Work Text:
A banging like insistent gunfire at the door startles Aziraphale to standing, his book dropped carelessly onto the floor. He tries not to feel bad about it - splayed face-down, hopefully not wrinkling the pages - as he hurries to straighten himself out and answer it, glancing at the wall clock as he passes by. Whoever is at the door is still attempting to rattle it out of the frame, probably waking the neighbors, and - goodness, is it really already gone two a.m.?
He makes it to the door at last, and peers through the peephole, only to jump back again in shock. His hands shaking now, Az manages to get the chain and deadbolt undone and the door opened, and a great heap of red half staggers, half tumbles over the threshold.
"I CANNOT - ngk - get this... the dammed zip-" Anthony J. Crowley whisper-shouts, clearly drunk, and suddenly Aziraphale feels as red as his neighbor's hair.
Crowley moved in across the hall several months ago, and Az only ever sees him in passing, looking put-together and severe (and utterly gorgeous) in black and red, power-swagger strolling in or out, with no time to stop and chat. Az learned his name from the packages on his doorstep.
Well, Crowley is very much the opposite, now, swaying on his feet with his arms twisted round behind him. He's still standing on the doormat, the door wide open, and there's an insistent chill making its way in.
Aziraphale pulls himself together. "Come in, please, we'll get you sorted out -" he says, and Crowley stumbles forward again - directly into Az, of course, because this could not be any more mortifying. Az catches him, though, and manages to get an arm around his waist to help him stagger into the living room. He sways some more on his feet like a hypnotized snake while Az wrangles the door and deadbolt again.
At last, the chill has been firmly shut out, and Aziraphale turns to face the new problem at hand: Crowley, clearly formerly dressed to the nines for a night of partying, is now attempting to wriggle out of his very tight red silk dress.
"The zip's all stuck," he manages, still trying to escape the confines of the silk. His makeup is smeared into black streaks on his cheeks, the thin straps of the dress are sliding off his narrow shoulders, and his hair is a wild snarl. Az wants to faint. Blessedly, even drunk, Crowley had the sense to throw on a pair of black satin pj pants before coming over but still, the way the dress is rucked up around his slender hips...
Aziraphale quite literally shakes his head to clear it. "Of course, let me help." He bustles his way around to Crowley's back (oh dear Lord, don't stare) and bats his still-struggling hands away so he can get hold of the zipper. "It's caught up on the silk," Az says. "Hold on."
The zipper had gotten thoroughly stuck, probably no thanks to Crowley's own clumsy efforts, but Aziraphale manages to free it with only a little bit of tugging. Painstakingly slowly, his face turning shades ever closer to the silk, he drags the zipper southward, trying very hard to keep his fingers from brushing skin as the fabric parts. Just as the pull meets the stop, just above Crowley's hips, his hands tremble and betray him - and, oh, God, Crowley's skin is so soft...
Az jerks his hand away and steps back further than is really necessary, but when he looks back to Crowley he has to stifle a gasp, as he's yanking the dress up and over his head and dropping it to the floor.
He's all wiry, lean muscle, of course, and as he turns around, Az notices a handful of tattoos scattered across his body.
"Um. Can I, uh, would you like some tea? I'll just put the kettle on," Az says, to fill the silence, and Crowley nods vaguely.
"Please, d'you mind," he says to Az's back.
Az busies himself in the kitchen awhile, listens to Crowley rustle about and settle down on the couch. When the tea's ready he dutifully carries two cups out to the living room, only to find Crowley sprawled and dozing.
Well! Best not disturb the poor boy. Let him sleep it off, sort everything out in the morning. Az deposits the cups back in the kitchen and makes to head for bed. But he can't help himself; he lingers a long moment, his eyes caught on Crowley's still-bare torso and that wild tangle of ginger hair.
Without really thinking about it, Aziraphale tugs his throw blanket from his reading chair and drapes it overtop Crowley. He finally sets his book to rights as well, closing it (the pages undamaged, thank goodness) and setting it neatly on the end table. All that done, it's off to bed with him.
---
Crowley drags himself to consciousness at last, twisting over on the couch and pulling the blanket to his shoulders, and -
Wait. Couch?
He doesn't remember falling asleep last night, let alone where, but typically his drunk self manages to make it to the bed. He props up on one elbow and opens his eyes to find himself somewhere utterly unfamiliar, and starts to panic. He sits fully upright, pulling the blanket around his bare shoulders, and suddenly catches sight of the dress on the floor.
That's when it all comes back to him. The stuck zipper, his utter desperation.
That was not how he wanted this to go.
And of course, just at that moment, he hears the bedroom door swing open and there's his neighbor, still clad in pajamas and looking soft and cherubic as ever.
"Oh, good morning, dear," he says, and Crowley wants to slither away. "Glad to see you up. Did you sleep alright?"
Crowley is too hungover for this. He makes a vaguely affirmative grunt, and his lovely neighbor smiles warmly and settles in the nearby chair.
"Sssssooooooo," Crowley says, after a long moment, "um. Thanks for, uh, rescuing me. I'm, um. Name's Crowley. Anthony. I, uh, don't think we've met."
"Aziraphale. Call me Az. I'm glad to finally meet you."
Az is a saint, of course, those blue eyes all warm and that smile so sweet. Crowley wants to melt. This was NOT how any of this was supposed to go.
"Can I get you anything? Tea? Are you hungry?"
"Tea's good, thanks."
Az bustles to the kitchen and puts the kettle on, and Crowley tries not to sink down into the couch in pure mortification. Waking up in a stranger's bed is all well and good, but waking up on your gorgeous neighbor's (who you've been swearing you'll talk to for months, you just haven't had the time, or so you tell yourself) couch, tucked in under the coziest throw blanket ever, while he makes you a cup of tea, well. That's a whole other animal.
"Cream or sugar?" Az asks from the kitchen, pulling Crowley from his thoughts.
"No, thanks," he manages, and suddenly Az is handing him the cup. He takes it gratefully. Az settles again in the chair, and sips at his own cup. The scone he's apparently snagged for himself doesn't go unnoticed - of course this angel of a man would have sweets for breakfast.
They sit in surprisingly comfortable silence, which Crowley is once again grateful for. Az seems to know exactly what he needs by instinct alone - the curtains are drawn, keeping the sunlight to a soft glow, and the tea is already working to ease some of the pounding in his head.
By the time Crowley has nearly finished his cup, he steels himself and speaks: "You know, I really meant to introduce myself in a more, er, civilized way. Just, um, never had an excuse, I guess."
Az grins at that, and Crowley feels like a snake in the sun. "Well, I'm glad you finally found an excuse, even if it was a bit... unconventional."
"Heh. No kidding." Crowley casts about for a place to set his now-empty cup, but before he can locate one Az is on his feet.
"Let me take care of that for you. You must be tired still - why don't you head back home? Keep the blanket, you can bring it back to me another day."
Crowley finds himself completely unwilling to leave, despite the temptation of sleeping off the hangover. He rises from the couch anyway, blanket still wrapped around him, and scoops up the dress.
"Well, yes, er, I am a bit. I shouldn't impose, overstay my welcome, whatever. Thanks again for the tea and for your help last night," Crowley rambles, waving his free hand vaguely as he speaks. "I'll, uh, stop by again sometime."
"Of course, dear. Perhaps next time will be better circumstances, such as going for dinner?"
Az has the gall to look embarrassed then, as if the words had escaped him without his permission.
"Dinner?" Crowley echoes vaguely, about as shocked.
"Well, why not," Az doubles down. "Next week sometime? Just stop by?"
"Uh. Um. Yeah. That'd, that would be lovely. I'll do that. Yeah. Um," Crowley manages. "Well. See you next week, then."
"Indeed! Oh, let me walk you out," Az says, and then he's walking with Crowley and opening the door for him and smiling as he steps into the hall. "See you soon!"
"Bye, Az," Crowley manages as the door is pushed shut.
That was NOT how that was supposed to go.
But as Crowley pulls the throw around his shoulders and crosses the hall, he can't find it in him to be terribly upset - to hell with first impressions anyhow.