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

I'm looking for an angel

Aziraphale was nicely settled into his favourite chair with a cup of untasted tea when his phone rang.

He stared at the phone suspiciously. His tea was perfect, his favourite second flush Darjeeling, the leaves golden flowery orange Pekoe, prepared at exactly the right temperature, although he had forgotten to turn the kettle on at the plug. He hadn't spent the twentieth and beginning of the twenty-first century hanging around Crowley without picking up a few habits around gadgets. The aroma was a perfect fruity muscatel, promising all kinds of pleasure, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand up and answer the phone instead of sipping it.

Only one person would have such infernal timing.

Aziraphale sighed, and lifted up the phone off its hook, tea in one hand.

"Where are you?" Crowley's aggrieved voice demanded.

"My dear boy, you just called my home phone number. Where do you think I am?"

"What are you doing there? You're supposed to be having breakfast with me."

Aziraphale glanced at the rather beautiful mahogany bracket clock he had picked out in 1815 and forgotten to wind more than four times, but was still working properly. The small hand pointed to two. "I've already eaten," he said mildly.

"When has that ever made a difference? Why aren't you in London? Oh sod off, we're closed."

"Are you in the bookshop?" Aziraphale asked, a little annoyed. He took a sip of tea. It was delicious, but his perfect moment had been spoiled. "Crowley, I'm sure I locked up properly before I left."

"So what? If I never came in when the shop was closed and locked, I'd never be here at all. What do you mean that's no way to talk to a customer? You're not a customer, because the shop is closed. Get lost."

"You could at least have closed the door behind you."

"I wasn't expecting to be followed. Look, the only way you're leaving with that book is if I shove it where the sun doesn't shine. How do you manage to get anything done, with people trying to buy books all the time?"

"It's difficult," sighed Aziraphale. He was secretly impressed with how direct Crowley was being with the potential customer. He always found the need to be polite while refusing to sell books a bit wearying.

"Talk to my manager? Do I look like I work here? Get. Out. Or I will make you. There, they're gone. Now get back here and come to breakfast like an angelic angel."

"Don't be ridiculous. I do hope that human doesn't call the police to report a stranger in the shop."

"I don't think so. They might have to explain why they took the book without paying," Crowley said, a bit guiltily.

"Crowley."

"It wasn't one of your favourites."

"How do you know?" Aziraphale demanded, in agony.

"Look, I can't interfere with shoplifting, you have no idea how many good marks that would earn me. Anyway, you deserve it. How can you spring a marriage on me and then vanish overnight?"

Aziraphale blinked. "Why? You agreed. I thought everything was settled. You said you didn't mind doing it."

"Angel, I want a trial separation. You're impossible." The dial tone sounded.

Aziraphale sighed and sat down with his tea again. He felt quite strongly that he wasn't the impossible one.

****

It was early closing at the antique shop, which kept more regular hours than the bookshop. Later that afternoon Aziraphale meandered gently down the road into the village, for his ritual of meeting Nell for cake and more, unfortunately less acceptable, tea. At some point he needed to convince the teashop that tourists would appreciate not paying four pounds fifty for a teabag and hot water.