Oh, Better Far to Live or Discorporate

To play a sanctimonious part

"What dream?" snapped Aziraphale. "Of challenging one of my favourite humans to duel? Because I must say you have quite an unfair advantage there, unless Charlie can learn smartish to bend time and physics."

Crowley attempted to regain his leer. "No, of being chained to the wall in– well, it doesn't have to be a pirate ship."

"Don't be ridiculous, you detest humans imprisoning you. When you were pilloried for cursing pigs, you complained for days about backache when you couldn't really have been in there for more than twenty minutes. I sometimes wondered if I'd fallen without noticing and your whingeing was one of Dagon's torments. Or if I should have left you there, demon binding circles and all."

"It's not just about the manacles, it's about the company," Crowley said, trying desperately to retain some kind of seductive atmosphere. "Although I usually imagine it the other way around." He shivered at the familiar vision of his angel, plump chest heaving, round eyes pleading, distressed but with perfect faith and hope in his rescuer...

Aziraphale's aggrieved expression deepened. "So you like to plot taking me prisoner and deliver me to Hell, you malevolent miscreant"

"Not at all!" Crowley protested, although he had an interesting and interested reaction to being called malevolent miscreant. He decided to file that away for future contemplation. "It's more I dream upon happening upon you, captured by humans, helpless– and oh, in stockings like yours, or maybe skirts like these, that would be great, too."

"I don't know what my stockings have to do with the matter. And what were you intending to do when you found me helpless? Gloat? Apply for a commendation?"

Crowley tried, through his mixture of deep embarrassment, fervour and awareness that what he was saying was not very demonic, to express what he would do. It came out as a strangled hiss.

Fortunately, over the millennia, Aziraphale had become quite good at interpreting serpent demon. "Rescue me? Well, I'm touched," he said, in a tetchy way that sounded anything but, "but why would that even be necessary?"

This conversation was not going quite the way Crowley had hoped. His ears were burning. "You might've lost your powers or, or something," he muttered.

"Do you spend a lot of time imagining me powerless and at your mercy?"

Oh, fuck it all, in for a penny. Crowley squeezed his eyes tight. "...esss."

"I thought we had reached some kind of understanding. I thought we were friend– I mean, friendly adversaries." Aziraphale was pouting.

"No, no, no, that's not it, I would always let you go, honest."

"And then I'd owe you. I would owe a demon a favour. My soul would be in danger."

"You owe me favours all the time and it doesn't bother you!" Crowley protested. "You still haven't paid me back for that business in Bohemia in 1533. Beelzebub was all over me wanting explanations, and you never even thanked me." He'd had roseate visions of blushing cheeks and starry eyes and, when he really let his imagination get out of control, an angel rapturously flinging himself into his arms to express gratitude.

"A small taste of the apocalypse to warn people of the error of their ways, I said, Crowley. I meant a vision or two. Not four hundred dragons flying overhead."

"It was a bloody good warning, you have to admit that."

"It went on for days. The amount of memory erasing I had to do! At least their dung was good for the crops."