The Middle Distance

I'm afraid I can't do you Marlowe, but what I can do is here:

~*~

Aziraphale flopped limply into an armchair in his back room. It had been the worst fight since the second arrangement, the one that involved spending wednesday afternoons and sunday mornings increasing their carnal knowledge of each other.

Actually, it had been their worst fight since considerably before then. There hadn't been a discorporation since the middle ages, and that was the demons fault for making jokes about a Diet of Worms. Was it his fault though, thought Aziraphale mournfully, he'd only been following his ineffably apointed nature after all.

Like he supposed, Crowley was only really following his natural instincts when he suggested they See Other Beings, and then a few nervous sips of that 1957 Rioja later, expanded to the specifics, namely he'd like to see one of those air-head Incubus's rogering seven levels of damnation out of Aziraphale for his demonic viewing pleasure.

He hadn't needed to get so angry. He was rather confused by how much entering into a relationship that involved sharing carnal knowledge seemed to engender anger, or hurt or worry. It seemed rather unfair. Anyhow angry he had got, and discorporated Crowley had got and now he was here on his own with no prospect of carnal knowledge for at least the decade or so it would take Crowley to get his body back.

If then, of course. Aziraphale looked at his plump fingers hopelessly. What after all would a demon know about forgiveness?

Then he noticed it, or rather he noticed a source of light where one had not been before. He peered over, quite sure he'd never owned a photograph frame incorporating flashing lightbulbs. Then he noticed the faintly glowing scrawl:

"Angel, hope this keeps the memory alive while I'm gone."

And then he noticed
the picture

P.S. I shall be expecting payback on my return.