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    Summary

    Aziraphale sucked in a breath. "Good Lord."

    It was the same thing he said in Paris when he was caught and chained in the Bastille. Crowley sat on the couch again and crossed his one leg over the other. His dress hiked up more over his leg and left a flash of a lace undergarment that Aziraphale noticed without meaning to. He coughed into his burgundy sleeve.

    "Did you uh make an Effort for this?"

    Crowley gulped quickly and responded with a dazzling smile to throw him off the prickles of nerves that had Crowley sweating. "Why? Did you want to see, angel?"

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