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

I lose it every time I'm close to you

Aziraphale managed not to laugh, mostly because Crowley really had suffered a shock, poor dear boy, and Aziraphale could imagine only too well what it had been like to be surrounded by angry angels in their less than human forms while being cast out, glared at with a million eyes.

Aziraphale didn't like to think of the War in Heaven much himself; in retrospect it had been a relief that the Almighty had sensibly given neither side the ability to deliver killing blows to the other, hellfire not having been invented yet and holy water not working on even rebellious angels, but they had known how to inflict pain. He was a soldier, of course, and casting his siblings down from Heaven with lightning had been all part of the job, which didn't make it any nicer. All that eternal suffering when if everyone had been sensible and talked it over they could have come to some kind of agreement and been perfectly happy. Also, Prince Lucifer in dragon form had been somewhat alarming.

It must have been ineffably worse on the losing side.

He circled his fingers on Crowley's back until the demon's breath and heartbeat slowed, then went to inspect the bathroom. The vintage facial parts collage was hideous, and all those disembodied eyes must have been been dreadful out of the blue, but it was tacky more than anything. He knew that if Crowley looked again, he would feel silly. He closed the door and went back to the bed.

Crowley was sitting up and lounging in a theatrically nonchalant way that suggested he was profoundly embarrassed, glasses back on his eyes.

"That wallpaper," said Aziraphale, "shows a severe lack of taste. I'm glad I don't actually have to use a human loo, because that would be disturbing."

Crowley nodded and relaxed, dignity restored, and opened his mouth to say something snarky that would dismiss the entire event and go back to normal, just like they always did when they accidentally touched on anything painful before the whole Antichrist thing, and—actually, f—bother that.

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley, put an arm around his waist, and said, "Whether you want to talk or not, I'm here."

Crowley croaked, and then tried speech again. "What has got into you, angel? You are actually trying to destroy me with sweetness, is that it?"

"I didn't mean to cramp your demonic style," Aziraphale said coldly. He was about to get up, but an arm snaked around his chest and a face was pressed against his shoulder.

"Don't. Move."

"I won't," he managed to say, and let his other arm drift around a thin back. "Not unless you want me to."

"I don't want to talk about those days. It was bad, but I didn't think about the consequences and I stuffed up, and anyway I fit into Heaven even less well than you do. Don't want to be an angel, don't want to be mortal, demon is the most fun option. I want—" Crowley's voice croaked again, and started again more hoarsely, "to talk about this. Because in six thousand years, this has never happened. We've both been upset plenty of times, and this," his other arm came around Aziraphale's back and light fingers traced shapes at the base of his spine in a way that sent melting sensations through Aziraphale that seemed completely out of proportion with the actual touch, "has never once happened."

"It never would have seemed—" Safe. Heaven would be miffed. Hell would punish. Crowley would angrily reject any sign of tenderness and niceness and crush Aziraphale's soul to pulp. "Proper. But we don't really know what the rules are any more, and—well. This is nice." And he'd said it, the dangerous word.

"Nice," Crowley said, with bitterness, and Aziraphale felt regret and began to edge away again. The arms around him tightened. "You said you wouldn't move unless I wanted you to, angel." There was an urgency in his voice that made Aziraphale shiver. "I don't want you to move," he added carefully. "It's—nice." He got the word out with difficulty. "But it's not us. We don't hug. Except apparently now we do."