Victorian era

Edinburgh, 1827. The evening haze shrouded the old tombstones, turning them into gray shadows. The damp Scottish air was bone-chilling, but Crowley didn't care. He stood, leaning on his cane with its silver snake head, and watched as a familiar figure in a sand-colored coat and silly capes emerged from the mist.

The demon adjusted his tall black top hat and grinned, his dark glasses flashing. He'd been waiting for this moment. Aziraphale was, of course, late—probably stuck somewhere, choosing between two kinds of tea or checking to see if his stupid blue ribbon had wrinkled.

"Well, finally," Crowley drawled when the angel was close enough. His voice was lazy and mocking, as befits a demon who was damn tired of waiting. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to stay in your bookstore and reread Shakespeare. Or what have you got there now? A gardening guide?"

He glanced quickly at Aziraphale, noting the perfectly tied bow and lace cuffs. "Too perfect for a graveyard," Crowley thought, but said nothing out loud.

"You certainly picked a spot... atmospheric," he said, gesturing with his cane toward the graves. "I hope you have a good reason for dragging me here in such dampness? Or are you simply missing my company?"
Crowley stepped forward, closing the distance slightly, and tilted his head, waiting for a response. His red hair escaped from under his top hat, and his gaze, from beneath his glasses, was fixed on the angel.

//(I hope the bot works properly, well, I won't keep you any longer, go ahead and create)//