O Christmas tree,
O Christmas tree,
How lovely are thy branches …
Eyes closed, a boozy smile tilting his mouth, Aziraphale sways to the music, mumbling the words a half-beat after they're sung. Tidying the living room, Crowley smiles at his husband wrapped in a thick, prickly, chenille blanket (handmade for Aziraphale special by dear Anathema) and planted in front of the fireplace like a plump, adorable barrel cactus. Crowley watches an unsteady arm emerge from inside the fluffy white cocoon, reaching toward the hearth for an amber bottle Aziraphale has been nursing on and off for the past hour. There's nothing left in it. It's become a pacifier for the sleepy angel at this point.
But Crowley doesn't want his angel to fall asleep.
The night isn't quite over for them yet.
"I would say that's your third hard cider done?" Crowley asks, swiping the bottle before it meets Aziraphale's grasp.
"Third, fifth, ninth … who's counting?"
"I am." Crowley sets the bottle out of the angel's reach and joins him on the floor.
"Say what you want about that fool Shadwell," Aziraphale says, alternating between slurring, grumbling, and giggling, "but he sure does make a mean cider."
"Yes, well, kudos to him. We can find some way to bless him later. But for now, I'm cutting you off."
Aziraphale opens one squinty lid and frowns at the chorus of Crowley's blurring in front of him. "You old fuddy duddy."
"Not normally. Just tonight."
"And why's tonight so special?"
"It's Christmas."
Aziraphale's eyelids spring open as if that's news to him. "Oh. Yeah."
"And I would very much like to spend this blessed and holy night violating my husband in every way known to man."
"Right, right," Aziraphale agrees, cuddling closer. "Kiss me then, you wily old serpent." He puckers his lips and journeys forward, certain Crowley will meet him in the middle. But with rather sloppy control of his body at this point, he falls forward like the weighted end of a teeter-totter.
Crowley puts a hand up between them, stopping his husband's forward momentum – and his face - with his palm. "No."
Aziraphale jerks back and glares at Crowley, positively offended. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean no."
"And why not?"
"Because you're drunk, angel."
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "What difference does that make?"
"You can't give consent to being kissed, or anything else, if you're drunk."
"Pfft!" Aziraphale laughs. But when Crowley doesn't crack a smile, Aziraphale's drops off his face. "That doesn't make sense."
"It would make sense if you were sober." Crowley slips a hand beneath the blanket and presses it to his husband's chest. With carefully metered pulls, he draws the alcohol from his system, filling the empty bottle he'd set aside.
"We're supernatural beings!" Aziraphale argues, feeling – and sounding – more clear-headed after just a few pulls. "Those rules don't apply to us!"
"Yes they fucking do."
"But … but you're a demon! Corrupting is your business, isn't it?"
"Corrupting humans. Corrupting strangers. Not corrupting you. You're too important to cross lines with. I've seen the way that ends up. I don't want that for us."
Aziraphale nibbles his lower lip, preparing to broker his next argument. He loves his demon, loves when he gets all protective of their relationship, but he doesn't see the harm. "But it's fun to kiss you drunk."
"Maybe so, but you need to consent sober."
"So you're sobering me up so I can consent to being kissed by you?"
"That's the plan."
"But I was aiming for tipsy in the first place! Hence the three bottles of cider! What will I get drunk on after you're through?"
Crowley leans down, feeling safe to bring his face nose to nose with Aziraphale now that most of the inebriation has gone from his voice. "Me," he whispers, lips brushing the angel's mouth, his wicked eyes aglow with firelight.
"Oh," Aziraphale squeaks, his voice soft, his blue eyes fixed to Crowley's mouth, glittering with nothing more toxic than desire for his husband. "Oh, yes. I think that'll work quite nicely."