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"But surely you must remember a little bit of what it was like there," Aziraphale was saying. He finished the wine in his glass as he waited for an answer, his fingers silently tapping out a rhythm on his crossed knees.
"Heaven?" Crowley scoffed, slouched very carefully in his seat. "'Course I do, angel, why do you think I wanted to divert the Apocalypse? Endless white marble and gold with singing echoing down every street? No thank you."
"No, not Heaven, dear boy," Aziraphale said patiently, but there was a familiar conniving glint to his eyes that Crowley could truly appreciate. "God's presence. Surely even you can miss Her love? Why stay with Hell when you could have that?"
Crowley sat up slowly, his eyebrows shooting upwards in delighted surprise. "Why, Aziraphale," he drawled, "are you tempting me to Unfall?"
"I might be," the angel said smoothly, unruffled.
Crowley laughed. "I'm an awful influence, then. Good." He threw back the rest of his own wine with a gusto that made Aziraphale frown, and then he was standing to fill it again. "I don't remember Her, angel. Hell does that to a demon, you know, we can't go around yearning for God and do our jobs successfully. I don't remember what Her love feels like." With his glass refilled, he bent down with a suddenness that was startling and placed a kiss on the very end of the angel's long nose. His yellow eyes gleamed with something approaching fondness as he sat back down in his chair as Aziraphale blushed a deep red. The angel was so thrown by Crowley's actions that he very nearly missed what the demon murmured into his glass: "Yours is enough for me, anyway."