A/N: The only warning I feel necessary to give is that I'm an American, and British-isms go right over my head, so while this story seems fine to me, it might not be as British as it could be.

"I'm so glad he's found someone," the old lady said to her friend. Beatrice could have been a professional gossiper, if that was actually a thing that existed, and if her friend Harriet wouldn't have beaten her out for the position. It was the very reason that the two of them were standing in the main lobby of Beatrice's apartment, tucked away in a corner, sitting on two stray chairs which really didn't seem to be where they were supposed to be, not that it mattered, as at least that meant that the two of them could sit while they talked.

"Why is that?" Harriet asked, curious as always. Harriet had never met the man they were talking about, but that hardly mattered to her. She just loved people; talking about them was her favorite part.

"Oh, he's one of these corporate types, y'know, the ones that are at risk for suicide. He lives alone and always looks busy and stressed, or annoyed and stressed, or annoyed and busy," Beatrice explained, looking over to the elevator to make sure they hadn't missed him, "I'm just interested in who finally claimed him."

"You've never seen her?" Harriet asked, mirroring her friend in looking around the lobby. She had to rely on her to point out who they were talking about so that she could finally put a face to the name. Which she actually didn't have.

"Not at all, I've simply heard the footsteps going into his room. I live right beneath him," Beatrice responded.

"How do you know th-"

"He looks happier now, so I've just assumed," Beatrice cut her off. She knew her facts though, this was definitely a sign of a new girlfriend. It's exactly how her grandson had acted right after he'd started dating the Marissa girl, and then later the Amanda girl, and then-

"Ahh," the murmur cut off her thoughts. That was probably just as well, she might have gotten lost in thought. She needed to pay attention for when the man came downstairs, which just so happened to be now.

"Is that-"

"That's him, right. Must be meeting his girlfriend down here today," Beatrice whispered to her friend. Harriet scrutinized the man. The look on her face must have meant that he was about what she expected, as Beatrice looked to study him as well. He was wearing a red button up shirt and a black tie, and managed to seem both casual and dressed up while wearing it. As they looked, he was paying no attention to them, and was instead glaring at his phone while leaning up against the wall next to the elevator. His sunglasses had slipped down his nose a bit, but the two were hardly paying attention to anything but the fact that he was wearing sunglasses while it was cloudy and cold.

"He doesn't look very happy to me, though I can see what you meant now," Harriet broke the silence in a whisper, not that he would have been paying attention or been able to hear anyway. "What did you say his name was, again?"

"Anthony Crowley," Beatrice said, and Harriet nodded, as if that name was the only name she could have expected Beatrice to say. They both seemed at a loss of what to say until his girlfriend got there, as they were pretty much at the point where they were waiting to see what kind of girl would put up with such a sour, if handsome, man.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence, and in walked another man, dressed in a long jacket and tartan scarf, hair mussed by the wind and glasses askew. As the door closed he righted his scarf, which was trailing oddly behind him, thanks to the howling wind outside. He then began to walk to the elevator, making a last minute turn for Anthony, who he greeted with a murmured "hello" and a quick peck on the cheek.

Anthony looked up from his phone with what could have been called a smile, if Beatrice squinted a bit or maybe if she'd known him for several years. He pocketed his phone before reaching out to fix the other man's hair.

"Is the wind so bad that you can't keep yourself presentable?" he joked, running his hands through the other's hair, possibly in an attempt to fix it, but having raised her own children Beatrice had other thoughts about why he did that. The other man chuckled with a smile.

"I've only just walked in, my dear. Of course my hair in a mess," the other man responded, reaching up to straighten his own glasses. His other hand was placed on Anthony's back, where it had been since he first walked up.

"I'd have figured you'd have fixed it as soon as you got inside," Anthony responded, tilting his head and glancing over to where Beatrice and Harriet sat, a bit wide eyed. "Anyway, shall we be on our way, angel?"

"Sounds good to me, those ducks will hardly feed themselves," was the response, and Anthony laughed in what sounded to be a sarcastic way.

"Never a day in their lives, the lazy bastards," Anthony responded as they walked away from the elevator.

"It's not their fault that we have more bread than we need."

Anthony snorted, right as they walked out of the building.

The two ladies sat in silence.

"I hadn't pictured him as the kind for cutesie nicknames," Beatrice commented, and Harriet gave her a side glance that told her they'd have gossip fodder for quite a while. At least for five minutes, that is. Maybe ten.

…

"Thanks for finally getting her off my back," Crowley said as they walked to the car. Aziraphale stayed close, hand still planted on Crowley's back.

"And for what reason are you actually thanking me?" Aziraphale murmured.

"That woman in the corner hasn't stopped bothering me since I moved here. Thinks I'm right about to jump off my balcony or something like that," Crowley responded, shivering slightly and wishing he'd grabbed one of his jackets. Aziraphale must have noticed, or just known, as he unwound his scarf and gave it to Crowley, who was stuck between being warmed by his kindness and wishing he wasn't currently wearing tartan.

"To be fair, you do a good job of looking unhappy," the angel responded warmly, as if he couldn't do anything else. If it didn't make Crowley feel so, well, warm, it would probably make him feel a bit sick.

"Not as much now," Crowley responded, adjusting his slipping sunglasses. He was sure Aziraphale had seen his eyes, which wasn't really a terrible thing, but he'd still rather him not. Aziraphale smiled at his demon, doing that warming thing again.

Well, he might not have been on the verge of suicide before, but he certainly didn't remember being this happy.