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The Man Who Was Thursday
by afrai

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It was only some time after Aziraphale had settled in Britain when Crowley realised what -- or rather, who -- was missing.

Aziraphale turned mild eyes on him when he asked, and the vague suspicion in Crowley's mind solidified into a distinct fear.

"I talked to him," said Aziraphale.

"Talked to him," Crowley repeated.

"Yes," said Aziraphale.

Then he said gently,

"Haven't you got any evil to be doing?" The 'somewhere else' lingered delicately unsaid at the end of the question. Aziraphale was good at hinting.

"He was a friend of mine," said Crowley, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. Thor hadn't really been a friend, but Crowley had come across him a few times in the course of his work, and sometimes they had talked. Sometimes Thor had been cheerfully blustery and moronic; sometimes he had been deep-eyed and subtly frightening. He had usually had his hammer, and he'd always paid for the drinks.

Crowley had liked him, more than not. And now he was . . . not.

"Come now, Crowley. I couldn't very well let him stay," said Aziraphale reasonably. His eyes were clear and unashamed. "No other god and all of that."

Crowley remembered stumbling in the blackened rubble of Sodom and felt his throat close.

"I'll just -- " he said. "I have to. I'll just, go now."

He didn't speak to Aziraphale for over a century. He never saw Thor again.

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