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An angel and a demon walk into a bar.
The demon takes a seat in a booth, while the angel goes to buy the drinks.
After the angel sets the demon's drink in front of him, he leans back in his seat and says, "There's something I've been wondering for a while."
"Yeah?" the demon asks.
"Did it hurt?"
"What are you going on about, did what hurt?"
"When you fell from heaven."
The demon blinks, stares, takes a sip of his scotch. Then his eyes widen and he laughs, full-throated, leans forward, laughs again. "I - you - YOU - oh, angel, you don't know the half of it."
The angel's mischievous smile meets the demon's more conventionally evil one as they clink glasses in a toast.
"Heaven must be such a dull place these days," the demon says drily. "Missing its ABSOLUTELY WITTIEST angel."1
Because he's here, thinks Crowley, fully embracing the sin of Pride. With me.
(Later, cradled in darkness, Crowley would explain brokenly to Aziraphale the ways in which it had hurt, and still did, and always would. And Aziraphale would hold him, and listen, and run his fingers through his hair, and never regret asking.)
1 Crowley did not invent pick-up lines, but he did spend one long and tedious afternoon in 1998 seeding AOL bulletin boards with particularly terrible ones.