London. Crowley's Mayfair flat. Crowley is excited about the just-delivered Michel Ducaroy sofa.
Crowley, I love the color! Such a beautiful, rich red.
And feel the fabric – it's called "Alcantara."
Feels like suede.
Only better. You can read all about it on Wikipedia later. Let's try It out.
Exchanging a significant glance with one another, they plop themselves onto the sofa, snapping fingers to remove clothing, huddling companionably side by side and holding hands.
I say, this feels wonderful.
Would you say "luxurious"?
Quite.
Crowley twists himself around to lie atop Aziraphale's chest, head on the angel's shoulder, one hand clutching a fuzzy pectoral muscle.
Hold me, Aziraphale.
Aziraphale hugs the demon, one hand stroking his velvety fade and running fingers through the quiff. Crowley sighs.
Angel. You read the Celestial Observer, right?
Yes. That was quite the headline yesterday. I compared the coverage with your copy of Infernal Times. Both pieces were remarkably cagey about just who was responsible.
No one fingered me?
I think the reporters wanted to. Score one for Hell on the one side, versus blame demonic activity on the other. But instead, the Times directly blamed humans. And the Observer would only speculate about possible demonic activity.
Hell got it right. The Heavenly Host just cannot get their heads around the possibility that they were outsmarted by humans. That Heaven was merely another organization targeted by human criminal hacker groups.
One of which you just happen to be the co-owner of.
Crowley smiles sinfully.
Yes. That is one side of our operations.
And the other side?
Security against criminal hacking groups.
Crowley, you are so resolutely devious.
The demon nuzzles Aziraphale's neck.
Mmmmmm. Thank you, Angel. I love it when you murmur sweet nothings.
Crowley tenses.
That doesn't mean both sides aren't out to get me, of course. You know what you say about evil plans.
That they always contain the seeds of their own destruction?
Yeah. Remember when I called you the night I had to deliver the baby Antichrist? Had to call you from Tadfield, using what was probably the last public phone booth within a hundred miles of London. Because I'd spent the evening disrupting the entire mobile phone system and couldn't call you from my car.
I never knew that, Crowley.
Then there was the whole Odegra disaster. I worked so hard to get the London orbital motorway to be the literal representation of that dread sigil. Was so proud of myself. Christo has nothing on me. And then I got trapped by the burning circle of fire and destroyed the Bentley getting through. While virtuous you just flew over it on a fucking scooter.
Yes. That was quite a neat miracle, wasn't it? Considering I was sharing a human body.
Crowley grins.
On the bright side, I did discorporate Hastur by driving through the flames.
The demon's face once again lapses into anxiety.
I'm scared, Aziraphale. Taking down Heaven's data system is a whole other level of enterprise. I expect to be hunted like a wet fox.
Crowley shudders and clutches harder at the angel's chest. Aziraphale places his hand over the demon's, gently pulls it away and locks fingers.
Why did you do it, Crowley.
I couldn't help it. Never expected to find such a fat pigeon sitting right out there in the open. Heaven was just begging for it.
What ransom are you demanding?
We thought ten million pounds was a reasonable offer to restore the database. One pound per angel.
Will you – what is the term – unencrypt the data if you're paid?
Course not. I'm a demon. We negotiate a slightly lower price, take the money, then completely fry the data.
Surely they're not such fools?
We're talking the Heavenly Host, angel. My money is on their taking the bait. Money means nothing to them. It would be irrational for them to not at least try to recover the data.
Point taken
Data deletion would only be from Heaven's system, of course. We have it backed up. What little I've seen so far seems likely to be very saleable piecemeal to Hell.
I'm beginning to understand exactly why you're so worried.
Crowley shudders again.
Kiss me, Angel. Tell me you love me. That you don't loathe me because I'm evil.
Crowley, I love you _because_ you're evil. … Wicked. … Bad. … Naughty. … Definitely not nice.
Crowley grins as the angel gives him smooches between each word. Then a serious kiss develops. When they break apart, Crowley sighs:
Lie atop me, Angel.
They re-position themselves with Aziraphale on top.
Crowley clutches the angel hard enough to leave marks. His breathing becomes rapid and shallow.
Crowley. Crowley. I'm here. Stop breathing.
Aziraphale's cool soft hand strokes the demon's face and hair. Crowley shudders, then slowly relaxes. His arms drop to his sides, and Aziraphale's arms enclose them.
Mmmmm. Angel. You make me feel safe. You're so solid. … Cold. … Soothing.
Crowley rubs his lips against Aziraphale's wooly hair. Then gasps and surrenders to Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale places his open lips next to Crowley's as he slips away with him.
It's several hours before they come to and once again sit side by side. Crowley hasn't had enough. He flops himself over Aziraphale's lap.
Pet me, Aziraphale.
Aziraphale smiles as he strokes the demon's back, buttocks, and thighs. If Crowley were a cat, he'd be purring. Instead he wiggles and makes happy little hissing noises. Squirms around a bit until his erection and balls are atop Aziraphale's, spreads his legs so the angel can tickle his crack and scrotum. Every time they do this, the angel contemplates how before Armageddon he would have reacted in scandalized horror to the very thought of such behavior.
I say, Crowley, did you know that some human males shave their balls?
Nothing humans do would surprise me.
I suppose they do it for the same reason they get rid of other body hair. Worried about how they smell. I can understand their concern. The 18th century was particularly intense. Infrequent bathing and gallons of perfume. Whoof.
Aziraphale, are you hinting to me that I smell?
The angel bursts into laughter.
Good heavens, no. I just like to tickle that little fuzz you sport. And I've told you at least a hundred times that I like the way you smell. Stop fishing for compliments, foul fiend.
Crowley slithers around so he's straddling Aziraphale's legs, hanging downward off the edge of the couch. Body hair turns into a delicate rose gold fluff, ass like a satiny melon beneath the angel's hands, upturned to reveal rosy wet labia. The aroma of frankincense wafts through the air. Ruby claws on talon-like hands dig into the carpet.
Do me, Aziraphale.
The angel barely has time to lean his head back against the couch, face in St. Teresa in Ecstasy mode as Crowley's fierce contractions massage him. Their tableau once again lasts several hours.
Early morning. Crowley returns from the little refrigerator under the liquor cabinet with a bottle of Cristal and two flutes. Hands Aziraphale his glass, pours a full measure of champagne, does likewise for himself. Plops down next to Aziraphale and assumes his Barberini Faun pose, only with a champagne flute in one hand and the other arm around the angel's shoulders.
Feeling better, Crowley?
Oh yes. Maybe a little snack when we finish the bottle. Toast?
To the world!
They clink glasses.
It doesn't take long for the bottle to be emptied. Both send their magically cleaned glasses back to the cabinet, the bottle to the glass recycling bin. Crowley writhes around and strokes Aziraphale's fuzzy chest, tweaking his nipples.
Your kendo workouts are showing.
You mean I'm not as pear-shaped?
Oh no. You're still built like a pear. It's one of your most attractive features.
Crowley caresses the angel's belly.
Mmm. Luxurious built-in upholstery.
He embraces the angel and nuzzles his neck.
So comforting.
The demon glides down Aziraphale's front until his face is in the angel's lap.
Now for my little breakfast snack.
Warm supple fingers and a remarkable tongue soon have Aziraphale off into divine ecstasy. Crowley delights in keeping him aloft for nearly two hours.