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

We all have our cross to bear

Aziraphale spent the night reinforcing his protective charms around the bookshop, making sure no angels, as well as no demons, could see inside, and refusing to let Crowley have any alcohol.

"You have to drive in the morning," he said sharply, when Crowley whined at finding the liquor cabinet locked no matter how many times he snapped his fingers at it. "I'm not risking discorporation now of all times."

"Sober me up afterwards, then."

"I'm not risking accidentally blessing you. You can survive without drinking for one night."

Crowley, who hadn't gone without drinking a single night that he had been awake in the last five thousand years, flung himself face down on the couch with a desolate sob.

"Don't be so theatrical. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then off to bed."

Crowley looked up hopefully. "Angel?"

"No. You are going to bed, to be well-rested for all the driving tomorrow. I am making sure my betrothed can't drop in unexpectedly and touch my books."

"I'm your betrothed, and I'm not interested in your blasted books."

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Stop glowering at me like a child," Aziraphale added, although his back was turned as he carefully traced another sigil in the air.

"Are you already practising irritating Sandalphon, or is this just you being you?"

Aziraphale sighed and perched on the arm of the chair. "I'm sorry, dearest. I know this is hard on you. But I'm sure Dagon will forgive you once I've explained the situation to them."

"Oh, yeah, they are known for being kind and forgiving and not sadistic in the slightest."

"Now, now, they are perfectly pleasant." Aziraphale wound his fingers in short hair, scratching Crowley's scalp gently as if he was caressing a cat. He was hoping it would make it hard to stay petulant, but Crowley made the heroic effort.

"I don't know why they're punishing me. Why does everyone always blame me? Why is everything always my fault?" Crowley demanded of the universe.

"Finished, dear?"

"No. It's not fair. I wasn't the one who seduced Sandalphon."

"I certainly did not seduce anyone."

"Tell me about it," Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale chuckled. "Oh, you are the worst."

"Isn't that the point?" He slid his fingers through soft hair.

Crowley made a noise hat somehow managed to suggest that no, it was not, at least not being the worst to him, but that the petting was nice. He moved to pillow his face on Aziraphale's thighs.

"I'll make you the tea," Aziraphale said, immediately pushing his head off and standing up, and Crowley made a noise of protest this time. "Go get changed for bed, you can't possibly sleep properly in that ridiculous outfit. There's pyjamas in my bedside drawer."

"You do have a bed, then. You have pyjamas? Why?"

"Normally when I stay in hotels, it's planned, and I like to have the right luggage and give the proper human image. Besides, they are comfy."

Crowley sat up and gave him a meaningful smile that, unfortunately, Aziraphale was at a loss to decode, and went upstairs in a suspiciously lamblike manner, including the uncertain control of limbs that lambs have. Aziraphale sighed and headed for the kitchenette.

Five minutes later he was pounding up the stairs in response to a shriek of "Angel, help!". He gathered Grace around him, ready to smite any enemies.