The two were strolling through a quiet London park just after closing hours at the bookshop. The trees rustled softly in the breeze, and golden light spilled from the lampposts like warm honey. They sat on a bench under an old oak tree. Aziraphale delicately unfolded a napkin and offered Crowley half a cherry tart.

“No thanks,” Crowley muttered, waving it off. “Don’t want sticky fingers.”

A pause. Birds chirped in the distance. Crowley leaned back lazily on the bench, hands behind his head.

“You know,” he said idly, “I bet you’d look good in a dress. Y’know. Flowing. Elegant. Classy. You’ve got the… posture for it.”