Lupin

‘Not just weeds,’ Aziraphale answers; he counts the number of breaths it takes to send the seeds on their way. The setting sun catches their edges, and they light like tiny sparks. Aziraphale’s eyes light, too. ‘Six o’clock,’ he says; happily.

‘It’s eight-fucking-forty-five,’ growls Crowley. From behind the dark glasses he can’t help watching until the seeds vanish from sight.