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

All the lovers

Crowley bounded out of the car and down the long drive as if being in a vehicle he was not driving had been some torment of Hell. Actually, when Aziraphale considered it that way, it was exactly what it was, inflicted by the Master of Torments themselves. He resolved to have another word with Dagon, who was a nice reasonable being, when Crowley wasn't around to provoke them. Aziraphale was still a little sorry for Nell, although hopefully she was learning a valuable lesson about contracts with demons and how unwise they were for fragile little humans.

Aziraphale followed Crowley more slowly. He thanked the driver, sending love to her wife and children—Aziraphale had enjoyed a lovely conversation with her about them all the way down from London from his perch in the nicely seatbelted back seat, ignoring the inconsiderate demons trying to change the subject—and tipping generously. When he reached the front door step, Crowley was snarling at the winter jasmine over the door frame.

"You're not listening to me, are you? No, you really are not listening to me. You're not scared at all. Bloody Dagon, won't even let me talk to our plants properly. They are going to get completely out of order."

Our plants. Aziraphale noted the phrasing with a warm twisting in his stomach. "Take off your glasses, beloved," he said suddenly, struck by an impulse.

Crowley pushed them to the top of his head, one eyebrow quirked and a faint flush on his cheeks, and the winter jasmine burst out into a cascade of yellow stars behind him. The rich, seductive scent of white flowers, the gold of Crowley's eyes reflected by the flowers, his lithe figure in dark clothes and burnished hair and the bright, bright eyes and jasmine. Aziraphale sucked the picture into his head, and image to keep forever, a moment of perfect beauty, on the threshold of the cottage—their cottage, at least for the moment.

"How is it that you want me, you strange stunning thing?" he asked wonderingly.

Crowley's flush increased and he ducked his head. "Th-hat's easy. Look, you can't just make it bloom like that, not until well after Christmas. It will lose all sense of order and discipline. And the scent, do even you know winter jasmine isn't fragranced?"

"Isn't it? I love the smell of jasmine. I thought all jasmine had it."

"I can tell," Crowley said, and his smile was fond and frustrated.

"Don't you like the smell?" Aziraphale asked, pretending hurt, eyelashes fluttering down. Crowley must know it was a pretence, yet he still behaved perfectly, cupping Aziraphale's chin and lifting his face.

"I love it. It's rich and luscious and flamboyant, just like you." He stepped closer. "And it's an aphrodisiac."

"Perhaps you should supply my barber with more jasmine scents."

"Yes, I should—wait, you knew I do that?"

Aziraphale smiled at him. "It's aways a delight seeing what you come up with."

"Huh." Crowley recovered his dignity a little. "Well, you deserve nice things and to be indulged and spoiled. You deserve everything. And it's my job to know about aphrodisiacs and ways to waste money. Night-flowering jasmine is sexy as hell, because it's indolic." Then, because he was a demon and had trouble sticking to what was appropriate without letting his mouth run on, added "That means it has scent molecules that smell like arse, or at least like--"

Aziraphale pecked him quickly on the lips before he could spoil the moment completely, and opened the door, feeling that he would be safer away from prying eyes.

"If I deserve everything, then make me some tea while I set new wards against observation." He tried to make his tone flirtatious and meaningful, but self-consciousness and the thought that he was being ridiculous made him look down and up in embarrassment, expecting Crowley must think him ridiculous. Seductiveness was something best achieved by demons with loose hips and tight trousers that glimmered on his svelte thighs like petrol, and not with—