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

We're becoming more than friends

Crowley was surrounded by the smell of Aziraphale, ozone and fresh rain and good booze, paper and expensive cologne, the tantalising hint of incense. Warm and clean all at once. What had he been dreaming of, to wake with the scent in his senses? Not that he didn't have an idea. He hugged the pillow under his head closer and dropped happily into one of his favourite fantasies, hissing softly.

The pillow was warm and more resistant to squeezing than he remembered. He dug his fingers in. Had he bought a heated pillow? And the scent wasn't just in his imagination, he could taste in on his flickering tongue.

He woke up properly. His face was pressed against a soft hip, and--

"Sssorry angel." He let go of Aziraphale's thigh and pushed himself back across the bed, mortified.

"Good morning, dear boy."

"I was dreaming," Crowley said awkwardly.

"Yes, I could tell."

"Oh, great. Don't look down." He banished the problem with what he thought of as the cold shower miracle.

Aziraphale twinkled at him, looking up again. "Your eye teeth are out. Does that always happen when you are, ah...?"

Crowley hastily retracted them. "I don't know, it's not as if I watch myself," he said, which was at least partially a lie. Aziraphale had possibly been right about vanagloria, but Crowley was relatively sure he could back it up; he had mirrors, after all. "Keep my teeth in with humans. And don't worry," he added hastily, in case Aziraphale would be put off, "I never inject venom unless I mean to, I won't accidentally poison you or anything."

"I've never been afraid you'd harm me, Crowley," Aziraphale said, the twinkle becoming something almost tropical in its sunshine.

Crowley turned even redder and tried to get the conversation on more normal terms. "If we're going to share beds, we'll have to get you some actual nightwear. Unless you prefer to sleep nude," he added hopefully and a bit masochistically.

Aziraphale's glow dimmed. "I'm afraid my clothes are rather wrinkled." He sent Crowley a tragic look.

Ah, so it was to be this game. Crowley held his hand an inch away from the angel and traced his shape caressingly through the air, leaving clothes fresh and unwrinkled in his gesture's wake. Aziraphale's eyes fluttered with delight, and Crowley felt ridiculously like some kind of rescuing hero.

"I'm buying you a nightshirt," he said, gruffly. "It can be tartan if you like."

"Oh, good. So between us, we'll have one full set of pyjamas." Aziraphale flicked his gaze momentarily to Crowley's chest in a way the demon profoundly hoped showed some non-angelic signs of luxuria.

"It's a crime to cover those legs up, angel. I'll have you wearing shorts this July, just wait and see."

"I really don't think so," Aziraphale said, so primly that Crowley laughed and hugged him. 

"Where did that come from?" Aziraphale asked, sounding pleased. He wrapped his arms around Crowley's bare back, and the angel's hands on his skin were like summer themselves.

"Well, hugging is apparently something we do now." Crowley nuzzled into his neck. "Be warned. I've never really had the chance to explore this idea, but I suspect that once given leave and the right angel, I'm a cuddler. Probably a snake thing."

"How terrible." Aziraphale didn't sound worried. One hand came up to rub Crowley's shoulder. "We should make plans, beloved."

Beloved, beloved, beloved. Crowley took a few moments to fight through the sudden pink fog in his head. "Not here. Aziraphale, your wards will prevent demonic spying?"