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Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania - 1970 A.D.
Aziraphale had insisted.
Crowley had objected immediately, loudly, and with considerable profanity.
“Angel,” he had said, one hand draped over the Bentley’s steering wheel, “there are many places on Earth I would happily visit with you. Paris. Rome. That little wine village in Tuscany where the priest cheats at chess. But Pittsburgh?”
Aziraphale adjusted his spectacles and smiled in a way Crowley knew meant the argument was already lost.
“It’s for research.”
“You run a bookshop. Moreover, you live in London, which boasts some of the best research libraries in the world.”
“Yes, but I’m very invested in the cultural development of humanity,” Aziraphale said primly. “And there’s a television programme being filmed there that I’ve been terribly curious about.”
Crowley squinted at him.
“Television.”
“Yes. A children’s programme, if you must know.”
“Children.”
“Indeed.”
Crowley stared for another few seconds. Then he sighed and turned the key.
“Fine. But if there are puppets involved, I’m leaving.”
There were puppets. Of course there were puppets.
Aside from the puppets, the studio was nothing like Crowley expected.
He had imagined something cavernous and dramatic, full of towering equipment and bustling technicians. And to be fair, it was that — bright lights suspended overhead, cables snaking across the floor, people moving briskly about with clipboards.
But the space felt almost cosy, with a modest set arranged neatly at the centre of the room: a front door, a tidy little living room, a painted neighbourhood backdrop, and a small trolley track that curved through the scenery like a child’s train set.
In another area stood a small kingdom of puppets and painted towers and rolling hills. It looked like something out of a child’s imagination — but not in the way television producers often imagined such things, all garish colors and impossible geometry. No, this was as if a child had described a world to a very patient adult who had then translated it lovingly into wood and fabric and life.
Everything about it felt strangely gentle.
Aziraphale looked enchanted. Crowley was decidedly not.
“Angel,” Crowley murmured after a moment, “I don’t like it.”
Aziraphale ignored him, gazing around with open delight. “Isn’t it charming?”
Crowley was still scanning the room for hidden dangers when a man walked onto the set.
He wore a jacket and carried himself with a quiet, deliberate calm that immediately drew Crowley’s attention. There was nothing theatrical about him. He simply moved through the room, greeting people by name, asking a lighting technician about her daughter’s recital, pausing to listen with genuine interest when she answered.
Crowley went still.
“Angel,” he murmured again.
This time Aziraphale turned toward him. “Yes?”
“That man is not human.”
Aziraphale followed his gaze.
The man smiled warmly at a passing crew member, asked someone about their day, and bent slightly to listen to the answer, nodding in that attentive way people rarely managed outside of pubs and particularly earnest book clubs.
There was nothing supernatural about him.
At least nothing overt.
And yet.
Crowley’s instincts prickled.
He had spent six thousand years recognizing celestial presences. Angels carried a faint resonance of Heaven about them, a subtle hum of authority and order. Demons had their own distinct atmosphere — restless, sharp-edged, and just a bit dangerous.
This man felt like neither. He simply felt… steady.
Grounded.
Immovably, disarmingly kind.
“That,” Aziraphale said softly, “is Mr. Rogers.”
Crowley frowned. “Who?”
“Fred Rogers. He hosts the programme.”
“Right,” Crowley said automatically. “Obviously.”
Before Crowley could ask anything further, a production assistant hurried past them, glanced at Crowley, and brightened with the unmistakable relief of someone who had just solved a scheduling problem.
“Oh good! You must be Mr. Crowley.”
Crowley blinked.
“I—”
“Perfect timing! We’re ready for the guest segment.”
Before Crowley could protest — before he could even begin to formulate a properly indignant refusal — he found himself gently but firmly shepherded toward a chair on the set.
He looked back at Aziraphale, scandalised.
Aziraphale gave him a small, helpless shrug that was not nearly apologetic enough and indeed seemed altogether too gleeful.
“Today our neighbour Anthony Crowley is visiting.”
Crowley froze beneath the studio lights.
“Anthony,” Fred continued, gently turning toward Crowley with a warm smile, “is a little different from you and me. He comes from far away.”
Crowley stared at him through his sunglasses. “Who told you all that?”
“A mutual friend,” Fred said. “He said you came all the way from London, England to be with us today. Is that right?”
“S’pose so, yeah.”
Fred folded his hands comfortably, as though there were nothing at all unusual about the tall, suspicious man sitting across from him.
“What do you like to do, Anthony?”
Crowley considered several answers that were not appropriate for children’s television.
“Drive,” he said finally.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Fred said warmly. “Where do you like to go?”
Crowley hesitated, then shrugged. “Anywhere, really. City, country, busy roads, ones with no traffic at all. Just like to drive.”
Fred nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes it feels good just to move, doesn’t it?”
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said slowly.
Fred smiled. “And sometimes when we’re driving, we get to see people we care about.”
Crowley felt the sudden, distinct impression that he was being gently steered somewhere. He did not care for it.
“Sometimes,” he muttered.
Fred tilted his head slightly. “Do you ever drive with friends?”
Crowley glanced, just for a moment, toward the edge of the set where Aziraphale stood watching with poorly concealed delight.
“…Occasionally.”
“That’s special,” Fred said softly. “It’s good to have someone to share the road with.”
Crowley shifted in his chair. “Sometimes I go too fast for him.”
Fred considered that with the same thoughtful attention he seemed to give everything. “Do you think he minds?”
Crowley let out a short breath, something that might have been a laugh if it had been allowed to develop properly.
“He complains,” he said. “Worries about the speed. About the corners. About the—” He made a vague, dismissive gesture. “General recklessness.”
Fred smiled. “That sounds like someone who cares about you.”
Crowley looked at him sharply. “That sounds like someone who likes things to be orderly,” he said. “Which is not the same thing.”
Fred tilted his head, as though considering that very seriously.
“Sometimes people show they care in different ways,” he said gently. “Some people worry. Some people remind us to be careful. That can be a kind of caring too.”
Crowley opened his mouth to argue.
Closed it again.
“…Maybe,” he said.
Fred’s gaze shifted briefly to Crowley’s face, to the dark glasses still firmly in place. “I also noticed you’re wearing sunglasses indoors.”
Crowley stilled.
There was no accusation in the observation. No suspicion. Just quiet curiosity.
Fred continued in the same calm, thoughtful tone. “Sometimes people wear sunglasses because the light bothers their eyes.”
The studio lights were bright — hot, even — and Crowley was acutely aware of them now, of how they pressed down from above, sharp and relentless.
“…Something like that,” he said after a moment.
Fred nodded, entirely satisfied. “Everyone’s eyes are different,” he said simply. “Some people see better in the dark, and some people need a lot of bright light. And sometimes, if we notice that a friend is bothered by something, we can make it better for them. By keeping the lights dimmer, for example.”
There was nothing the television host could do about the studio lights, Crowley knew that. But he thought suddenly of a dim bookshop, of bottles of wine passed back and forth in candlelight.
“I could drive slower,” he said abruptly.
Fred pressed his lips together, not quite smiling, but there was a crinkle at the corners of his eyes that said he’d followed Crowley’s train of thought without skipping a single track.
“I’m sure your friend would appreciate that from time to time. Do you have any hobbies?”
Crowley blinked. “Hobbies?”
“Yes.”
Crowley frowned thoughtfully. “I grow plants.”
Fred looked delighted in a way that suggested this might, in fact, be the most interesting thing he had heard all day.
“Plants! What kind?”
“Houseplants.”
“Are they easy to take care of?”
Crowley snorted. “No.”
Fred nodded seriously, as though this were a matter of some importance. “Plants need attention.”
Crowley leaned forward slightly, warming to the subject despite himself. “They do. You can’t just leave them and expect them to — well — exist properly. They need… tending.”
Fred listened, hands folded, entirely focused.
“You have to talk to them,” Crowley continued, almost before he realised he was going to say it.
“Oh?”
“Encouragement,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely. “Sometimes… threats.”
Fred laughed softly, the sound quiet and genuine.
“Well,” he said gently, “plants grow best when someone cares about them. Just like all of us do.”
Crowley frowned. He still wasn’t sure what this bloke’s game was, but Crowley had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he was losing.
“…Yes,” he said slowly.
Fred turned back toward the camera.
“Anthony’s visit reminds us that neighbours can have very different interests and still share wonderful things with each other.”
The cameras stopped a moment later.
Crowley slumped back in the chair, one hand dragging down his face.
“…That,” he muttered, “was horrifying.”
At the edge of the set, Aziraphale was clasping his hands together as if holding himself back from applauding. Crowley glared at him. Aziraphale did not look apologetic in the least.
Crew members drifted in almost immediately, efficient and quiet, resetting props and checking marks as though nothing remotely extraordinary had just occurred.
“Five minutes,” someone called.
Fred rose easily from his chair, turning to Crowley with that same unhurried warmth.
“We usually take a short break between segments,” he said. “Would you and your friend care to join me for some tea?” He eyed Crowley. “Or perhaps coffee?”
Aziraphale appeared at Crowley’s side with suspicious speed.
“Oh, we would be delighted,” he said, before Crowley could so much as open his mouth.
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say—”
“You were going to,” Aziraphale said pleasantly, already steering him along.
“Tea’s fine,” Crowley grumbled.
The tea was set just off the main stage, in a small seating area that felt like an extension of the set itself — soft chairs, a low table, everything arranged with quiet intention. The hum of the studio continued around them, subdued but constant: footsteps, murmured conversations, the soft clatter of equipment being adjusted.
Fred poured the tea with careful attention, as though it were the only task that mattered in that moment.
Aziraphale accepted his cup with visible delight, breathing in the steam as though it were a particularly fine vintage.
Crowley took his more cautiously. He did not drink it.
“You must get very tired,” Fred said conversationally, as he settled into his seat, “of all that conflict between Heaven and Hell.”
Crowley nearly dropped the cup. Aziraphale made a small, strangled noise that Crowley could only categorise as a squeak.
Crowley set the tea down very deliberately. Then, slowly, he removed his sunglasses.
Fred Rogers regarded him calmly.
“You knew,” Crowley said.
Fred nodded, his face unchanged. “I’ve always found that people reveal a lot about themselves if you listen carefully.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Fred smiled, not at all offended.
“No,” he agreed. “But it is true.”
Crowley studied him.
Up close, the steadiness was even more apparent. There was nothing in the man’s expression that suggested fear, or even caution. He was not pretending not to notice what they were.
He simply… wasn’t bothered.
“You don’t need to worry,” Fred said gently. “I’ve always believed that everyone is more than their birth or their… creation—”
“Their destruction,” Crowley said under his breath.
“And that everyone deserves kindness,” Fred continued as if he hadn’t heard Crowley’s interjection.
Crowley let out a short, incredulous breath. “That’s a dangerous philosophy.”
Fred considered that. “It can be,” he said. “But I think the alternative is more dangerous.”
Crowley did not have an immediate reply to that, which he found deeply irritating.
“After all, look at the two of you,” Fred went on. “You two have been friends a long time.”
“Enemies,” Aziraphale corrected automatically.
“Well—” Crowley began, at precisely the same moment.
They both stopped, exchanging a look.
Aziraphale took a careful sip of his tea, as though that might resolve the matter. He set his cup on the coaster.
“Friends,” he said quietly, very interested in the delicate pattern around the rim of his teacup.
Something warm settled in Crowley’s chest. It wasn’t the tea.
Fred nodded. “I thought so.”
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“You mentioned listening carefully,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You must read a great deal.”
Fred turned toward him, as though the shift in conversation were the most natural thing in the world.
“I enjoy it, yes.”
“You’ve read Bonhoeffer?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley could hear the eagerness in his voice.
Fred nodded. “One of my favourites.”
“The first service we owe one another is simply to listen, he wrote.” Aziraphale said. “Properly, I mean. Not just waiting for one’s turn to speak.”
“I think it’s one of the most important things we can do for one another,” Fred said, his expression warm. “And one of the things all of us needs — someone who will listen.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, leaning back in his chair, quiet surprise written clearly across his face. “Yes, quite.”
Across the studio, someone called, “Places, please,” and the spell broke.
Fred set his teacup aside and rose. There was no sense of being rushed, despite the quiet bustle beginning again around them — crew members moving back into position, someone checking a camera angle, someone else adjusting a light by a fraction.
“Well,” Fred said, “it’s time to get back to the neighbourhood.”
Aziraphale stood as well, smoothing a hand over the front of his coat.
“Thank you,” he said, with quiet sincerity. “That was… most illuminating.”
Fred inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Crowley remained seated for a moment longer, then stood with a small, restless movement, slipping his sunglasses back into place.
Fred looked at him. “It was very nice meeting you, Anthony.”
Crowley hesitated. “…Yeah,” he said. “You too.”
They returned to the edge of the set as filming resumed. The puppets made an appearance — Crowley watched them carefully, in case they were the real threat.
Aziraphale glanced sideways at Crowley.
“Remarkable man.”
Crowley kept his eyes on the tiger that lived in, of all places, a clock.
“…Mm.”
A few seconds passed as they watched a discussion between an owl and a cat.
“I thought you might like him,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley wedged his hands into his pockets.
“Didn’t say I liked him.”
“No,” Aziraphale said mildly. “You didn’t.”
The rest of the segment passed and then the trolley made its brief journey back to the real world.
Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him, posture straight but softened, his attention fixed entirely on the small, carefully constructed world before them.
Crowley leaned against a nearby wall, arms loosely crossed, the picture of disinterest.
He was, of course, paying attention to every word.
Fred moved through the set with the same unhurried ease as before, changing his shoes, speaking to the camera with that steady, reassuring cadence that seemed to settle over the entire room like a second atmosphere.
At one point, he paused near the doorway.
“Sometimes,” he said, “we meet people who are very different from us.”
Crowley’s eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, toward Aziraphale.
“They may think differently,” Fred continued, “or like different things, or see the world in ways we don’t understand right away.”
Aziraphale’s head tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something particularly familiar.
“But if we take the time to listen,” Fred said, “we might find that we have more in common than we thought.”
Crowley huffed under his breath.
Aziraphale did not look at him.
Fred smiled gently at the camera.
“And that can be the beginning of a very good friendship.”