"No, you did that in my dream," he retorts. "You, or the man who sings that song. You know the one, two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit," he sings softly, off-tempo and sleep-addled but at least carrying the tune.

He can't possibly have taken that many rides in the Bentley without some of Queen's discography getting hopelessly stuck in his head from time to time.

It's still late, and Aziraphale isn't worried until dawn. He pulls away just a little, only so that he can talk while looking Crowley in the eyes. He does love to see the yellow irises, like little gold coins.