“You’ll have to show me,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve never done it before. I mean—I know the principle, of course, but given the life I lead, it never really comes into—”
“Aziraphale,” said Crowley patiently. “It’s very simple. You’ve smoked a cigarette. It’s the exact same process.”
Aziraphale studied the little joint he held pinched between his fingers. Both he and Crowley knew what it was, of course. Crowley had been responsible for introducing some exciting new uses of the cannabis plant to a few industrious Europeans. Later, he and Aziraphale both took credit for the marijuana prohibition movement. Neither side claim the recent marijuana decriminalization movement, as neither particularly understands it.
In Aziraphale's case, the relevant knowledge was, Crowley believed, largely theoretical. Crowley had a much more hands-on approach, as it were.
It was part of the job, really. Ever since humans worked out that they could use some of the plants around them to make themselves feel very nice, Crowley had been keeping an eye on things—and, on many occasions, a hand on them as well. There's not much he hasn't tried, being demonically immune to addiction, overdose, and other negative side effects. For the most part it was all a matter of research. Occasionally, Crowley develops a fondness for something or other and spends a few years indulging. He didn't sleep at all between 1973 and 1985, fueled by an impressive volume of cocaine. And while on an acid trip around 1967, he thought up the idea of smartphones. There's also the cigarettes that he swears every New Year he'll quit, as smoking is just an inconvenience these days. But there's just nothing like a cigarette on the balcony on a lovely summer evening.
Aziraphale should not, in theory, be indulging at all. But the angel was a hedonist at heart, and most drugs start out with no morality attached to their use. Barring a brief affinity for snuff and his own recurring cigarette habit, he generally tried everything once or twice, before returning to the old standbys. Which is to say that his exposure to cannabis was limited to a hash cake in Baghdad sometime around 1400.
Several hundred years later, the angel and the demon found themselves in Crowley's flat in London. They were in the room that you or I might call the living room, although it didn't look much like anyone lived there. The sofa was angular, black, leather, and stiff. In front of it was a coffee table chiseled out of a single, massive slab of obsidian. The flatscreen television mounted to the wall was slim and played videos in the highest definition anywhere. It skipped every advert and never had any trouble with region-locked videos.
Arrayed on the intimidating coffee table were rolling papers, a few neatly rolled joints, a grinder, an impressive pipe, and a jar of devilishly green nuggets of cannabis. The rolling papers came from the free Bibles that performative religious types liked to hand out on street corners. Crowley had failed to mention this to Aziraphale, who he hoped would notice eventually. It wouldn’t be any fun if he didn't notice.
Aziraphale sniffed the joint in his hand like a cigar and made a face. "You do this regularly?" he said with some distaste.
"I don't know about regularly," Crowley said. "More like occasionally."
"Wherever do you get it? Surely you don't have a—a dealer."
"Course not! I grow it. All those houseplants and you think I wouldn't have a pot of the very devil's lettuce?"
"Never mind, never mind, just light the damn thing and take a hit already, angel."
Crowley snapped his fingers. A flame sparked at the tip of his thumb, which he used to light the bowl of the very stylish, very impressively sized pipe he held to his lips. It was carved from a single crystal and was a red so dark it would have been indistinguishable from black to anyone not possessing supernatural vision. A few fissures of a brighter scarlet split the darker stone. If you looked at them long enough, you would swear they were flickering. The pipe never had to be lit a second time, it always burned evenly, and Crowley never accidentally lit too much at once. It was the only pipe of its kind. Crowley had had it for a very long time.
When Crowley engaged in vice, he engaged in it exquisitely.
He inhaled, then exhaled through his nose. This was uncomfortable. But combined with his reptilian eyes, it made him look like a dragon, which he knew would make Aziraphale smile. Aziraphale did smile, which in turn made Crowley's heart do a funny sort of flip that made him think of the fissures in his pipe for some reason.
"Here," he said, lighting a flame at his thumb again and offering it to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale held the joint to his lips, carefully inhaled so the end caught, and took a drag.
"You can hold it in your lungs for a bit if you like," Crowley said. "Some people do. Can't say I've noticed any sort of difference in the end result, but do what you like."
Aziraphale let out his breath in a long whoosh with a great, hacking cough. Crowley patted him firmly on the back and handed him a glass of water that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Happens to us all," he said kindly.
"Can't say I enjoy that part," Aziraphale said, eyes watering.
"You get pretty used to it. Joint's one of the rougher ways to smoke up."
"Come over, Aziraphale," Aziraphale said reproachfully, in a tinny, rough voice that sounded not at all like Crowley. "I want to show you something, Aziraphale."
"I did! This strain is a descendant of—oh, never mind. Come on; it'll make anything you eat taste brilliant." Crowley had placed an order on Uber Eats for this very reason. That part was meant to be a surprise, though.
Aziraphale coughed and gave Crowley a suspicious look. "When am I supposed to be feeling something?"
Crowley leaned back in his chair and took another hit off his infernal pipe. "Just wait. Come on, then, let's watch something. And not Antiques Roadshow."
After ten minutes of light bickering and continued smoking, they settled on Bake Off. The contestants were just finishing the signature challenge when Aziraphale said, "Oh."
"Oh?" said Crowley lazily, who was packing another bowl.
"I really, really would like to eat something," Aziraphale said.
Fortuitously, there was a knock at the door. When Crowley returned, bearing bags overflowing with takeout boxes from three different restaurants, the look on Aziraphale's face could have powered a city block.
"We've got curry, sushi, and some pastries from the little shop in Covent Garden," Crowley said. "The pastries would be thematically appropriate."
"Sushi," said Aziraphale heatedly.
Aziraphale reached into a bag, plucked out the little plastic container full of sushi, and arrayed it in front of him with rather more than a usual amount of care. Crowley plopped down next to him and took out the curry.
"Okay," said Crowley with relish, "who do you think will cry during the technical? My money's on—"
He choked on the rest of his sentence.
Aziraphale had just closed his mouth around his first sushi roll. His tongue flickered out just a little to lick a stray smear of soy sauce off a chopstick. He closed his eyes and chewed, eyes drifting shut as he half-moaned.
Crowley was no longer thinking about food.
He watched Aziraphale open his mouth for another roll, lips forming a perfect little O, and repeating the same process, this time actually sucking the chopsticks clean before letting out a happy, sated little sigh.
"Anyways," Crowley said in a high-pitched, strained voice, "who do you have picked to win?"
"Kim-Joy," said Aziraphale. "Would you pass the bag of pastries?"
Crowley unpaused the television and tried to breathe deeply.
Aziraphale took a bite of an apple tartelette and made a noise that Crowley had never, not even once, heard anyone make outside of a bedroom, and that really was that.
Crowley got abruptly to his feet. "I'm going to smoke one out on the balcony. No, don't worry!" he said, as Aziraphale started hurriedly wiping off his hands with a napkin. "You stay right here."
"Mm, okay," Aziraphale mumbled around a bite of pastry.
Crowley snatched up his pipe and fled to the balcony.
Outside, it was cool and just past dusk. Crowley shut his eyes and let the breeze blow over his skin. He was just starting to really sink into the high, his thoughts moving in a slow and orderly fashion and every little sensation on his skin
This wasn't the first time that he'd had stirrings of—and he hates to put the name to them—feelings for Aziraphale. It had been happening with some regularity for the past few centuries. At first, Crowley put it down to concern. They were friends, after all. It was normal to be concerned about the welfare of your friends, wasn't it? He had continued this logic until the 1600s, at which point he had the nasty realization that it actually wasn't normal for friends to want to know what the skin behind their friend's ear tastes like.
From there, Crowley resorted to one of his favorite human traits: denial. Neat little thing, denial. All you had to do was think to yourself, "nope, no way, I'm not thinking about the way a particular angel looks in a linen suit," and presto, you weren't thinking about it. It was a bit like those games where weasels or hedgehogs or something popped up out of holes and you hit them with mallets, only it took much longer, and the weasels kept getting better at evading you.
Crowley lit his bowl and smoked it with all the fury of Hell. When the pipe was depleted, he returned inside, to find Aziraphale clumsily removing his coat and draping it over the arm of the sofa. Next, he reached up to the bow tie at his throat, pulled it out of his collar, and laid it atop his jacket.
“There,” he sighed, leaning back into the sofa and unbuttoning his cuffs. “Much better.”
Crowley watched helplessly as Aziraphale rolled up his shirtsleeves with extraordinary care. The sight of those bare forearms was going to send him into the Pit. Again.
"This," Aziraphale said thickly, "is not like that hash cake."
Crowley blinked. "Hash cake?" he croaked.
"Hash cake. In—Baghdad? 1436? Or perhaps 1471." Aziraphale frowned and stared off into the middle distance, bloodshot eyes going hazy. "Or was it in Paris in 1904?"
"That was absinthe. I was there."
Aziraphale looked at his hands. "Sometimes I can't feel my limbs," he said. "I keep having to make sure they're still on."
"Yeah," said Crowley, who was experiencing something similar, but with his entire head.
Aziraphale sluggishly patted the sofa next to him. "Come be here!"
When Aziraphale asked you to sit by him, he made it sound as if nothing in the world would make him happier. Crowley didn't really have a choice. He sat down. Aziraphale's face broke out into a broad, shining smile that Crowley couldn't help but return.
"Did you get enough to eat?" Aziraphale asked.
"Good. I ate. Gosh, that food is good. You know, I think every food critic should review a dish once while sober, and then again after partaking."
Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Partaking?"
"After consuming cannabis," Aziraphale clarified.
"No, I know what you meant, it was the word choice. Talk like a proper stoner."
Aziraphale sniffed. "I have standards."
"Yeah, you do," Crowley said softly.
"Take this." Aziraphale, oblivious, handed him a glass of white wine.
Crowley frowned at it. "Is this mine?"
"Yes. Sorry. It's very good."
Crowley sipped it and leaned back. This wasn't so bad. Maybe Aziraphale would just enjoy the music and the food and the wine and talk endlessly. He liked listening to him talk, especially when he was excited about something.
"And you get such a different experience listening to music!" Aziraphale continued.
He went on about jazz for some time, as Crowley sipped at the wine, played Tetris on his mobile, and nodded as if he was listening. He was, a bit. There were just quite a lot of words, and he doesn't tend to get thinky when he's high. Aziraphale, on the other hand, very much seems to.
Aziraphale went from jazz, to balancing perfume scents, to a rambling story about a lavender farm he visited once, to nineteenth century fashion. He stroked his waistcoat the whole time. Crowley caught a glimpse of the way Aziraphale's thumb softy caressed the worn velvet and considered dousing himself with the wine.
"And I bet it would be incredible to masturbate like this," Aziraphale mused.
Crowley spat wine onto his chin. "Sorry, what did you say?"
Aziraphale did not appear to be in the least bit perturbed. "I said it would probably be very nice to masturbate after consuming cannabis."
Crowley's thoughts short-circuited, much in the way that yours might if you caught your teacher on a date.
"I didn't—" he sputtered, "—what do you—you've never—"
"No," Aziraphale said dreamily. "I don't generally discuss it around you. It's never come up, for one."
"For one? There's for others?"
"Don't be silly. There aren't four others."
"I thought," Aziraphale said, steering the conversation back into more comprehensible territory, "that you might think me silly, for making the effort and then never trying it with anyone else."
"I would never think you were silly," Crowley lied.
Aziraphale snorted and shot him a look.
"Okay," Crowley amended, "well, not about that."
Crowley had a number of questions. Most of them revolved around the standard format: when, how, why, what. He was desperately attempting to hold back a barrage of mental images.
"So," he said, "do you, uh. What do you…when you make the effort. What…"
"I haven't the," Aziraphale started, then tried again. "I'm not entirely...what...I don't know."
For the first time in over six thousand years, Crowley considered prayer. "When you...make yourself able to…"
"Oh!" said Aziraphale. "You mean my genitalia."
Crowley sipped his wine to hide the expression on his face.
Crowley looked at the ceiling and mouthed, "Experimented."
Oblivious, Aziraphale continued his messy rambling. "It's not as if any humans were going to see, so there really weren't many limits. I'm sure you know."
"Oh. Yes. Of course I know," said Crowley, who didn't know at all. Generally, when his nether regions were getting any use, it was with a human who might be alarmed if their partner sprouted a second penis. He didn't know how to process the idea that the angel had discovered something neat and sexy that even Hell hadn't even started in on.
Aziraphale smiled. "Thank you for not teasing me," he said. "I should have known I could trust you. You're so good to me, Crowley." He leaned his head against Crowley's shoulder. "You're such a wonderful friend."
Crowley shut his eyes and furiously tried to think of lengthy paperwork, or some of the more creative demonic tortures involving fingernails, or Hastur's armpits. Instead, he thought about Aziraphale's hair, slightly mussed but still smelling of very fine pomade and the sun. He thought about burying his face in it and inhaling. He thought about combing his fingers through it. He thought about how it would look between his thighs.
But it was a non-starter. They were best friends, for one, and what if it ruined them? They had no one else left in the entire world. They'd never really had any friends, but now that Heaven and Hell seemed to have left them to their own designs—
Crowley was struck abruptly by a series of devastating realizations.
First, when it came down to it, what was he doing still mucking about with this "denial" nonsense? It wasn't as if they would get in trouble for fraternizing or something now, with the forces of Heaven and Hell leaving them more or less alone.
Second, they were both reasonable enough to not let anything come in between them as friends. If being hereditary enemies hadn't kept them apart, surely bad sex wouldn't. And who's to say it would be bad?
Finally, Crowley realized, with a bit of a thrill, that there was actually quite a good chance Aziraphale wanted him to make a move. He'd brought up the topic, after all. He was leaning against Crowley's shoulder, his cheek against Crowley's shirt.
"Aziraphale," Crowley said cautiously, "have you ever thought about, erm, putting it into practice?"
Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against Crowley's shirt sleeve, which made Crowley's throat tighten. "Yes," he murmured.
"Oh." Crowley battled the haze of lust and marijuana that was clouding his thoughts. "With...anyone? In particular?"
Aziraphale let his head fall off Crowley's shoulder and onto his chest. His ear was up against Crowley's heart, which picked up its pace.
"My dear," Aziraphale said patiently, "there's never been anyone for me but you."
Crowley, stomach churning, combed his fingers through the back of Aziraphale's hair. Aziraphale leaned into the touch and sighed.
"Your hand is shaking," Aziraphale whispered. "Are you nervous?"
Crowley could barely speak. "Yes."
Aziraphale sat up. His hair was even more mussed, pale and frizzy around his head like the most earthly of haloes.
"Don't be," he breathed.
He took Crowley's face in his hands and kissed him.
Kissing Crowley had not been part of Aziraphale's plan when he decided to accept his friend's invitation. If pressed, Aziraphale might admit that his ideal evening did include a certain amount of physical contact. But he expected the usual sort—fingers accidentally brushing, or the gentle, casual touch of their knees as they sat next to each other on the sofa.
He had never thought to dream this big.
Aziraphale melted into Crowley. He couldn’t feel the weight of his body at all. It was as if Crowley was making direct contact with his soul, no flesh keeping them disparate and distinct. And then, all of a sudden, there it was again: his entire body, alive and warm and tingling. Like a cool breeze on a hot summer day, just before a storm rolls in. Like the moment you open a newly acquired antique book to look at the title page and discover what you’re holding. His head spun, pulling him out of his body before falling back in.
So that's why they called it "getting high."
Crowley stopped. “No complaints?”
Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered as he caught his breath. “I,” he said. “That was,” he tried again, before settling on, “Crowley.”
Crowley made a hungry sound and half-lunged for him, and then they were kissing again.
Aziraphale could kiss for ages this way, with Crowley crawling into his lap and clutching at his shoulders and gasping for breath against his mouth. Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley's back and pulled him close, as if he could somehow pull them together into one body.
Crowley tugged at Aziraphale's shirt. "Angel," he said. "You wear too many clothes."
"I miss togas," Aziraphale murmurs. "Chitons. Robes of any sort."
Crowley blinked and Aziraphale's clothes were gone.
"Cheating," Aziraphale complained.
"Using my resources," Crowley countered.
Crowley scraped his teeth up Aziraphale's throat, his hands sliding up Aziraphale's body, thumbing at his nipples. Aziraphale jerked.
"Oh, that's good," Aziraphale said breathlessly. "You're so good."
Crowley whimpered and pinched Aziraphale's right nipple between his thumb and the knuckle of his first finger, and Aziraphale arched.
"Get on with it," he demanded.
With his mouth, Crowley blazed a trail down Aziraphale's body. He traveled over collarbone, breastbone, and soft stomach as he slowly sank to his knees between Aziraphale's feet. Aziraphale spread his legs wide to let him in. There was nothing there just yet, but that could change.
Crowley nuzzled at the soft, warm, slightly damp skin at the inside of Aziraphale's thigh. "Oh, my angel," he murmured. "Please, let me give this to you."
"Yes," Aziraphale whispered. He frowned and screwed up his face. It had been a while.
Crowley nipped at the flesh of Aziraphale's thigh, who twitched and groaned. "Come on, angel," Crowley purred. "Give me something to work with."
Aziraphale shivered. He whimpered. He moaned. And he made the effort.
Changing a given body requires a constant, conscious effort of will. Luckily, Aziraphale has had a long time to practice. And biology is no hindrance when you're forming parts of your body from whole cloth. There are no rules about what you can and can't have, and "I'll have a cock and balls now, please" takes the same amount of work as "I'd like a nest of tentacles down there, if you would."
Aziraphale would like to say he chose something he thought Crowley would like. Really, he just wanted, and formed himself into something that would give him what he desired.
It wasn't as if they grew slowly out of his body, or smacked Crowley in the face. One minute there was nothing but bare skin between Aziraphale's legs, and the next, there was a pair of plump vulva, the tissue behind it pink and glistening. Emerging demurely from between them was something that was more than a clit and less than a cock, perhaps two inches long and slim.
"Oh, yessss," Crowley hissed, and dove in.
He pressed his mouth against Aziraphale and Aziraphale moaned, throwing his knees over Crowley's shoulders and trying to pull him in. Crowley's tongue was wrapping around the base of the protrusion and working it up and down in light, slow, movements. Aziraphale could feel every motion in a burst of sensation up through his groin and into his belly and thighs.
"Oh, it's," he panted, "it's so much."
Crowley moaned into his groin and Aziraphale gasped.
Crowley grabbed the backs of Aziraphale's thighs and squeezed. Aziraphale's thighs tightened around his head. He wanted Crowley to be drowned, subsumed, in him.
His hips rocked, grinding down onto Crowley's face. One hand was clenched in the bedsheets, the other crushing Crowley's painstakingly styled hair. His chest heaved for breath and his entire back arched with the force of his pleasure.
And then Crowley left off working the shaft, wrapped his lips around the tip of Aziraphale's pseudopenis, and sucked as he swiped his tongue over the top.
Aziraphale jerked, almost jackknifing in half, and let out a loud, "OH!" He would've accidentally shoved Crowley right off, if Crowley hadn't felt it coming and held on. As it was he only ground his sopping cunt against Crowley's chin.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale moaned. "Keep—don't stop."
Instead of stopping, Crowley slid two fingers into Aziraphale's cunt.
"Oh!" Aziraphale cried out, body twisting to the side.
Crowley hooked his fingers and Aziraphale sobbed. It was all too much. The determined sucking, the insistent flick of Crowley's agile tongue, and now the increasing pressure inside of him were driving him higher and higher, so that his chest filled up and his stomach clenched tight and he came in wave after wave of all-consuming sensation, bucking uncontrollably against Crowley's face. He felt the orgasm at every corner of his body, from the blood rushing to his cheeks down to the tension in the arches of his feet.
As it ebbed away, Aziraphale sighed and relaxed into the sofa. "That was lovely. Thank you."
Crowley dropped his forehead into the top of Aziraphale's thigh and let out a high, thin laugh. "No problem. No problem at all."
Aziraphale smiled. "Come here."
Crowley stripped off his remaining clothes like they'd been doused in holy water, then scrambled up onto the sofa and pinned Aziraphale down onto the cushions. Aziraphale lay back with a sigh and let Crowley kiss him ravenously. Crowley's face was damp, which Aziraphale realized with a little throb was his doing.
"Can I," Crowley said shakily between kisses, "please, please fuck you, I would very much like to."
Aziraphale considered the question. It made something hollow in him clench tight around the nothingness inside him, the empty space that yearned for something to fill it up. Despite the exhaustion threatening at the corners of his consciousness, he throbbed.
"Yes," Aziraphale said, breathless and dreamy, "oh, very much yes."
Crowley crowded up between Aziraphale's legs and leaned over him. "Like this?" he said eagerly.
"Yes," Aziraphale sighed, "oh, like that."
Crowley made a noise, then pushed back one of Aziraphale's knees as Aziraphale took the other. At last, at last, Crowley took his cock in hand and pushed in, which drove all the wind out of Aziraphale completely. As oversensitive as he was, it felt like Crowley was joining him on another, metaphysical level, so that nothing kept them apart at all.
Crowley kissed feverishly at Aziraphale's neck. He was just barely moving, the smallest hitching motions of his hips. Aziraphale moaned and rocked into the movement.
"What's that line you like, angel?" he growled. "About the kissing."
Aziraphale swallowed. His mouth was so dry. "Let him," he mumbles, "let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine."
"Not that one. Dirty one. American fellow. You knew him."
"Cummings," Aziraphale sighed. "I like kissing this and that of you."
"I like my body when it is with your body," Crowley breathed, and moved with purpose, and all Aziraphale could think of was Joyce: yes I said yes I will Yes.
Crowley was setting a punishing pace, thrusting in with a solid shove. Aziraphale clutched at Crowley's shoulders and cried out. The room filled up with the filthy, wet slapping noises of sex, which drove Aziraphale steadily out of his mind. He was pinioned, spread open, frozen, his knees almost up to his shoulders as Crowley drove into him. With every thrust, Crowley's pelvis rubbed against Aziraphale's oversized, oversensitive clit.
Aziraphale's mind drifted hither and yon, skimming over all the times he had looked at his friend with want. Crowley in a chiton, long legs bare, the hem lifting as he moved to bare a flash of pale thigh. Crowley with long, almost crimson hair falling like a silk curtain over his shoulder. Crowley looking pleased and surprised when he did something a bit naughty. Crowley in leather, black and skintight against his thighs and arse, looking edible. Crowley pushing him up against a wall, the two of them standing chest to chest and hip to hip. Crowley handing him a satchel of books as if it meant nothing at all to him, when in fact it was practically a proposal.
Crowley here, in his arms, heaving for breath in great gasps as he made love to Aziraphale like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.
"Aziraphale," Crowley said breathlessly. "Oh, how I love you." He dove in for a brief, messy kiss that had him moaning, then broke away. "Do you—do you think you could—"
Aziraphale smiled at him. One hand was still holding his leg up for Crowley. With the other, he reached up and caressed Crowley's cheek. "My beautiful boy, how could I not?"
Crowley's eyes lit up and he made a sound like he'd been punched in the gut. "Do you mean—"
"Yes," Aziraphale said. "Yes, a thousand times yes. I love you, I love you, I love you."
Crowley cried out and fucked him hard, hard enough that Aziraphale threw his head back and wailed. He was becoming aware of something unimaginably roaring down towards him, and he regarded it with a sort of detached curiosity. And then, all of a sudden, it hit.
Aziraphale's leg slipped from his hand as both legs snapped closed around Crowley's waist so he could grind into him. He came, shouting a Word as he did. Crowley gasped, whined, and finally bent double over him, shaking and shaking. Aziraphale kept going, sinking his teeth into Crowley's shoulder as something electric and blue pulsed through him. He chased it, refusing to let up until it flared up again and he came again, smaller, but so, so sweet.
Gradually, it faded away. Aziraphale went mostly limp as Crowley manipulated him slightly to the side and curled up against him to press gentle kisses to his neck.
"That was good," Crowley murmured.
"Mm," Aziraphale hummed. He was suddenly exhausted. "This must be why you sleep so much."
"Usually do it in a bed, though."
"Sleeping or intercourse?"
"Next time," Aziraphale said dreamily.
There was a long pause, during which Crowley kissed his neck some more and Aziraphale found he was getting less sleepy.
"Or," Crowley said, "perhaps...sooner?"
"You know," Aziraphale mused, "that might be just the thing."
1Crowley was himself introduced to it by a very creatively-minded fellow somewhere in central Asia. Taking inspiration from humans, he has taken credit for an accomplishment done much earlier by someone non-European.[return to text]
2Another trip in 1996 gave him smartphone apps that make you pay a subscription fee rather than just buying them outright.[return to text]
3Crowley had done substantial experiments on this topic, as he does not need to breathe.[return to text]
4Crowley knew better than to vanish them entirely. If Aziraphale had had the mental capacity to turn his head, he would have found them on top of his jacket and tie. They weren't as neatly placed as Aziraphale might have liked, but Crowley had been in a hurry.[return to text]
5He was, a bit.[return to text]