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

Even if it throws you to the fire

A room with just one bed had seemed like a fantastic idea in Crowley's optimistic head.

Lots of forced propinquity. The chance to wander around wearing nothing but clinging silk pyjama parts falling beguilingly down over his hips, because really, what was the point of being a demon if he couldn't pull a few cheap tricks. He'd tried it in the cottage, The chance to find out if Aziraphale undressed at night or just removed his new cardigan and loosened his sleeves and undid his top shirt buttons and what the hell was wrong with Crowley, he'd seen the angel bathing naked, why did the thought of unbuttoned cuffs make his blood pound in his ears? And that was no good because now he was remembering he had been speculating on the chances of wandering in for a chat while Aziraphale was in the bath, or Aziraphale coming to find him in the shower. Unfortunately, there was no way he was going in that nightmare room again.

The point was. The point was. The point was that it seemed an ideal way to keep putting into Aziraphale's head that now Heaven and Hell knew they were on friendly terms their relationship had certain possibilities.

It wasn't supposed to encourage Crowley to jump the gun and end up laying it all out for Aziraphale and getting—not rejected. That would have been a clean blow. I don't know. Yes, that was good, Crowley was hopeful, he was happy, he was closer than he had ever been, and that was the whole bloody problem. Because now he was in bed, and Aziraphale wasn't, and Aziraphale was there and he was existing and breathing and turning pages like the tormentor he was, reminding Crowley that he was just over there, and the kisses on his lips and eyes were still burning and God Crowley really had straightforwardly offered himself up for the taking there, hadn't he? Do you want to have me?

He was going to discorporate from embarrassment. He was going to discorporate from wanting. he was going to discorporate from embarrassment from wanting because he couldn't even escape to the bathroom for a bit because urgh. It might settle him down, but at what a cost? Anyway, he wasn't going to sleep. Not when all he had to do was look up, and Aziraphale would be bathed in golden light from his lamp like the unfair bastard he was.

"What are you reading, angel? I know you didn't bring a book. Although I suppose you don't consider books a frivolous use of miracles."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I keeping you awake?"

Yes. "Nah, it's fine. I just hoped you would bore me to sleep. Read to me?"

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't like it," Aziraphale said, with hasty suddenness.

"Oh really." He wouldn't be a snake if he couldn't sniff blood in the water. Or was that crocodiles? Anyway. "Don't tell me you're reading theology at me, because that would be a breach of the Arrangement."

"No, it's not religious."

"Well? I could come over there and look. What is it? Something racy?"

"Poetry," Aziraphale said, as if he was admitting to the worst kind of perverted pornography.

"Well, that's good, it will bore me quicker—wait." Crowley sat up, blankets sliding off his bare chest. "Angel, if you're reading poetry some besotted human wrote about you, then I am putting in a complaint. You're my husband for the interim, and that's emotional adultery, and I'm telling Michael on you."

"No, of course not!" Aziraphale seemed even more flustered, but truthful.

"Well?"

"Catullus. Only you quoted him, and I remembered something."