Aziraphale was slightly disconcerted when someone other than Crowley was sitting on their bench in St. James' Park. But the person there who was not Crowley had an overwhelming sense of Good about them and so Aziraphale was perfectly comfortable sitting next to him. In fact, doing so made Aziraphale feel quite loved.

Aziraphale sat and tossed bread out to the ducks, feeling wonderful and good and loved and holy and all else an angel usually felt when in a Very Good Mood.

"Here all alone?" the Good Man asked. Aziraphale smiled brightly at him.

"Waiting for a friend," he answered cheerily and went back to feeding the ducks. The Good Man clicked his tongue.

"My dear Aziraphale," he said. "You are quite missing the point." Aziraphale froze, as did the bread he'd just tossed, and turned slowly to face the Good Man. Because that voice was suddenly familiar, and he'd never thought he'd hear it on Earth.

"My Lord?" The Good Man grinned at Aziraphale in a way Aziraphale had seen playful parents do just before attacking their children with tickles. God pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it to the awed angel. Aziraphale un-crumpled and unfolded it carefully and peered at the message there.

It was a phallic symbol any way you looked at it, and how was that possible anyway? Aziraphale was confused.

"Sorry I'm late, Azir - who is that?" Aziraphale looked up from the note, at Crowley, back to the note, and at God. God wiggled his eyebrows. Aziraphale blushed. With a grin, God stood and walked away, shimmering into the shade of the trees as if He'd never been there.

"That wasn't who I think it was, was it?" Crowley demanded, frozen in place and looking pale.

"It's of no matter," Aziraphale said, standing. And, blushing harder, "Shall we visit your flat?"