“So…how did it feel?” asked Aziraphale, carefully casual, as the two walked through St James’ park in the blue twilight. “To fall, I mean.”

Crowley looked sideways at the angel’s nervously expectant face in the half dusk.

“Like this,” he said, and, laying a gentle hand on the fair man’s chin, turned his face and softly covered his lips with his own.

After a second Aziraphale pulled away, but slowly, not shocked. He raised a hand to his mouth.

“That…didn’t feel like falling,” he managed.

Crowley smiled, but perhaps with something sad hidden behind it. “That’s exactly what I said.”