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

Now there's angels all around

Aziraphale weighed up whether to follow Crowley or not. he had, as he would put it to himself, the heeby-jeebies. He was fretting too much to stand still, and--

Yes, he was bloody furious with the demon.

He knew he was in no place to speak. He had made his own terrible mistakes in not being clear and honest with Crowley when it really mattered. He had chosen his duty to report to Heaven about the Antichrist over his desire to confide in Crowley, and that should have been unforgivable, except that for a demon that talked about unforgivableness Crowley was surprisingly ready to forgive. Surely, though, the point was that they should have learned to talk to each other? And yes, he might possibly have overlooked telling Crowley there was a potential demon in the village and it was possibly his own line manager who had definitely recognised Crowley if so, but...

Aziraphale's righteous anger dissolved in a puddle of remorseful self-reflection, and he decided to concentrate on worrying instead. Should he go after Crowley? Did he run the risk of making things worse? Surely Crowley would not confront Sandalphon alone. Surely he would feel it if Crowley was in real danger. Feel a certain pull, a call.

He hadn't known when Ligur and Hastur had come for Crowley, too caught up in his own research and conflicts.

Aziraphale sighed and concentrated on picking out cologne and a rather lovely new silk bow tie for the show, changing into his old, elegant waistcoat and jacket rather than the new cardigan jacket. The perfect soft fabric and the silk lining still delighted him, but part of him missed the easy drape of the cashmere cardigan. His new life, unconstructed and cheerfully chaotic. A conservatory crammed with terrified plants, burned down kitchens, unnecessary gadgets.

The ridiculous pretence at marriage, which was not ridiculous at all, which was filled with friendship and a demon thrusting into his life and rearranging it to suit himself and a hand tucked in his elbow or interlaced with his and longing. A frustrating, demanding demon murmuring words of love and stealing embraces.

Do you want to have a demon? Do you want to risk Falling or annihilation for love? To ask it as if it was something simple. And then, faced with a Dominion and an Under-Duke of Hell, to just vanish off by himself and take who knew what stupid risks without discussing them.

Aziraphale was once again very angry indeed.

The door flung back open, Aziraphale snapped with some asperity, "Where do you think you went?"

"Buying insurance." Crowley had changed clothes at some point. The jeans were replaced by gas pipe trousers that were familiar, oh too familiar, from the twentieth and nineteenth centuries. Folds of lustrous red silk hanging around his neck and chest, delicately patterned with black snakes. Looking captivatingly handsome, in fact, and how dare he look like that when Aziraphale was worrying?

Crowley reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. The glasses were still shielding his eyes, but his mouth looked—what did it look? Fierce and tender and oddly jubilant, with a kind of hysterical gaiety lifting the corners that was deeply concerning. "Don't glare, angel. I told you, I'll look after you. Dagon—didn't I say they're not so bad? They mean you no harm."

"What about you? Do they mean you harm?" Aziraphale asked, crisply. "I'm not afraid of any middle-management demon on my own behalf, thank you."

"I'll be fine," Crowley said dismissively. "I know what they are after now, and—oh, Aziraphale! If only I could tell you. It's such a joke. Dangerous, but hilarious. Always knew Dagon was an idiot."

"Tell me, then," Aziraphale said, a flicker of anger returning. Crowley really did seem too manic, but then his two default moods were so laid back he was almost upside down or strung up to the point of snapping.