A miracle here and there for the more important things, but for situations involving his outfit (situations that didn’t involve his very old but loved coat), Aziraphale would rely on human innovation.
While his velvet vest was thread bare and worn in the places that saw the more frequent handling, he was more concerned about the buttons and any long threads that threaten to unravel the time-worn piece. Miracling his vest into perfect condition was too frivolous. Which was just as well, as the Angel loved having clothing tailored for him.
He got along well enough with the tailors and with their clientele. All men and women with smart taste. And as far as he could tell, they enjoyed his company. If they didn’t, he was none the wiser.
Aziraphale tsked at his vest and finally tutted when he saw just how many loose threads there were, and the buttons were no better off. Upon further inspection it seemed that the fabric was splitting from itself along the bottom. This won’t do. He couldn’t very well walk about London looking like a tattered old thing. Time for some much needed love and care.
Coat was slid over shoulders and buttoned up front. The Angel felt rather naked without his vest, which was neatly folding in hand. As the owner of A.Z. Fell & Co., he was completely within his rights to close shop whenever possible or stay closed as long as he needed to be. The Angel didn’t actually have intentions of selling books, anyway. So, with key in hand, he exited his shop and locked the door behind him.
The tailor in question was one that had popped up some short time after the great thwarting of the Great Plan. He hadn’t been, yet, and it was closer than the one he would usually frequent.
Aziraphale walked purposefully to the new shop, Oxford’s thudding against rain-slicked sidewalk. It was a miracle it stopped raining at all. In spite of the humidity in the air, Aziraphale arrived at the shop completely dry. Pushing open the doors transferred droplets of water onto his palms, which he shook off after stepping inside.