There was a loud clang of metal as the fire escape door banged against the brick wall. Two immortal beings of unworldly power, crusaders for the causes of Good and Evil, came stumbling out entangled in each other's arms. The taller one, who seemed to be doing most of the kissing and groping, pressed forward until the shorter one was backed up against a wall.
    A young woman, who moments earlier had had similarly vested interest in the young man kneeling by her feet, stared in amazement.
    "S'not nice to stare, Noelle," hissed the man as he climbed up. He was fighting a sudden revulsion in his stomach. Faggots. A lovely way to ruin a romantic evening.
    The smaller of the couple was starting to moan.
    Noelle's suitor tugged on the sleeve of her sweater. "Let's go, Noelle." But the girl still stood, entranced. She had a sudden, unexplainable urge to go home and write a story like this on her computer.
    But some more insistent pleading and the young lady was gone, her suitor well in the lead. And then there was silence in the alley, save for the smacking of lips, the low, guttural moans and the occasional lusty hiss.
    Crowley's hazy mind said, Either you're better than you thought or he's really enjoying this.
    The rest of him said, quite loudly, Bed. Now.
    He snapped his fingers. (After a while. It was hard to get the fingers to move right.)
    Technically, that was going over The Line too, seeing as Aziraphale hadn't consented to teleportation. But at that point the angel was probably too drunk to say "line" without stumbling a few times.
    Aziraphale felt the cold plaster behind him vanish, replaced by air. Warm air, that rushed upwards as he and the demon attached to him fell back. He landed heavily and rebounded a little, the tightly-coiled springs of the mattress going pu-riiiing as he did so. Black sheets flew up around them.
    The angel knew without thinking that this was Crowley's apartment. It smelled like him. It wasn't quite as noticeable as the Bentley because Crowley wasn't here as often, but it was nevertheless distinct.
    There was also the great, formless mass of outright terror coming in the direction of the plants by the window, and Aziraphale had remembered Crowley mentioning something about caring for plants once. It all fit together perfectly in the angel's head; moreso than usual, thanks to the drinking.
    Crowley paused just for a moment, closing his eyes in concentration. The Bentley would be back in its regular parking space down on the street now. Once assured of this, he continued his ministrations, knelt over the angel with his head bowed towards Aziraphale's neck. He could indeed do weird things with his tongue.
    Aziraphale didn't moan much, although he did tilt his head to give the demon better access. He wormed his arms out from under Crowley and, once free, reached up and placed icy hands around Crowley's neck. Startled, Crowley began to draw back, only to pull the angel with him. Aziraphale's eyes were open for the first time, pale and piercing like a winter sky. He smiled lovingly at him. Then he pulled himself up to Crowley's face and engaged him in another kiss.
    It was not like the kisses Crowley had given him.
    Crowley's eyes were wide open behind his dark shades. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up, shuddering with little tremors as if freezing, despite the warm temperature of the room. His stomach stung as if he'd gulped down a whole tankard of ice water.
    It would have been called electrifying, if electricity could be so cold.
    And some hidden part in Crowley that had saved itself from intoxication was saying, What's he trying to do?
    Crowley reeled back into an upright position, but Aziraphale hadn't let go. When they'd stopped, the angel kissed him again. This time Crowley's attempt to escape sent them over the edge of the bed, onto the tile floor. It felt like ice.
    Cold. Everything was cold.
    His glasses were knocked from his face during to the fall, and had gone skating away off in the darkness. He looked around with frantic, reptilian eyes that glinted in the moonlight.
    What the hell was going on? The tables were turning and tables did not turn like that on Crowley. They were usually too scared to try.
    He wasn't about to let them start getting the wrong idea.
    Ancient eyes flared. The demon surged upward, caught Aziraphale around the throat with his arm, and fell forward with the angel under him. They landed with a dull smack on the tile. Crowley caught Aziraphale emitting something nearing a whimper. He pressed hungrily into another lip-bruising kiss while pulling off his own jacket, flinging it over his shoulder to let it land somewhere in the darkness along with his glasses. There was a short reprieve while he pulled his shirt over his head, tossing that, too, carelessly over his shoulder.
    Which was unfortunate when it knocked over a lamp that shattered on the floor, but Crowley didn't notice anyway.
    He pulled Aziraphale's frail body off the floor enough to pull off the angel's own jacket. The pushed up sleeves gave him some trouble.
    Finally Crowley wrestled Aziraphale's turtleneck off, exposing a narrow, bare chest, ice white under the moonlight. Crowley ran his broad hands over it, trying seemingly in vain to bring warmth to Aziraphale's flesh.
    Aziraphale shivered. "Th'floor... cold," he murmured, eyes half closed. His whole body was shaking, Crowley realized. It was really hard to get someone in the mood when they were like that. Anyway, the tile wasn't much fun, Crowley had to agree.
    He half-led, half-hauled the angel over to the bed, and then helped him up on to the sheets. They were not much warmer than the floor, but body heat would help that.
    A soberer mind would have wondered where the room's warmth from earlier had gone.
    Crowley climbed up after the angel, encouraging him to take a lounging position against the pillows. Straddling his knees, Crowley started undoing Aziraphale's belt.
    Aziraphale's thin hand pressed down on the one of Crowley's currently undoing the clasp. Crowley looked up wearily. "'Old on," said the angel, voice thick and quavering. "We'v bin doin' things all yor way s'far."
    "Uh?" the demon said muzzily. He'd thought that had been the point.
    "Y'can' jes... Y'can' jes... M'mean, y'can' jes... jes..." Aziraphale gave up on the sentence. It was too far gone. He started again. "M'mean, fair's fair, righ'?"
    "Yeh, bat--"
    "Alymsayin'," Aziraphale went on, "is... Alymsayin' is, ecwa... eccwolo... bein' fair, righ'? Y've gottabe fair." He brightened up a little, as apparently a new thought had come out of the fog and it had by happy chance avoided crashing into the reef. "Like, w'swish, righ'?"
    It made sense enough. "Orrigh'," Crowley said carefully. It would be an understatement to say he grinned drunkenly. His eyes glowed slightly as well. "Me firs'."
    He returned to the belt buckle, but the bloody thing seemed to have relocked itself or something. He spent five minutes swearing at the thing before he managed to undo it. Relishing the moment that had finally come, he pulled down Aziraphale's pants to his knees.
    He took a long look at what had been revealed, which wasn't anything at all, and then he snapped his head up, glaring furiously at Aziraphale. The look said, Try harder.
    "Allrigh', allrigh'," the angel said resentfully, avoiding Crowley's gaze. "Dun see wosso speshul 'bout it annyhow."

    They tried it Crowley's way, the demon fully expecting Aziraphale to yell so loud that people next door would start hammering on the walls. He got a few good moans out of him, and that was all. It was very disheartening.
    Then they tried it Aziraphale's way. Crowley was so noisome that a collection of neighbors stood outside the flat's door and threatened to call the police on them if they didn't stop. It might not have been the case except for the fact of how long Crowley had been going on. The damn angel was relentless.
    Neither being was entirely satisfied with the results of their efforts. They tried it a few more times each, just to be sure. It wasn't as if they were getting tired.
    Finally, however, Crowley gave up, collapsing back on to the sweat-soaked sheets. Aziraphale took it as a sign and relaxed, resting his head on the demon's chest.
    "Les' callit an night." It was a very good suggestion, even though the first hint of a dim, gray sunrise was appearing on the horizon when Crowley said it.
    After a few minutes, Aziraphale noticed a change in the demon's breathing. He turned his head to look up: Crowley's eyes were closed, and they were staying that way.
    "Whudderyu doin'?" the angel muttered after a minute or so.
    "Sleepin'," the demon relied distantly, one eye opening a crack. "Er tryin' to, tenny rate."
    "Oh..." Aziraphale paused. "Ull tryat too, shall I?"

    Meanwhile, in other places some people were getting very angry. They had been for several hours now, but now it was getting worse.

    Crowley's face felt hot, like it was sunburned. Red light filled his vision, even though his eyes were closed.
    He opened them a little, squinting. Afternoon sunlight poured through the blinds of the windows. With a little effort, he waved a hand. The blinds shut.
    His head hurt. A lot. He was wondering possibly what the reason for this could be, and then realized he'd never stayed drunk so long that a hangover could set in.
    How much had he drunk last night? He felt awful. Muscles he hadn't even known he had were aching. And he couldn't remember why...
    The demon became aware of a weight on his body. He glance down.
    An angel was sleeping on top of him. Quite beautifully, because there are some things angels just can't help.
    Crowley's eyes snapped open wide. His pupils were tiny little slits.
    Images came flooding into his head. He cringed.
    They hadn't really...?
    Yes, they had.
    But certainly not...
    Yes, that too.
    Crowley whimpered. This was too much. Demons weren't supposed to do things like this. And that aside, whoever heard of an angel...?!
    And the worst thing was knowing that both his and Aziraphale's superiors knew all about it.
    Shitshitshitshit.
    He tried to shrink, but only succeeded in fidgeting. His movements caused Aziraphale to stir. The angel lifted his head and turned it, so that he was looking straight at Crowley. One eye was half closed.
    Aziraphale blinked a few times, while the rest of him started waking up. Unaccustomed to sleep, this took a long time for him. Crowley remained frozen, staring with mute terror.
    Then the angel's mind registered what he was looking at, and where he was in relation to it. Aziraphale yelped, now wide awake, and scrambled backwards. He fell off the bed, dragging one of the sheets with him. He was breathing rapidly, teeth clenched, staring wide-eyed at Crowley in something somewhere between horror and sheer disbelief.
    Crowley couldn't blame him, really. An angel had plenty of things to be terrified of when they wake up next to a demon. The fact of waking up next to a demon, for a start. Both parties being nude during this was just icing on the cake.
    He could see it dawning on Aziraphale as it had for him, while the angel staggered to his feet. Eyes twitching as images flooded into his mind and refused to stop coming.
    He was back to having nothing again, probably due to losing his concentration while asleep. Aziraphale held his head in pain.
    "Oh no," said Aziraphale. "Oh no, no, no..." Between his fingers, he glared at Crowley. "How did we...?!"
    "I don't know," Crowley admitted.
    "We must've been really drunk."
    "Angel, we drank enough to kill any mortal creature." Crowley climbed to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side. He started looking for his pants, although it wasn't for decency's sake. Neither was particularly bothered by the other's lack of clothes. This had nothing to do with last night's activities, just the fact that nudity didn't tend to bother anyone who wore clothes for no other reason than that humanity tended to dictate it. But right now clothes felt like a really good idea. "What are we going to do?" he whined.
    "They know. We're really going to get in trouble for this."
    "It's your fault. You're the one who--"
    "I did not!" Aziraphale shrieked. "You're the one that started on me!" He paused, adding, "I think, anyway. Actually, I'm not sure. But it sounds right." He picked up a pile of his own clothing. It had been strewn around the room, but the angel hadn't bothered to go around collecting it. It just appeared altogether in a bundle at his feet.
    "You're the one that said we should go to that place!"
    "I thought it was a restaurant!"
    "A likely story!"
    The yelling was really starting to hurt their heads.
    "What are we going to do, Crowley?"
    Crowley massaged his forehead. He'd never had a hangover before. How were you supposed to get rid of it?
    "I don't suppose we could get drunk again..." he mumbled.
    "Crowley!" Aziraphale complained. He was nearly dressed now. His shoes were tying themselves. "This is serious! We'll lose our jobs!"
    "A lot more than our jobs, I'd say," Crowley snapped, pulling on his pants. A thought struck him as he began lacing up his boots. His brow crinkled. "You haven't... fallen, have you?"
    When an angel sinned, they were damned. There was no appeal process. It was straight to the Other Side with you. But Crowley remembered it happening quite quickly. Aziraphale should have gotten the proverbial pink slip almost as soon as they'd finished, if not as soon as they'd started.
    He couldn't tell for certain, seeing as there really wasn't any physical change to go by at any rate, but Aziraphale seemed like the same old Aziraphale.
    Aziraphale, who had been hastily combing his hair with his fingers, froze. He cocked his head to one side. "I don't think so..."
    Crowley stood up, spreading his arms. "How is that possible?" He caught the bundle of clothing that Aziraphale threw at him.
    "Careful of that shirt. I think there's still porcelain in it," said the angel. "And how would I know, honestly? I don't even remember all of what we did... Speaking of that, did we really--"
    "Yes," Crowley said automatically. He didn't know or care what Aziraphale was going to say. He didn't want any more mental images right then. Anyway, it was bound to be true. He picked pieces of porcelain out of his shirt instead, wondering vaguely how they'd gotten there. He looked past Aziraphale towards the living room area, and saw a pile of white fragments and a black lamp shade beside an end table.
    He'd rather liked that lamp...
    Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, swaying a little on his feet. "Does your head hurt too?"
    "Yes. Does your mouth feel like something slimy crawled in and died there?"
    "How'd you guess?"
    Crowley pulled his shirt over his head. He feared for what his hair must look like. Where was that styling gel?
    And how the hell could he think about that at a time like this? He needed to focus.
    He repeated it out loud. "We need to focus. Right now someone Up There ought to be telling you to get used to doing the devil's work from now on, and the whole of Down There should be readying the torture devices that I told them about." He walked out of the bedroom area into the living room. He glanced at the shattered lamp. The shards of porcelain flew together and mended the cracks between them, and the lamp shade screwed itself back on. Watching it float back up to the end table, Crowley went on, "So... why aren't they?"
    Aziraphale followed him. "One imagines it'd be too much to assume that they let us off with a warning..."
    "Yeah, no kidding." Crowley located his glasses over by the plants, whose leaves had instinctively curled away from them. He felt a lot more at ease when he put them on. "Can you bless things, by any chance? Like water, say."
    "What?"
    And then, quite without warning, the floor opened up from under him. Logically it should have opened up onto Mrs. Hartzell's apartment on the floor below, but this one led only into darkness. Shouts and wails could be heard from within.
    As he fell, Crowley grabbed on to Aziraphale's arm. The angel's immediate reaction was to grab back, with both hands. But there was some additional gravity being applied to Crowley, or something to that effect, and Aziraphale struggled to hold on.
    "Bloody hell!" the demon cried, which seemed more than a little inappropriate at the moment.
    "Don't they usually send people round to collect you?" Aziraphale yelled over the noise, as it grew louder. He gripped tighter, and bit his own lip.
    "Apparently they felt this way was better!" Crowley shouted back. He was halfway down the hole now. Aziraphale could only see as far as his waist. Crowley tried to reach up with his other arm, but the suction was too great.
    Something caused the demon's glasses to shine. Aziraphale felt a cold wind pick up behind him. More importantly, he was starting to hear a Voice.
    "They're coming for you too?!" Crowley demanded.
    "Lovely timing, yes?" the angel said grimly. The light above them grew stronger. The wall above that should have given way to the second floor of Crowley's flat was a mass of brilliant white clouds. Aziraphale was picked off his feet quite jerkily; one of his hands lost its grip. "Ah!"
    Crowley was slipping further down the hole. Their hands were pulling away from each other.
    "Nice knowing you, Azi."
    They lost contact. Aziraphale was enveloped in the light. Crowley disappeared into the darkness.
    The holes closed, and the apartment was silent.
    A few minutes later, the porcelain lamp fell apart where it stood.

    "In Hell they fuck." The first line.
    This is partially true, if only for damned souls. But no one has any fun doing it, so it loses its appeal, really.
    "In Heaven they make love." The third line.
    This isn't true. Angels, as it has been established, are naturally sexless, and in any case are too busy to be interested in anything approaching romance or sex.
    The souls of humans used to get to have sex, until a pope said there was no sex in Heaven, effectively ruining the fun for everybody.
    The second line is 100% true, however.

    It was not strictly mandatory that Heaven be all white puffy clouds. That was mostly for show, which is why Aziraphale now sat in an uncomfortable brown leather chair in a small, cramped office with artificial wood paneling, facing an old oak desk with the usual desk commodities, including an ink stand, an in-tray and out-tray and name plaque.
    The name plaque read, in no unordinary font, "Camael". He was the head of the Principalities.
    He was presently sitting in a high-backed leather chair not unlike Aziraphale's in appearance, although it was assuredly far more comfortable. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the desk, and he was looking at Aziraphale over laced hands.
    Were the office on Earth, or anywhere else where time existed, there would have been a large wall clock somewhere in the room that would tick loudly and slowly.
    Aziraphale shifted uneasily. The chair squeaked.
    "Do you have anything to say, Aziraphale?" Camael asked after some silence. His voice was calm, nearly monotone.
    "Er... I was drunk at the time, sir," Aziraphale said meekly. His hangover was gone completely. Illness simply didn't happen in Heaven, so it had gone away when he'd arrived.
    "Do you need to drink?"
    "No sir, I just--"
    "Why did you drink, then?"
    "It's sort of become a habit, sir." Aziraphale looked at his hands. It was really hard to defend habit with an angel like Camael, who never got out and developed any. It wouldn't do to say that all the other Principalities had developed habits. That would have been trying to displace the blame.
    "Angels, Aziraphale, are pure beings. Do you know what happens to angels that do not remain pure?"
    "I wasn't sent any notice of banishment, sir."
    Camael hesitated. "You weren't?"
    "No, sir."
    "...Why not?"
    "Couldn't tell you, sir."
    "The demon was tempting you. That was his entire purpose."
    "Sounds like him, sir," Aziraphale said loyally. "We have been trying to thwart each other for six thousand years, sir." That wasn't entirely true, what with the Arrangement that had been made nearly a thousand years previously. But Camael didn't look like he knew about the Arrangement.
    "You weren't sent a notice?"
    "No, sir."
    Camael glanced around, then he got out of his chair. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, and dissipated. The office had no use for a door.
    It was somehow reassuring, seeing your superior at as much a loss as you.
    The equivalent of several minutes passed, and Camael reappeared in the room, looking slightly flustered. He placed both palms on his desk.
    "Look," he said, "you're an angel, all right? You can't go around... fornicating with demons, for here's sake."
    Aziraphale placed his fingers together. "Correct me if I'm wrong, sir," in the sort of voice that fully expects not to be corrected, "but I'm quite certain that isn't the proper word in this context. If I recall correctly, the act of 'fornication' is between an unmarried man and woman. It can't really apply to Crowley and me, sir."
    "What?" said Camael, whose mind seemed to have come to a crashing halt at the mention of the demon's name. The other words on either side failed to make it through.
    "Well, for one thing, sir, neither of us are what you could call a man or a woman. Additionally, sir, angels and demons can't get married, either to each other or with their own kind, so it really isn't fair to use a word indicating an unmarried relationship if there was really no alternative."
    "I believe you're missing the point, lad," Camael said weakly.
    "Yes, sir?" Aziraphale strained to look innocent.
    "Look, you're already in trouble for Vanity, Avarice, Wrath and Gluttony--"
    "Gluttony, sir?" The angel's brow creased in confusion.
    "The drinking, Aziraphale," said his superior, waving a hand vaguely. "Now, I won't lie, there's a lot of other angels out there that are just as bad. Worse, some of them. But the Lust is really going too far. It's just not something we can simply overlook."
    "Sir?"
    Camael sighed, sitting down in his chair once more. "Aziraphale, you're a good worker. You've gotten quite a few commendations over the centuries, I'm well aware. I really regret having to--"
    "I'd like to appeal, sir," Aziraphale burst out, aware that that was possibly not the best thing to say.
    The head Principality blinked. "You'd like to what?"
    "Appeal, sir." Aziraphale's heart would have been pounding if he was alive. "Frankly, sir, banishment seems a little extreme. I'm certain I could plead my case."
    "I fail to see how you could go about that."
    "May I try, sir?"

    In another place, Crowley was also being spoken to. But it lacked the artificial wood paneling and quaint desk, being replaced by scalding-hot bunches of igneous rock floating in a bed of lava.
    "Spoken to" was also a term to be used loosely.
    "Could you give me back my other eye, please? Thank you," said Crowley, as a small goblin placed it in his outstretched hand. He rubbed as much grime off of it as he could and inserted it back into its socket. His glasses had been cast off into the lava lake a long time ago.
    NOW THEN, said his interrogator, patiently, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
    "I was drunk at the time," Crowley tried. In Hell, the hangover had only gotten worse.
    HE WAS AN ANGEL, CROWLEY.
    "I was trying to tempt him. That's part of my job, isn't it?"
    BUT HE DIDN'T FALL.
    "Can't blame a guy for trying, eh?" He tried to grin. Three of his teeth were missing, and the rest were pink with blood.
    THAT IS NOT WHY THE ANGEL DID NOT FALL. YOU KNOW THE REASON, DON'T YOU, CROWLEY?
    "No, lord, can't say that I-- urk!" His interrogator, growing slightly vexed, plunged a sword through the demon's skull. Blood spilled down on to Crowley's shirt. It was a good thing that black hid stains. Crowley fidgeted until he managed to find the sword's handle and pulled the blade out. He rubbed irritably at the wound on the top of his head. "That thort of hurt," he said. His words were stoppered slightly, as the blade had gone through the roof and bottom of his mouth, and also his tongue.
    He was fortunate, all considered. They hadn't even brought out any tools from the Spanish Inquisition yet. He'd heard they'd recently made a full-body iron maiden that they were very proud of.
    Hehe, iron maiden. Could do with some of that now...
    ...say it doesn't matter ain't nothin' gonna alter the course of my destination I know I've got to find some serious piece of--
    LET'S TRY THIS AGAIN, said the other demon, its eyes narrowing. Crowley felt his skin sizzling. He was being put on fire now.
    They were going easy on him. It could only mean that they were planning on him being here for a while. The better tortures could wait.
    He wondered if that bastard Aziraphale was being given a stern talking-to or something.
    And the thought gave him an idea.

    Angels don't get out in the Earth sun much, so most of them are very fair-skinned. Even with that in consideration, Camael looked pale. And sick.
    "...So you see," Aziraphale went on nervously, wringing his hands, "if we both really had our jobs in mind, then it doesn't really count as lust. It's just another battlefield. Er, albeit a very uncommon one..."
    Camael coughed. "I really don't see how you could have had your job in mind when you were so intoxicated, Aziraphale."
    "Oh, come now, sir. Think of it. An angel's inborn instinct is his job," he said, putting on a pleasant smile.
    "Look, be that as it may, I just don't see how we can let this one go. The fact is, sex is a human thing. Would you like to be a human? I'm sure we could arrange it."
    Now Aziraphale paled. "No, thank you, that's all right..."
    "No, you wouldn't want to be mortal, now would you?" Camael gave a most condescending smile. "So we'll just sign the paperwork and have you transferred to Below, and--"
    "Look, it only stands to reason that it was okay, right?" Aziraphale said desperately, standing up himself. "Stands to reason, because of the..."

    INEFFABILITY, said the demon, flatly.
    That was a sudden scene change there, by the way.
    Crowley nodded encouragingly. He was chained by hand and foot to two columns, spread-eagled. His back was covered in bleeding red streaks from the whip, but that was okay.
    HMM, NO, I DON'T THINK IT WORKS...
    The lower demon's face fell. It was ash-black, but at least the sword wound through his head had healed. "Doesn't work?" he said faintly. "But... it's the rules, isn't it?"
    What Crowley's inquisitor said next was enough for his stomach to sink, were it not for the fact it was presently among the steaming pile of insides laying by his feet, being pecked at by a ravenous pelican.
    THIS ISN'T ABOUT RULES, CROWLEY. IT'S ABOUT PRIDE.
    Well, shit.

    "For goodness's sake, Aziraphale, you cling to that word like a child... clings to something." Camael didn't have much experience with children. When Principalities dealt with anyone, it was with social leaders.
    "But it is, isn't it?"
    "And maybe it's also ineffable that you fall," Camael said irritably.
    "And maybe it's also ineffable that I protest it!" Camael honestly didn't remember Aziraphale being so stubborn. It probably had something to do with running a book store. "Can't I get a second opinion?"
    "With who?" the head Principality said nervously. But it was a needless question. He sighed. "I suppose you're due it... Let's see if He's in."

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