Fabricare Diem

The room was filled with sweating, yelling, vibrating bodies. Where was he... ah.

There, at the bar, topless and with his hair shaved in a curious fashion. "Crowley," Aziraphale exclaimed, "what a coincidence!"

Crowley muttered something into his drink, staring at him over the rim of his glass.

"What are you doing here?"

"Wasting my time. Thought these kids would be easy to corrupt." He sneered. "You fit right in."

Aziraphale looked down at his suit, the soft fabrics still bright in the dark. "Are you making fun of me?"

Crowley bared his teeth. Maybe it was a grin. "No."