London, Present Day

"Home, sweet home." Crowley pulled the Bentley over. He looked across at Aziraphale, stuffy and somewhat muddled looking again, and clamped down on his own greediness. It was too early to invite himself in, pull out the booze, pretend he was back in a world that made sense. Too early even to insist on seeing the angel tomorrow, for fear of terrifying him away.

Instead, he could do this:

He leaned over and brushed his lips against Aziraphale's cheek in a dry, chaste kiss, feeling the finely shaved skin, smelling for a moment the expensively tasteful cologne that overlaid the familiar golden scent that was was Aziraphale himself. Aziraphale always spent a lot on barbers and manicurists. This scent was a tribute to the barber's taste, and understanding of Aziraphale: bright sunshiny pineapple notes with an undercurrent of solid, elegant leather and woods, a touch of smokiness like an old gentleman's club. More than a touch. A good choice for Aziraphale, conservative but fruity in more ways than one.

"Thanks for a lovely evening. Keep in touch," Crowley said lightly, happily watching the angel turn lightly pink.

"Of course," Aziraphale said cordially, as if he meant it, and went into the bookshop. Maybe he did mean it. He had obviously liked the roses, and had held Crowley's hand for quite a while before removing it to cover a cough and replacing it on his own seat rest. And then there had been that moment when he first saw Crowley...

Crowley sat still for a moment, testing the air, and the remnants of Aziraphale's cologne. The scent was familiar, and it nagged at the edge of his consciousness. Not a fragrance Aziraphale had worn before, but one that had been useful in Crowley's own work, because of its reputation as a hell of a boxer dropper. That was right, Aventus Creed. Some batches were quite smoky.

But this smoky?

Possibly not, unless the cologne had not come from a barber, but from a demon who had deliberately tossed a bit of the signature of Hell into it. Marking his property like a tomcat.

Crowley said every unangelic curse he could think of, and sped the Bentley back to his flat.

Not that he had anything to do there. He flung himself on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he would talk to a florist, because with roses you could kind of just shove everything into a bunch and it would still look romantic, but beyond that flower arranging wasn't really something Crowley had gone in for in his long life. He could hunt down and slay a demon. That would be a suitably seraphic act. Mind you, if Aziraphale found out...

Could pop up to Heaven just for the novelty and see how what was left of his choir were making out. No. He didn't really miss them and they might notice his lack of memories. Even worse, it might provoke Botis' memories, and Crowley couldn't afford to risk that.

He could put loud music on and try and drain out the screaming in his head.

He could sleep. He snapped his clothes away and went to bed.

Sleep was a habit. He didn't really need it. But it was a habit so ingrained that when he was tired, when his brain was chaotic, it called to him. Snuggle up, warm and comfortable, calling back memories of curling a serpentine body in the sun. Let his mind drift.

And then there was the precious moments just before sleep pulled him under, when memories and fantasies and desires jumbled up together and drifted across his mind. Different from fantasies feverishly summoned up and used for a purpose to relieve this corporeal body, which had become more and more necessary, even if infrequent in human terms, as experimenting with humans lost its freshness. No, the moments before sleep were overlapping and jumbled and sheer sweet emotion.

Despite their formlessness the drowsy fantasies felt real sometimes, real enough that he could convince himself that if he could fight through the delicious sleepiness enough, he could reach out and pull a solid body snugly against his. Stupid fantasy, really. Aziraphale didn't see the point of sleep. Even if by some miracle they were lovers, Crowley would be sleeping alone while Aziraphale bustled about, making cups of cocoa and studying and listening to music and just being around, not making a heavy weight on the bed next to Crowley.

What the Existence was the weight on the bed next to him, then?

Crowley's eyes shot open and he sat up.

Gabriel—Asmodeus—grinned at him and put his hands behind his back, multifaceted eyes glinting. "Wondered when you'd wake up."

"How can you be here?" Crowley spluttered. "Demons can't enter angel territory without permission. And why don't you have any clothes on?"

"To take your last question first, neither do you. I didn't want you to feel self conscious." Crowley hastily materialised clothes, and then felt ridiculous, as if Asmodeus had just won a point. The worst thing was that instead of materialising a suit or jeans, which might have had some dignity, his mind had produced black silk pyjamas from the ether. "As for your first question, you're no more a fucking angel than I am. I recognise the stench of Evil when I smell it, even if Aziraphale doesn't."

Crowley took a deep breath, steadying himself. The shimmering moth eyes were unsettling in their lack of emotion, but—Asmodeus couldn't be sure. Not sure. Even after entering the apartment. After all, had any demons ever tried to enter angelic ground without at least implied angelic permission? Fear of smiting would generally be a problem, although the worst Aziraphale had every done to Crowley was to complain about him sitting on his papers.

Crowley managed to smile, as silkily as possible.

"Want me to change forms? I assure you, I am an unFallen seraph. Might set you on fire, though. Or do you want to check up on me?"

"Well, that part's quite perplexing," Asmodeus admitted, stretching a bit, muscles rippling under the arrow of hair pointing as if to draw the eye down. What was Crowley thinking, as if? It was obviously deliberate.

Crowley fought an immediate sense of inadequacy. Human standards of beauty didn't matter too much to him, except for work reasons. They changed too fast, with the only real constant being that whatever wealthy meant in a given society. He had seen every skin shade, every build, every human feature from tiny neat penises to huge earlobes fetishised, but he had also seen people manage to create temptation in each other with distinctly unfashionable configurations. His own forms, whatever the sex, had tended towards bony but muscular, and he'd never been particularly bothered. More important how suggestively he moved his hips and mouth.

But one style of masculine beauty never went out of fashion. The heroic muscular.

It was really unfair to have it lolling naked all over his bed, taking up all the space.

"I checked up on you, you know. Back channels. No one's really sure what you've been doing all this time, since you broke with Lucifer. Earth observation, officially, but that's not really in your Sphere, is it? Seem to have assigned yourself without doing the paperwork, and everyone was too busy preparing for Armageddon to object." Asmodeus reached out and patted Crowley's silk clad knee. "Don't tell me you've spent six thousand years watching and pining over my angel. That would really be pathetic."

Yes, it would, Crowley secretly agreed. Even worse than hanging after him like a puppy on earth for six thousand years would be. At least he'd had a fair amount of Aziraphale's attention. He was beginning to really despise Botis.

"Interesting suspicions. So what are you going to do about them?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Asmodeus amiably. "You know, Botis, why I was kind of fond of you in Heaven, even though you are a useless little pisspot? Because you, my friend, even if you were handed the universe on a plate, would manage to turn the plate upside down and drop it, and then step on it for good measure. Wouldn't be able to help yourself."

"Do you really want to risk talking to a seraph in this way?"

"Oh, don't give me that crap. You arrogant jerks, you never really understood how the Spheres worked, did you? The Hierarchy is between serving God and being closer to humans, not chain of command. If you'd bothered to pay attention, this whole thing is about the humans and this planet, not us. If you tell me a Chariot has more authority on Earth than a fucking archangel, then you're delusional."

"So you're just going to leave me be?" Crowley asked, not believing it for a moment.

"Well that depends. Now, if I told Aziraphale I thought you were a demon, he would think I was insane, or plotting something. You're clearly an unFallen seraph even if you're evil to the core. And right now, he's not sure, but he thinks you may have saved our lives. His own guardian angel."

"What?"

Asmodeus sat up and flung a companionable arm over his shoulder. "The whole business with little Warlock. No one really knows why he decided not to call Armageddon. Our side was pissed off, I can tell you, although not as badly as yours probably was. But Aziraphale—Aziraphale thinks it was probably Divine Intervention. Someone secretly on our side, looking after us and his precious planet. And along you come, remembering him from heaven, an actual seraph simmering adoringly at him. Knowing his dirty little fraternising secret, and promising to keep it. Taking him on dates, holding his hand, giving him roses. A simple minded, trusting angel might have his head turned by something like that. And let me tell you something between you and me, Botis, that particular angel has a rescue fetish."

"Why are you telling me this?" Crowley stared straight ahead, for fear of turning his face too close to Asmodeus' beautiful one. Asmodeus might, with those unsettling eyes, see all his own secret fantasies of swaggering in to save Aziraphale from peril after peril.

"Because the more ammunition I give you, my friend, the faster and more often you will shoot yourself in the foot. And that will be highly entertaining to watch." Asmodeus squeezed his shoulder. "I'll warn you that the angel probably won't put out, but given the looks you've been giving him, you're going to find it hard not to push, aren't you? You might have found an easier route to Falling, if that's what you really want. I'd even volunteer, if you like."

"Does—does that mean you, and he didn't—"

"Oh, I can't tell you all my little secrets." Asmodeus sprang off the bed, and a perfect suit settled around him, somehow making him look even more perfect. "Shall we compete, then? The heart of the angel. As for the stakes—well. Demonic contract law is my speciality. Expect something in the mail."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then I go straight to your superior and tell them you're hanging around on Earth using wiles to seduce an angel in the pursuit of his duties. Kerubiel, isn't it? Seven Heavens tall, from memory. Wouldn't want to get on their bad side." Mirrored glasses materialised on the bridge of Asmodeus' nose.

"By the way, Crowley?"

"What?" Crowley's head whipped around faster than it could in its serpent form.

"Which angelic sphere do you think prayers from Earth pass through?"

But Asmodeus was gone.

Notes:

1) There are famously over 8,000 pages comparing the virtues of different batch numbers of Creed Aventus on Basenotes. Do not underestimate the obsession. Anyway, Creed have been around since the 18th century and are associated with British royalty, Empress Eugenie and US First Ladies. Well established enough for Zira, even if Adventus is more modern.

2) One of Gabriel's associations is with moths.

3) Seriously, lesbians should not have to read Buzzfeed's Most Important Celebrity Hairy Chests to work out what John Hamm looks like with his shirt off. The things I do for research.

4) Wattpad readers: Wattpad is being super frustrating for the last few days, and while I get the notifications of comments, I'm struggling to find them and respond. Please know that I appreciate and love you.