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

Now it's time to make you mine

The driver was reading on her phone in the spa restaurant. Crowley paid for her coffee, just because he could. He cursed all the coffee in the restaurant to be burned to make up for it, although with British customers it was less than even odds anyone would notice.

"Thank you! Where are your friends?" She glanced at their intertwined fingers and then away, blushing. "I'm sorry, shouldn't have asked."

"They'll make their own way home. Hey, um, miss--"

"Kylie," whispered Aziraphale.

"Kylie, forget everything we said before, my beautiful angel here is marrying me. Take us back to London? The bookshop where you first picked us up."

Aziraphale drew up even straighter than usual. "The bookshop? Why?"

"To get my car." Crowley's head was spinning, possibly because his blood kept deserting it at inopportune moments, but he knew one thing with desperate clarity. The Bentley was all alone, abandoned and missing her fathers.

Aziraphale stared at him, coldly. "The car can wait. Kylie, dear, can I engage you for tomorrow? We'll collect the Bentley then."

"But, angel--"

Aziraphale's soft face was firm as if too much gelatin had been added while pouring him into the mould. "Me or the Bentley. You can have one of us today, but not the other. Choose."

The blood deserted his brain again, to the point that when he tried to give the driver, who was trying not to laugh too obviously, the cottage address, he kept stumbling over it until Aziraphale gently took over.

"Whipped," the driver hissed at Crowley, as she opened the car door for him.

"Ssshut up," he hissed back, although his triumphant grin took the sting from it.

Crowley, who relished upsetting and embarrassing humans, wouldn't have minded at all making out in the back seat like a couple of teenagers being driven home from their leaver's ball after too much cider. Aziraphale, probably predicting that, had taken the front seat and was chatting with impressive composure.

Eventually, Crowley could stand it no longer. "Angel?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale looked up from the driver's phone, on which he had been cooing over pictures of her children.

"I didn't guarantee you would leave your current place of employment. I wasn't headhunting for the two-dicked fish. I just guaranteed that if you lost your current position, there would be a place for you on our team."

"I gathered that, dear. Dagon just phrased it that way to be annoying. They like their little games."

"I'm more confused as to why, um, Enoch wants to recruit me."

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I think he was impressed by how patient, kind and understanding you are in putting up with a monster like me."

"Oh, Ezra!" Whatshername the driver seemed to have progressed to first names. "Don't say such silly things. Anyone can tell you're a saint."

"An angel," Crowley agreed. "Not me, though. I was always shit at being an angel."

"Well, clearly Ezra likes bad boys. Just not too bad."

"Just don't describe me as not too bad in front of any of my colleagues," Crowley said, and she laughed again.

"Next time my boss annoys me, I'm calling him a two-dicked fish. Creative."

"Not as creative as you'd think," Crowley said.

They drew up the drive of the pink house at last. Crowley was vaguely relieved that this meant that whatshername, Kylie, at least, was not a demon or demon-possessed, although the way his luck was going she would probably turn out to be an archangel too. Or Daniel. He stared suspiciously at her, wondering if her seemingly benign interest meant she was the mysterious Principality of marriage checking up on them. He couldn't sense anything from her other than a kind of fond flusteredness caused by Aziraphale kissing her hand as he bid her farewell until tomorrow.