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The Times in Which We Live

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"Heartbreaking," murmured Aziraphale, closing his book and setting it aside.

Crowley lowered the newspaper he'd been perusing and took the bait.  "What?"

"Have you ever read the transcript of Wilde's trial?"

"Whose wild trial?"

"Wilde's trial. Oscar Wilde," said Aziraphale, visibly irritated.  "You're not ignorant of those events, my dear."

"Oh," said Crowley, closing The Guardian and tossing it carelessly on the floor. "Him. No, can't say as I have."

"It's as if he didn't care what they did to him, in the end," said Aziraphale. "Such spirit. Such sarcasm. I regret that I didn't dare to go."

Crowley could think of several reasons why he hadn't bothered, not least because the Inquisition had left him with a distaste for prisons.

"Too late to do it all over again," he said, "and just as well."

"Thank goodness," Aziraphale murmured, sliding his hand across the table to cover Crowley's, "for the times in which we live."

"Not as if they could've done anything to us," Crowley pointed out, purposefully turning his hand under Aziraphale's so that his fingertips brushed against the angel's warm palm. "Being immortal has its advantages."

"Does it?" asked Aziraphale, his eyes once more resting on the book.