"No, it was Boston."
"Melbourne."
"Nope. Boston."
"Pretty sure it was-"
"I've got a photograph, dear."
Crowley huffed. He much preferred Melbourne over Boston, but he preferred being right over either of them. Aziraphale stood triumphantly with a little gilded box, holding an ancient daguerreotype candid he'd taken of Crowley in a dark frock coat, his hair in loose curls about his ears beneath a silk hat. He was smiling broadly, caught off guard.
"And? What's your point?"
The angel sighed.
"Look, that's clearly Beacon Hill, look at the cobblestones."
"They've got cobblestones in Melbourne."
"Yes," said Aziraphale, rather testily, "But the ones in Melbourne are always rectangular. These are the little round ones."
"Could've been Birmingham or London. Diagon Alley, perhaps," Crowley smirked..
"Now you're just being difficult. No, it was most definitely in Boston."
"But I don't want to go to Boston," he whined. By the time he'd finished his sentence, they were standing in an American alley.
"Too late."
Crowley wrinkled his nose.
"Smells like Boston," he muttered, following the angel to the sidewalk. They walked a good twenty blocks before starting down the street from the photo. Aziraphale stopped in front of the little cafe they'd visited in 1846, grinning ear to ear. Crowley held the door open for him and kicked the ground.
"Bloody cobblestones."
They sat down near the window and Aziraphale laid his coat carefully over the back of his seat.
"I do hope they've still got those little pies they had last time," he said, looking over the menu.
"It's been a minute angel, I doubt anyone here even knows what a mincemeat pie is."
"I do!" piped a kid who sat alone with his laptop at a table nearby.
He was in his twenties, clearly a student. He looked like John Belushi.
Crowley gave him a look and tossed his hands.
"Mate, I'm trying to prove a point here."
"Sorry," he mumbled.
Aziraphale was bright as ever, peering at the butter yellow walls.
"I wish they hadn't painted, the green was rather nice."
"I'm sure you'll find the arsenic under there somewhere, love."
"You really are in a foul mood today."
"I'm really not."
"Don't deny it, I know you."
"No you don't," he said, purely for the sake of defiance.
The angel cocked an eyebrow.
"Right, maybe you do. Just-uefgh." he sighed, deflating a bit as he batted his hand.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Angel."
"No, you've been 'off' for a while now. What's troubling you?"
"Oh look, they've got pies after all. It's rhubarb though."
"Crowley."
"Do you like rhubarb or hate it? I can't remember, personally I try to avoid it-"
