Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale's implication. "The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact," he retorts.

Oh, but two can play at this sort of a game. There was very, very little to do in London around the time of Shakespeare, so Crowley went and saw all the comedies, some of them multiple times.

"Love is a familiar," he murmurs against Aziraphale's neck, tracing his lips lower, to where his shirt blocks him from going any further. He reaches a hand up to undo the bow-tie slowly, give it a loosen, before returning to kiss his neck again.

"Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love."