"Well, I don't have the best- ahhh, do that again! - vantage point to see- oh, my, Crowley... please, Crowley, please-!" the angel begged, twisting in the soft blanket, and ran an unsteady hand down the demon's available skin, the clothes Crowley was wearing melting away into nothingness. There was an answering shiver that was nearly lost in Aziraphale's perception as Crowley did something wonderful.

Both of them almost arse-naked under the stars, Aziraphale looked up at Heaven and, defiant, laughed silently, a tremor in his chest and his open smile the only hints to his amusement.

Enough to give him away, though.

Crowley stopped what he was doing and fixed Aziraphale with a half-quizzical, mostly affronted look. The angel suppressed a giggle and brought him up for a kiss, ignoring the sticky mess.

"It was ticklish," he said, sheepish, by way of an explanation. "Er, there, anyway..."

Aziraphale didn't dare draw attention to the blanket now. He had been trying to change it into something approximating tartan when Crowley had distracted him. Which just goes to show one should never perform miracles during sex. Well, some miracles, anyway. The end result, the angel knew, was a new design that hardly approximated tartan but did begin with 't'.

Tye-dye.

*Well, there were quite a few young psychics and witches who from then on swore by Tadfield's increase in odd ley lines. Or lay lines, as the Americans called them.