A/N: This is just a little Good Omens fanfiction that I have been itching to type up. Sudden inspiration at three in the morning forced me to stay up and type this. I left it alone at five because after four, any decision is a bad decision.

Disclaimer: I would like to join the demon Crowley in telling my dear readers that I do not own Good Omens. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, on the other hand, do own it. If you have a problem with that, take it up with them. Also, the definitions are not my own, but my awful paraphrasing is.

Warning: SLASH. If this is not your cup of tea, then do not read any farther.

Well, here goes nothing. Please drop me a line, and tell me what you all think.

Connotations

By definition, an angel (n.) is a typically benevolent celestial being that acts as an intermediary between heaven and earth, especially in Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and Zoroastrianism. Conventionally, angels are depicted as humanoid figures sporting the ever traditional yet sickeningly white wings and a halo.

Humans, being the inane creatures that they are, associate them with pure, unadulterated gentleness, harps, precious little boys and girls singing infinite hymns and prayers, and the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim baseball team in California. The baseball team is as close as it gets. Other connotations – these being milder – are simply 'good', 'loving', and 'godly'. Sorry, but these can be wrong to a degree as well. Choice words that should be found within the same sentence as 'angel' are 'fierce', 'indifferent', and 'impersonal'. These are even more accurate than the baseball team.

The reality is this: they are sexless beings (unless they make an effort) and are warriors of God, not the saccharine, adorably obese cherubs or the harp-playing, ever-smiling, gentle angels of the Lord. Humans are the least of their concerns. In fact, angels stone cold do not care that millions of lives could have been lost in the almost-Apocalypse. The angels' love for the Earth is so general and generic, that it really is not love anymore; there is but mere apathy for Man in their heavenly vessels. They are not meant to be sentient. They are emotionless puppets subjected to the machinations of a God unknown. Also, angels cannot and do not dance.*

This is true save for one angel.

This angel now sits in the back room of his musty old bookshop, avoiding customers and reading a fascinating text from the Renaissance. Ah, Sir Francis Bacon** still has it. The celestial being pointedly ignores the cup of cocoa he had made some time earlier in favor of the black ink and yellowed pages in front of him. After Adam had restored his shop, the angel (with the help of a certain Enemy and the profit from the books Adam had supplied him with) had collected much of his lost library. The cocoa, feeling neglected and undesirable, allows an unappetizing film to form on its surface, as if giving up on life. The cocoa has every right to do so, for the holy entity does not take notice of it in the least. Hours upon hours after the initial cooling and filming over of the beverage, it begins to solidify and cultivate mold. It is practically Darwinism by the time the angel closes the now finished book and endeavors to dump out the congealed cocoa in the sink. The sun is setting, which does not go unnoticed by the angel. He has actually been looking out for the sun's departure, for he must be somewhere soon, or risk being late. Angels are never late.

He shelves the book out in the bookshop section of his establishment and goes back to his living quarters. After rummaging through his closet, the angel withdraws his old overcoat and quickly puts it on over his tartan vest and tie. The bulky coat engulfs his frame, which is slightly pudgy, yet toned. This body is slimmer than his old one, but it still retains the same blonde curls and crisp cobalt eyes. He buttons the coat, jogs downstairs, and leaves his little shop. He is going to the Ritz tonight.

There, on the inner lining of the coat sleeve written in permanent ink, is the name Aziraphale.

*This particular angel favors the gavotte. It is the only dance he knows, let alone likes.

**Aziraphale was reading The New Atlantis, a utopian novel first published in 1624. Sir Francis Bacon, author, philosopher, statesman, jurist, scientist, etc., based The New Atlantis on an idea the angel had shared with him over some wine while Bacon was in St. Albans. Aziraphale, on a whim, had reread it for nostalgia's sake.

~O~

By definition, a demon – also daemon – (n.) is an evil spirit or devil, especially one thought to possess a person or act as a tormentor in Hell. Typically, demons are thought to be pure evil and wickedness through and through, with little horns and wings to match.

Depending upon the demon, this is a plausible definition. Some demons are in fact pure hatred, but there are a rare few that are, let us say, 'decent'. Some of the decent ones include the Des Moines Demons baseball team. Common connotations may comprise of: 'evil', 'sanguinary', 'unholy' and 'tempting'. Some of these are true, albeit unnecessarily offensive to certain demonic entities. The level of evilness can be anywhere from stealing candy from a blind, deaf, and mute child to planting stray Legos for unsuspecting wanks to step on. Clearly, the Legos are the more sinister of the two. Incidentally, demons can dance, but they do not dance well.

In the distant, rarely visited realm of reality, demons are grossly similar to an intelligent species of slug. Their true, beastly forms often resemble one foul creature or another, but their shape can alter. Actually, both angels and demons alike may take whatever form they so desire. It is all about preference. In the case of one demon in particular, the male humanoid figure is preferred over his more…natural skin. Demons, masters of temptation and torture, are manipulative and uncaring down to the very core. Another damned soul, another day. Pain and damnation are the only things worth existing for.

One demon (or rather flash bastard) begs to differ.

The aforementioned demon is currently in his flat, picking out proper attire for the evening. After a second or two of flicking through his wardrobe, he waves a lazy hand and is instantly wearing a neat, crimson dress shirt, a silky black tie, slim black slacks, and new snakeskin shoes. He smirks in approval upon looking in the mirror perched on his bedroom's dresser. He looks damn sexy, if he does say so himself. His body is quite attractive, considering its slim, toned, and angular appearance. His demonic features were nothing to sneeze at either, although, he hides them with the illusion of a normal human tongue and a pair of sunglasses. Why does he not have a nice and proper date tonight then, you ask? As much as this topic would love to be broached by nosy prats, the demon's savage denial of his slightly splenetic nature brooks no debate on the matter. He had given up on sexual temptation long ago. Humans demand too much anyway.

Winking devilishly at his reflection, the Fallen Angel saunters out of his flat and heads for his most prized possession. He slithers into the 1926 Bentley and caresses the steering wheel lovingly – or as lovingly as a demon is able to caress a steering wheel. He roars away at the meager speed of 100 mph. Eh, his companion will not mind if he is a few minutes late.

Back in said companion's library, there is an extremely rare text, which was given to him by the demon. There, written in the flyleaf of the book (the fact that it is written in annoys his companion to no end), is the name Anthony J. Crowley. Beside the name, there is a tiny depiction of a serpent.

~O~

"What took you, Crowley?" comes a peeved voice. The owner of said voice is sitting at a secluded table in the Ritz, tapping his foot at a leisurely beat.

"Nothing. I decided to take it slow tonight. Nice views and such, you know?"

"Yes, yes, I am sure, you old serpent."

"Someone's a bit testy. No need to get your knickers in a twist, angel."

~O~

"An' then, that guy- what'sssss his nom- name? Ki- Pi- Shitler- no, no…Hitler, yeah, that's it. He jus'…" Crowley trails off. His drunken slurs, which had been making little to no sense all night, fall on patient, if not amused and equally drunken, ears. He tends to hiss a lot when he's inebriated, muses the angel.

"Have you ever heard tha' quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald about alcoholic beverages? Hm, I think it was something along the lines of 'first you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you'. I s'ppose this applies to celestials as well, dear boy," Aziraphale says, taking a sip from his own drink. "Perhaps you should put down the wine." The bookish angel should take his own advice; his flushed face and half-lidded eyes are tells that do not escape the drunken eye of Crowley.

Crowley and Aziraphale sit on a comfy, black leather couch in the main sitting room of the demon's flat, drinking La Romanee Grand Cru Monopole 1978. By this time, Crowley has loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The angel, also in the mood for comfort, has taken off his coat, vest, tie, and shoes. It is nice to unwind, or in the serpent's case, uncoil.

"Yeah, I think I've heard that ssssomewhere b'fore." The demon smirks over the rim of his empty wine glass at the angel sitting next to him. "Maybe you should abode- abroad- abort- shit, abide by that, too."

Aziraphale does not normally stop by the serpent's flat (the two usually spend time together in the angel's bookshop), but tonight the pair opts for a change in the routine. It is a rather nice place, anyway. Flora of varying size and species dot the mainly black and white flat with splotches of vivid green. The Fear of Crowley keeps them in line better than any fertilizer. The entire space is immaculate and utterly spotless, making it a bit detached. Aziraphale likes it, even if it is not his style. Strangely enough, it is easy for the celestial to recognize it as being Crowley's style.

"Perhaps," says the angel noncommittally. He takes another sip and sets his now empty glass down on the floor. He licks his lips.

Huh, Crowley thinks eloquently, that's oddly appealing. Subconsciously, the demon's forked tongue flicks along his own lips in a slightly more sensual mirror of Aziraphale, tasting the echo of the wine. Appealing indeed…

The angel stares at the serpent's lips for a full minute before looking away and coughing embarrassedly. Inexplicably tempting, thinks Aziraphale in exasperation and confusion.

Both of them have had their wings out ever since they first plopped down on the couch to get smashed out of their minds. Aziraphale's wings stretch out behind him over the back of the couch whereas Crowley allows his to lie across the arm of the piece of furniture quite fetchingly. Crowley, although he will never admit this, likes Aziraphale's wings. They are a soft, snow white, and each individual feather is tipped in what looks to be gold. The gilded edges glint beautifully in the dim lighting, and seem to radiate a shimmering warmth. Crowley's own wings are like feathery paintings of the midnight sky. Dim, he thinks, dim and dark, just like me. Aziraphale, contrary to Crowley's beliefs, likes the demon's wings as well.

"Take off your glasses," blurts Aziraphale suddenly. He flushes, but he automatically blames the wine for the pink tinge to his cheeks.

The demon does a double take, raising his eyebrows in dark, inquisitive arches. "Why?"

The angel has not thought that far into his demands. "I...I like your eyes. We're alone anyway, dear boy. Might as well be comf'table," says the bookish messenger of God. Cowley gives him an appraising look over the rims of the offending eye-ware.

"Sure, angel, whatever floatssss your bowl- boat, I mean," Crowley hisses, slowly taking the tinted glasses away from his mysterious eyes. His eyes are dazzling to say the least. A vast nebula of golds and yellows interlace and weave together in the demon's irises. The slitted pupils, along with that forked tongue, fully exhibit the demon's serpentine nature. Of course Crowley has shown Aziraphale his unique eyes before, what, with all the time they spend together. Their Arrangement, spanning not only their work, but also encompassing their social lives, has grown to include becoming rather close friends. Since the apocalypse-that-was-not, they have become even closer than usual, and spend almost every evening at the Ritz or at the bookshop together. In this case, it is Crowley's flat in which they choose to have a drink.

Crowley grins predatorily (and drunkenly). "You like?"

"I do," mutters the angel quietly, his ethereal eyes ticking between the demon's eyes and lips. It is not as if Crowley has not tried to tempt him before; he certainly did in nonsexual areas of sin. Crowley, in this moment, is not even making an effort, but Aziraphale has never felt a stronger urge to taste the demon's lips. Aziraphale's wings twitch and flutter behind him, almost sending a potted fern across the room at high velocity. Crowley reaches out a hand to calm them. He strokes them until they settle down once again, but not without Aziraphale sighing contently and melting back into the couch in a puddle of angelic happiness.

Crowley ceases massaging the angel's wings and sits back again, taking in the angel in his delight. Aziraphale groans at the loss and remains slumped on the couch.

"That was nice, m'dear. Thank you," murmurs Aziraphale with a hint of a slur.

"Don't mention it," replies Crowley.

There is a short, comfortable silence then. The plants tremble and quiver in anticipation.

"Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"Did ya mean it?"

"Be more sp'cific, dear."

"Did ya mean it when- when you said you saw goodnessss in me?"

The angel stares at Crowley for a long moment. Crowley stares right back at Aziraphale, his gaze intense and filled to the brim with wine. They both take a few seconds to sober up a bit in order to process what has been said and what they will say.

"Yes. I did. Well, I do. Presently."

The demon lunges, his body fluid, lithe, and snake-like. Crowley's face is a mere seven inches away from the angel's. His hands brace themselves along the back of the couch in order to keep himself from falling into Aziraphale, no matter how much he may want to do just that.

"But I'm a demon," he states simply. "I'm a fuck-up and a bastard."

Aziraphale, still slightly startled from the sudden motion, hesitantly brings a pale hand to Crowley's jaw and traces along its angles and plains. His demonic counterpart stiffens and hisses lowly, but he allows the angel to continue touching him. After brushing his fingertips over Crowley's features in lingering reverence, Aziraphale rests his hand on the demon's neck and sighs.

"That doesn't define you, dear. Especially not you."

It comes out a beautiful whisper. Crowley closes his eyes and moans at those sweet, simple words.

"Angel, you don't know what Falling can do to you," he rasps, his words heated and arid. "I am the definition of evil. I literally can't be good."

"Just because you are expected to be evil does not mean you are evil. You did not even mean to Fall. You are more than just a demon. You are Crowley."

"Easy for you to ssssay, angel. Being me is worse than being any other demon, rest asssssured."

Aziraphale's oceanic eyes roar with all the raw strength of a raging tempest. He moves the hand seated on the demon's neck back to his jaw and holds it there, making Crowley look him square in the face. They are closer now. Aziraphale's nose lightly touches Crowley's as they stare at one another.

"You're right, it is easy for me to say because it is true. If anything, you are better than some angels. Do you honestly think for one second that I would be with any other demon if he were not you?" Aziraphale asks, his voice swelling, and then plunging into deep, quiet tones dense with sincerity. "When I think of you, I do not think of Hell, Satan, sins, temptations, or demons. Crowley, I just think of you."

"But I'm tempting you right now, angel. You are going to ssssin for me, with me. Don't you fucking underssstand?" Crowley's hissing grows agitated and fervent. He is warning Aziraphale, but to no avail.

"No you are not, dear boy. I made this choice without your temptations. You made yours as well. This is beyond temptation. This is just you and I together, you senseless serpent."

Crowley is the first to move. He presses his lips against the angel's hungrily, shifting his hands to where he is gripping the angel's hips. Aziraphale hesitates, his mind whirling at a mile a minute. Then he reciprocates just as eagerly, grasping at Crowley's shirt with one hand and burying his other one in his raven hair. Their eyes slide shut, both angel and demon engrossed in the feeling of touching and caressing one another. Aziraphale's taste, as Crowley finds out, is mint and rain and lightning and something else….

The demon moves his lips rhythmically against Aziraphale's, earning a contented noise of approval. Crowley moans throatily as the angel fumbles with the buttons of his crimson dress shirt. The demon, in retaliation, flicks his long, forked tongue over his angel's lips and moves his hands up Aziraphale's sides. His angelic opposite allows him to deepen the kiss into a passionate tongue-war. Aziraphale may be an angel, but he isn't naïve.

The angel finally gets that bloody shirt off after having ripped the last few buttons to do so. He throws it across the room. Of course, it lands neatly folded and crease-free.

The demonic celestial pushes Aziraphale against the couch firmly, not ever breaking the kiss. Aziraphale tastes spice as his tongue tangles with the demon's forked one. He enjoys the flavor very much, to say the least. The demon breaks the kiss only to have his mouth begin ravishing his angel's jawline and throat. Crowley's wandering hands begin stroking the bases of Aziraphale's wings, causing the latter to groan in pleasure from having such a sensitive area petted and caressed.

"C-Crowley!" Aziraphale stutters, his body going slack for a moment from the sensation.

The demon smirks against Aziraphale's neck whispering, "You sure you're an angel? What, with my tongue down your throat and your cock begging for me, I would never guess."

Aziraphale keens lowly in his throat and subconsciously bucks his hips upwards from the obscenely arousing words. Both parties moan erotically at the friction.

The angel's head tilts back in euphoria, and his lips part in a silent plea for more skin, for more of his serpent. Said serpent complies, and he licks and sucks along the angel's now exposed collarbone. He nips the skin occasionally, leaving behind small, angry red marks. Aziraphale's shirt has been miracled across the room. Neither knows who has done it exactly. Neither cares enough to stop their rather enjoyable activity. Crowley dances his tongue down Aziraphale's throat once again and runs it sensually down his chest and stomach. This elicits sinful gasps and groans from the angel. Aziraphale shudders deliciously as Crowley skims his soft lips across the expanse of pale skin over his angel's hips. Both angel and demon are completely hard at this point. They plan to do something about it.

Once Crowley's lips reach the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers, he teases the skin just above it with his teeth. The angel, becoming impatient, grunts in frustration and reaches down to undo the button himself. Crowley, quick as a snake, catches Aziraphale's hand, effectively stopping it from continuing its journey south. The demon grins up at him, and he then proceeds to undo the button with his extremely talented tongue. That is probably the most attractive thing Aziraphale has ever seen in his six thousand years on Earth…until he sees Crowley unzip his trousers with his teeth and begin mouthing his erection through his pants with half-lidded serpentine eyes. The angel arches his back and breathes out a strangled cry of pleasure. Crowley slowly slips his angel's pants down, exposing his aching cock, which is slick with precum.

The demon flicks his gaze upwards in question, his ebony wings arching out behind him in a cascade of inky, glossy feathers. Aziraphale allows his head to dip in consent. Crowley loses no time in beginning to stroke the angel's erection with his serpentine tongue. The angel whines at the foreign yet pleasurable feeling, and he sinks his hands into Crowley's wings purely for the sake of holding onto something. Crowley hisses in desire and need as nimble hands worn from shelving and handling books bury into his dark plumage with abandon.

Aziraphale, as he bites back all of those things he wants to scream out as Crowley teases his cock, has never looked so beautiful to the demon. He is open, laid out for him to dissect even further. The angel is his to explore, just as he is the angel's. the mere thought that Aziraphale, his angel, is whispering his name, over and over again in a breathy prayer, is maddening in seven thousand degrees of insane. It is addicting, witnessing the angel slowly lose his reason in an incensed sea of lust and passion. He could get used to seeing Aziraphale like this. If this activity becomes a regular occurrence - which it they will, as assured by both the angel and demon near the end of this catastrophically erroneous tale - Crowley knows his eyes will never stop drinking in every detail of the angel, no matter if he has them memorized already, his head will never stop its downward spiral into carnal pleasure, and his heart will never cease to love Aziraphale.

Crowley engulfs the angel's cock fully, bobbing his head smoothly as he does so. He hums, effectively making Aziraphale bite his lip in ecstasy and cry out garbled encouragements to continue his ministrations. Crowley swirls his tongue around the head as he sucks. Aziraphale continues holding onto the demon for dear life as his erection is sucked, licked, and teased. Precum beads at the slit, and the serpent sensually licks it off, flicking his tongue suggestively as he does so. The angel groans in the most unholy way possible at this action. Crowley licks a slow, hot stripe from the base to the head of Aziraphale's cock. Said angel trembles in uncontrollable bliss.

"Please, Crowley, I need- I-," whimpers Aziraphale desperately as the demon pulls off his throbbing cock with a scandalously wet 'pop'. Crowley slithers back up his angel's body, straddles him, and responds to the babbling with a dirty, open-mouthed kiss. Both entities pulse with unspoken, forbidden emotion as they share every physical inch of their bodies with one another. Not in all of their millennia had they experienced such strong, violent delight on the earthly plane.

"What do you need?" Crowley whispers hotly into his angel's ear after he breaks the passionate kiss. The demons trails his tongue along the shell of Aziraphale's ear, causing the aroused angel to shiver.

"You."

Crowley looks into those deep blue eyes with more than lust. Longing. Aziraphale, the virgin angel, acquiesces to the demon's silent question. Aziraphale feels as if he will combust if the demon does not go through with what he is suggesting. For the first time since his Father created him, Aziraphale feels a base need to be with someone. That someone is Crowley, his demon. His demon. It feels so right to finally experience his breath hitch in his throat when he sees Crowley smirk down at him and have his body ravished by fiery, greedy hands. It is where he wants to be and ultimately where he needs to be. Always.

"I want- need you in every way," he says.

"Mmmm, if you insisssst, angel," replies Crowley huskily.

Crowley begins slowly tracing his fingers down his own body enticingly. Aziraphale, who is pinned beneath him, watches with barely contained desire. The demon smirks and brings his hands to the button on his trousers-

Aziraphale makes a small gesture, and his demon's trousers are gone. The only thing separating them now is the thin cotton of Crowley's pants. Aziraphale quickly hooks his thumbs in the elastic of the waistband, and he yanks them down. Crowley moans as the angel exposes his hard cock. Crowley, who is straddling Aziraphale's waist, thrusts forward, causing the angel to come completely undone beneath him. Their erections slot against one another, but do not fall into a comfortable rhythm as they buck and slide together. After many pleasurable moments of heated breathing, lewd whispers, and erratic thrusting, the serpent pins his angel's hips down.

"You sure you're ready for…this, angel?" pants Crowley as Aziraphale attempts to buck his restrained hips upwards.

"Yes, dear, yes, please," comes the wrecked reply. Crowley, in response to this, gently prods Aziraphale's lips with three fingers.

"Suck."

And the angel does so. He takes them into his mouth and swirls his tongue around them leisurely, the sight of it making Crowley growl in pure want and arousal. Crowley pulls his now saliva-coated fingers out of the angel's mouth, and he trails them down his body languidly. Aziraphale squirms and writhes underneath him as the demon finally allows his fingers to travel between the angel's legs and graze his entrance.

Crowley presses another brief, passionate kiss to his angel's satin lips before inserting one digit into Aziraphale. Said angel arches his back in ecstasy and pain, and he cries out loudly for more. After he is adjusted to the first finger, which Crowley wiggles around to open him up, the demon adds a second finger. He scissors them, effectively stretching his angel out. The angel whimpers and squirms against Crowley's body, craving more of the wonderful sensation the serpent's fingers bring him. The demon pumps his fingers in and out at a slow pace, and once Aziraphale begins to whine from pleasure and not pain, he adds the third and final finger. Aziraphale groans at the latest insertion. After Crowley stretches his angel a bit more and pushes farther in a few times, he removes the three digits completely. The angel whimpers from the loss, but then gasps in desire when Crowley's cock pushes against his entrance. He had miracled a bottle of lube and coated himself generously beforehand, of course.

"Oh, Crowley! A-ah, please, ngh." The angel makes an abundance of incoherent noises before settling for "Just bloody do it!"

The demon complies and pushes in. He hisses as Aziraphale's warm tightness clinches around his hard cock, and he barely refrains from just screwing it all and ramming into the angel with all the crazed passion of a man possessed. Instead of taking the aforementioned method, he allows the writhing angel to adjust to his size. He looks down at the angel, taking in his lust-darkened eyes and disheveled blonde locks. The angel looks utterly and completely debauched. Crowley has never been this turned on in his entire long, long life.

They stare at one another for a moment before Aziraphale releases a breath he did not know he had been holding and nods for Crowley to continue. With permission granted, the serpent rolls his hips, testing how much Aziraphale can take. The angel grinds his hips upwards in reassurance. Crowley sets a slow pace, and then gradually quickens it as the angel cries out "More, Crowley, p-please, go faster, please! I feel it- ah-"

Then, there is a loud screech of "AH, Crowley, yes! There!" Crowley hits Aziraphale's prostate again, and again, and again. The angelic entity beneath the serpent practically comes unglued from the intense pleasure. Aziraphale reaches down blindly to relieve his aching, neglected cock, and he begins to stroke it fervently, his instinct kicking in and hitting the ground running. Crowley continues to thrust into his angel, his pace brutal and wanting. He is nearing his end and so is Aziraphale. The angel squeezes and strokes his cock desperately as Crowley presses a bruising kiss to his lips and continues ponding into him. Aziraphale breathes out Crowley's name repeatedly, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Come, for me angel," Crowley whispers with a slight hiss. "I want you to ssssscream my name."

"CROWLEY!"

Aziraphale comes shortly after those words of lust, and he does in fact scream out his demon's name in frayed bliss. Cum coats their chests after the angel's orgasm.

With one final thrust, the serpent comes as well, spilling his essence into Aziraphale. All the while, he mutters "Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale" like a sort of mantra. Crowley shudders and pulls out, his vision clouding in blurry satisfaction. They lay there on the now ruined black leather couch, basking in the afterglow of a damn good shag.

"That…was pleasant, my dear," Aziraphale pants thickly.

"I concur," Crowley says, waving his hand and cleaning them of their sticky fluids. While he is at it, he cleans up his couch as well. As for the plants, their trauma is far too fresh and raw to do anything about now. Perhaps he could call in a therapist later that week...

Both of them are suddenly fully dressed, courtesy of a little miracling, and they flop onto the couch once again, their legs tangling messily and their hands entwining lazily. The perk of sexual intercourse between celestial entities is that the recovery time is brief, and the cleanup is quick. Humans do not know what they are missing.

Aziraphale lets his body rest against Crowley's. Crowley lets Aziraphale let himself rest against him. They both let themselves be together.

"I know what you mean about me not being one of the normal, everyday demons, angel."

"Do you?" Aziraphale deadpans.

"Yeah…I get it. 'Cause you aren't a normal, everyday angel. You and I are different from the rest, see? I don't immediately associate you with Heaven, or angels, or G- the Big Man Upstairs. I just think about you, an individual, rather than a collective clusterfuck of angels. I guess you think of me in the same manner except in a demonic way, huh, angel?"

"Yes. I do, dear. It reaches beyond just setting you apart, though. It is…strange and vast and strong and infinite, not like the general love I feel towards all of Man. It centers on you, a seeming necessity in my life now. The feeling is rather pleasant and light, and although I do not know what it truly means to me, I want it to stay with me. I want you to stay, dear."

"I love you too, Aziraphale."

The angel suddenly stiffens and looks directly into Crowley's eyes, which are the sunrise in that fleeting, impossible moment. The verisimilitude of Crowley saying that absurd line, Aziraphale knows, is astronomically minuscule, but...the demon had indeed said it. It is, to say the least, electrifying to hear it and to feel it resonate through his vast being. "I- wait, Crowley…do you really?"

"Yes."

"I love you, Crowley."

"I know, angel."