They're standing on the back porch. The paint beneath their feet is chipped and peeling, gray giving way to umber in ragged grooves. The air around them is brittle and dry and grasshoppers chirp in the clumps grass around the yard.
Crowley brings the lighter to his lips, cups his hands around the flame and sighs against the smoke that billows up from between his fingers. He passes the lighter over to Aziraphale, who nods in thanks and repeats Crowley's actions. He hands the lighter back over, Crowley slips it into his pocket.
Aziraphale leans back against the banister, the wood creaking underneath his weight. He blows smoke out into the evening yard; all indigo hues save for the dome of yellowing light above their heads. A few moths flutter around the rim, casting shadows across Crowley's back from where he stands. The silence lapses between them, but the grasshoppers make up for it.
"You know," Crowley begins, "Hell is a no smoking area," He pauses, the edges of his lips twitching upwards, "have to go outside the gates if you want a smoke." He dips his head, snorting to himself and scuffing his shoe along the edge of the porch, flakes of paint falling onto the rim of cobblestones below. Aziraphale's gaze drags from the yard, to Crowley, and to the hanging fern above his own head. The tips of its lush leaves keep brushing the top of his hair with every movement. He swallows and takes a drag of his cigarette, looks back at Crowley.
"Heaven is too." Crowley nods as if it proves a point.
"Never understood that." He adds and Aziraphale shrugs.
"I expect they don't want us setting a bad example."
"Yeah, but that's Heaven."
"Perhaps they don't want you using free will."
Crowley raises an eyebrow, glances over at Aziraphale and smirks, turns around to face him.
"By choosing where we have a cigarette? Yeah, I bet." His tone is spiteful, the last few words coiling into a hiss in the back of his throat. He flicks his cigarette with one hand, raises the other to his temple and scrubs at the corners of his eyes, shoulders drooping. "But that's Hell for you."
Aziraphale blinks, drawing himself away from the banister, the floorboards groaning underfoot.
"You alright, my dear?" He asks and Crowley drops his hand. The bottoms of his yellow eyes alight in the flame of his cigarette as he brings it back around. Aziraphale watches as his slit pupils wane then wax in the absence of light. He turns away and presses the cigarette against the beam surrounding the porch, rubs it in, flames coiling and curling and vanishing.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He swallows, turns back to face Aziraphale then strides the short length of their porch over to him.
He sways on the spot. His hands twitch at his sides until he raises them and takes both sides of Aziraphale's face in his palms and leans in. His eyes drift shut, lips parting before they even brush Aziraphale's.
They both taste like smoke.
Aziraphale's cigarette slips from loosened fingers and falls to the ground beneath their feet. He grinds it underfoot when he steps forward, one hand pressing into the curve of Crowley's elbow, the other, now empty, rising and curling around the back of Crowley's neck.
Crowley's thumb brushes the corner of Aziraphale's eye, he tilts the angel's jaw upwards, leans back and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"Ah." Whispers Aziraphale, his tone a little awed with realization. His fingers twitch, Crowley's skin humming beneath his hands.
"Yeah," Crowley sighs against his mouth, nose bumping against Aziraphale's cheek as he kisses him again - slow and languid.