A lot of Crowley is a tangle of frustrated yearning, and he can’t have Aziraphale, but maybe he can have something else. Kissing seemed like it’d be nice when it wasn’t a last desperate plea, tasting of tears more than anything else.

“I like plants.” Obviously. “Er, right, yeah. This way.”

He leads the way through a nearly invisible door to another room, this one looking like a meadow in the woods, the floor dotted with tiny wildflowers and the bed a dark grey hulk that looks nearly stone in the center.

Crowley stands awkwardly near it. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his… anything.