When Crowley squeezes his hand, the angel smiles, a warm, affectionate look given freely. He still wonders, vaguely, if there's something he's missing. He's unfortunately good at missing things.

But maybe it's in his head. Maybe he's reading too much into Crowley's usual cool, aloof demeanor, and taking it for something else. Maybe it's just date night jitters, and he's nervous there might have been a misstep, though he can't really pinpoint any. The evening has been delightful so far, as far as he can tell.

Aziraphale squeezes back, and looks toward the stage again.

Oh, Oscar. Aziraphale can hear him in these words spoken by someone else. Many an exchange about the uniqueness of self, many a debate indulgence and self sacrifice. A few of them stayed with the angel nearly word for word. He does wonder what he would have said about the near end of the world.