"It's a remarkably good roadtest," Gabriel said with the perfect equanimity of an Englishman that Aziraphale was struggling for and utterly failing to achieve.

The archangel snorted, snatching up his new glass and taking a gulp. He was beginning to feel that nice, warm stage of relaxation. "Well, of course you think that from the outside. I thought that. And then I gave it a try. It's kind of like ..." His hands motioned in the air, keeping his bourbon from spilling with practised skill, while he tried to think of something equally messy but fun which Aziraphale would approve of and wouldn't hurt Gabriel's reputation any more than he already had.

"It's like going mud-wrestling," he decided. Everyone had done that when they first got their meatsuits, right? It was like training. But in the mud. The very first experience of actual tactile contact with something, of having something on your skin that stayed. "You can forget about being all prim and proper and being a good boy and just have a bit of fun, and don't have to give a shit how dirty you're getting for once."

... How did the conversation turn back in that direction, anyway?