They stand there for hours or centuries, locked in place against one another. Maybe she's stopped time, or God has, or maybe the world just gently decides to ignore them for a while. If there are people talking on the pavement as they walk to the club, or cars honking, or noise blaring from the bar down the road, Crowley doesn't hear it. Just her breathing, and Aziraphale's, and the soft noise of their lips touching, parting, meeting again.

The intensity of the moment is almost painful--is it possible to die if sheer devotion, when you're a demon? It might be--and eventually Crowley can't sustain it. It's with as much a sob as a laugh when she breaks off, rests her forehead against his, breathes in the smell of him. "So... you're officially giving me permission to not sell your books?" she manages.