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Summary:

ZehWulf's summary:

“Who would win: Aziraphale or Crowley.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale startles. “Well—such a question. It’s not as though either of us has engaged in so much as fisticuffs in ages, and one does need to keep up practice with these sorts of things.” His fretting dies abruptly when Crowley cuts over him clearly, baldly: “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s mouth clicks shut, and he goes so still that the group is forcibly reminded that ethereal beings don’t technically need to breathe, have a heartbeat, or even metabolize energy to exist. Beside him, Crowley’s stiffened up and his lips pull back from his teeth in a toe-curling wince.