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

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About Two Hours Before

"Hello, Anthony dear," Nell said, when he knocked on their door. "Come right in." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Are you really going to wear those jeans to the theatre?"

Crowley absently clicked his fingers and his jacket was matched with immaculately pressed, although still tight, trousers. One of his favourite pairs, old reliables from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the familiar touch comforting. Perhaps he was more like Aziraphale than he pretended to himself.

Nell smiled at him as if seeing him perform magic in front of them was a small victory in some way. "What can I do for you, Crowley?"

Well, that was the thing.

It wasn't like Crowley hadn't imagined saying the words he was about to say. The first time he had felt them forming in his head, something barely acknowledged, had been during the travelling Zoo incident, when he'd looked into those multi-shaded eyes and seen Questioning. There had been other times... But Aziraphale, for all his self-indulgences, his small dishonesties, his devotion to kindness rather than morality, was so filled with light, so essentially incorruptible that Crowley had pushed the words aside again and again.

He remembered Tristan's hard expression, and the look in Aziraphale's eyes under the table. Crowley could trust Heaven, or he could trust Hell. He made a choice.

"Aziraphale may need asylum from Heaven for a while if shit goes down. Real asylum, no torture or interrogation, keep the hellfire away from him, until he can negotiate his way back. " The next bit was even harder to say, with amused pale eyes shimmering at him. He took a deep breath. "If he actually Falls, will you request him for our team? If you guarantee he will be safe from torments and free to move about Earth and enjoy himself, I'm prepared to deal."

Dagon smiled like a piranha, scales glittering under their skin. "I thought you'd never ask. Let's talk terms." They settled on the edge of the bed. "They're going to have to be pretty tough. Principalities go to Prince Verrier, you know that. I'll owe her big if I steal one, and I'll need something at least equally valuable to make up for it. What can a lowly demon out of favour with the Dark Lord possibly offer me?"

Crowley winced. "I was hoping you could tell me that. Dagon, what the fuck are you even doing here, hanging around my friend?"

Dagon laughed, and Crowley felt a stab of real fear. He clenched his fingers, and prayed to Satan, God and anyone else who could hear that it would be a price he could pay.

Perhaps Someone answered, because as Dagon explained, Crowley could feel gleeful laughter welling up in him.

****

White Christmas Act I.

Crowley, for a damned creature wedged between soldiers of Heaven, one of whom he was pretty sure would be happy to see him in a sulphur pit for eternity, and forced to watch what he was convinced was the most saccharine show in existence, was completely happy.

He didn't see how he could be anything else. His head was snuggled against a welcoming shoulder, his hand enclosed in a firm grip. He wondered if Aziraphale actually realised he was tracing heart shapes on the back of Crowley's hand with his thumb. Intentional or not, it was so heart-stoppingly soppy and ridiculous that Crowley felt he was losing points with Hell by the second by putting up with it.

He would rather snooze on holy ground than pull his hand away. The freezing rage from Tristan beside him only added to his pleasure.

Crowley stopped even pretending to pay attention to the show. Instead he concentrated on the more interesting entertainment of trying to work out the exact cologne Aziraphale was wearing. It was one of his favourite games, using his enhanced snake senses to detect the perfume and then tease him about it. Every now and then he dropped off some expensive flacons to Aziraphale's barber, an old acquaintance of his. This one—ah, this was one of his. Pears, for his pear-loving angel. Champagne, for the enchanting hedonist he was. Smoky vetiver for tradition, white flowers for purity. Crowley approved of the suitability of his own choice.