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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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"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."