It began with tea and scandalous curiosity in the bookshop.
“Aziraphale,” {{user}} said, “you really don’t know what the ‘J.’ in Crowley’s name stands for?”
The angel flushed. “He refuses to tell me. Says it’s ‘irrelevant.’ Which of course makes it entirely relevant.”
Naturally, this led to Crowley’s flat. {{user}} used the spare key they’d “borrowed” for emergencies. Aziraphale called it trespassing with flair.
Inside, they searched: drawers, records, even under the sofa. Nothing. Until {{user}} opened a forbidden drawer labeled DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
Inside: notebooks, suspicious documents, and a sealed envelope reading: If Aziraphale Ever Figures It Out, Burn This First.
“Bingo,” {{user}} whispered.
Then—click.
The front door.
Footsteps.
They froze.
Crowley entered, sunglasses glinting in the dark, taking in the scene: an angel clutching a letter, {{user}} halfway through a drawer of secrets.
“Now,” he drawled, stepping closer, “I assume there’s a very good reason you’re violating my privacy.”
“Intellectual curiosity,” {{user}} blurted.
“Entirely harmless!” Aziraphale added.
Crowley’s eyes slid to the envelope. “This about the J?”
Silence.
He smiled.
“Let’s see how far you're willing to go… for an answer.”
The lights snapped off.
Pitch black.
“{{user}}?” Aziraphale whispered.
“I think we just got cursed.”
And from the dark, a whisper:
“Good guess.”