Crowley can guess, though, to judge by the way he huffs: contriving to sound both disgusted and deeply, profoundly put-upon.

And yet (he finds, as his hand settles in the small of Aziraphael's back, as Aziraphael's come to rest once more on his shoulder blades), he can't keep it up at all. Not even the most paltry pretence.

"Yes, well," he says lamely.

The room, in shades of white and pale wood, seems to glow in the sunlight.

He loves how bright it is.