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

You're lost in conversation and useless at Scrabble

"That was quite rude," Aziraphale said sternly, as the Bentley peeled off.

"I don't like you eating cake around other people," Crowley muttered. He clutched the box of cake on his lap with the hand not on the steering wheel, ready to slap Aziraphale if he tried to take it.

"I eat cake around other people all the time. We spend most of our time together eating around other people, and I usually have cake." Aziraphale paused. "Or cannoli. Or soufflé. Or sorbet. Or..."

"They don't usually sit there watching you. It was wrong. I think the human has a fetish for watching pure heavenly souls indulge in vices, and I was just saving her from a nasty spot on her soul. All part of the Arrangement. You owe me a temptation, now."

Aziraphale sniffed and started sorting through CDs, not that there would be time to put any on. Crowley was sure it was a snub.

"Look, I was bored and I wanted to see our cottage," Crowley pouted. "I've never been good at small talk. By the way, where is it?"

"Other direction," Aziraphale sighed. "I was wondering when you'd ask."

They tore down the correct lane at last, and pulled up. There was a salt tang on the air, and the sun streamed weakly through the clouds, lighting up the Suffolk Pink limewash on the... cottage. Crowley sprawled back in his seat and grinned at the huge fifteenth century farmhouse, as prim and perfect as something from a fairytale. Of course Aziraphale chose a pink house.

"Your cosy little cottage, angel? I'm so glad you are restricting yourself to a humble life in the country."

"Oh, hush," said Aziraphale, turning the same shade as the cottage, if it could be called that.

Crowley jumped out, cake box clutched in his hands, and bounded up the gravel path. It was a huge garden, bounded by hedges. Crowley wondered how many extra acres came with it. He noted that the winter jasmine was looking a bit ragged, he would have to have a nice little chat with it later, and the viburnum was positively undisciplined. Poor downtrodden angel clearly needed him. He thought it was enough to let plants flourish and bloom with joy in his holy presence, he had no idea about imposing proper subservience. The garden needed to be taught to respect Aziraphale.

The dark wooden door opened at a snap of his fingers, and he looked around with curiosity. The rooms were wide and spacious, with exposed floors—time had been, when those would have been shameful, but now the shine was pretty—and huge fireplaces, but also, he noted, excellent central heating. No coating of grease from lamps and candles like he remembered in places like this, just clean pure light. There were bookshelves everywhere, and priceless knickknacks he remembered from the bookshop, all mementos of Aziraphale's long life.

Crowley was conscious of a pang. The angel really was trying to put out some roots here. Shame they would have to be brutally ripped out, but the countryside was too dull for more than a visit. It was for his own good.

The kitchen was less impressive, and looked like Country Kitchen 1990s style. If Crowley ended up staying here longer than planned, he would have to have it ripped out and replaced with something more contemporary. He needed to send for his espresso machine. There was an electric kettle at least, and in the sink--

"Angel," he said tenderly. "You've been trying to cook."

Aziraphale, who had been padding patiently behind him, clasped his hands defensively over The History of Farming in Ontario. "Well, it's not like I can just wander out to the nearest place every time I get peckish. It's quite a walk to the village."