you'd like to stay in heaven (but the rules are too tough)

you said you got to heaven but it wasn't enough

Last chapter!! I hope you guys are enjoying it! Love you my readers!

Sunday, January 16th, 2039

Aziraphale had a million different versions of this conversation spinning around his mind when he knocked on Crowley's door, but when Crowley finally opens the door, he finds he cannot get a single word out.

"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice is pulled taut, on the edge of breaking. "Why are you here?"

Aziraphale hasn't seen him in six years. He looks just the same—of course he looks just the same. He doesn't age. It hasn't even been long enough for Crowley to have decided to change his hair again. He's still this vaguely man-shaped being, all straight lines and sharp angles and brownish-red hair styled very meticulously to look like he doesn't care. He's still dressed head to toe in black and wears those stupid sunglasses to cover up his yellow eyes.

"Oh, uh," Aziraphale says, panicking, "Your jacket is new."

Crowley glances down at his black leather jacket—Aziraphale gets a blink-and-you'll-miss-it glimpse of Crowley's bright eyes—and then back up at Aziraphale. "No, I got it in the seventies," he says, "you didn't see me in it."

"Ah," says Aziraphale.

"Come to think," Crowley continues, "I don't know if I wore it much at all. It was too in fashion. Made me look—" His mouth twists down in distaste. "—Ordinary. Average. You know, trendy."

"Uh-huh," says Aziraphale. He's not entirely following the conversation; he's still drinking Crowley in, and then drinking him in some more, and then drinking him in some more, the way Crowley chugs fine wine. Aziraphale's missed the gravelly drag of Crowley's words when Crowley pitches his voice low, and the nasally whine of them when he pitches his voice high. He's missed the way Crowley drapes himself around, lounging against any surface that it is possible to lounge on and some that are not. He finds it extremely heartening that even though he has said nothing of value, Crowley is still lounging against the doorframe, propping the door open with one hand, and making no move to close it. "You could never be ordinary."

Crowley's attempt at casual, which isn't fooling Aziraphale at all, wobbles. "I know, I'm a demon. I don't need reminding."

Aziraphale's heart drops. "That's not what I—" he begins, "I didn't mean—Oh, for Heaven's sake, Crowley, could you just let me in?"

Crowley stops breathing and stares. Aziraphale clasps his hands so tightly they hurt.

"I don't—well, I'd really rather—I think this is a conversation we should have inside," Aziraphale adds haltingly after several long seconds. "It's about—you know. Listen, I'm sorry, I am, there are mortals out here and I can't be talking about angels and demons—"

Crowley kicks the door open and unceremoniously turns his back on Aziraphale, sauntering into the flat. His saunter looks a little bit off-kilter.

Aziraphale stares after him, heart pounding in his throat. He thinks absently that perhaps he should stop his heart altogether if it is going to be this distracting.

"Are you coming?" Crowley asks impatiently.

Aziraphale lets out a quiet, "Oh," and hurries in.

The door slams shut behind him of its own accord.

Crowley turns. "Well?" he prompts.

Aziraphale feels very put on the spot. "Well..." Where to even begin? "I've had quite the day."

"Yes," Crowley says, "So have I." Without anything to lounge on, he's standing with his arms crossed, but it fails to convey attitude and looks much more like Crowley is trying to hug himself very tightly.