One of the nicest things about spending more time together was that Aziraphale finally had someone able to discuss literature with him on the same intellectual level. More than that, he had someone to hold up the umbrella while he gestured excitedly as he relayed the technique and highlights of the author he was currently praising. His memory was impeccable, so he honestly didn’t need to have the source material in hand, but it made for a fine experience when he could point to each passage. The rain never fell on either of them, regardless of the umbrella, but appearances were important.
Onlookers always smiled as they passed, charmed by the bookish man engaged in conversation with his dark looking companion. They might have been worried, but they were endeared instead by the umbrella always being tilted to better serve Aziraphale than the actual holder of their shelter—and by the slight crook of Crowley’s mouth as the angel managed to lose his train of thought by going off on a completely unrelated tangent.