London. Crowley's Mayfair apartment. Aziraphale and Crowley enter, go straight to the bedroom, shed their overcoats and suits and don dressing gowns. Aziraphale's is a pale lavender flannel plaid with golden silk velvet lining, fastened with a twisted purple and gold cord. It looks comfortable enough to spend the rest of one's life in. Crowley wanders off to the liquor cabinet and calls back,

How about a bottle of port?

Just the ticket.

They both know what they're going to do when they finish their wine, so ensconce themselves on the bed, backs against giant pillows.

I say, Crowley, this American ruby is quite nice. Especially with this dark chocolate.

Venezuelan chocolate. I love it. Which reminds me. I have to go to Panama next week. Business. Don't leave Tadfield while I'm away. Not for any reason. . . . No, there's nothing to worry about. Just a routine trip. Here, drink up.

They sit companionably and work their way through their port. After Aziraphale finishes the last sip, Crowley magics the glasses and bottle off to the kitchen.

Angel. What about going formal dress and seeing what we can manage?

Crowley, do you think that's wise? We're at full power when we manifest in those forms. Wouldn't do to get carried away. We could injure one another.

Yep. Those horns of yours could certainly mess me up. Guessing that getting battered and punctured would smart a bit.

And you nearly broke a couple of my ribs that time I changed back too soon and you fell on me.

We should have a change word. What should it be?

Hm. Something that comes easily to mind. Nothing tricky. A good word, or a bad word?

Bad, I think. But nothing common, like fuck or damn or shit or bugger.

"Michael."

Now that's positively inspired. Definitely a word to quash any excitement. "Michael" it is.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, gets up and removes his robe. Walks to the most open place in the room, atop the heavy Tabriz carpet. In less than an eye blink, he's now two meters tall, with a tawny urial ram's head and neck. Massive ivory horns spiraling outward to complete a full circle, tips pointed forward. Dark gray eyes with horizontal pupils. Long snowy beard and chest ruff combination that stretches to his waist. Wings tipped with gold. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals. He kicks off the sandals and unwraps the shendyt, sending sandals and garment to the edge of the room.

Aziraphale, you're hung like a damned horse. And they could use those hairy golden balls of yours to play tennis. You're going to be sadly disappointed by my giblets, I'm afraid.

An enormous black python with fiery stripes and a viper's eyebrow horns dipped in red gold glides off the bed and across the floor to the angel. Unconstrained by gravity, Crowley serpentines upward along Aziraphale's legs, across his lower back and up along his backbone between his wings. The angel can feel the belly scales ripple and massage his skin as the serpent moves. The demon drapes himself across the angel's now noticeably broader and more muscular shoulders. His large wedge-shaped head rests atop the angels' snowy cascade of neck and chest ruff. A thick black forked tongue slides out and flicks first at the angel's nipples and then his penis. Pterosaur wings flare out. Huge amber claws hook around the tips of Aziraphale's curled horns and pull his head back until his muzzle is nearly vertical.

Pull your butt cheeks apart.

Aziraphale complies, and what feels like a rather prickly golf ball positions itself tightly at the spot just below his tailbone. Somewhat uncomfortable, but oddly stimulating at the same time. It makes him wriggle.

My hemipenes.

The snake demon's muscular body coils over the angel's thighs and against his erection. Aziraphale reaches his arms up to pull his horns a bit more forward to relieve some of the arch in his back, but it's a bit of a tussle. Crowley is slightly contracting all over, like a giant sinuous round vise. Meanwhile his black tongue is very active. He hisses softly, which noise, unlike the effect it would have on humans, solidifies the erection of a lifetime in Aziraphale. His hips make short thrusting movements. The angel's muzzle opens, he eyes half close and roll upward in their sockets as he comes into Divine Ecstasy. The serpent's hisses, his slit pupils open wide until his eyes are nearly black. They maintain this tableau for several hours, until finally Aziraphale gasps, "Michael."


I thought maybe you'd bleat, or something like that.

Really, my dear.

What a charge, eh? I feel like Hercules. OK, a skinny Hercules. But you know what I mean.

I do. Feel as it electricity should snap from my fingertips.

He extends a finger and pokes Crowley, but nothing alarming happens.

Well, there's a relief, at least. Wouldn't do to go around zapping static charges into whatever I touch. Probably ruin my cell phone.

Pull out your sword.

Aziraphale reaches out an arm, and his beautiful Japanese sword appears in his hand. The flames are a blinding bluish white, flaring like restless sea foam along the blade.

Whoa.