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Angels didn't need to sleep, as Heaven was ever-vigilant. Of course, Aziraphale could sleep if he wanted, but usually he didn't. He liked reading more, so there was at least the appeal of reading in bed that would call to him; sometimes he would dress as if he were about to go to sleep, and then spend two days reading a book series whilst propped up among the pillows.

Not in this hotel - not yet, anyway, even though the bed looked quite comfortable. He was far more distracted by other things. It was the middle of the night and he sat at the bar, a half-drunk Fiji at his elbow, and in his hands he was holding the phone the rather colourful receptionist had given him the other day.

For a moment Aziraphale had thought the woman was handing him a very sleek-looking explosive device, because if there was one thing he knew about phones it was that they didn't look like that. But no, it was definitely a phone. It had numbers on it. Purportedly, it could call people; but it also did a whole host of other things. Send electronic messages. Play music. Take pictures, even. In his first hour of using it, he managed to accomplish absolutely nothing, except accidentally turn the ringer off (and it took him even longer to figure out how to turn it back on).

He was getting the hang of it now, though, he supposed. But the phone's habit of correcting his words when he was playing around with the keyboard was enough to sorely try his very angelic patience. Regardless he hoped he survived the Apocalypse, because now he was really looking forward to leaving the twentieth century behind him.

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Porthos was just done with a game of cards, and he'd decided to celebrate tonight's earnings by beginning to spend them. He asked the bartender for some wine, then looked at the man down the bar, fiddling with that odd little 'phone' device.

"Have you got the hang of it?" he asked curiously, just a friendly mountain of a man here, dressed in seventeenth century leather. "I still can't make heads or tails of the one they gave me." Someone had shown him how to use it, but he hadn't been able to remember much of their demonstration.

Aziraphale looked up when he was called, and smiled faintly. "Oh, sort of," he said. "Every now and then it makes an angry sound at me and it really works on the nerves, you know? This is far and away from what I'm used to." The fact that he was talking about being outstripped by technical devices to a man who looked like he came from a time before electricity did not dissuade him. Really, Aziraphale still had trouble with answering machines (not that he realized it, which was part of the trouble in the first place).

"When are you from, my dear?" He asked. He hadn't seen clothes like that in a very long time. As old as he was, he often lost track of what humanity did with its clothes and when. He did recognize it as rather European, though, which was the continent Aziraphale had stuck to the most.

When are you from; it was becoming a normal question to Porthos, by now. That, in itself, should be slightly worrying, but Porthos did like to take most things in stride. (Most things. Some things got his blood boiling in a heartbeat.)

"1631," Porthos replied, and even added, helpfully, "Paris." And if there was something of a questioning lilt to the name, it was because he'd found out that not everyone here even knew Paris. That was perhaps the oddest of all.

Ah, Paris. He definitely spent more than a fine few decades in that little corner of the world, depending on where his responsibilities took him. Aziraphale wasn't really English, and had very little interest in pretending to be, at least when it came to the supposed dislike of the French.

"Goodness me, fresh after Shakespeare!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "That's dreadfully more interesting than me. 1990s London, I'm afraid."

"That sounds a fair bit interesting to me," Porthos retorted with a half smile. No wonder the man would have a better handle on his 'phone' than Porthos did. He smiled his thanks at the bartender when he came over with his bottle and glass, and poured himself one.

"No, no, it really isn't. I mean, the water runs and the light bulbs go on and of course there are less diseases, but I can't say the night life has gotten any better." Aziraphale was less concerned about keeping his identity as an immortal a secret in the hotel. First off, he was already pretty bad at it (he just generally used his pleasantness and his Englishness to either ignore people asking him to clarify, or to dissuade them from asking him why he knew about certain things altogether). Secondly, he'd learned by now that he was hardly the strangest being to jump worlds here, so he may as well take advantage of the fact he didn't have to add things like 'or so I've read' to the end of his sentences.

"Though at least in the 1990s if you get stabbed outside of a club you have a better chance of pulling through."

"And you've got showers," Porthos pointed out with raised eyebrows, sounding very earnest. Showers were a very serious topic for him. It had been months, and he was still as amazed each time he stepped under the spray.

"Yes, the showers are marvellous, aren't they," he said, because he didn't think anyone could ever disagree with that. He picked up his drink and finished it off, then held out his hand. "Aziraphale," he said by way of introduction.

"Porthos," the Musketeer replied with a friendly smile, reaching over to give Aziraphale's hand a strong, steady shake. It was an odd name to his ears, but a lot of names he was told in this place were, so he thought nothing of it. "I've never been to London. What is it like?" Even in the 1990s, as it were.

If Crowley had been there he might have mentioned how London was really a teeming mass of people attempting to be happy in one of the most unpleasant places on earth. But Aziraphale was definitely not like Crowley. "Oh, wonderful," he said. "There's an interesting spot on every corner, and the people are so very accommodating. It's quite a multicultural hub these days, as well. The only thing I really don't deal with well are the football fans." Loud, overly excited people were definitely not his bag.

"What do you do in Paris?" He inquired. "I sell books. You look like your vocation might be a bit more energetic than that."

Porthos's eyes twinkled at that last bit, and something in his posture straightened, as if to present the best possible version of himself as he answered, "I'm a King's Musketeer." He was incredibly proud of it, after all, and of the fleur de lis on his pauldron.

He'd ask about foot-ball-fans in just a moment. He understood each word individually, but could make no sense of their association.

Aziraphale paused, tipping his head to the side, slightly, as he eyeballed the man next to him. Yes... Could it be...

"You're Porthos the Musketeer!" He suddenly exclaimed, a good deal louder than a normal person might have. But he was a lover of books and literature. And in fact, he distinctly remembered a particularly sunny afternoon where he'd had a good lunch with Dumas himself.

He leaned forward, waving down the bartender. "I simply must have a drink with you," he said. It was hard to surprise and delight an angel who had been born well before 4004 B.C., but a literary character could do just that for him.

Porthos's eyebrows raised in the picture of surprise, but then a very pleased smile burst forth across his face. "I didn't realise I was famous anywhere. Any...when?" He was clearly fishing for the exact nature of his fame - no, his glory. It was bound to be glory.

Aziraphale would never be so crass as to tell someone that they weren't real, especially when it was very obvious that they were (he and Crowley had already discussed the truth in their surroundings, and were quite convinced this was all reality of some sort). He would not, however, lie. "Well, to be perfectly frank, you're part of a story where I come from," he said. "A very famous story that has been discussed, shared, and represented in as many mediums as possible. It is fantastic that you have existed all along. I wonder if the story I know is the one that's yours, though?"

"They tell stories about me," he stated, very clearly pleased, judging by the grin on his face. He paused as he thought of his friends. "About us?"

A story about him wouldn't be complete if it wasn't a story about them.

"It's actually one big story. A novel," Aziraphale clarified, even as he smiled at the bartender and directed she make him another of what he'd been having. "It's called The Three Musketeers. It follows d'Artagnan when he meets you and your companions. It's very popular, though, so it's been retold over and over again."

Then something equally wondrous occured to him. "Are the others here too?" He asked. "Athos and Aramis and all the rest?"

"We come and go," Porthos replied, but he was confused. "Why's it called the Three Musketeers? There's four of us."

"Well, you simply must introduce me sometime; I would love to meet them." Aziraphale was being polite and trying to tone himself down, because 'love' was a bit of an understatement. He'd witnessed a lot of things in his time, but seeing as how he was an angel and one of God's creations, when he saw that what was an idea to someone else was in fact full reality on another plane, he was well aware of how impressive and fantastic that was.

"Well, I suppose because he has to work to become a musketeer," he mused. "When the reader meets him he has to go through different types of service first. But that doesn't really stop him from spending all of his time with you three."

"He was a Musketeer long before he was given his pauldron," Porthos agreed, his affection for the younger Musketeer obvious in his voice. 'The Three Musketeers.' Porthos would like to have a word with whoever wrote their story. For that matter... "Who's the author?"

Often Aziraphale didn't find humans nearly so interesting as the things they produced, but even so the author had left something of an impression, in the way of most artists. "Dumas," he answered, mildly, sipping at his drink. "Alexandre Dumas. A bit self-involved, I found, but he made very good conversation."

"You've met him," Porthos stated, clearly surprised. He wouldn't have expected their tale to be told so very late. The twentieth century was a long way after them.

Aziraphale paused for a moment, as if wondering what he ought to say. Then he shrugged. There were probably stranger things than he at the hotel right now. As for the dangers of revealing himself, they were vague in comparison to the trouble he was already in with Heaven.

"I'm very old," he said. "Very, very old. All that's left of Dumas now is dust, bones, and several long books."

Porthos frowned at the odd words, and then felt compelled to ask, "How old?" He didn't look any older than Porthos himself.

Aziraphale blinked. "Well, hard to say, really." They didn't exactly have a dating system in Heaven, but he figured he could at least time it from the year of Creation. Which meant... "Six millennia?" he guessed. "I mean, give or take a few years, but when you start to get that high up it all sort of rounds down for quite a while after."

Porthos blinked at the other man, swallowed his glass of wine, then let out a simple, "Right." The sort of 'right' that meant, 'right, so I've been talking with a madman for the last ten minutes (but hopefully that bit about the book is real)'.

Aziraphale just smiled. "You asked," he said, with a little shrug. After all, if he was concerned about humans believing him, then he wouldn't have made it very far in their world. That was actually part of what made it easy to pass unnoticed; even if he did say something strange, it was unbelievable enough that it was readily dismissed.

"How old are you?" he asked, politely, because he figured it would be fair to ask in return.

"Thirty-one," Porthos replied, his tone seeming to hint that that was the sort of answer one was supposed to make. The sane sort.

"Oh, that must be..." and then Aziraphale trailed off, and shrugged. "I have no idea what that's like, sorry," he apologized, cheerfully.

"You do look a bit like him, though. Dumas, I mean. Though you have a far better chin, if I may say so."

"Thanks? I think," Porthos stated with an uncertain frown.

He liked the thought that their story had been written by another black man, though.

"Worry not, I meant it as a compliment," Aziraphale replied. "Unless you'd rather have a weak chin? I'm sorry, I'm rather bad when it comes to standards of physical attraction."

Porthos couldn't help but laugh at the string of words, but it was too good natured a laugh to be mocking. "I'm doing just fine with this chin, not to worry." He wasn't Aramis, of course, but, well. No one could rival with Aramis.

Ruby had become aware of the man from almost the moment he'd entered the bar, mostly because he was such a ringer for Loki that she'd thought her friend might've gone and gotten himself a new hair cut and color. It had only taken a moment of watching him to note that this fellow was probably the exact opposite of her friend, if the way he fiddled and fussed was anything to go by. Still, she could not deny that his mounting fluster was not only adorable, but endearing to boot. She let him struggle for a little longer if only to give him the chance to pick it up on his own, then made her way over after a few minutes of his seeming just as flustered as he had the moment he'd began to fiddle with the thing.

"It's a tricky thing, isn't it?" Ruby said, an earnestly sweet smile on her face as she sat her empty tray down on the table beside him and propped one hand on her hip. Seeing someone fiddling about with their cell phone was a common enough thing around these parts, so she thought nothing of it other than to offer her assistance, as always. "Did you need some help or do you have the hang of it?"

"I still can't get over the fact you touch the screen," Aziraphale exclaimed. He had a computer, which he used rather scrupulously, but it could not be called a miracle of modern engineering even by nineties standards. Still he made sure to keep the screen free of dust. "It's just upsetting me, you know?"

The woman looked like the sort who got paid a lot of money just to look like that and not do much else, from his limited knowledge of London models, so he couldn't imagine what she was doing behind the bar (well, probably working. Yes, technically he could imagine that. Whatever).

He gave her the kind of smile that not even pious painters stuck painting chapel roofs could truly capture. "You're very kind," he said, "but I believe it's all a learning process for me."

"The screens get smudged so easily," Ruby added immediately, a smile small but still edging her lips, even as he exclaimed his upset over the phone. Her immediate like of him seemed to be almost an elemental thing, somewhere on a level inside herself so primitive that she couldn't even begin to rationalize it. It was the exact opposite of sexual, and instead edged into the sort of territory of familial fondness - the sort that was so old and instinctual that one couldn't even begin to doubt whether or not it was a feeling they could trust.

"It's terribly frustrating. They do make little stylus wands you can use on the screen instead of your finger, though. Like a tiny pen with a blunt, rubber tip you use to select things and it keeps things so much cleaner and it makes it easier to type on the screen too, until you get the hang of it." Not that Ruby had one of those herself as her nails seemed to serve her well enough in terms of precise onscreen keyboard typing, but it would be easy enough to get one, if the fellow thought it might help. "If you think that might help, I could scare one up for you?"

His smile was utterly dazzling and filled her with such warmth that she momentarily forgot what her line of thought was in favor of smiling back at him, entirely charmed. "Aren't you the cutest?" She said, still grinning. "Goodness."

"Oh?" Admittedly, that did sound promising. Aziraphale felt he had never really gotten the hang of typewriters and, by extension, keyboards. He operated them just fine, of course, but had a habit of what was called 'chicken typing'. No, he was much better with a pen, or a piece of charcoal, or a stylus with a wax tablet, or a stick in the dirt, or however else humanity conveyed thoughts back in the day. His writing was very neat; he'd had lots of practice. "You know, I might just take you up on that."

She seemed quite taken with him, which was nice. He mostly spoke with Crowley, who half the time acted like he wasn't taken with Aziraphale so much as permanently saddled with him. He understood that was just the demon's way, of course, but a change of pace was always refreshing. "What's your name, my dear?" he asked. "Mine is Aziraphale."

"It helps," she said with a nod, making a mental note to get him a stylus with a more precise tip, just so she wouldn't complicate things further for him by giving one that clicked on something else entirely when he pointed it at whatever he needed. "If you can remember to take it with you wherever you go, or buy some sort of bitty bungee cord to attach it to the top so it sticks with you. I can never seem to get on board with either of those, for some reason."

The world that the Nexus had opened for her was truly infinite, and during times in which her shift at the bar dwindled down to the point that she had a bit of free time, she attempted to imagine the backstory of some of the Smoking Room's patrons. For this fellow she could get no solid read, other than he was clearly British, likely gay, and had a snappy, somewhat dated style of dress that she found fabulous.

"Aziraphale is a beautiful name," she said, having not expected such an exotic sounding name for him in the least. "I'm Ruby or Red, but I'll answer to both. But seriously though, Aziraphale, where does such a name come from? I was figuring you were British, but that can't be entirely true, right?"

"Well, perhaps you're simply more accomplished than I am to not need any of those things," Aziraphale suggested, with a smile. "You certainly look the part. I'm pleased I managed to spark your pity."

One of the things Aziraphale did with his time - because it was his job - was nudge humans. Suggest things. Reminded them that doing good meant being good, and that being good was the closest one could get to spiritual solace. Things like that. Often, Aziraphale had his work cut out for him - but then there were people like this creature, who didn't seem to need much reminding most of the time, if at all. Humans who fought all on their own for their good conscience - he loved that.

"It's, ah, biblical," he said, regarding his name. He blinked, and then tipped his head to the side. "How do you know I'm not British?" he asked, genuinely curious. Because he thought he did it rather well. He'd lived in London long enough, surely!

"Did your fondness for the colour red come before or after the naming?" he wondered, also. "You do seem to pull it off rather well."

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