"Aziraphale debated internally a bit, but curling his arm up around Crowley's shoulder really was more comfortable. He knew he was being silly. He knew a dance was nothing and if it made Crowley happy after his feelings had apparently been hurt it wasn't much to ask, but-it was the demon. He had the literally infernal talent to make even the simplest, least dubious things feel like a temptation. Aziraphale knew it was Crowley's nature, and not strictly saying his fault, but it did sometimes make things feel *complicated*." Biarritz, South of France, 1921. Aziraphale stumbles on Crowley apparently working the hotels and casinos as a gigolo. At least, that's where it begins.

“Love is a psychological and physiological phenomenon, made of synapses and hormones, endorphins and dopamine receptors, pheromones, experiences, commonalities, mutual attraction. Not the muscle of the heart. Inexact metaphor. Designed for poetry, not accuracy.” First person, present tense story told from Sherlock's point of view. Written in early 2011, prior to series 2.

That was no way to think, just because a stupid ex-nun misinterpreted a blamelessly hostile situation. That way lay madness. That way lay an angel with disapprovingly pursed lips and pitying pale eyes and "My dear boy, I'm so *very* sorry, but..." and Armageddon would come as a relief after that, really.