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    Summary

    Crowley rounded the desk once Aziraphale had planted himself in the swivel-chair, sitting down on the edge of it so that Aziraphale’s access would be hindered. No, this couldn’t continue.

    Aziraphale finished tapping a stack of loose invoice-copies against his thigh, eyes questioning.

    “You don’t have a cat to sit on your work,” Crowley explained, regretting how pathetic that sounded, but the endearing furrow of Aziraphale’s brow was encouraging. “How’s a snake?”

    “I’d rather you in my lap,” Aziraphale said, cupping Crowley’s face in both hands, “but this will do.”

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