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The bell above Aziraphale's bookshop door tinkled softly, barely cutting through the deep stillness of the night. It was well past midnight, a time when shadows lengthen and secrets seem to breathe. Aziraphale looked up from his book, his gaze sharpening as he recognized the familiar figure swaying unsteadily in the doorway.
Crowley stood there, leaning heavily against the frame, his sunglasses missing and his usually sleek hair tousled. He clutched a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand, his fingers tight around its neck. His eyes, typically sharp and amber, were clouded and unfocused, struggling to keep the world in view.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, setting his book aside and rising from his chair. “I cannot believe how drunk you are.”
Crowley staggered forward, each step a battle with gravity. “I am not drunk,” he insisted, though the words slurred together, betraying his claim.
Aziraphale approached him, concern mixed with a touch of amusement. “Yes, you are,” he said gently, observing how Crowley’s feet seemed to drag as if they were made of lead.
Crowley’s defiance flickered weakly in his eyes. “I’m not...,” he began, his voice rising in a futile attempt to assert control. “I’m not fucking duck–DRUNK!” He waved his free hand for emphasis, but the sudden motion threw him off balance.
Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, Aziraphale pointed to the grandfather clock that stood regally in the corner. “Can you tell me the time then?” he asked, hoping to gently steer the conversation.
Crowley squinted at the clock, his head tilting as if that might help bring the numbers into focus. He lifted a shaky finger and pointed vaguely in its direction. “I am not fucking drunk!” he repeated stubbornly, his voice growing more defiant.
Aziraphale’s lips curved into a small, fond smile. “Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, his voice filled with affectionate exasperation.
Crowley tried to take another step forward, but his legs gave out beneath him. He stumbled, and this time, Aziraphale couldn’t reach him in time. Crowley fell to the floor with a heavy thud, the wine bottle slipping from his grasp and shattering into a cascade of glass and dark liquid. The red wine spread across the wooden floor, a dramatic spill that looked almost like blood.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, kneeling beside him. He carefully brushed away the larger shards of glass and reached out to help him up. “Oh, my dear, what have you done to yourself?”
Crowley groaned, his head rolling to the side. He blinked up at Aziraphale, his vision hazy. “Celebrated,” he muttered, the word barely coherent. “We stopped it, ‘Ziraphale. We stopped the end of everything.”
Aziraphale sighed, a mix of relief and exasperation. He slipped an arm under Crowley's shoulders and lifted him effortlessly. Crowley’s eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of amazement breaking through his drunken haze. “Angel,” he murmured, his voice soft with wonder. “You’re a strong one. Me likey” Aziraphale felt how the demon's fingers curled around the fabric of his coat.
Aziraphale chuckled gently, adjusting his hold on the demon. “Stronger than I look,” he replied lightly. He carried Crowley over to the couch and carefully set him down.
But Crowley’s hands, still clutching the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, pulled him down too. “Stay,” he whispered, his voice a fragile plea.
Aziraphale smiled, his heart swelling with tenderness. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, sitting beside him. Crowley, still clinging to Aziraphale’s coat, slithered into his lap with surprising grace for someone so inebriated. He nestled himself against Aziraphale, burying his face in the angel’s neck. The warmth of Crowley’s breath against his skin sent a shiver through Aziraphale.
“You’re warm,” Crowley mumbled, his words slurred and sleepy. He shifted slightly, finding a more comfortable position, his arms loosely draped around Aziraphale.
Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley, holding him close. “And you’re a bit of a mess,” he said softly, though there was no judgment in his tone.
Crowley let out a contented sigh, his body melting into Aziraphale’s embrace. “We did it, didn’t we?” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and relief. “We stopped it all.”
“Yes, we did,” Aziraphale replied, his voice filled with quiet pride. “We did.”
The room fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the world outside. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s grip on his coat loosen slightly, but the demon remained nestled against him, his body relaxed and peaceful.
After a while, Aziraphale shifted slightly, reaching for a blanket draped over the back of the couch. He unfolded it and laid it over Crowley, tucking it around his shoulders. His fingers lingered for a moment on the demon’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Crowley made a soft, contented noise, burrowing deeper into Aziraphale’s embrace. “You’re good at this,” he murmured sleepily, his words a little clearer now, though still thick with fatigue.
“At what?” Aziraphale asked, his voice filled with gentle curiosity.
“Taking care of me,” Crowley replied, his voice softer, more vulnerable. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Not alone.”
Aziraphale’s heart swelled with warmth and a touch of sadness. “You shouldn’t be drinking alone, Crowley,” he said quietly. “It’s not good for you.”
Crowley snorted softly against Aziraphale’s neck. “Wasn’t alone,” he mumbled. “Had the wine.” He chuckled at his own joke, a sound that was both bitter and amused.
Aziraphale shook his head, his smile tinged with sorrow. “That doesn’t count,” he replied gently. “You have me. You don’t need to be alone with your thoughts and a bottle.”
Crowley shifted slightly, his head moving to rest more comfortably against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Didn’t want to bother you,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “You’ve got... books and... and stuff.”
Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley, his heart aching with a mix of frustration and affection. “You could never bother me,” he said firmly. “Not you.”
Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s coat tightened momentarily, a silent acknowledgment of the angel’s words. “Sometimes...,” he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that.”
Aziraphale’s eyes softened, and he gently stroked Crowley’s back, trying to convey through his touch what words seemed inadequate to express. “I’m here, Crowley. Always,” he said softly. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Crowley let out a small sigh, his body relaxing further against Aziraphale’s. “Always?” he echoed, his voice tinged with a vulnerability that made Aziraphale’s heart ache.
“Always,” Aziraphale confirmed, his voice unwavering. “We’ve been through too much together for it to be any other way.”
For a long moment, they sat in silence, wrapped in each other’s warmth and the quiet companionship that had grown between them over centuries. The ticking of the grandfather clock marked the passage of time, but for them, in that moment, time seemed to stand still.
Eventually, Crowley’s breathing evened out, and Aziraphale realized he had fallen asleep. The angel sighed softly, a mix of relief and fond exasperation. He adjusted the blanket around them both, making sure Crowley was warm and comfortable.
Aziraphale leaned back against the couch, his head resting on the soft cushions. The world outside could wait. For now, in the quiet of the bookshop, all that mattered was that they were together. And as long as they had that, Aziraphale knew they could face whatever came next.