[He sputters out a laugh, incredulous and adoring, and darts down to kiss him again. It's messy, teeth clicking, his hips rocking down hard, not to be sexual but because he wants to be as physically close to him as possible. One hand rakes through Aziraphale's hair, and when he breaks the kiss, he pulls apart just far enough to speak, his breath hot against his lips.]

A ride in the country . . .

[It's ridiculous. They're ridiculous, and he kisses him again, and again, because it doesn't seem as though he'll get over the shock of being able to do so. What century does Aziraphale imagine this is? But he's always a little stuck in the past, and oh, oh, he loves him for it.]

We can do whatever we want, love.

[Ah. That's . . . closer. A new petname, and it won't replace angel, because he loves that, but it's something. It's an attempt.]

Right now, however . . . I don't intend to let you out of this bed for at least the next two weeks.