Okay, but - Crowley calling Aziraphale ‘cherub’, though. When Aziraphale’s expounding on something, slightly pink-cheeked on afternoon wine, and Crowley’s watching affectionately and has gotten the point:

“All right, cherub.”

This occasions a frown. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“But you look just like one.”

“I most certainly do not.” Glasses are pushed up the nose. “One face, Crowley. Just the one. And one set of wings. Not to mention that cherubic duties are far above my pay-grade. The very idea–”

“You’ve got rosy cheeks and blond curls. Ask Raphael. Ask anyone. That’s a cherub.”

“That’s a putto. And quite frankly, a rather unlikely depiction of any type of Heavenly messenger. Really, we’ve gone through this before, and I sometimes think, although I hate to say it, that you’re choosing to ignore me.”

“All right, then. Not a cherub. An angel.”

“A Principality–”

“Of course. Come here, Principality.”