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

Be My Supernova

Tristan was even worse than Crowley had feared. He was a good half-head taller than the demon, about forty and ageing extremely well, with clearly developed musculature filling out his moleskin jeans and impeccably casual blue shirt. His impeccably casual blue tartan shirt, the sneaky bastard. He also had delicate gold-framed glasses, tight dark curls and a kind smile, and Crowley could feel the venom threatening to drip from his own eye teeth. He felt short and skinny and pale and insignificant, and all he could do was thrust his weight on one hip and think sexy as hard as he could, while comforting himself with the thought that this man would be dead of old age and out of their lives in no time at all, relatively.

It was impossible to fool himself that Tristan wasn't interested in men, either, not given his guests from London. The room was the exact mixture of moneyed, educated respectability and discreet camp that Crowley had most feared, on the grounds that it would fit Aziraphale like a glove. And it did. The angel was clearly having the time of his life, hellish party games and all, beaming like a daffodil in Spring. It was the bloody Victorian era all over again. Or the 1930s. Either way, it stank like sulphur and burned Crowley's tongue.

Crowley had the despairing feeling that this was Aziraphale land, tartan and all, and the only jarring note here was the snake who had just slithered in on his arm. Aziraphale was so happy. For the first time, he found himself seriously considering if this retirement to the South Downs thing was not just an inconvenience, like the times Aziraphale had decided to work in monasteries for a few months or years before becoming bored, or a sign of something deeper. Something Aziraphale had actually been missing, and could find here.

Still. Aziraphale had just kissed his jaw, and he had the advantage of six thousand years of propinquity. And of officially holding the husband title. He was pretty sure that would keep Nell at bay, even if she had been optimistic enough to think he might fancy something a bit on the womanly side, but Tristan... He was altogether too good looking and suspiciously untroubled to meet Crowley. Not happy. Untroubled. As if dismissing him as not a threat, before turning his attention to Aziraphale, the wealthy new queen in the neighbourhood. Crowley didn't trust him one inch.

He held onto Aziraphale's hand and fretted through the insanely boring answers to "What is your most embarrassing holiday memory?" "What was your favourite book as a child?" and "If you were in a circus, what role would you play?" He was mildly interested in "What famous dead person would you bring back?" because he could have told them some things he personally knew about Mahatma Gandhi and Winston Churchill that would make their toes curl. Aziraphale was obviously thinking the same thing because there was a warning pressure on his hand.

Crowley's number was 6, because of course it was. Aziraphale was smiling encouragingly at him, so he went forward to the seat at the middle of the circle and reluctantly touched the tablet, cursing himself for his weakness. It was the way Aziraphale seemed to make his eyes go even bigger and rounder when he wanted something, and then went all gentle and glowing when he got it. Bastard.

"Which of the seven deadly sins represents you best?" Crowley's lips curled despite himself. Aziraphale was looking suspiciously at him, and Crowley spread his hands to show innocence. Any exertion of demonic power had been purely unintentional. "Well, that's easy. I try to go in for all of them as a matter of principle, but I specialise in acedia. Sloth."

Aziraphale leaned forward, looking interested. "I don't know, dearest, you work very hard at taking credit for things other people have done or manipulating them into doing them for you or covering up not having done them at all. Harder than if you'd actually done the work in the first place, I sometimes think. An excellent example of evil always being its own downfall. Isn't superbia more apt, anyway? Pride and hubris have always been your signature."