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

Confide in me

Crowley checked the front garden, and there was no angel. Next was all the land behind, which presumably was part of Aziraphale's marked-off ground. If Aziraphale was there, he was safe. Crowley made his way down a lane, long-dead leaves crunching under his feet. These bloody rhododendrons, even in late autumn there was no visibility.

No need to panic, Crowley told himself. The demon had revealed herself. That was fine.

Aziraphale, of all angels, was used to demons. Back in the old days, before everyone in Hell got so damn lazy—except for Crowley, of course, a hard worker and always had been, had the commendations to show for it—lower-ranking demons used to regularly take potshots at the sweet, dithering angel who had easy target written on him in big runes. Most of them had ended up in ethereal restraints being earnestly told the error of their ways. Subjected to Aziraphale's kind scolding that while of course tempting the humans was very important work and all the Almighty's will, he couldn't possibly allow them to disrupt his own business, most slunk back to Hell in cowed disgrace.

Disgrace, that was key. Demons had the advantage of sneakiness and brutality. Aziraphale, though, had learned sneakiness and imagination from humans, had centuries of reading works on demonology and illuminating chats with a demonic best friend, and on top of that, was in a state of Grace. Demons shouldn't really have a chance against him.

Only a couple had required Crowley carefully discorporating them in ways that couldn't cause any awkward questions.

Over the millennia, Aziraphale had stopped being seen as an easy target, and become somewhat of a legend. Earth's oldest celestial resident, the one who kept even the infamous serpent Crowley in check, and was to all appearances invincible.

The problem was that a lot of that depended on the forces of Hell not knowing about the Arrangement. And that protection, Crowley suspected, was blown to bits. It shouldn't take long to go from "They united to stop the Apocalypse together" to "Hey, how long had they been working together anyway?" to "Maybe he's not so much invincible as compromised." They had known that, they had used it as an excuse to be more open in spending time together, and hadn't thought about whether it made Aziraphale vulnerable.

Well, there were two ways it could go, assuming Nell didn't intend to actually kill him, in which case she probably would have made a move by now. Aziraphale really wouldn't like Falling. Nor would he like having his forgiving nature taken advantage of to punish Crowley for his betrayal.

Crowley cursed and picked up his pace as he moved down the garden, his tongue flickering out to taste the air over and over. And there—that scent was the clean, lovely, warm scent of Aziraphale.

And brimstone.

Fuck.

He rounded the corner around some bushes, and saw Aziraphale sitting on a bench, book on his lap, chatting to Nell—who was in the lane on the fence on the other side. Not on the property. But of course, if wards were up, she would sense them.

She hailed him happily. "Afternoon, Anthony. I brought you a house warming gift." She smiled at him, all pink and white and rounded middle-aged softness, which was a combination that might have softened him if she wasn't a strange demon hanging around *his* angel. "A snake plant. I heard you like houseplants, and I thought it would suit you."

Crowley didn't believe in coincidence, not with the occult. She was playing fair, at least. He reached out across the fence, and took it. "Thanks. It looks like it could do with a stricter upbringing. I'll be sure to provide it."

"How pretty! That's very kind of you," Aziraphale said, beaming. He gave Crowley a look that said, look, see, maybe you're not the only nice demon around here.