Brow furrowed, Owen cast his gaze more critically over Aziraphale before allowing that one to pass. He could understand the feeling of loneliness — he did indeed have George, but their daughter was lost to them. Perhaps for the better, even if it didn't help the ache.

"You don't look that old," he observed instead, a teasing remark. Of all people, he knew that appearance meant very little when it came to one's age. Here he was, eighty-one years old and looking not even yet to thirty if he was a day.