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They were deep into their cups, tongues loosened by the flow of wine meant to wash away the growing terror of a math-loving antichrist. That was, surely, the only reason the words slipped from Aziraphale’s mouth.
“Crowley,” he said, voice low, only slightly slurring. “You know, if…”
He trailed off.
Crowley looked up, squinting blearily across the top of his drink. “If what?”
Aziraphale swallowed. “If Warlock… if he… if the world…” The wine hadn’t drowned the terror at all. Drat. Aziraphale scrubbed his eyes. His vision was blurring from the alcohol, that was all. “If this doesn’t work.”
Crowley’s glass shattered in his grip. Automatically, Aziraphale mended it before the shards could cause damage.
“Don’t say that!” Crowley hissed, ignoring both the miracle and the now wine-soaked hem of his sleeve. “It will work! We’ve spent ten blasted years on this damned kid—”
“Yes, damned,” Aziraphale broke in gloomily. “Literally. That’s the whole point.”
“I know.” Crowley sounded angry, though Aziraphale thought vaguely that the anger wasn’t really directed at him. “But damned or not, we haven’t spent a whole bloody decade on him for nothing. We have a plan. We’re doing the plan. It’s going to work.”
Aziraphale blinked at him. “But, but it might not.”
Crowley inhaled sharply, opened his mouth, nostrils flaring as he prepared to fire some report back… and then all at once the demon deflated, shoulders slumping and face looking suddenly very, very tired.
“I know,” he said again, quietly this time; achingly quietly. “Trust me, I know. But… but please don’t say that, anyway. It just… it doesn’t help.”
Of course it didn’t help, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he’d even spoken at all. What was there to be said? Nothing useful. Nothing they didn’t already know. Nothing that hadn’t been hanging over both their heads, a looming sword of fire more inevitable than anything Damocles ever dealt with, for half a dozen millennia.
You know, if this doesn’t work, we’ll be fighting on opposite sides in the war. I’ll try not to kill you. Best case scenario, we’ll never see each other again. Worst case scenario, we’ll still never see each other again, but for a much worse reason. Ho hum, tickety-boo, would you like a refill, dear fellow?
No, there was nothing to say. He shouldn’t have said anything.
And yet his mouth apparently didn’t get that memo, because it opened again without Aziraphale’s permission. “What will we do, if… if…” He shivered. “If?”
“I thought I’m supposed to be the one asking the dangerous questions here.” Crowley laughed without humor. And then he turned bare, bleak eyes on Aziraphale, and shook his head, and his voice was barely audible when he answered, “I don’t know.”
“I don’t want to find out,” Aziraphale whispered.
"I hope we don’t have to.”
“Me too.”
Several minutes passed. Neither of them spoke.
Finally, Aziraphale stirred, sighed, and glanced at Crowley’s unbroken glass. “Refill?”
Crowley nodded, wordlessly, and Aziraphale poured them both more wine.