The Doctor squints a little harder, then gives up; this milquetoast is an angel? Maybe so, but there's more of the glittery greeting card than the flaming sword about him, in terms of angel rankings. "Right. An angel. Carry on. So you were almost-running, in order to avoid the potential for circumstances in which you might need to run," the Doctor sounds equal parts skeptical and relieved. "Pre-emptive fleeing. Actually, I can't find fault with that."

That having been said, the Doctor spins in place, coattails flaring with unintended majesty, and takes several poorly executed steps in a direction seemingly chosen at random. He seems to have no doubt that Aziraphale will follow in his wake, or possibly he just doesn't care. The owl seems gyroscopically able to compensate for the sudden change in direction; indeed, she is now staring at them across her own back. "Keep up!" pipes Sraif with a kind of foreboding glee, the sort one carries into a haunted house ride.