He had everything he needed, the angel knew, checking off a mental list. Some things he didn't need to bring - a small collection of decorative snuffboxes, as well as several books he left, including the one most precious. He kept only his cane for the long walk to Tadfield, and dressed well; a heavy overcoat, a slightly less-thick undercoat, scarves, gloves, an umbrella, and decent runners in varying shades of tan and dark grey created him to be the slightly pudgier image of a certain werewolf, without the patched section of clothes.

Wrapped in his thoughts, he nearly missed the quiet, "Aziraphale?" as he headed for the doors. He turned: the Metatron.

"Oh. Er. Hello."

This is the part he most hated. The surprise of finding someone so very much his superior by surprise was enough but the question of where the "The" fit in the Metatron's name - or, indeed, how to address him at all - distressed Aziraphale more.

And at such a time!