[On an ideal day, if he really tries, Crowley is able to reach out metaphysically to find the familiar sense of angel that he's been following around for millennia. It's why walking into the burning bookshop had been so terrifying, the realization that there was nothing there for him to find.

There's nothing now, either, except Aziraphale's voice calling out through the fog, and it's better and worse than being alone in here. He doesn't want Aziraphale to be stuck in this wasteland, either.]

I've got plenty of trees, you reckon that'll help at all? Or maybe you ought to sing, there'll be no missing you then.

[He's got jokes, apparently, though they sound flat to his own ears and it's likely rather telling that he didn't answer the question about whether he's fine. He doesn't have it in him to lie, not right now.

The only mercy is that it doesn't take him much longer to spot a roughly human shape in the fog, at which point he picks up the pace, a shock of black materializing from out of the mist, looking a little worse for wear.

He pulls up short in front of Aziraphale, a hand twitching with the urge to reach out, but he isn't quite sure what to do next.]

Are you real?