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

It's no secret

Two demons and two angels walked from their theatre onto Tottenham Court Road. Any passers-by, if this hadn't been London might have been curious to see the general shuffle around the short fair-haired man whose arm was being firmly gripped by the lanky ginger, and wondered why the elegant woman and distinguished middle-aged man were so determined to be the one closest to him, as if trying to defend him from the other. Fortunately, it was London, so everyone was pretending no other humans existed.

It wouldn't even have occurred to them that no one in the small group was human.

Despite her smaller stature, the woman was wrigglier, and managed to slide her arm into his free elbow first.

A little flustered, Aziraphale said, "Well, we didn't manage lunch, and I'm peckish, so I've arranged for early dining."

"Is that necessary, angel?" Crowley asked. "We can order... takeaway..." Aziraphale stared at up at him in horror as his voice trailed off. "I didn't mean getting a dodgy curry, I meant... Oh, never mind. If we are all determined to carry on with this charade, early dinner it is. Where are we going?"

"Just this way," Aziraphale said happily, and they made their way down the road, a little awkwardly considering the demon clinging to the angel on each side. Tristan loomed protectively behind.

Poor Aziraphale, Crowley thought, he must be feeling quite crowded out. He tightened his grasp anyway.

He was a bit shamefacedly relieved that they weren't going to any of their usual haunts. The last thing he wanted to do was associate one of their date spots—and he was determined to think of them as date spots at least in retrospect—with bloody Sandalphon and Dagon. Actually, almost the last thing he wanted to do was dine with anyone but Aziraphale anyway. Pretty much anything was the last thing he wanted to do if it didn't involve taking Aziraphale alone somewhere really slap-bang, spoiling him to death with the most stupidly indulgent food, wine and liquor he could order, asking him if he really did propose the fake engagement mostly to make Crowley fall in love with him, if it was even needed, and then drag him home and...

...no, probably not a good idea to spontaneously combust in front of the Master of Torments and an archangel.

Only a few minutes later he was in a candlelit wood-panelled dining room, trying to decide whether to sit opposite Aziraphale for maximum viewing pleasure or next to him for incidental hand-holding. He picked the latter, and Tristan flanked the angel, which meant that Crowley had to stare at his stupid handsome face all evening. By common unspoken consent, they allowed Aziraphale to order both food and wine. He addressed their waiter by name, with friendly familiarity. The food was probably quite good, then.

Crowley dived for Aziraphale's hand and held it very visibly and pointedly on the table for Tristan's benefit. The waiter, whose name was Samir, looked Crowley up and down in a practised way and nodded approvingly. "Nice to meet you at last," he said. "I would have known you straight away. Zira's told me a lot about you."

Good heavens, excuse his French. Crowley glanced sideways at Aziraphale, who was blushing and avoiding his eyes, then conjured up his most charming smile. "Thank you for taking such good care of my husband," he said, and was delighted to notice Aziraphale wriggle in something like happy panic. A country village where Aziraphale was playing house was one thing, but this was obviously a place Aziraphale went to regularly. This was dining. This was serious. Crowley thought it was a good idea to stake his claim.

"You ought to bring him to the theatre more often," Samir said reprovingly. "Shame to leave a lovely man like that alone. Though with someone like you home, I suppose it's no surprise he behaves himself. Lucky man."