Tadfield. Back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. The angel and demon are seated in their comfort position on the Persian carpet in front of the angel's armchair, backs supported by the two giant pillows from the settee. Aziraphale's head is on Crowley's shoulder and his arm is hugging the demon's chest.
I don't suppose you've got any of that raw rye whiskey* in your liquor cabinet, Crowley?
Crowley opens a hand and a bottle appears in it. He magics it open and hands it to Aziraphale, who takes a long drink straight from the bottle, then shudders and convulses as it burns its way down. He continues to drink throughout their conversation.
You know, some Bubba Kush might be a less painful way to relax.
I don't want to relax. I want to feel numb.
Being a statue for three days* was a rough go? Were you actually conscious?
I could see and hear and feel everything, Crowley. Just couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Completely paralyzed. I felt buried alive. Couldn't even scream.
Did it hurt?
Didn't hurt. Well, not much. Shoulders sore from having my arms tied back.
Looks like those cuffs hurt your wrists.
The angel's wrists are ringed with red and purple.
It's going away. I'll be fine in a few hours.
Here, shift in front of me. I'll massage them for you.
Aziraphale drinks the last of the bottle, hiccups once, sets the empty aside. They scoot around until the angel is slouched against Crowley's chest, surrounded by the demon's arms. Crowley's heated fingers gently stroke small circles over the angel's wrist bruises.
Gabriel had Housekeeping put me on display in the corridor outside his office. Do you know, one of them had the effrontery to give me a pat. Said I had "Nice junk."
Well, you do, you know.
I _don't_ know. It's never been something that's concerned me for even a second. And while I like being without clothes when I'm with you, to be naked on public display is just hu . . .hum . . .humil. . .
Aziraphale's breathing is now rapid shallow gasps. He rolls off Crowley's lap and buries his face in the pillow. Crowley may not cry, but Aziraphale does. The dark emotions he's been keeping at bay the last three days rise to the surface in an upwelling flood of poison.
Crowley lies atop the angel, folds his arms over the shaking shoulders and encloses Aziraphale's clenched hands. His long hair spills over the angel's neck and shoulder as he murmurs in his ear.
Angel. Angel. I'm here. . . . It's over . . . You'll be all right . . .
The heat and weight from Crowley's demon body is the antidote the angel needs. It's like being under a sinuous hot water bottle. His sobs gradually subside and he lies limply beneath the demon. Crowley runs a hand through Aziraphale's lambswool hair and kisses his ear.
You really do have nice junk, you know.
Dammit, Crowley.
And such a delicious soft body . . . Mmmmmmm . . . The tiger of the jungle leaps atop his quivering prey . . .
Crowley writhes sideways and makes fierce growling noises as he pretends to devour Aziraphale like a mighty tiger, hands digging into and kneading the angel's shoulders and backside as he snarls and makes mock bites. Aziraphale laughs and rolls over. Crowley straddles the angel's thighs, continues with the growling and pawing and biting all over Aziraphale's belly and flanks and chest, then grabs the angel's hands and pins his arms alongside his head. The demon's serpentine penis does a slow spiral around Aziraphale's growing erection. Crowley lies atop the angel, their faces nose to nose, golden eyes with slit pupils gazing into wide open soft grey eyes. A passionate kiss and they're off into Divine Ecstasy.
*Jack of Diamonds
*The Big One
