"Is it my imagination, or is it… whiter in here than usual?" Aziraphale asked as they half-tumbled into Crowley's (admittedly pristine) flat.
"S'not whiter, you're just drunk…er," Crowley tossed his coat in the general direction of the coat-rack and inclined his head for Aziraphale to do the same.
"Yes. Yes, I think you're right. Perhaps we should sober up, hmm?"
Sunglasses or no, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley was staring at him with the concentrated Gaze of the Undeniably Snockered.
"You can, if you'd like," Crowley said at length. "I think I'll just—It'll be easier, you know?"
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes closed against the cold rush of alcohol fleeing his system. "If you prefer," the angel said quietly.
Crowley settled himself into his sofa. His black-clad form sunk into the soft, white leather as though it were a cloud. Aziraphale smiled fondly.
"It's funny, I've never noticed before, but your flat—it's got a bit of a Heavenly decorating scheme, doesn't it? All white and lush, green plants. Some Eden nostalgia, my dear boy?"
The glare that Crowley leveled in Aziraphale's direction could have killed, were angels mortal. "Are you inferring—implicating—implying… stuff?"
"Not at all," Aziraphale laughed. "Of course, if you were feeling nostalgic, it might be worth noting in my report."
"My flat is not a biblical allusion. It is a flat," Crowley grumbled testily. "Write whatever you want in your report," he amended, a little softer.
There was a long, stilted silence, during which neither of them moved for fear that they would have to be the one to initiate things. Finally, after a great deal of tense stillness, Crowley stood up, swayed slightly, and turned to Aziraphale.
"Well. It's been nice knowing you, old chap," he said with a grotesque imitation of cheer.
Aziraphale blinked at him.
"What? No proper goodbye?"
"Crowley, surely this won't be—It'll all blow over, right?"
Crowley found he couldn't meet the angel's eye just then. "Yeah. Of course. Hell's bound to forget eventually. They're so known for their flexibility, after all."
"Crowley, honestly," Aziraphale said, frustrated.
Crowley sighed and his body crumpled a little. "Look, angel, Aziraphale, I don't know what you want me to say. We had a decent run of it. Saved a world, raised an antichrist, tasted every wine in the northern hemisphere. But there's nothing to be done now, is there? You can't be around me, and I can't afford to piss off hell."
"I suppose there's…" Aziraphale said, trailing off uneasily. Crowley threw his hands in the air.
"You suppose there's what? Defection? Going rogue? Spitting in the face of ineffability? Enlighten me, o holy one," he spat venomously.
"There's this," Aziraphale said firmly, looking Crowley in the eye for the first time since their appetizers.
For an awkward moment, Crowley thought Aziraphale was trying to edge around him towards the door, but then there were arms around him and, apparently, angels were not above a little physical proximity when the situation demanded it.1
"Uhm, right…" Crowley muttered, somewhat into Aziraphale's hair. He smelled of wine, and not dust, as Crowley had assumed (or would have assumed, had he given it any thought, which he certainly had not, thank you). There was also a faint hint of divinity, just there, on the blurry edge, and it was enough to make Crowley's nostrils burn pleasantly.
"Just… Just try, alright?" Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley understood. The angel needed closure, or comfort, or some silly thing like that, and Crowley found that he was not enough of a bastard to deny him, so he stood still and let himself be hugged, against his better--or worse--instincts.
"I can do that," Crowley whispered. He wasn't sure why he was whispering, but something about the moment felt terribly fragile, as though the vibrations of his voice might shatter it. It had to do with the angel's breath on his neck, and the steady thrum of their hearts, and the press of their mortality together, like the cracked halves of some forgotten whole.
In hindsight, neither would be able to pinpoint where it started. Perhaps it started with Aziraphale's fingers tangling in the soft hairs at the nape of Crowley's neck. Perhaps the beginning was Crowley's lips brushing the angel's cheek as they shifted closer. Perhaps it began in Rome, with a toga and a wink and a goat. Or in Finland, with a bed of furs and a freezing, howling night. One might argue it started at the dawn of time, when their beings were scooped from the single stream of nonexistence like water in some ineffable ladle.
Regardless, once it was started, it was a snowball that had been gathering for six millennia.
"Oh my," Aziraphale breathed into Crowley's skin.
"Angel…" Crowley hissed worryingly. He was mouthing along Aziraphale's jaw with admirable restraint, half-terrified that he was going to be struck by lightning or crushed to a fine powder by the hand of the Almighty himself. Or, worse, that the Aziraphale was going to change his mind. But Aziraphale didn't seem to be using that particular faculty just now, and Crowley found he was not particularly inclined to mention it. Aziraphale's eyes were not quite open, but his mouth was, so Crowley fit it against his own, pointedly not noticing the way their tongues pressed and slid in perfect tandem. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, when he let his hands slide down the angel's body, let his fingers hook in the belt loops of Aziraphale's trousers, pulling their hips together. Maybe it shouldn't have felt wrong. Maybe it should have.
"Oh. Oh," Aziraphale whispered. Crowley couldn't tell if this meant oh how dreadful, I shall swoon or oh the way Crowley was thinking oh, so he tried again, pressing their bodies together, sucking softly on Aziraphale's lip. This time there was a reaction of a different sort, and the word "effort" sprung to mind, along with the words "yes" and "please" and "about bloody time."
Somehow, they were moving, stumbling and unsteady in their embrace, possibly because one half of the embrace was still drunk, possibly because both halves had sacrificed basic motor functions for the sake of another (rather basic) function. Still, the door to Crowley's bedroom was far away, and the floor was right there, and after a few wobbly near-falls, Crowley's knees abandoned him and they slumped to the floor.
It was insane, absolutely unfathomable the way this felt—the sharp press of Aziraphale's thigh between his legs, the wetness of that red, ripe mouth, the frantic, almost desperate motions of the angel's body as it twisted and hummed in Crowley's grasp.
"This isn't—" Aziraphale started to say.
"Sssin? No. No, it'sss not."
Aziraphale pulled away for a moment, staring down at Crowley with large, sad eyes, and it was a good thing Crowley didn't need his heart, because it seemed to stop working temporarily.
"Enough. This isn't enough," the angel whispered sweetly, cherubic and flushed, his hair falling across his forehead in gold tumbles.
Crowley found that despite his famed silver-tongue, he didn't have an awful lot to say to that, so he said nothing. He let his fingers speak for him, and with a flick and a thought, their clothes disappeared, never to be seen again.2
From there, it was just a matter of friction and time. Minutes bled together, and someone performed a minor miracle, sweat into oil, pain into pleasure, and Crowley wondered whether the faint, pale aura emanating from Aziraphale's damp skin could kill him. Then he decided that there must be worse ways to go. The motion of their bodies was sharp and fragile, trembling hands, raw lips, human bones overwhelmed with a stress and strain they were never intended to endure.3 Aziraphale made a terrible, wonderful, broken sound as his body gave out, and it sung through Crowley's flesh like a string being plucked—musical and wild and of the earth. Crowley thrust once, twice more, before his mouth fell open, and his eyes fell shut.
1 And the situation did-- not Crowley, mind you.
2At least, as far as they knew. In reality, their ensembles had simply been relocated to a nearby dimension populated predominantly by misplaced socks.
3Probably. One must bear in mind that He did have a strange sense of humor.
