Tadfield. Mid-morning. The Bookshop back room. Crowley and Aziraphale are in their comfort position, on the carpet, sitting in one another's arms against a giant pillow propped at the base of Aziraphale's armchair.

Crowley is still in his snake demoness form from their latest bout of Divine Ecstasy, his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, ruby talons idly stroking the fuzz on the angel's chest. Crowley's talons are not lacquered; instead, they have the appearance of being carved from actual ruby, maroon as venous blood. Sinister sigils are engraved into their surfaces and filled with gold. They're sharp. Not as sharp as a hawk's, but certainly in the range of a leopard's claws. Crowley is being careful to stroke Aziraphale using the backs of the talons.

You have such beautiful claws, Crowley.

You like them?

Yes. Although they are rather frightening. They look as if you could easily disembowel someone.

Possibly.

Aziraphale feels Crowley tense. Speaking of disemboweling, Crowley remembers Beelzebul's claws . . . His breathing changes to shallow panting.

Oh, Crowley! I've done it again, haven't I? Put my foot right in it. Please, Crowley. Don't breathe. Please. Forgive me.

Crowley morphs back into his male form, shudders as his breathing subsides, clutches Aziraphale tightly.

'M all right. 'S not your fault, Angel.

He sits up and looks as his hands, which are trickling blood from four puncture wounds at the base of each of his palms. He wipes the blood off on Aziraphale's chest hair, then magics it away. The punctures are already healing. He resumes his position lying against the angel, who hugs him tightly.

Crowley, do you ever cry?

Nope. I don't think I can. Whenever I feel like crying, it turns into rage instead. It's as if a coil of incense is ignited inside me. A slow burn working outward. Probably just another result of that splash into the burning sulfur lake. It's not something I've ever worried about, at any rate.

I used to cry a lot. The stuff humans do is appalling. And then I finally realized that they are what they are, their lives are short, their grief ends. Unlike us, who have to face eternity. Sadness ends, for them. They die.

That's right. Speaking as a demon in a position to know, crying isn't going to wash away the agony. You're stuck, and that's it. Cry all you like, it provides no release. You're going to watch The Sound Of Music for all eternity, and like it. Screaming works just fine, however.

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley continues . . .

And oh so fortunately for us, there's Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale, I could use your soft side right now.

Aziraphale morphs into his female form, a luscious creamy Venus right out of a Boucher painting, high breasts like delicious cherry-topped cupcakes, just the right size to fit comfortably under a hand. Crowley's hand, specifically, as he now caresses the angel. Aziraphale's skin is deliciously cool against his heated body.

Angel, you feel like ice cream. Mmmmmmfff . . .

He slides a leg over her lap, buries his head atop her shoulder and they fall over onto the other pillow.


[Those curious to know, try Google Images for the 18th century painter Francois Boucher]