"He was... too caring," carefully neutral and Quentin just wipes all expression off of his face, pocketing the opal before stuffing both hands in to the pockets of his coat.

"I didn't know him? All that much? Might have... uh, talked to him a few times. Around town." Too bad about the wine, though, because nothing numbed grief like getting hammered, even if waking was its own kind of hell. "I just knew about Aziraphale, and about him being and angel. I didn't believe him at first? That maybe he was just using it like-- like a euphemism. Because he was. Good and kind. Forgiving, even if I maybe didn't deserve it. He was a good man."

Quentin shrugs. "Well, if wine doesn't do it for you, I have tea? And a deck of cards. Just in case..." the nights get too lonely, if the place Soldat and Aziraphale shared felt too empty and too quiet, "you need to be somewhere else for a little while."