Chapter Text
“What did you do to him?”
Crowley sounds impressed, and Aziraphale sighs, knowing he is about to disappoint him deeply. He’s already sobered himself up so that he could pace and think about what to do next, but by the time Crowley returns to the bookshop, Aziraphale still has a passed-out Gabriel sprawled on the wine-stained sofa and empty bottles all over the floor.
Aziraphale rubs his forehead. “Nothing I haven’t done to myself before,” he mutters. “I suppose I should teach him how to sober up.”
Behind the glasses, Crowley’s eyes dart from the empty bottle to the half-dead angel and then the very guilty-looking Aziraphale in front of him. “Wah - You went out drinking with Gabriel?”
“No. We stayed here, drinking,” Aziraphale argues, which is honestly his preferred way of drinking - he just needs to specify that his favorite drinking companion is Crowley, always. “I think he believed it was some sort of dare. And it was his first experience with alcohol, it didn’t feel right to leave him alone.”
“The drunk leading the drunk.” Crowley kicks a bottle, letting it roll across the floor. From the sofa, Gabriel groans at the noise.
“I thought,” Aziraphale tries, “that involving alcohol might just… lower some guards. And give us the chance to approach the sore subject.”
“Did he cry?” Crowley asks him.
“No.”
“Then I’m not sure I’m interested in the details.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley’s childlike posture, lips pouting and arms crossed, because he knows the demon is about to regret that statement. “We talked about the Metatron,” he says casually, trying to make his desk less of a mess by moving around the bottles.
The demon’s head snaps toward him. “Oh,” Crowley says, trying to sound like a demon who is not interested in such gossip, but unfortunately for him, all demons are in fact interested in gossip, it is a part of their nature. The fact that this particular gossip revolves around the angel he loathes the most just makes it even juicier.
Aziraphale nods, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “After all, Gabriel spent far longer than I as the supreme archangel with the Metatron… hovering.”
“A hovering, floating head,” Crowley adds eagerly. “With a big mouth.”
“Quite so.”
It’s a brief moment, but the two of them enjoy it while it lasts - Crowley has returned, Aziraphale has seemingly fucked up, Gabriel’s quiet for once, and the pair can reunite over the shared hatred of a now defeated foe.
Then Crowley’s gaze falls on Gabriel again and scowls. “So the two of you just got absolutely sloshed and shit-talked the Metatron in order to - what was the plan again? To make the bastard feel better about his break-up -”
“Pause,” Gabriel momentarily wakes up to say, groaning.
“-So that he will leave,” Crowley finishes, raising a brow at Aziraphale. “How’s that part going?”
The problem is that Aziraphale is no longer looking at him. Instead, he is looking through the window, more specifically toward the Bentley, even more specifically toward the glowering demon leaning against the car.
“What’s Beelzebub doing here?”
Crowley falters, just for a second. “They were in my car.”
“And you let them conveniently stay as you sped off?”
“I couldn’t run them over when they were already inside the car,” Crowley tries to explain. “Unfortunately.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s reply doesn’t contain a lot of words, but his lips fully form a self-righteous smirk now, the one that says way more than needed. “Curious.”
“At least I didn’t go around making Beelzebub my new drinking buddy,” Crowley snaps, watching Gabriel feebly trying to sit up, his suit askew and hair plastered to his forehead. He looks as pathetic as he is.
“But you still helped them, apparently,” Aziraphale points out. “Which makes you kind. And a hypocrite.”
“What point are you trying to prove?”
“That a problem doesn’t simply go away by ignoring it,” Aziraphale says, a bit too quickly, like those words have just been waiting to be spat out. “Sometimes, you have to do something about it, even if it is terribly inconvenient. You cannot just count on others to fix it.”
There it goes, the first step of a very ugly dance. But Crowley is in a bad mood too, and he itches for a fight, one that Aziraphale has apparently chosen to pick. Crowley raises his head, trying to make his glare obvious while keeping his glasses on. It just ends up looking like he has a crick in the neck. “But that’s what everyone else does, isn’t it, when you’re always up for the task.”
“Well, since you’re suddenly so eager to help, how do you suggest we mend this relationship?”
“I think,” Crowley says stiffly, “we should give up.”
Aziraphale's sigh is louder than necessary. “Well, I wish I could say I was surprised.”
“You stick your hands into a broken mess, you might just get cut by the edges. Besides - this relationship was doomed to begin with.”
“I would say their relationship was quite inspiring.”
Crowley huffs, refusing to entertain that thought. “If you have one asshole, then add another -”
“What an unpleasant imagery.”
“I don’t care if they break up!” Crowley claims, making big hand gestures to prove that he means it.
“I do!” Aziraphale snaps back at him. “They did what we still hadn’t dared to do -”
Crowley doesn’t let him finish. “What you didn’t dare to do. I asked to run off years ago, but noooo, we had to wait, and then they beat us to the finish line!” What follows are three seconds of stunned silence, so heavy that Crowley has to change the subject back to Gabriel’s flaws just so that Aziraphale can stop looking at him like that. “Besides - you can’t fix the fact that Gabriel’s a dick.”
“It takes two to argue,” Aziraphale says weakly, and he could have just agreed, could have insulted Gabriel to end the argument that is now allowed to run free.
“Maybe,” Crowley says, “Gabriel’s got his own head far too up his arse to admit that he’s being stupid, and that he’s wrong.”
“Or maybe Gabriel would not appreciate being insulted when Beelzebub is being unfair by dismissing his ideas without putting things into a bigger perspective.”
“But maybe Gabriel’s being a selfish brat while drowning in the self-disillusion of being holier than thou.”
“But maybe Beelzebub is bitter because they need to be better at forgiveness.”
Crowley’s face changes color. “Maybe -”
“Can you two take it outside?” Gabriel groans, reaching feebly for the trash can filled with half-written notes. “You’re being loud.”
The pair turns simultaneously, both silently grateful for the interruption, yet offended at the same time. “Excuse me?”
“It’s rude to argue in front of guests,” Beelzebub says, and the two of them blink at their sudden arrival. They’re sitting in Aziraphale’s armchair, if that posture counts as ‘sitting’, yet neither of them has heard the demon enter over the yelling.
Beelzebub is so close to Gabriel that they can take pity on him by kicking the trash can closer, just in time for the angel to bury his face in it as the vomiting starts.
“So you two are chill now?” Crowley asks, warily eying the two of them. He’d expected a cat fight with claws and everything, which would have been very amusing if it can happen outside the shop.
“Look,” Gabriel sighs, pausing his vomit to look up from the trash can, “We are civilized immortals. We can have a disagreement and still be in the same room without tearing the other apart.”
“We’re not beasts,” Beelzebub adds, and Crowley’s eye ticks.
“Then you’ve grown soft,” he says, only for the other demon to laugh mockingly at him.
“Oh, that might have stung,” they say, “had it come from anyone else but you.”
Gabriel waves from the trash can. “Hah!”
“Soft,” Beelzebub grins. “Like intestines.”
Crowley groans, still affected by the car ride home that has consisted of Beelzebub talking non-stop about their favorite methods of torture (whips are number one, in case your twisted mind is curious, then the reorganizing of organs, with pointing and laughing coming in at a close third place). “Enough with the intestines already!”
“What are you going to do?” Beelzebub rolls their eyes, and their swarm of flies begins to settle on the sticky stains on the floor and furniture. “Throw eggs at me?”
“Sounds fun,” Gabriel says, wiping vomit off his chin, then panicking as the brownish residue clings to his fingers. Desperately, he wipes his hand against the beige fabric to get it off.
Behind Crowley, Aziraphale holds back a whimper at the sight of this gross misuse of furniture, and suddenly, he is rather thankful his own beloved sofa is no longer in the picture.
Beelzebub shakes their head, dead flies falling from their dark hair. “He didn’t even offer me intoxicating liquor,” they pout.
“Alcohol!” Crowley barks. “Call it what it is: alcohol.”
“Poison,” Gabriel gags, waving an accusing finger in Aziraphale’s direction. “He poisoned me.”
“Serves you right,” Beelzebub tells him sharply, but as their dark eyes land on Aziraphale, their head tilts in curiosity. “Not as useless as Crowley’s ‘help’.”
“So you did help them,” Aziraphale says, with a not-so-subtle side glance toward Crowley who throws up his hands.
“I momentarily kept them entertained for my own sanity’s sake! A very selfish move.”
“You’re as soft as a gallbladder,” Beelzebub tells him, speaking from experience. “Your angel’s been a good influence on you.”
Aziraphale’s features soften at the praise. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank them, it’s not a compliment,” Crowley grumbles. “Good means Bad from their perspective.”
Aziraphale’s brows furrow as he ponders this. “But I’m fairly certain Heaven would consider Hell’s version of Bad Good.”
“My head hurts.” Gabriel rolls over on the sofa, a limp arm draped across his face. “You’re making it worse.”
“Then leave,” Crowley suggests, expecting resistance, but he gets support from an unexpected source.
“I’ll stay, then,” Beelzebub offers right away. “I think I prefer the angel’s way of ‘helping’.” They’ve picked up an abandoned bottle, flicking a long, forked tongue at the rim of it.
“But - it’s my sofa,” Gabriel protests weakly at the thought of leaving it and Beelzebub taking his place. “I made it.”
“Technically,” Aziraphale pipes up, “you said it was a gift for me.”
“Stop being technical!” Crowley hisses into his ear, receiving an elbow to his side in turn.
Then, with no significant fanfare, Beelzebub shares their new idea with the rest of the room. “Let’s swap.”
“What?” three voices ask as a response.
“Yesssss.” Beelzebub smiles, pleased with their own brilliance as they turn toward Gabriel. “Let’s swap idiots. I’ve grown bored with mine. Since Crowley is so eager to help, you can go with him.”
Crowley’s brain has barely registered what is happening when his mouth opens to protest. “Wah -”
“Deal.” Gabriel reaches for Beelzebub’s hand to settle it with a handshake and manages to touch their palm on the third try. “Aziraphale’s only managed to make me feel worse.” He glares at his fellow angel to make it clear he blames him for all the discomfort known as a ‘hangover’.
“Good job,” Crowley hisses, and Aziraphale frowns.
“Good as in Good Bad or Bad Good?”
“SARCASM!”
Gabriel manages to push himself up from the sofa, stumbling past bottles toward the exit with a newfound eagerness. “I want to drive the vehicle,” he declares as he feverishly pulls the door open.
“I will kill him,” Crowley declares firmly. “I will actually kill him.”
With that, he storms out of the shop to follow the angel, leaving Aziraphale behind with Beelzebub who has made themselves comfortable on the sofa. Flies soar through the air when they stretch their limbs until their joints crack.
“Do you have any more of these?” they ask, nudging an empty bottle, and Aziraphale wonders if lying to a demon would count as Good Bad or Bad Good.