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    Summary

    “You’re being terribly cryptic, Crawley the Serpent,” Aziraphale says, hitching his hands up on his hips. “Suppose I go back and fetch my flaming sword. I haven’t forgotten where you came from, you know. Beyond guarding the Eastern Gate, my orders extend to smiting anyt—”

    “Listen, we’re just having a chat between friends,” Crawley says, holding his palms up. “You see any tricks up these sleeves?” He pulls back the material of his robes and exposes his freckled forearms again, shaking the fabric out for good measure. “Nada. Zip.”

    Aziraphale huffs and turns that sloped little nose of his up toward the heavens. “How are we friends? I hardly even know you.”

    That weirdly stings, just a touch, but Crawley doesn’t let it knock the wind from his sails. “Maybe not yet, but I’ve got a feeling we will be,” he says, smiling more openly and sweetly this time. “Maybe some of that shiny goodness of yours will rub off where it counts, eh?”

    Language:
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