Warning for non-sexual Shibari.

"Your CD collection."

The face Crowley makes over that suggestion is both ridiculous and offended. "Heavens no!"

"Why not? You hold that pretty dear."

"It's soul music, remember?"

"And why should that make a difference? At least it's not bebop, right?"

"Soul music," Crowley repeats. "With emphasis on soul. The last thing I need while I'm trying to relax are all those pathetic simps whimpering and whining on about, 'Let me go! I didn't do anything! I can't stay here another eternity!'"

Aziraphale shrugs, dismissing that remark when he should probably be a bit more concerned. He shifts his weight off his knees, aching from close to an hour of kneeling, and onto his shins.

It may be painful and time-consuming work, but it's worth it.

This full-body harness he's constructing is intricate, complex, and beautiful, if he does say so himself.

Like his demon husband.

Like their whole relationship.

"How about that bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti La Tache Grand Cru Monopole you're letting turn into vinegar?"

"Not even close."

Aziraphale's eyes pop wide. "What do you mean not even close? That bottle costs forty-thousand pounds!"

"What, angel? Did I stutter? Not … even … close."

"We should probably use your car." Aziraphale chuckles while he straightens the lines that make up the gauntlets around his husband's arms, imagining his demon tied to his Bentley. No way would he be able to lift it up, but it would definitely do an adequate job keeping him anchored.

They could miracle it into the living room. There's more than enough space.

"You're getting warmer," Crowley admits.

"This rig is supposed to include the one object out of your vast collection of stuff that you can't do without. So what would you recommend?" Aziraphale asks, preparing to bring the tail end up around his chest and start the hood, one that will cover his mouth and eyes. "What do you hold dear enough that you'd want to be bound to it?"

Crowley snatches the rope from Aziraphale's hands. Aziraphale rolls back further, giving his legs more of a break while he waits to see what Crowley chooses. With a crooked smile, Crowley loops the end around Aziraphale's wrist and starts tying it tightly to his own. Aziraphale watches him struggle with it, but Crowley would never miracle it together. Tying one's partner is an intimate act. Knots can be personal. You put yourself into them - your hopes, your fears, your affection.

Your love.

Aziraphale reaches up a hand to help, but Crowley swats it away, managing by contorting both arms, even using his teeth. The end result is far from perfect. It might even be described as sloppy and unattractive.

But Aziraphale would never presume to fix it unless Crowley requested it.

"There," Crowley says, double-knotting the final loop … kind of. "I choose you as my one thing I couldn't do without."

"Do you really?"

Crowley pulls another ridiculous face. "Do you really? Of course, I do, you ethereal twit! What do you think!?"

"Good." Aziraphale leans over, kisses the row of clumsy knots Crowley tied down his forearm. Then he kneels forward and kisses his husband on the lips. "Because I choose you, too."