim sludge TadU had taken to calling ‘coffee’ these days. Her first sip wrestled a grimace onto her typically calm features, but by the time the second sip hit her tongue, she had acclimatised to the amalgamation before her. She continued drinking it, her exterior, at least, affect

ing unperturbed. Anathema was always more for the content than the aesthetics. In this case, the content was caffeine and the aesthetic was the offensive chemical concoction that contained said caffeine. [AZIRAPHALE] I spoke with Crowley today. [NARRATOR] Aziraphale remarked, apropos of nothing. Anathema hummed appropriately, if not disinterestedly, before actually processing what he had said. [ANATHEMA] The thesis guy you were so excited about? The one with the dissertation on primate social be

haviours and their implications for modern notions of evolution? [NARRATOR] Anathema probed, suddenly interested in the conversation. [AZIRAPHALE] The very same. [ANATHEMA] Holy fuck, Azzy. You’ve had the biggest crush— [AZIRAPHALE] Academic crush. I value his unique perspectives. [NARRATOR] He didn’t need to say more on the matter. It was a well trodden argument. Her words were interrupted by the swift interjection of one—rather embarrassed—A.Z. Fell. [ANATHEMA] Fine, you’ve had the biggest aca

demic crush— [NARRATOR] She coughed something that sounded an awful lot like [ANATHEMA] Bullshit [NARRATOR] before continuing. Aziraphale offered her his handkerchief, regardless. Politeness was something he prided himself on, even when his friends were being obstinate hecklers. [ANATHEMA] —on him for ages! This is big news! What did he say? [NARRATOR] Aziraphale floundered for a moment, unsure how to distil their brief meeting into something comprehensible. While most of Aziraphale’s conversati

ons strayed into the territory of ‘a bit odd’, his exchange with Crowley was more than ‘a bit odd’ even by his—somewhat unusual—standards. No, the banter between him and Crowley ventured past the ballpark of ‘a bit odd’, beyond the neighbourhood of ‘somewhat peculiar’, and landed straight in the realm of ‘Weird Nerds saying Weird Nerd Things’—capitals included. Not that Anathema wasn’t a Weird Nerd herself, it was just that her particular brand of Weird Nerd veered more towards occult philosophy

and historical chronology than it did towards quantum mechanics. [AZIRAPHALE] He recognised me, actually. He mentioned my Master’s in passing and even asked for my number. [NARRATOR] Anathema knew all about Aziraphale’s MDiv, having friended him doing a joint research project on the Salem Witch Trials. This meant that she also knew, more intimately than most, how utterly boring his thesis was. Well, boring to anyone who wasn’t specifically that brand of Weird Nerd. It both surprised her and did

n’t surprise her that Crowley was exactly that brand of Weird Nerd. Surely, for as prolific and expansive a researcher as Dr. A.J. Crowley was, it wouldn’t be beyond justification that his interests swept the dusty niche of Pauline Christian theology. But, on the other hand, it simply didn’t fit the vague sense of academic identity he carved out for himself. His debonair leather jackets and faux-suave saunter never seemed like a natural counterpart to the stuffy rigmarole of pastoral philosophy.

[ANATHEMA] Did he ask for your number? Or did you bluster your way into his contacts? [NARRATOR] Her tone was suspicious, and not unwarranted. Aziraphale had—mostly by accident—ambushed himself into the texting roster of many a fellow bar patron, classmate, and—on one notable occasion—a critical care nurse. It was an unfortunate habit of his, coercing people into adding him as a new contact. Therefore, Anathema was not unfounded in her doubts. Finding himself unwilling to explain it, Aziraphale

just handed her his phone. Letting Anathema draw her own conclusions was often the best option available when she scented a curiosity. Upon viewing, she grimaced. First at Crowley’s comment about wanking on Bohr’s grave, and then at something she alone could parse. It was the kind of double take that only she could do. One where the art of it was that she could present the aura of looking away without actually taking her eyes off of the chat logs. [ANATHEMA] He sends an awful lot of kisses, doe

sn’t he? [NARRATOR] was the sole comment she graced him with. [AZIRAPHALE] I think that’s just how he types. [NARRATOR] Aziraphale returned, for lack of a more poignant remark. Anathema nodded solemnly, like the text chain in front of her was instead a trial record straight out of Salem. It was oddly familiar, an absurd echo from their early post-grad. [ANATHEMA] “Angel?” [NARRATOR] Anathema questioned the nickname—something wicked about her. [AZIRAPHALE] Oh! I’m afraid that’s an in-joke of a so

rt. Nothing as untoward as what you’re implying, dear girl! Ho ha! [NARRATOR] Aziraphale chuckled with the odd inflection of a bad liar, even though he wasn’t—technically—lying. [ANATHEMA] Suuuure. [NARRATOR] Anathema snorted, as unconvinced as a woman of her intelligence should have been, when faced with such an awful performance. It was in the ensuing silence (an intentional silence, on Anathema’s part—she could break even the toughest of method actors with her intentional silences) that the t

elltale ‘bzzt’ of Aziraphale’s phone brought news of an incoming text. Faster than Aziraphale by whatever metric you wished to measure them—other than, perhaps, the metric of who could devour a pie, éclair, or other sweet treat fastest—Anathema ducked under the desk to read what she hoped to be another message from Crowley. Lady luck, as it appeared, was on her side (or was just pissed with Aziraphale for no particular reason). [ANATHEMA] “Angel?” [NARRATOR] She recited with all the dramatic fla

ir of a thousand William Shatners thrown into a Kugelblitz black hole. [ANATHEMA] “Did your supervisor…” [NARRATOR] She paused for effect, and also to kick away Aziraphale’s reaching hands as he tried desperately to get the phone back. [ANATHEMA] “Actually kill you?!” [NARRATOR] Squealing, her peals of laughter interrupted the very serious and not-at-all-over-acted sobs that wracked her frame. With a slow breath, she steadied herself and retreated further into the cubicle half of the cubicle-des

k hybrid. [ANATHEMA] “I might just have to avenge your death,” [NARRATOR] She read, voice gravelly as she felt the ‘script’—or ‘Aziraphale’s private texts’ depending on whom you asked—required it. [ANATHEMA] “—if they’ve truly gone and skinned you alive.” [NARRATOR] The message ended with two obscenely wet kissy sounds, paying homage to Crowley’s typical sign-off. Then, prim and proper as anything, she got up from the floor under her desk and handed Aziraphale his phone back. She had the grace n

ot to laugh outright as he hastily scoured the message with greedy eyes of his own. [CROWLEY] Angel, did your supervisor actually kill you? I might have to avenge your death if they've truly gone and skinned you alive. xx [AZIRAPHALE] I’m dead. Gone. Deceased. Mourn my memory, Crowley. Wank over Bohr’s grave for me. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] Nooo! However shall I live without my poor dead friend Aziraphale? How can I go on without him knowing just how hard I could thrash him in a debate? Why am I left to

suffer this meaningless existence without a Thursday night LOTR marathon??? Xx [AZIRAPHALE] I’m coming back from the veil to inform you that, and I do want to be clear about this: It’s ON. The fact that you think you’d be the victor of our debate fills my vengeful spirit with enough outrage that I simply had to come back to life; if only to inform you of your own idiocy. -A.Z.F [CROWLEY] I knew spite would bring you back, angel. xx