Consorting With the Enemy by
Aziraphale looked tired, and also sad, and Crowley found himself wishing that it hadn’t taken so long for Aziraphale to catch on that his superiors were essentially bastards. Aziraphale had the fixed idea that heaven was in favor of being nice to other people, to which Crowley had two responses, one: that didn’t work out too well for that poor bugger who got nailed to a cross, did it, and, two: they mean humans, they don’t mean you. He couldn’t manage to say either of those things in the face of Aziraphale’s expression, and turned his back so that he could stop looking at it. Oh heart.