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

Infinity goes on forever

Notes:

There's a short sex scene near the beginning, for those of you who prefer to skim such things.

Thank you to my dear Daemonia for betaing.

*****

In Aziraphale's secret heart he had imagined his wedding for many many centuries, although for most of the millennia he had kept his mind resolutely away from who would be on the other side of the vows. In such a long life, he had witnessed so many forms of marriage, so many wedding ceremonies. He had never imagined a religious wedding because, well, he had his reasons he didn't like to think about. Aziraphale's cautious mind had carefully slipped away, even in his fantasies, from the reason for his conviction that whoever he was going to marry would not be keen on any kind of vows dedicated to the Almighty. Aziraphale wasn't going to dedicate a marriage to any gods he knew didn't exist. The ones that did, at least in some kind of ethereal or occult form, were equally impossible

He and Crowley had attended a wedding in Ashdod once, for--what was it? Blessings and temptations coincidentally in the same place, or a rather good wedding feast? When Crowley had figured out the ceremony involved prayers to Dagon, and also that the worshippers thought Dagon and Nanshe were an item, he had laughed so hard he had choked on his wine and Aziraphale had seriously worried he was going to discorporate. The baked fish had been excellent, though.

Aziraphale looked up from a pile of wedding planning magazines. "Did you know some people believe Dagon worship is the foundation of the Roman Catholic church?" he asked absently. "Apparently the hat thing their leaders all wear is Dagon's headdress. And the fish on people's bumper stickers."

Crowley choked on his coffee in a less dramatic way than he had thousands of years ago. Funny, to think that the current Crowley was less dramatic. "No. Angel, please. Do not tell them. They will be unbearable." Crowley slipped to his feet, coffee mug in one hand, and circled around to lean against his back, other arm sliding naturally around his shoulder as if the small shows of affection were something they had done for centuries instead of new and precious and almost fragile. "Is this what you want? A modern human ceremony? We could do anything. I will fly in chefs from around the world for a wedding feast, I will rent a palace for you. But--" He poked a finger cautiously at the magazine.

"I did wonder, dear, how much in these magazines is your work. Young people putting themselves in debt for a party seems more or less what you have achieved for centuries."

"Well, I did always like a good party. So do you, even if it's not the same kind." He kissed Aziraphale's ear, a flicker of what felt like a forked tongue following Crowley's lips. "And it's funny when they have to do it all again with someone else seven years later. But what do they matter? Tell me what you want and we'll do it."

"I already have what I want," Aziraphale said in sudden sureness. "We are living together in affectiomaritalis, no one has been smitten or thrown into a pit, and I'm free to love you. The rest is for them. To make sure we are safe, so the others can be."

"I don't know why it makes me feel like this when you speak Latin--oh, I do, really. Do you know that was the first time you approached me? And the first time you kissed me, it was a Roman kiss." Crowley twisted around in his inhuman way, so he could press kisses against Aziraphale's mouth and eyes.

"Something Roman, then," Aziraphale said, when he'd recovered his breath a little, Crowley now wound onto his lap. "And make it official for them."