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It had taken Crowley centuries to tempt Aziraphale into trying a taste of fine wine, and since then, the angel had gotten pleasantly drunk with him too many times to count.
They enjoyed one another’s company, during those rendezvous; when they were not worrying about blessings or temptations, nor Heaven or Hell, but were simply spending the evening with a companion. It was a relief to have a moment of lowered inhibitions and relaxation, a moment spent around someone trusted — however implicit the trust between an angel and a demon, hereditary enemies, may be.
On one evening in particular, however, that implicit trust had only just become very explicit — because, really, if asking your ‘hereditary enemy’ to point a loaded gun at you and pull the trigger wasn’t confirmation enough, then nothing was — and yet despite that (or, more appropriately, because of it), the usual pleasant comfortability had not stayed all throughout the night.
It was 1941. Aziraphale and Crowley had been quite busy all evening — though that alone was an exhausting understatement. In just one night, Aziraphale had nearly been discorporated by a smug-faced Nazi, a church bombing, and Crowley himself in their (his own, really) foolishly daring West End stage trick — and then, they’d both had to deal with that exasperatingly aggravating demon who had very nearly exposed their Arrangement to Hell . . .
Well. Aziraphale felt that a drink was both quite necessary, and well-deserved.
Crowley had concurred, and — only a couple of hours or so after their first glasses of wine — they were both well on their way to being drunk. Loudly drunk.
“Didn’ I tell you — didn’ I tell you, Aziraphale, tha’ the West End was a tough crowd? An’ then a demon showed up!” Crowley was lamenting, waving a near-empty glass of red wine above his head and frowning deeply. “Honestly —,”
“Now, really, this must be the third time I’m hearing this,” Aziraphale said with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the slurring of his own voice as he glared half-heartedly towards the demon. “I’ve already conceded that it was foolish, though I really can’t take blame for one of your people being there.”
He scowled — but it was a friendly, playful sort of scowl, just as Crowley’s lamenting was a friendly, playful sort of lamenting. “What else do you want me to do to prove my apologies to you, Crowley?”
Crowley pulled his sunglasses down his nose until they were dangling precariously. He grinned, looking exceedingly smug-faced, and Aziraphale sighed, rolling his head back against the couch where they were sitting side-by-side, and throwing his hand (the one that wasn’t clutching a glass of his own) over his eyes.
“Oh, I really don’t see how it’s fair that I’m the only one of us who ever has to do this . . .”
Crowley snorted drunkenly. “‘s ‘cause I’ve never nearly gotten myself beheaded by French Revolutionaries or shot onstage in front o’ a buncha sqaddies or —,”
“Oh, alright — alright,” Aziraphale interrupted huffily, though he couldn’t keep himself from smiling, just a little, face flushed and happy, mind pleasantly buzzed.
He placed down his own empty glass and stood, swaying a little, before launching into the humiliating dance that he himself had come up with a few centuries prior — when he had insisted, to a very doubtful Crowley, that the Spanish voyaging to the Americas would be a net positive for the world.
“You were right, you were right —,”
“Stop it, angel,” Crowley groused, but he was laughing, cheeks wine-drunkenly pink. He stood, putting down his own glass and staggering to his feet, swaying his way over to Aziraphale in a stumbling attempt at his usual saunter that made Aziraphale start giggling.
“You aren’t doing it right — done this at least ten times in the past four centuries, but you can’t get the steps right —,”
“You’ve never even done it,” Aziraphale complained, still giggling, his own face feeling rather hot. Crowley had grabbed one of his wrists in a loose, long-fingered grip to stop him from dancing; his touch tingled up the angel’s arm and up to his brain, making him feel a little more drunk than he was. “How can you lecture me on it?”
“Righ’, forgot — lecturing’s your thing, angel,” Crowley sighed with dramatic flair, dropping Aziraphale’s wrist as he moved to make a sweeping, mocking little bow.
But in attempting the motion, he stumbled, and fell forward — right into Aziraphale, who made an aborted motion to catch him and only just managed to do so. The demon’s glasses slipped from where they’d already been precariously perched on the edge of his nose, clattering to the floor beneath their feet.
Crowley wound up half-crumpled, knees buckled, neck craned back to stare up at Aziraphale, who was gripping the demon by his elbows, awkwardly holding him up. They were so close together that if Crowley tipped his head forward even slightly, he would wind up with his forehead pressed into Aziraphale’s chest.
Their eyes met; they had both gone unnaturally still and silent. Aziraphale swallowed tightly, mouth suddenly dry — from the alcohol, no doubt.
“Well, that was certainly a misstep of your own, my dear,” he said breathily.
A spasm that might’ve been an attempt at a smirk passed over Crowley’s face. There was an unreadable look in his eye, which was an odd thing for Aziraphale, who had been able to read him so very easily for centuries now.
“Maybe m’ right where I wanna be, angel,” the demon said, voice strangely hoarse.
At his own words, Crowley blinked as though he’d startled himself, and Aziraphale felt himself begin to go hot all over once more, his head ringing distantly.
He licked his lips, trying to think through the — the feelings building up in his chest — the feelings that he was certain were only so persistently aching away at him because he was quite drunk, and because there was a demon in his arms, trying to tempt him. Nearly succeeding in tempting him, rather.
And so (for the benefit of them both), he did not even acknowledge what Crowley had said.
“Come, Crowley — back on your feet, my dear,” he said, a little faintly. He lifted Crowley up by the arms with ease, guiding them both back to the couch. When they sat down, it was closer together than they had been before, and Crowley was still looking at him with that unreadable look in his eye, and Aziraphale —
He recognized the feeling, suddenly, as the same one he had had when Crowley had handed him perfectly unblemished books in the wake of a mighty explosion, just earlier that night.
And he had been neither drunk, nor had he had Crowley’s skin touching his so . . .
Sinfully.
Another feeling — one of dread — swooped in his stomach. But it was hard to let it settle there, when Crowley was still staring right at him with those devastatingly golden eyes that Aziraphale was so rarely privy to see, even though they had begun crossing paths more and more since both making their respective homes in London.
(Aziraphale often found himself not thinking about how they both could have gone anywhere in the modern world — and even further; Crowley often lamented about the stars in moments like these, when he was drunk and uninhibited — and yet had settled in close vicinity to one another.
There were many such cases, when it came to the both of them — none of which bore well to linger on.)
“Y’ got any more wine, angel?” Crowley asked, voice thick. Aziraphale startled a little, heart skipping.
“Oh — certainly,” he hastened. “Yes, of — of course.”
Aziraphale lifted a hand and another good bottle of red Bordeaux appeared on the table in front of them. He poured more into each of their glasses, his hands shaking slightly.
“Been a long day, s’ all,” Crowley added, as if in an afterthought. His eyes still hadn’t left Aziraphale’s face; the angel could feel it, even as he looked down at the wine in his hand. “Y’know?”
Aziraphale lifted his gaze at last, and immediately winced at what he saw.
Crowley had not picked up his glass. He had, however, inched slightly closer.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice soft and miserable. He felt suddenly, painfully sober, even though he hadn’t made himself so.
Crowley kept looking at him. His expression had become pained.
“Angel . . .”
“No, Crowley.”
“Aziraphale.” Crowley leaned against the couch, resting his cheek against the cushions. He raked a pale hand through his deep red hair, tousling it slightly, making him look more come undone. Aziraphale stared at him helplessly, his stomach turning over on itself.
“We’re drunk, Crowley.”
“Sober up, then.”
“I —,” Aziraphale hesitated, catching himself; a hard thing to do, when his face was still hot with drunkenness, his tongue far too loose and uninhibited. “I don’t . . . want to.”
Crowley looked slightly angry, then, but more visibly despaired than anything else. After a moment, the anger drained away entirely. He dropped his hand and, tentatively, brushed his fingers over Aziraphale’s, where the angel’s hand was lying between them.
“Angel,” he whispered again. His fingers threaded between Aziraphale’s, who did not pull away. Crowley moved closer. His gaze remained locked onto the angel’s. “I . . . please.”
“We — we mustn’t, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, voice breaking. His head was spinning; he felt as if he would be sick, though he had not had nearly enough to drink for that to be so. He felt as if he would be sick, because he knew exactly what Crowley wanted; a sinful desire that he, himself, was no stranger to.
“But we can,” Crowley said, near-begging. “All today proved s’ that . . . you trust me, I trust you, n’ we can — we can outsmart our sides —,”
“Crowley, you are only still here and not being torn apart by Hell at this very minute because of my sleight-of-hand, which you had no qualms in pointing out as shoddy work not an hour ago!” Aziraphale felt slightly hysterical, hot and heady; he mopped at his brow with his free hand. “We mustn’t.”
“We’re drunk,” Crowley murmured. The desperation in his voice had given way to a soft sort of pleading.
Aziraphale stared at him. He stared at him, and he could feel his fragile defenses crumbling to pieces.
“Yes . . .” He said slowly.
“I’m lonely,” Crowley breathed out. He had moved closer, at some point; was so close, now, that their noses nearly touched. Aziraphale swore his golden, serpentine eyes were smoldering. “I’m lonely, n’ you’re alone, n’ I’m tempting you.”
Aziraphale’s breathing had gone shallow. That feeling in his chest had spread throughout his body, making him tingle pleasantly even as that same dread ate away at him from the inside as he said, “So you are.”
(He never had been able to resist — when it was Crowley tempting him.
Even if it never took long for him to come to his senses.)
It was unclear who, exactly, initiated it — but in the blink of an eye, their lips had connected in a tender, wine-drunk kiss.
Crowley was hungry, but he was gentle, and Aziraphale returned that in kind. He had never kissed anyone before; who would he, as an angel? And yet in the moment, it felt as if it were something he was eternally learned in. He kissed Crowley with just as much fervor as Crowley gave in return, encouraged by the drunken buzz soothing over the shrieking in his soul; a temporary balm, for the moment.
Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand to cup his face in his palms, while Aziraphale’s own hands fluttered uselessly in front of him for a moment before they settled on Crowley’s shoulders as — for that moment — he allowed himself to feel.
And then — painstakingly gently — he pushed him away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, so quickly that he could still feel Crowley’s breath on his lips. His voice was breaking, and his eyes were burning. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I’m so —,”
“s’ okay,” Crowley rasped out, in a strangled voice that suggested that it really, really, wasn’t.
Aziraphale’s eyes were squeezed shut; one of Crowley’s hands was still cupping his cheek. He felt the demon’s thumb stroke the edge of his jaw, and then his palm fell away, leaving behind a feeling of loss and grief so strong, it nearly knocked Aziraphale’s breath away.
“I should go,” Crowley said, voice low and gravelly. Aziraphale hadn’t seen him do it, but he was almost certain the demon had just sobered himself up.
“No,” Aziraphale said, and he opened his eyes. He was trembling slightly, breath caught in his throat. He felt sick all the way to his stomach; despite that, he grabbed his glass of wine once more and drank quickly, with a desperation, as he stammered out, “You can stay.”
“I don’t think . . . that that’s a good idea,” Crowley rasped. The demon’s sunglasses were back on his face, and his hat was on, brim dipped over to further hide his gaze; his face, so flushed only moments ago, was chalk-white and pale. He waved a hand, and the wine disappeared, including the glass Aziraphale had just drained.
“I do think you should sober up, angel.”
Aziraphale shook his head, feeling miserable, chest aching. He didn’t know if he could handle this right now, if he wasn’t drunk. Even if it made him say and do stupid, stupid things.
“Please . . . stay,” he managed, voice strangled.
Crowley froze; Aziraphale thought he might’ve been trembling slightly.
“. . . Okay.”
Crowley lowered himself back down to the couch, a good distance between them. Aziraphale put his hands over his face, dragging his palms downward and taking in a shuddering breath. The dread from earlier had taken hold of him entirely, settling in his chest like the onset of divine judgment.
(In his mind’s eye, he saw two things at once.
He saw Crowley, pulling his unharmed books from the rubble of a destroyed church.
And he saw the Light of the Almighty, fading from him as he had lied to Her.
The first time he had sinned — but certainly not the last. This night proved that, if anything.)
“I can make you forget that happened,” Crowley said quietly, “if you like.”
Aziraphale folded his hands together and closed his eyes once more. “Please don’t,” he whispered, even though he so desperately wanted to be rid of the strangling despair, choking out every other ounce of emotion that had welled up in his chest.
“Okay,” Crowley repeated. A pause, and then:
“M’ sorry.”
“You were drunk, dear boy,” Aziraphale reminded him waveringly. “As am I.”
Crowley blew out a long breath. “Right.”
Aziraphale felt the couch shift; the demon had moved further away. Silence fell between them for a long while; Aziraphale listened to Crowley’s breathing, the sound seeming amplified in the state of his mind. After a while, he felt as though he was drifting, floating in and out of various states of emotion, and finally settling on the one he had been feeling when Crowley had kissed him.
“Crowley?” He whispered, not opening his eyes. He heard Crowley’s breath hitch.
“Yeah?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed out once more, “I —,”
“Don’t,” Crowley interrupted him — just as Aziraphale had, when it had been Crowley whose drunkenness had emboldened him to act on this. Whatever, exactly, this was. “Don’t. S’ alright, angel.”
(He knew what it was.
They both did.)
Aziraphale’s eyes prickled with tears, and he opened them at last. As he did, a feeling of strange calm settled over him; later, he would realize that Crowley, for the moment, had miracled his despair away until he was sober again. Now, however, the demon wasn’t even looking at him; he was staring up at the ceiling, gaze hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Why did you stay?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “You didn’t have to.”
“You asked me to,” Crowley said gruffly. He tilted his head down to look at Aziraphale, then leaned forward. “That’s why.” A small, sardonic smile twisted his features. “You’ll wish I was gone when you sober up, though, angel.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand vaguely. “How could I wish to be without you?”
Crowley’s expression spasmed painfully, and Aziraphale listened as he did not breathe for a long moment before saying, softly: “You should sleep, Aziraphale. S’ late.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale agreed peaceably. He shifted a little until he was lying down, curled in on himself; he felt a blanket being drawn over him, though Crowley had not moved from the opposite end on the couch.
Despite that, however . . . he swore he felt a hand gently caress his cheek as he fell into sleep, and a familiar voice murmuring something that he hadn’t quite heard.
When he woke in the morning — confused, at first, bogged down with a hangover that he miracled away, and then frantic, and regretful, and so very, very despairing — Crowley was gone.
But there was a new bottle of wine sitting on the shelf, and Aziraphale knew Crowley enough to recognize an olive branch, an invitation . . . and an apology, all in one.