Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

It was half past nine in the morning and Dr. Darryl Birkett, television soundbite therapist extraordinaire, was already longing for the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels that currently dwelt in the bottom draw of his desk. Strictly speaking he was not qualified for the position to which he had exulted himself(1), nor did he subscribe to any credible school of therapeutic intervention(2), yet he truly did not deserve the situation into which he had been flung.

The two gentlemen, Crowley and Fell, had been coming to see him for over seven weeks now, and it had become overwhelmingly clear after only two appointments that what they wanted from these sessions wasn't so much conflict resolution as an audience. Today it was obvious from Crowley's disgruntled slouch and Fell's tight lipped expression that they'd come in after another almighty row.

"So what would you say is the main source of conflict in you relationship at present?"

"Well," said Fell, voice filled with smug annoyance. "I'm sure that any reasonable person would acknowledge that his behaviour with regards to publicly available works of literature is …."

"Main source of conflict apart from your partner's tendency to steal library books and use them as glorified coffee mats, that is," he hastily cut in, desperately trying to avoid the subject that had dominated the last four sessions.

Fell was silent for a moment before opening his mouth once more. "In that case I'd say that the main source of conflict in our relationship at present lies with the fact that Crowley's a borderline sex addict with exhibitionist tendencies."

This statement seemed to infuriate Crowley. "What? I'm a nymphomaniac now, am I? I've told you before, sleeping around is pretty much one of the job requirements."

Dr. Darryl's eyes widened. He'd often heard Fell make pointed comments about the immoral and depraved nature of Crowley's profession, but he hadn't expected the dark haired man to involved in anything like that. Though when you thought about how much all of those designer suits must have cost, it really shouldn't have come as all that much of a surprise.

"And is Anthony's erm… choice of career causing you a lot of distress?" he asked, feeling a fleeting sense of hope that the root cause of the couple's persistent, and downright peculiar, arguments had just been revealed to him.

"Not really," said Fell, with a sigh. "Naturally I don't approve, and I don't see any reason why he has to take such relish in some of the deplorable things he does, but one does have to be realistic about these things. After all, I did know what he was when we first met."

"So you don't think that a change in his line of work would diminish some of the bad feeling between you."

Fell's expression became speculative, as if he had suddenly been hit by an entirely new concept. "Well," he said, brightly, "I'm sure that if he were to fully repent and…."

Dr. Darryl did not find out what else Crowley could do, as the dark haired man cut Fell off with a loud and dangerous hiss. "Don't even think about it angel."

"My dear, I was only bringing it up as a possibility."

"Well don't. I mean, it's not as if I'd try and get you to fall is it? So I don't see why you can't extend the courtesy to me."

The atmosphere seemed to plunge from 'a tad prickly' to 'ice cold and furious' in less than a second.

"You were talking about sex addiction and exhibitionism," said Dr. Darryl, with great hast, at once very aware, if only on a subconscious level, that the conversation as it stood was now heading in the direction of somewhere very scary, probably dangerous and definitely not fit for human overhearing.

Much to his relief, 'ice cold and furious' was, after a few extremely worrying moments, supplanted by 'rather annoyed'.

"Ah yes," said Fell. "As I was saying, I've learnt to live with what he gets up to at work, but he will insist on making ridiculous demands of me."

"I do not make demands," Crowley protested. "I make subtle suggestions and occasionally drop very big hints."

"Crowley, you sulk for hours if I refuse to fulfil your lascivious whims. Besides, I have it on very good authority that your libido is unusually high, even by demonic standards."

"If you will insist on conversing with that frigid lot in the Seventh Circle, then I'm sure that they'll say things like that. Anyway, why the hel- Manchester were you discussing my libido with other demons?"

"My dear, I don't recall saying anything about actually conversing with your fellow demons about the subject."

"Who've you been talking to then?"

"I wasn't talking – well, not about that at least – I was merely listening."

Crowley paused for a moment, as if certain pieces of a mental jigsaw puzzle were falling into place. "That tart Nagini's been gossiping again hasn't she? I would have thought that you of all people would be above listening to idle rumours."

"Ah," said Fell, looking at once rather shamefaced at this discovery of his fascination with casual tittle-tattle. "Well, she did have some frightfully interesting stories about Hastur and Belphegor. Apparently Ligur doesn't suspect a thing, but half of Pandemonium have seen what the pair of them get up to at the Lake of Fire every weekend. It's really quite shocking how…. Oh, er… sorry." The fair haired man's face flushed with embarrassment.

Crowley, obviously confident that he now possessed the upper hand, smirked. "Not every entity in creation thinks that once a decade in the missionary position is enough, you know?"

"My dear, now you really are being thoroughly absurd. I merely think that twice a day is a bit much for beings of our age."

"Not what you said last week when you tied me to the bed and covered me in marmalade. Come to think of it, you've never let me tie you to the bed and lick marmalade off your stomach."

"But you don't like marmalade."

"If fact," continued Crowley, clearly not wanting to be sidetracked into a discussion of marmalade the subjective likeableness thereof, "it strikes me that when there's something that you want to try, it's part of a normal healthy relationship, but when there's something I want, I'm just being a base sex addict."

"Yes, but nothing that I want involves being a public place at the time."

"Three words: Harrods display window."

"I was rather drunk at the time. You clearly took advantage of me. Besides, at least that wasn't actually dangerous, unlike that thing you suggested yesterday."

"I still don't see what was wrong with it."

"Consider, if you will, the fate of an angel discorporated by a collision with a jumbo jet whilst engaged in carnal relations with a demon at 50,000 feet. Heaven may be willing to overlook some improprieties, but I wouldn't get away with that."

This increasingly heated debate may have continued for some time were it not for the fact that the bickering supernatural beings noticed that Dr. Darryl seemed to be having a most peculiar turn.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, as a snap of his fingers sent the man into a docile trance. "I do hope we haven't upset him to much. He has seemed rather tense these last few sessions. It must have been the talk of discorporation that did it."

"It's all the same with these TV therapist types," said Crowley, who appeared to be using the intermission to have a good leaf through the man's planner and appointment book, "can't look after their own emotional wellbeing and inner harmony to save their collective lives. Hey, look at this, that American evangelist bloke's coming to see him, drugs and underaged prostitutes it says here, I didn't know he was one of ours."

"Crowley, put that down this instant. It's private and confidential." Aziraphale nevertheless made a mental note to pay said American evangelist a brief professional visit.

The demon made an exaggerated sigh, put the book back on the desk and began search out the alcoholic substances that had been cleverly situated in well hidden locations around the office.

"Now then Darryl," said Aziraphale, deciding that, on balance, it was probably best to ignore the fact that Crowley was now downing a bottle of rather expensive looking port. "When you wake up in five minutes time, you'll remember having lovely dream about whatever it is you like best and all mention of discorporation will have been expunged from your mind. You'll also begin to reconsider the way you're using alcohol as a crutch and maybe think about joining a local church group, there's a nice one a few…."

"Hey, no party political broardcasts. I thought that this was supposed to be neutral territory."

"If that's the case then why on earth are you engaging in gratuitous acts of petty theft?"

"Alright, point taken," said Crowley, grudgingly wishing the bottle of port full and back to its rightful place. "It won't work, you know. It'll take a lot more than angelic suggestion to get this one off the bottle. I've seen who his next appointment's with."

"Oh?"

"Do the names Raven Sable and Albus White mean anything to you?"

(1) As fine an institution as The Online Correspondence College of Royston Vasey might be, it was not accredited by any professional bodies.
Apart from maybe the one in the cellar.

(2) His 'technique' mainly consisted of listening in a kindly manner, nodding at the appropriate moments and making the occasional benign sounding suggestion.