"Hey, by all means," Crowley says, waving a hand and accidentally flicking a little sand on Aziraphael's leg. A few grains stick to the suncream. "Take this as an invitation to prove me wrong."



"Well, as long as you're proving me wrong somewhere between the forty-fifth parallels, anyway."

(It's not a challenge Crowley much expects to win; what happened earlier in bed is proof enough. But if it should lead to anything else even half so completely and wholly unexpected - well. He won't really be complaining.)