A rundown London suburb. A vintage Bentley snakes slowly along the streets, keeping just out of sight of a black Mercedes ahead, assisted by the GPS tracker magicked into place behind the vehicle's glovebox. The Mercedes stops at a long light at a busy arterial. When the light changes and the car is halfway through the intersection, the occupants are chagrined to discover that all four tires have gone flat. Pulling across and parking illegally along a double-striped curb, they get out and discover the tires have been thoroughly shredded. And that a large fluorescent Day-glo red serpentine tag is now painted on the boot.
The tracker is a proprietary design that can be remotely turned off and on to evade bug detectors. Crowley turns it off, calls Evgeny, and speeds up to continue his cruise homeward at 90mph, traffic unwillingly permitting.
Heigh ho, says Anthony Crowley.
Crowley's Mayfair flat. Aziraphale is seated on the couch, glass of scotch in one hand, book in another. Crowley bursts through the door, runs into the kitchen.
I brought you a piroshky.
Grabbing a plate and a napkin, he brings the pastry out to Aziraphale. Touches it to warm it up as he hands it over. Who needs a microwave. Flicks his hand to transform his street clothing into the Escher-patterned silk dressing gown, trots over to the liquor cabinet and retrieves a bottle of raw rye whiskey. Magics away the stopper as he seats himself next to Aziraphale, takes a swig straight from the bottle, winces as the liquor burns its way down. Then takes another swig. Cringes. Another swig.
Bit of a difficult trip?
Not really. Just the frosting atop the cake of this week's events. How's the piroshky?
Aziraphale breaks it in half, takes a bite.
Mmm. Excellent. Salmon, my favorite. Will you have half?
No, eat up. Just had a business lunch, you could say. The massive quantity of bread and liverwurst paved the way for this whiskey. On the bright side, it looks as if we're going to have to place yet another refugee in Tadfield. The baker of these piroshkys, to be exact. But let's not talk about that now.
They sit companionably and consume their piroshky and bottle of whiskey, respectively.
Finish up your scotch to wash that salmon off your breath. I need a kiss, and don't want fish with it.
Aziraphale laughs, and obliges. Sets down his empty glass.
Crowley flings himself atop the angel's lap, straddling him. Then delivers a long, thorough kiss.
You taste like a kipper.
Crowley shrugs his dressing gown off to his waist, stretches his arms up to run his fingers through his hair to release the braids, shakes it over his shoulders like a russet mane. Meanwhile Aziraphale runs his hands over the slender demon's flanks and ribs and armpits.
And you positively stink of sex. I love how you smell, Crowley. Sex and wood smoke and whiskey.
The demon slides his hands inside the angel's robe and pushes it off his shoulders and down his arms, opening it in the front so just the golden cord remains around Aziraphale's waist. Which he finds oddly erotic. His own gown slips off his hips and onto the floor.
Aziraphale pulls his hands free of the gown's sleeves, caresses Crowley's back, then runs his hands over the demon's chest, fingering his nipples until they're like ball bearings.
Crowley's penis in the meanwhile has spiraled around the angel's erection. Aziraphale's arms hug the demon close as he arches his back and releases into Divine Ecstasy, fingers clutching the angel's wooly head. Aziraphale's rocks and rolls his hips and joins Crowley in release, eyes closed in bliss.
