Crowley resorts to toeing off his own, followed by his socks - though more from laziness than from any sense of urgency. They've barely been on the ground a few hours, but time seems already to have slowed, melted in the sun and mixing with the soft breakers on the beach. Barefoot, he crawls onto the bed beside Aziraphael, stretching out behind him.

Turn and turn about: when the angel starts unbuttoning his own shirt, Crowley feels bounden to lend a helping hand, untucking it slowly from the waistband of his trousers.