Disclaimer It's not mine, though I wish it were! The characters belong to Pterry and Gneil; the poetry belongs to Emily Dickinson or her estate or something like that.

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Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale, slinging one arm casually over the back of the bench and sending out a signal that sent fellow park-goers scurrying away.

"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale, but it was more out of habit than of concern. He leaned back against the arm instinctively, eyes still on his book--Emily Dickinson, really--and Crowley had to order his facial muscles not to stretch into a grin, as they so wanted to.

"The Devil--had he fidelity," Aziraphale read softly, "Would be the best friend--Because he has ability--"

"I've got some interesting abilities," said Crowley, smug and leering.

"Yes, dear," said Aziraphale, patting the hand on his shoulder. "I know."

Crowley stretched his long legs out until he was nearly lying on the bench, and Aziraphale felt his mouth going slightly dry.

"But Devils cannot mend--
Perfidy is the virtue
That would but he resign
The Devil--without question
Were thoroughly divine."

"You wanker," Crowley said, hitting Aziraphale's arm with the back of his hand. He blessed under his breath until Aziraphale looked reproachfully at him and the conscience he didn't have gave a twinge or two. "I am not."

"If you say so, love," said Aziraphale, smiling.

Crowley looked at the ducks for a few long moments. He said, very quietly, "Hope is a thing with feathers," and then, "God permit industrious angels afternoons to play."

Aziraphale carefully pulled the arm off of his shoulder but kept the hand in his own. "Indeed he does," he said, and he kissed Crowley on the cheek. "Let's go home."

"Yes," Crowley said. As he stood and mechanically straightened his jacket, he leaned very slightly down to whisper in Aziraphale's ear--"I would miss mine."

"My dear," Aziraphale said, and gently grabbed hold of Crowley's hand.