"You shouldn't have to do this," said Aziraphale worriedly.
"Tell me about it," replied Crowley, repositioning his bag on his shoulder. The damned thing seemed intent on slipping off. "I mean, I seduced an angel. I should be getting a promotion."
Aziraphale blushed, but refused to be put off topic. Crowley was vaguely disappointed––he could usually provoke a lengthy argument about the relative definitions of "lust" and "love" with far less blatant statements.
"I mean, you don't have to do this," insisted the angel. "They don't know we know. There's no reason you can't skip the areoplane trip and say you forgot, or missed the take-off, or were busy."
Crowley smiled a little at the "we" but kept walking, ticking the options off on his fingers as he went. Aziraphale trailed anxiously behind. "A, if I 'forget', they'll just kill me more directly, at least for incompetence. B, if I 'miss the take-off', they would expect me to have gotten aboard anyway, assume I was avoiding it on purpose, and kill me more directly. And C, what exactly sort of 'busy' do you suppose they'd take as a valid excuse? I had to wash my hair?" Hell had said he needed to be on a plane to "get his orders perszzzonally". It helped that that imp had squealed about the snakes and extra demons accompanying his "orders", but he would've treated it as an appointment with death in any case. He hadn't been punished yet, in the year since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and if the Devil was really in the details, Crowley didn't intend to be the sort you just rubbed out.
Aziraphale fumbled for arguments. "You could... Crowley, so help me Father, I will smite you, and then we'll see if they believe you were busy!"
Crowley stopped abruptly, letting the angel nearly crash into him. He spun to face Aziraphale and spread his arms wide, dropping his bag and giving his most wicked smile. "Bring it, angel. Smite me, right here, right now."
If anyone had thought the previous blush was bright red, now the angel's cheeks put it to shame, along with matadors' capes, roses, and burning jet fuel. "Crowley."
The demon caught the angel's hand in his. "Aziraphale," he said seriously, "I want to do this. Even if you smite me, actual smiting with the pain and holy righteous-pain-in-the-ass-ness, they'll just come again. Heaven might be all keen on love and forgiveness, but Downstairs, we tend to go for petty vengeance. Prolonged, painful, petty vengeance."
"But––"
"No," Crowley said firmly. Masses of humans flowed around them, taking no notice of the two supernatural beings holding hands and locking gazes in their midst.
"Fine." The angel deflated, dropping his hands and looking so forlorn Crowley had to clap him on the shoulder.
"Hey," he said gently. "I've got a plan, remember? It's a good plan. I'll be fine."
"Crowley, the last time you had a 'Plan', Napoleon conquered most of Europe."
"See?" the demon said proudly. "Conquering is success!"
"For Napoleon, yes. You were supporting Prussia."
"Yeah, but you were already namby-pamby and British, and it worked out for them didn't it?" Fully aware that what he'd just said was completely ridiculous logic, Crowley went for his other, tried-and-true logic-free method of winning an argument and, still in public view of the entire airport,* seized the angel by the shoulders and kissed him on the lips.
It was a good kiss. There wasn't the shock and awe of a First Kiss, but adrenaline and mild desperation gave it a decent spark, and there was of course the burning flame, heavenly and hellfire, that blazed through Crowley every time he'd touched the angel since, oh, the fifteenth century or so. Thank Whatever that the non-Apocalypse had finally loosened things up.
Aziraphale pulled his lips away quickly, though not his body. "Please," he said, blue eyes wide. "Don't get yourself killed. If it's bad, call me. Pray, for once in your life. I'll come."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yes, angel." Hell's beef was with him, and he'd be cheerily damned over and over before he involved the angel.
"I'm serious," said Aziraphale, knowing as usual exactly what he was thinking. "Call me. Before it gets bad. I don't want you killed or––"
He broke off, dropping his gaze, but Crowley could fill the thought in. He'd had it enough himself. Don't want me dragged back to Hell and tortured until I come back as Crawly, snake eyes burning with poison and hellfire. Just like I can't stand the thought of you yanked back to Heaven and hung on a cross until you repent of your demon lover and are sent back as a soldier of Heaven, brimming with soulpower and righteous wrath. Because I don't know about you, angel, but that's a fight I don't think I could bear to win.
Crowley reached up and put a hand to his angel's cheek. "Aziraphale, kiss me good-bye for now, and I'll meet you back at the bookstore tonight. I am going to make it out alive."
The angel sighed, in exasperation and sadness, but leaned forward and kissed him anyway. This kiss was longer, slower and deeper, and Aziraphale wished it could go on forever. So did Crowley, as a matter of fact, though he thought that after a suitably long eternity they might progress to more...advanced activities.
But he had a plane to catch.
"Time to fly," he said with a bright, false smile, breaking off and bending down to pick up his carry-on. It was a good thing security had had a random, spontaneous malfunction as he passed through, because they definitely would have objected to the four large water guns he was bringing on board, tanks full of freshly-blessed holy water. He suspected they would also have been iffy about the knives, though Crowley considered those distinctly lower-grade weapons.
By chance, they'd stopped more or less in front of Crowley's gate, so he didn't have far to walk. Boarding was just beginning.
"The bookstore tonight!" Aziraphale called after him, worry still clear in his voice. "Don't forget!"
Crowley turned back and waved as the attendant checked his ticket. "I lied!" he said cheerily. "I have to fly both ways, remember? I'll see you at the Ritz tomorrow at noon!"
With that, Crowley turned his back on his angel (who was grumbling, but would get over it,) and walked down the connecting tube to the plane. He hoisted the duffel bag once more up his shoulder, listening to the dull clank of plastic weapons and stainless steel. His forked tongue lashed out to taste the air and he grinned despite himself. Hell wanted snakes on a plane? Well they were damn well going to get them.
*The airport, as it happened, took that moment to look in the opposite direction and whistle casually.