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"I'm just saying - I'm just saying -" Crowley stops. What was he saying? He'd had it a minute ago. He'd had a point. He waves his almost empty wineglass, in the hope that whatever it was would come back to him, then screws up his mouth in frustration when his brain flatly refuses to give him anything.
Nope.
It's gone.
Aziraphale usually makes encouraging noises, or interjects when Crowley gets lost. The angel's always happy to listen to him ramble on, adding the occasional noise of encouragement, or agreement, and half the time he knows where he's going before Crowley does, but he's been quiet for a while.
"Aziraphale?"
Crowley squirms around, from where he's been lying half off the sofa for the last hour or so.
"Aziraphale, what was I -"
Aziraphale is asleep, empty glass dangling from his hand, he's tucked in an almost elegant sprawl between the back of the sofa and the arm, head tipped back just far enough to rest comfortably on the buttoned leather. His eyes are closed, mouth open a little, he's making faint, breathy noises that manage to sound adorable rather than tragically drunk.
"Oh," Crowley says, in surprise. Because Aziraphale's capacity for alcohol normally far exceeds his own. Either that or Crowley makes a habit of drinking faster, and more recklessly. It's almost always him that either caves to unconsciousness, falls down and decides it's too much effort to get up again, or sobers up and drags himself home.
He's not used to seeing the angel sleep, or seeing him reclined in an alcoholic stupor - which is much the same thing where Crowley's concerned. Both of which are considerably less conscious than Aziraphale's normal very sensible state of being.
"Normally I'm the one passing out on your furniture," Crowley mutters. He gives a short bark of laughter, which is far louder in the quiet than he expects, half-startling himself. But it doesn't wake Aziraphale, who appears gone for the night.
Even drunk and unconscious the angel manages something like decorum. Crowley doesn't know if it's the way his sleeves have been carefully rolled up, or the way his bow tie has come jauntily loose but not quite undone. Or maybe it's the way he's managing to still feel somewhat attentive, as if Crowley's request for further conversation would be answered with a dreamy mumble and his returned attention.
Crowley can't help but watch him for a while. The way Aziraphale's body has relaxed into the give of the sofa, accepting its shape, in a way that he never does when he's sober. The stiffness of him unwound, and settled, and softened. Oh, not in the way Aziraphale might describe himself, disparaging, when no one was listening. Not the way an Archangel might use it, as a judgement, or an insult. No, Aziraphale's softness is inviting, it's welcoming. It's the softness that feels like somewhere safe, it's an offer of comfort, of protection against harm. It's a warm place to retreat to on a freezing night. Which tugs at something deep in Crowley's bones. He can't help how he always circles back to Aziraphale, over and over, can't help the way he wants to slip out of his human skin, become something that can curl around him, and be warmed.
Aziraphale's strength has never been righteous fury, or raw, angelic power, though he's capable of both of those things, if necessary. No, it's in his willingness to reach out, to help, to care when no one else does. It's in his kindness, and his inability to accept injustice and cruelty as necessary. Aziraphale is everything that people expect when they think of angels, he's the reason they're seen as a force for good. Even if no one upstairs can see it.
"I don't know why they don't see it," Crowley bites out. "But they never did. They never deserved you."
He pushes his way upright, then wobbles a bit when his legs can't decide if they're sitting or standing for a moment.
"At least you finished the wine before you clocked off for the night," he tells Aziraphale, reaching down to carefully slip the glass out of the angel's warm fingers. "That's typical you, isn't it? Thinking ahead, not being responsible for spills. I'm the one that spills aren't I? Constantly - constantly spilling things. Constantly having to - ugh - clean up after m'self."
Crowley sits down again, not quite sure if he intended to. He finds himself holding both wineglasses, he's also missing a boot, for some reason, which is strange, because he mostly creates them himself, they're only boots so much as he convinces them to be boots. How could one be missing and the other one still be there? That makes no bloody sense. He has no idea how that happened.
He sets the glasses on the closest table, far enough away that no books are going to end up with rings, or spots, or Satan forbid, spills on them. He can't risk that, Aziraphale would have his skin for it - oh, not in the same way Hell would have his skin, not in that horribly literal way. But it would hurt more somehow, Aziraphale's angry disappointment.
He can hear it perfectly.
"Look what you did, Crowley, why couldn't you have been more careful?!"
"No, look, it's fine, and the glasses are empty anyway." Crowley gestures. Then realises Aziraphale can't see it, that he hadn't actually spoken at all.
Ugh, if he's reached the imaginary conversations part of being drunk then he should definitely sober up, and take himself home.
But something in him hates the thought of leaving the angel vulnerable like this. Since either side could get through any wards he put up, if they really wanted to, and Aziraphale couldn't defend himself like this. He wouldn't even know he had to defend himself, and the idea that Crowley could be in any way responsible for abandoning Aziraphale, or letting him be harmed, is fucking unbearable. No, he'll have to stay. He's done it before, sprawled on the sofa, a scatter of arms and legs.
He'll wake up in the morning the way he always does, with his sunglasses neatly folded on the table, a ridiculous tartan blanket still tucked round at least two of his limbs.
Only that's more difficult at the moment, isn't it, because the angel is on the sofa right now. He'd deigned to join Crowley there, in a fit of unexpected camaraderie, and also because there was a stack of Moorecroft on the good armchair, that Aziraphale hadn't had a chance to move, before they'd cracked open a bottle. But Crowley likes to think it was mostly unexpected camaraderie.
Still it's late enough - early enough? - that he should probably find somewhere - the floor maybe? Crowley pours himself another glass while he thinks about it. One for the road. Even though he isn't leaving. One for someone else's road then. Aziraphale won't mind if he just sits here for a minute. If he just sort of slumps against the back of the sofa next to him. Close enough to feel the soft, crinkling warmth of his shirt, the silent rasp of his well-worn waistcoat against the line of Crowley's arm.
It's nice.
They don't sit together, not like this, they don't press, and touch, and breathe against each other. Close enough that the inner rings of their auras flare and smear together, slowly forming a new colour, that's a smoky tangle of them both. Crowley didn't expect it to be so soothing - though he should have done really. Because something in Aziraphale has always calmed him, settled him, a reassurance that he isn't alone, that there's someone like him, someone who knows him. But this close it feels less like a reassurance and more like a need. It's like Crowley's body had gone years without this, and never felt its lack until now. A necessary function he'd been missing, and suddenly he could breathe in a different way, feel everything the way it's meant to be felt.
Crowley lets himself very carefully sink into the angel's side, a fraction of weight at a time. Careful that his bony angles don't jab and knock against the angel's soft curves. He wonders if Aziraphale would let them do this more often. Friends sit like this, don't they? He could ask - he's probably not going to ask, he's never been able to press, especially not since Aziraphale gave him holy water, snuffed out the faint hope that maybe, maybe - no, he'd seen things that weren't there. Stupid of him.
"You don't have to ask, of course you don't. There, isn't that better?"
"Yeah," Crowley mumbles, to words which are only spoken inside his own head. Words the angel would probably never say. But is it too much to imagine that the angel could say them one day. Those words, threaded through with affection. The sort of thing no self-respecting angel should ever voice for the likes of him.
"Don't be silly, Crowley, you know how much you mean to me."
It's just pretend.
It doesn't mean anything.
"Course I do," he mutters. "Don't want to impose though, do I? Can't have me clinging all the bloody time, what would Heaven say?"
They've always kept their distance, always made sure there was an explainable amount of space between them. Every nudge of elbow, every prod of fingers. Crowley had been so careful not to remind Aziraphale that he was something he wasn't supposed to touch. Something wicked, something corrupt.
"Crowley, don't say such things about yourself. You know they're not true. I won't have it."
"Nrg," Crowley protests. "S'what you were told though, wasn't it? S'what upstairs thinks of me. Can't ever change that."
Aziraphale's soft, sleeping face, offers no counter to that. The brush of his pale hair on the dark leather is lovely. Crowley wants to touch it so badly it almost hurts.
If they were the sort of friends who could do this, then maybe Aziraphale would carefully tuck Crowley under his arm, the heat radiating out and into him. He's always been so warm, when angels aren't supposed to be, when they're supposed to hold nothing but the cold, icy majesty of Heaven. Aziraphale defies expectation, always, always. Crowley can feel him, when he stands close enough, when he hovers over him while he's reading, when he's nudging an elbow, or an arm, brushing past him through a door. It's an inviting, welcoming sort of heat that leaves him always creeping closer, body held taut and stiff, terrified that it will be obvious how much he wants to lean in, wants to touch, wants to be touched. Until it's all too much and Crowley has to stalk away, to snap, to bite, to not show his belly for fear it will be torn open.
Because Aziraphale doesn't want him, not like that, not as someone you'd hold close, someone you'd keep warm through the night, breathe with, legs tangling in the sheets -
But they're friends.
Aziraphale is fond of him.
"I'm terribly fond of you," the Aziraphale inside his head insists. "You must know that by now. I know I haven't always been able to show it, but you must know, my dear? Come on, make yourself comfortable, I'm not going anywhere."
Crowley could imagine that Aziraphale had seen him looking tired, coaxed him over, made shushing noises at his protest that he couldn't, he shouldn't, that he really should be heading home. He carefully tips sideways, dragging his legs up onto the sofa, turning until he can feel the bend of Aziraphale's arm beneath his narrow chest. It's barely another movement to lay his head just below the big curve of Aziraphale's shoulder.
"I really shouldn't," he whispers into fabric. "Really shouldn't, m'demon."
"Nonsense, Crowley, you look done in. There's plenty of room. I don't mind if you want to have a cuddle with me."
There'd be fingers combing through his hair, a wealth of tenderness and affection in the words. He'd protest, obviously, he'd never trusted anything easy. He wouldn't want Aziraphale to know how much he wanted it, needed it, was barely alive without it. He could never just ask for it, he's a demon, he has his pride. But Aziraphale would know him well enough to understand that, he'd fuss and tug at Crowley sharp edges, smoothing his ruffled feathers and hunched shoulders, until he sank a little more, relaxed a little deeper. Until he stopped protesting and just gave in, surrendered. Aziraphale always won in the end.
Crowley very carefully curls an arm around Aziraphale's waist, letting it settle in tiny increments of pressure. His long fingers a spread on the worn material at the side of his waistcoat. He can't help the way his fingertips press in slightly, as if he can pull the angel into him. Imagine that Aziraphale would hum at the pressure and tip into him in turn, curl an arm around his back. Pull Crowley closer, squeeze until his bones felt it.
"There, there we are, isn't that nice?"
"I'm not nice," Crowley protests again. But it is nice, it leaves his whole body feeling stretched and achy, throat strangely raw. He doesn't know how to do this. How do people do this?
He can feel the slow rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest, the long draw of breath in and then out. He can feel the stretch of muscle under his hand, the warmth seeping through shirt and waistcoat. He could fall asleep here, just like this, curled into the angel's solid, familiar warmth, feeling him breathe beneath him. The way Aziraphale's sleepy murmurs vibrate through Crowley's body, a ripple of strange pleasure that leaves him feeling wanted, leaves him feeling needed - loved.
"There's never been anyone else," he mumbles into the fabric. But even his own imagination knows better than to pretend to answer that.
Aziraphale would never allow this.
He might even be appalled that Crowley had taken such liberties, while he was effectively passed out drunk. If Crowley was sober - if he was sober, he'd be disgusted with himself too.
He turns his face, just a touch, breathes into the soft, familiar material of Aziraphale's waistcoat. This is something Aziraphale loves, thick with the smell of old paper, and tea, the spice of his cologne, and the oil he uses on his pocket-watch. But underneath it all, there's still the rainstorm, the hint of drifting feathers, and the sharpness of ripe fruit that he remembers from the garden. It's like being home, after thousands of years of yearning.
Crowley could curl up inside it and never come out.
But he knows he doesn't deserve this, he doesn't get to have this. All he can do is steal it, while the angel sleeps.
Like the demon he is.