There are many things Crowley likes about Earth. Many, many things, and although food is only one on a list of thousands, it's written in capitals and underlined twice. He doesn't need to eat, not like humans do, but he enjoys it, so why shouldn't he?

Well. Alright, more than enjoys. There's few things better than dinner at the Ritz (especially if he manages to tempt the angel to come along too); creamy pastas, soft fish, juicy roasted vegetables, dark meat… to say nothing of rich wine, and deserts. Chocolate, raspberries and ice cream, pies, angel and devil's food cake-

It's not as if he's collecting them for the sake of it. That's how Aziraphale justifies it to himself. After all, his collection holds centuries' worth of information on a whole range of subjects, vital information. He's… guarding it. Yes, that's right. And he's just not found anyone he trusts enough to hand the job over to.

However, lying to himself doesn't change the way his hands twitch at second-hand book sales, or his chest tightens when a customer comes in and actually tries to buy something. Lying to himself doesn't change the fact that he's hopelessly addicted to books.

In general, younger humans hate sleep. They have far too many other things to be doing to spend hours each day with their brains shut off. The older ones seem to have a healthy appreciation for it, though, as they come to need it more and more.

Crowley doesn't need sleep but then, neither does he have time to waste. In his opinion, anyone who dislikes the embrace of a warm bed is a fool. Sleeping is the best way to spend a day, a week, a century…

(What he means is, the best way to cope with the world.)

It's not love, he tells himself. And definitely not l– the other l-word. At least love is a virtue. No, it's… caring, the ineffable care he's supposed to feel for all of His creation.

None of that changes the fact that he wants Crowley. Not desires, exactly, because he's not making an Effort, but there's a sharp tug somewhere in his chest and throat. He doesn't understand it, doesn't want to want what he does, but his body refuses to see sense.

He hides it well – because Crowley can't know. He can't. Whoever heard of an angel wanting a demon?

There's not much about Aziraphale to envy. His vessel is middle-aged, rounded, and Crowley's always preferred the taller, more fine-boned ones. Makes seducing people much easier. Not that he finds Aziraphale hard on the eye, but–

(That's another matter.)

He envies Aziraphale's wings. There, he's said it. Not that there's much of a difference, only his spider-black feathers next to the angel's white. Only a shift in shade. But it's more than a colour change, though. The black speaks of scars, far below the surface of the wings, that Crowley just can't scrub out, no matter how hard he tries.

Anyone who thinks angels are peaceful beings is wrong. Anyone who thinks angels cannot hate, cannot rage and tower and burn with anger, is grievously wrong, at their own peril. They have not seen Aziraphale, who dares challenge the apocalypse. They have not seen the bookshop owner carefully, deliberately, hunt down those who tortured the cat sleeping on his desk.

They have not seen the angel with the flaming sword, the tiny, unthreatening creature made dark and dangerous by his own fury, stand over the twisted body of a demon and dare all of Heaven to go ahead and try.

Pride goeth before a fall. That's what they say. Maybe even before a Fall, and Heaven knows Aziraphale doesn't want that. Crowley's not really got anywhere to Fall to, but he'd rather not try his luck.

Nonetheless, as they sit in Aziraphale's kitchen, sipping tea and listening to the antichrist and his soon-to-be-wife discuss wedding plans ("We've still not decided on a dress," says Adam, and Pepper mutters, "If anyone's wearin' a dress, it's you.") neither of them can really think of another word to describe the sense of satisfaction warming in their chests at a bad job well done.