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

Impossible Princess

Crowley and Aziraphale, as a being, shoved their left hands under the table. Crowley was rocketing between bliss and sheer panic so fast that the verbal centres of his brain couldn't catch up. Married—-but—Satan—angel mark—Her?—married.

The single complex thought was that if Dagon saw an angel mark on him and misunderstood, he was discorporated. Crowley tried a quick disguise miracle and checked his hand under the table. The gold marks glittered mockingly at him. Of course, it wasn't going to be that easy. If God or the Devil marked you, they marked you for good. Or evil.

Married. Surely this meant they were married.

They just had to survive it.

He could see the same panic and joy fighting on Aziraphale's face, only more intelligently. Poor darling, nothing marked out an angel as a candidate for a potential Fall as fast as Hellfire accessories. It might warn Sandalphon off marrying him fast, but the chances of smiting first were high, and Crowley wasn't sure where on the respective power bases Dagon and Sandlaphon were, even if Dagon bothered to help out. Probably wouldn't, no matter how much lovely paperwork interfering in Heaven disciplining their own would cause.

Perhaps they could keep their hands shoved in their pockets out of sight. Thank existence they were in male corporations with proper trousers. Or gloves. It was chilly, after all, and they could miracle up some gloves.

"If you've had quite enough, darling," Dagon said, putting an affectionate hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, "it's time to head for the spa. Just over in the next town."

"Oh, that's what you meant by nudity. You are wicked to tease," Aziraphale said with an impressive facsimile of burbling with excitement, despite the terror in his cloudy eyes.

"Wicked is my job, but... well, wait and see." Dagon grinned toothily at them all, and Crowley felt a weird combination of amusement and terror. "But we're going to start off nice and respectably with some pampering. You strike me as an angel who would enjoy a really indulgent manicure."

As Aziraphale blanched, Crowley was sure that somewhere, deep Below, Satan was pissing Himself laughing.

Dagon was the only chatty one in the car. Crowley, as the skinniest in the group, was relegated to the back middle seat, while Aziraphale swanned naturally into the front. Sandalphon on one side of him and Dagon on the other was not exactly the most relaxed of configurations, especially as the heady smell of figs and caviar from Dagon was making Crowley feel a little dizzy. Dagon was chipper as, well, Hell, while Sandalphon kept eyeing Aziraphale in the front seat, his expression dark and thoughtful. Aziraphale himself managed to go past an antiquarian bookshop without asking to stop, which seemed unnatural.

"Wait, stop!" Aziraphale touched the driver's shoulder, and Crowley wondered if he'd realised his mistake and wanted to drive back.

"What now?" asked Sandalphon.

"I have an idea to celebrate our special day," Aziraphale beamed. "Someone be a dear and lend me a credit card?"

Dagon was marginally faster than Crowley in whipping theirs out.

"Thank you, my dear. I'll be back in a jiffy, you all wait and have a lovely chat." Aziraphale vanished in the direction of a jeweller, and Crowley relaxed a little.

"Shouldn't we follow him?" Sandalphon asked uncertainly.

"He said to wait. I think he wants to treat us with expensive and shiny material objects, the sweet considerate thing," Dagon said.

"With someone else's money."

"You can't expect him to pay," Crowley pointed out. "You know what his pay grade is. That place looks pricey. And he has a book hoarding habit to support."