You'll Never Get To Heaven (if you're scared of getting high)

Because it's only make believe

Notes:

Story title and chapter titles are lyrics from Kylie Minogue songs, in honour of Dagon, who spoke to Crowley through the Pop Princess' voice. Does that mean my Paperwork Queen will turn up? Will they be series Dagon? Who can tell? Is it just an excuse to post Kylie videos at the start of every chapter? More mysteries.

This story uses series canon and time period. It follows the book in that rather than all the business with extinction and body swapping, Heaven and Hell just kind of forgot about the whole Armageddon deal, or at least decided not to mention it because it was too embarrassing. So Crowley and Aziraphale are still on their respective payrolls.

Ineffable Husbands bingo prompt fill for this chapter: Autumn. Which obviously means an autumnal seasonal menu for Aziraphale.

November

"So, what brings you up to London?" Crowley asked at last, when they had reached the fifth course of the tasting menu, were well into their second bottle of wine, and were reaching a shared rosy glow of contentment.

They were dining in a tiny restaurant hidden behind a shop in Soho. The kind of tiny restaurant that Crowley was pretty sure was booked up months in advance. He was also pretty sure Aziraphale had not bothered to book, as he had apparently only decided to take the train to London that day. They had seats next to each other at the single counter anyway. It was a very Aziraphale place, Crowley thought, with chefs that greeted him by name and an ever-changing menu. Nothing like that, he suspected, in the South Downs.

It was also full of people in expensive clothes barely tasting their beautifully prepared, half-foraged food because they were photographing it so they could casually let the world know they had seats there. Normally this kind of insult to the chef and food would have given Crowley any amount of pleasure, and all that bored self-indulgent wealth have given him lots of opportunities to do bad, but he had long ago decided that when he was with Aziraphale, he was off the clock.

Aziraphale, perched primly on his stool, fiddled with a very beautiful plate of what mostly looked like autumnal flowers and crystals of berry salt, but had some sliced duck hearts hidden among them. "Oh, dear," he said. "I do feel rather bad eating duck. When we've spent so much time feeding them, too."

"Circle of life, angel." Crowley speared a slice of duck heart from his own plate and popped it in Aziraphale's mouth, avidly watching the surprised look, then the fluttered lashes and slight pink flush in the apples of his cheek. "There, that doesn't actually feel bad at all, does it?" He could feel himself flush a little as well.

"I concede the point," said Aziraphale, once he had swallowed. "That was succulent."

Succulent. There really were words that were sinfully inappropriate for that innocent mouth. Crowley felt he should encourage more.

"Glad we settled that. Now answer the question." Crowley waited patiently for Aziraphale to admit he was bored witless in Suffolk, the food was no good, the weather was dismal, there were no decent drinking companions, he missed his book shop and he was going to give retirement up as a bad job and move back to just across the river from Crowley.

"I need you," said Aziraphale, which was far more straightforward than Crowley had been expecting, even after two bottles of wine. The angel stared at his plate, turning as red as the little gems of pomegranate seed on it.

"Well," Crowley said, at last, trying to keep any giveaway hoarseness out of his voice. "Here I am."

"It's just that—oh, dear, some things are so difficult to say over the telephone apparatus, aren't they? Especially if you have your voice messages on. It feels so impersonal, and I really couldn't wait any longer to ask."