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Warnings: Nooone. Summary: Drabble. Why Crowley and politics don't mix. "This ad is supposed to make who vote for us?" Aziraphale asked with a tinge of horror. He held the paper out at arm's length with the tips of his fingers as if he was afraid he would catch some angel killing disease from it. "The souls of deprived fangirls," Crowley sighed in return. "And a few fanboys as well, now I think about it. They'll be lining up in droves after this one, trust me." "But...slash potential? You do know what that is, don't you?" "...The truth?" "Crowley!" "Look, we're both male, right? No, not like that! I mean our human bodies are male. We're the only friends we've got, right? The fangirls are determined to believe we're getting it on in private, aren't they?" Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale's stubborn sulk. "Angel, we're the slashiest supernatural beings in existence. Running for the president of Afterlife America, at least. We've got to work with what we've got and, frankly, this is all we've got." "I still don't like it, dear," Aziraphale sighed, though it was obvious that he had given in. "But...well, I suppose it is catchy enough. But what do we do about the...others?" "How about: It's all a lie. Vote Aziraphale and Crowley so we can let the truth out." "...You didn't come up with the first one, did you. Who was it?" "A fangirl." "Of course."  vote Crowley/Azirpahale!
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