#chomp.

WHEN ASKED WHAT ALL THAT WAS ABOUT—the sudden and strange business with The Metatron—Aziraphale had told Crowley, ❝ Oh, nothing. Nothing at all! Shall we go somewhere? It's a bit... ❞

Mmmm-agh!

❝ Here. ❞

The coffee, with one single hefty jigger of almond syrup and one single barely noticeable sip missing, was placed upon an end table. And there it would stay until Miriam examined it forty-two minutes later. After a poke and a sniff, they were summoned back to Heaven posthaste, though they made sure to bring the coffee with them—SOUVENIR!

Now, Aziraphale sits across @xflashbastardx at a miraculously available breakfast table at the Ritz. The plump Cumberland sausage sits amidst eggs and grilled vegetables, utterly untouched, whilst he looks out the window for, well, he's not entirely sure what.

But a glass is poured next to him, and as bubbles of Barons de Rothschild race to the top of a champagne flute—he's not entirely sure if he ordered that or when—Aziraphale finally looks back at Crowley and blurts out, ❝ I WAS OFFERED A JOB. ❞

He gulps, a touch of wince upon his face.

❝ By The Metatron. He offered me a position. To return. To Heaven. ❞ Each addition is tacked on with emphasis, as though it would explain more of what's already been explained. ❝ He asked—well, he me to take up the position of Supreme Archangel. ❞

mm ocean orb

chomp