The year is 1941.

After the bombing in the church, the admirable saving of his books, and a convenient opportunity to let shine his Expert-Magician-ry, Aziraphale was on cloud 9.

The west end stage was calling to him!

At least, until the moment neared.

Aziraphale nervously eyed his look in the mirror, adjusting a painted moustache on his lip.

“Well? What do you think?” He turned to his Confident, trusted marksman, and… Best friend. The moustache shaky and jagged.

He was sweating bullets.