Notes: Written for drawlight's '31 days of ineffables' prompt 'gold and silver'.

"A-A-Aziraphale …" Crowley sighs, eyelids fluttering shut. A bright and bitter sampling of an unrealized cosmos dances behind them, swirling in a dizzying display of silver and gold – stars known to him but unknown to the world, since he took their signatures with him when he fell. "Dear God …" He swallows "… bless it all …" The universe behind his eyes continues to spin, but the one around him slows, and then stops. The heat that once encircled him like a blanket begins to slide lower down his body, pooling around his middle. Cold air hits his exposed shoulders and Crowley shudders.

"Mmm ... God ..." He moans – loud and long, with a thump on the d like a smack to the head. In the cheek of his post-orgasmic bliss, he giddily wonders if repeatedly taking Her name in vain the way he had over and over and over again might succeed in luring the Almighty down from on high to ask Her long forgotten Fallen what on Her Earth pleased him so.

And boy, would he have a mouthful to tell Her!

Amusing, but probably not.

She hasn't answered any of his prayers thus far.

He refuses to consider Aziraphale part of that line up. Aziraphale is an angel, fully capable of answering prayers on his own. The wonder that is his presence in Crowley's life, the gifts he bestows by simply existing, and the miracle of moments ago, Crowley attributes entirely to his angel and his angel alone.

Besides … why should She show up now?

To give them Her blessing?

Like he'd care.

No. Her showing up would be unwelcome, inconvenient, and grandstanding. That's why She would.

In that vein, She'd probably send Gabriel in Her stead, but wouldn't that be hilarious?

Crowley might consider paying money for that; to have that stuck up, pompous imbecile materialize and find them lying naked on the floor of this cottage in South Downs. And because Crowley is a bastard of a very specific variety, one that would tell either God or Gabriel off to their face while standing before them in the nude, he does it again.

"God …"

"You're tempting fate, my dear," Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley's torso, his head too heavy to lift so he can look in his demon's eyes and scold him properly.

"Am I?" Crowley smirks, running trembling fingers through his angel's sweaty hair. "Good then. That's my job done. Temptation."

Aziraphale smiles. Crowley feels it against his skin. It makes him glow on the inside. "And you accomplished it brilliantly. Bravo."

"You mean wahoo." Crowley reclines on his elbows, much in his leisure, content and more satisfied than he's felt in thousands of years. Though he has to admit, it didn't quite happen the way he'd pictured it. The whole ordeal from start to finish was terribly cliché - bottle of wine; bear skin rug; a dozen long-stemmed red roses fragranting the room; roasting chestnuts lending their earthy scent to the chill, winter air; a bowl of berries and fresh whipped cream (some of which he's wearing, smeared in places he can't see without disturbing Aziraphale, and that he has no intention of doing. Not for the world).

A chestnut pops sharply by Crowley's left ear, drawing his attention to the flames. He isn't a big fan of fire, even though a fire lives within him. A fire lives within all demons. Hellfire - the fire an angel falls into when they're cast out of Heaven. A fire that should keep him and Aziraphale at arm's length. But like his sword, Aziraphale has found a way to tame Crowley's fire, keep it from raging wildly out of control.

Keep it from devouring him when they kiss and hug and touch.

But the fire - like the wine, the rug, the roses, the chestnuts, and the berries - were essential elements of this moment.

Their first time.

Ambiance. Crowley wanted ambiance for Aziraphale.

He went so far as to summon a squall. He appreciates what a storm adds to the atmosphere of the small cottage room. He hears echoes of it in the soft tinkling of the sleigh bells hanging from the wreath outside their door. There's even a book of poems lying around somewhere. It wasn't part of the seduction – just what Aziraphale was occupying himself with initially, reading aloud a poignant verse about now or never.

And Crowley - moved more by Aziraphale's reading than the words, his emotion, the catch in his voice, its softness and timber and cadence - chose now.

If asked, Aziraphale would have said all he needed was Crowley to have a perfect first time. And Crowley felt the same about Aziraphale. But in Crowley's mind, Aziraphale deserved more. He deserved romance. He deserved the fairy tale, the bells and whistles. He deserved Oscar Wilde and D. H. Lawrence whispered in his ears.

He deserved magic.

Crowley can only hope he delivered.

He's a bit too self-conscious to ask.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his fingertips traveling long strokes across the angel's shoulders.

Aziraphale sighs, his breath a warm ghost curling over Crowley's stomach, making his demon shiver. "Well, I …" The words stop, spoken before conscious thought sparks within his brain. But regardless of the pause, it doesn't come, and Aziraphale starts to laugh.

Crowley frowns so deep Aziraphale hears it when he speaks. "I'm curious to know what you find so funny."

"Don't be a grump," Aziraphale teases, wrapping his arms around Crowley's waist and hugging him tight. "I'm not laughing at you."

"Then what?"

"I … is it ridiculous that the only word I can think of is wonderful?"

Crowley grins, a hint of smug twisting one side of his mouth. "No. You might be a bit too distracted to think clearly."

"Possibly."

"Let me help you then."

"Please do."

Crowley clears his throat, mentally reaching as hard as Aziraphale for an adjective a few steps up from wonderful, probably more seeing as he doesn't read half as much as Aziraphale. "Incandescent?"

"Hmm …" Aziraphale hums, the buzzing of his throat tickling Crowley's skin. "Sounds like a light bulb, but a good start."

"Sublime."

Aziraphale nods. "I do like that one. Reminds me of meringue."

Crowley laughs fondly at that. "It means to elevate to a high degree of spiritual excellence."

"I'll admit, it's apropos, but let's weigh our other choices."

"Delirious?"

"That sounds like we were drunk at the time, and that sets a bad precedent. So no."

"Rapturous?"

"Mmm, that rings of end times."

Crowley makes a face. "Been there, done that. Blithe?"

"Not one of my favorites."

"Blissful?"

"Overused."

"Overjoyed?"

"Too simple."

"Euphoric?"

"Sounds like a disease."

"Chuffed?"

"Confusing. How about resplendent?"

"Oh no." Crowley snorts, clenching his abs hard to keep from bouncing Aziraphale around. "Heavens no!"

"Why not?" Aziraphale asks, offended as resplendent has always been one of his favorite words.

"I knew a bloke back during the American Revolution went by the name Resplendent."

"Are you kidding?"

"Not an inch. Resplendent White. Right tosser he was."

"Okay … well, I guess that makes sense." Aziraphale takes a deep breath in and then exhales, sinking into the warmth of Crowley's soft stomach. "How about … complete?"

Crowley's first instinct is to object simply because they'd been bantering back and forth. He'd gotten into a rhythm. But he catches himself quickly.

More accurately, his heart in his throat catches him.

Complete.

They're complete.

Together, they're complete.

And they don't need Heaven or Hell's approval or permission to feel this way. They simply are. The way humans do when they eschew religion and choose a way on their own.

But this feeling, the reality of it, belongs to no one but the two of them.

And that makes it perfect.

"Yes." Crowley reaches down to gather up his angel in his arms and hold him tight. "Yes, I think that's it."

"Do you feel that way, too?" Aziraphale asks, eyelids growing heavy as the angel slowly drifts to sleep.

"Yes," Crowley says, miracling them a blanket and a pillow, lowering the lights and drawing the curtains. "I do."