[ It honestly aches, almost physically, how easily Crowley falls into line, slouching along slightly behind Aziraphale, trailing at his heels like a scowly, black-clad puppy.

He even grabs the back of his jacket to pull him out of the way of the French Bread Incident. It’s automatic, after so many centuries. Going along with Aziraphale’s ideas, hovering protectively, pulling him out of sticky situations.

This time, it’s all in service of helping him leave, and that’s worst of all. ]

Mmf. Yeah. Sure. ‘Course. I’ll just… whatever. Get the lie of the land. Maybe. Uh. Call me, if you - when you, uh, find something.

[ He shoves his hands in his pockets, prepares to slouch away. ]