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

I see them all smiling, those all around me

Crowley forced himself to relax his shoulders and slump more, showing no tension in his posture. Be cool, he told himself. Show no fear. He let his left hand reach for Aziraphale's again, and this time the angel took it, clinging tightly to it as if it was his only source of stability.

"Feeling a little carsick, darling?" Crowley asked tenderly, and Aziraphale nodded gratefully.

"I can't imagine why he would be," Tristan said drily.

"Sorry, guys. Zira's stomach can be a little delicate sometimes. Too much rich food, I keep telling him. What say we stop off at the next services and get a cup of tea to settle him down?"

"That sounds highly entertaining," Nell said cheerfully. "Please do."

Crowley managed to resist turning around to glare at them. "No objections, Tristan?" he asked in a tone that made it clear that he would brook no argument.

"By all means," Tristan said courteously.

In more usual circumstances, Crowley would have shaved his head before taking Aziraphale to motorway services, both because it wasn't exactly the kind of place to enjoy treating him and because his soul would wither at the remarks Aziraphale would make at the refreshments available. This one didn't even have a Waitrose. That Aziraphale didn't object at all was a worrying sign.

He pulled the Bentley in, careful to stop across three parking spaces, and sprang around to Aziraphale's side, opening Nell's door, although not Tristan's, as he went.

"All right, angel?" he asked sympathetically, taking the chance to pull Aziraphale close as he helped him out. Aziraphale managed a limp smile. "I'm sorry guys, if you don't mind getting Zira a cup of tea and some water, I think I'd best get him to the loos. Just in case."

"Absolutely my pleasure," said Tristan, offering a courtly arm to Nell. "We'll see you in a minute, boys."

Crowley steered Aziraphale to the public toilets, stalked up to and glared at the sole human at the urinal until he zipped up and departed in terror, kicked every cubicle door to make sure they were empty, and magically locked the main door. Then he pulled Aziraphale close, wrapping his arms tightly around him, some part of the back of his mind marvelling that he could just do this now, as if touching him after thousands of years was nothing.

"So," he said at last. "Who is he?"

"Sandalphon."

"Can't say I know that one."

"How can you possibly not know Sandalphon?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was glad to hear a note of irritation cut through the fear.

"Angel, there were twelve million of us before the Fall, and I was terrible at making friends. I couldn't possibly know every celestial being. I didn't know even you, did I?" He kissed Aziraphale's forehead, and was gratified to sense the fear draining even further. Aziraphale always tended to be fretful and anxious, except when things were actually serious, in which case he became implacable. "Even though you noticed me," Crowley added, trying to help with added tenderness.

"You knew him."

"I'm pretty sure I didn't."

"Enoch, the first King of humans. Right back near the beginning before the Flood."

"Him? He was a decent songwriter but he was a pain in my arse, peace reigning under him and all that, until he vanished—holy fuck."

"Language, Crowley. He was translated into paradise and became the archangel of music, poetry and prayer."