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Sobriety Test

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It was always going to happen, it was just a matter of time. They've been in a decaying orbit for years, and at some point the collision was inevitable.

It happens three weeks after they thwart Armageddon. Unfortunately it also happens while they're both at least three bottles deep, and that wasn't the extent, just the point where they lost count. The point where the empties no longer fit on the small table next to the sofa, and started being balanced precariously at floor level. They're both thoroughly and stupidly drunk. Coordination has become a thing that requires concentration, and Aziraphale is gradually losing the ability to form coherent sentences.

They've also been kissing for the last three minutes.

Crowley can't even remember who kissed who first. He can't remember who decided that enough was enough, and finally dragged the other in. He just knows there's a half full bottle of wine still rolling around somewhere on the floor (likely on its way to becoming an empty bottle of wine,) one of them had knocked over a small table, and his glasses are somewhere behind Aziraphale's desk. Aziraphale himself is a solid weight against his chest and thighs, both hands on his face, and he's kissing him almost too hard, tasting like wine, slurring every fourth word, strangely fierce in his determination to pin Crowley to the sofa cushions.

Not that Crowley has any strenuous objection to being pinned to the sofa cushions. He's just still a bit overwhelmed by all the touching, if he's being honest. He's spent a very long time being careful about invading too much of Aziraphale's personal space, of slowly and carefully getting them to a place where friendly touching was acceptable. He'd become a master at judging when he could lean in close, when he could nudge a shoulder, or an arm in a friendly sort of way. The right moments to reach out and catch Aziraphale's elbow to steer him somewhere. The moments he could let a gesture become a brush, or even a clasp of hand. Even, when he could get away with it a gentle application of weight after a dinner, or a night of alcoholic indulgence, as close to an embrace as he ever dared.

Crowley had it down to a fucking art.

And now - now suddenly he has a leg flung over one of Aziraphale's, all of his sturdy, warm body plastered against Crowley's, and they're trying to climb each other, which probably isn't physically possibly but feels amazing all the same. Aziraphale is still kissing him in a way that's crushing, and far too wet, but is clearly too drunk to care, and somehow Crowley now has the permission to wrap his hands round Aziraphale's soft waist, curl fingers round his jaw, or touch Aziraphale's hair, his ridiculous hair. He can just push his fingers into it and tug, and get the angel's mouth just that easily. He can just make Aziraphale kiss him - and that's perfectly fine now apparently. It's just - it's a lot, and Crowley honestly doesn't know how it happened.

When Aziraphale's mouth slips away from his he can't help the little whine of protest.

"We should - should we - we shouldn't do this drunk," Aziraphale murmurs against his cheek, probably trying to sound sensible but half the words draw out a little too long. "We should be sober, if we're going to do this."

Crowley hisses a breath and shakes his head. Because, no, that's the absolute last thing they should do. He's smart enough to know that's the fastest way to make all of this stop, to put that space back between them. He's barely been able to touch Aziraphale, to memorize the way he sighs and opens under him. He's not ready to lose this yet.

"No, if you - if we sober up we'll stop, you know we'll stop. It'll be every day all over again, it'll be just the same as before. I don't want to stop." He's far too close to whining, or maybe pleading. But a thought suddenly occurs to him and he sways back a bit, so he can get a good look at Aziraphale's face. Because he's being greedy, he's not thinking about what Aziraphale wants. "Do you want to stop? If you want to stop, I'll stop. Y'know I would, y'know I would stop."

Aziraphale gives him that look, the one that tells Crowley that of course he knows, sort of reassuring and pleased, if a little more wobbly than usual.

"What if we stop and we never start again," Aziraphale says gently, like it's something he's afraid of. Which isn't really an answer.

"We would," Crowley insists, while trying to stop himself from being slowly eaten by the sofa, because he knows what Aziraphale wants from him, reassuring Aziraphale is his thing. "Of course we would, we're like - y'know - things that go together." He just can't currently think of any to help his argument. "Dunno, bookends or something. There's no me without you."

Aziraphale makes the slightest little breathy noise, whole expression softening, and he's either very drunk or feeling a lot of things right now, or maybe both. Which Crowley can relate to intimately. Whatever it is it must be good, because the angel is still touching him. He hasn't stop touching him, fingers warm through the thin sleeves of his shirt, squeezing just a little.

"N'yeah. At least this way we skip all the -" Crowley rolls a hand, then flings it out to gesture, hoping Aziraphale knows what he means. "All the confessions and apologies and other stuff. Y'know. You know. M'not good at that stuff. Get to the being together part. Not drunk us - sober us - they can't take that back, they can't pretend it never happened. We're just - we're just saving them the trouble, saving us the trouble, of the doing the hard part. We don't need that, we don't - it doesn't have to be hard. Shouldn't be hard, angel."

"It's always been," Aziraphale reminds him. "But I think we made it that way - we didn't change it - I think we were - there was too much other stuff to think about - too much to lose."

Which is exactly where Aziraphale is wrong, it was never about the other stuff. Crowley never cared about any of that.

"No, no, no, that stuff didn't matter. Only thing - you were the only thing worth losing."

That does something to Aziraphale's face, makes it go soft, makes his hands lift to lay against Crowley's neck and jaw.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, in a way that sounds so warm and so pleased, and Crowley thinks he could listen to Aziraphale say his name like that for the rest of time. "Don't you think I didn't - do you think I wasn't - because I did, it always did with me, when you were - right there when you were there too." Aziraphale smiles like he's made perfect sense.

Crowley doesn't have the heart to ask for clarification for any of that, but it sounded good, so he just nods helplessly. Because if he can't make poor choices with Aziraphale, then who else?

"Alright," Aziraphale murmurs at last, as if Crowley has managed to convince him with nothing more than his stupid face. "You're right, of course, sobriety be damned."

"That's the spirit," Crowley tells him, and it's an excited sort of relief that leaves him laughing, thighs pressed to the angel's, hands back in those soft half-curls. "They had their chance, and they blew it."

Aziraphale nods firmly. "Yes, definitely - sorry, who? Who had their chance?" He looks horribly confused. Which Crowley forgives him for, because he's not certain he's making a lick of sense right now. He just knows that they're in this together.

"Us, sober us." Crowley says, gesturing around them at the empty bottles, discarded jackets and spilled wine like it's evidence. He lays his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and shakes him a little. "Useless, no backbone, always too careful, always getting so close and then never any closer." Sober Crowley never met an opportunity he couldn't fuck up. An unexpected gift he didn't accidentally kick into the garbage.

"Oh, yes, that's very true," Aziraphale agrees. "They had so many chances, and didn't take any of them. None, and there were so many. There were so many chances, they wasted all of them. They should be ashamed of themselves."

"They should." Crowley nods and sinks into him a little more, rests against the soft curves of Aziraphale's body, and the angel takes his weight, even curls an arm round him, like they've been sliding together since the beginning, like there's nowhere else for Crowley to be. It makes him kiss the angel again, spontaneously, drunkenly, just because he can. "Three weeks, three weeks and I didn't even - he didn't even kiss you, not once."

Aziraphale shakes his head, a few too many times, and then seems to regret it when he has to blink rapidly and tighten his hands on Crowley's arms to stay upright. Though 'upright' is maybe too generous. They've been relying on each other for stability, and that seems to have been a mistake. A very charitable person might say they were 'reclining.' The sofa certainly wasn't big enough for this ten minutes ago, but Crowley feels like one of them fixed that. Or maybe they didn't, because it still feels very small, still feels like it's pushing the both of them together. He can't really fault it for that.

"You do want to do this, with me?" Crowley asks. Because he's suddenly not sure he's been obvious enough about this, if he's clarified what he wants - hopes - needs. If they're both on the same page, in the same book. Aziraphale would know better than him. What with all the books around here. "Y'know, nudity, touching, messy human body things. Do you want it too?"

"Yes, you have no idea how much," Aziraphale says fiercely, as if he desperately wants Crowley to believe him. "If I ever made you doubt that I could ever - ever not want to touch you, I'm sorry."

"N'don't apologise," Crowley tells him. "You don't have to do that. We both - we both did things, it was both our fault."

"No, I absolutely insist. I have always kept you at arms length, I always put up - put up stop signs, and made you wait - but touching you is always a pleasure, always." He proves it by pulling his hands through Crowley's hair, which drags a long, satisfied groan out of him. "Just like this. Oh, I've wanted to do that for an unfathomable - impossible, incredible - amount of time." He sounds so pleased, so ridiculously pleased to make Crowley lose his damn mind.

He tries to respond, but Aziraphale hasn't finished and he shushes him quiet, presses fingers against his mouth, and Crowley sighs his way quiet to let him.

"And it's been so very difficult sometimes to do it by accident - when it's not an accident at all but exactly what I wanted. You're very clever, far cleverer than you give yourself credit for. You notice things. It's hard to be subtle, but I've tried, and it's been so difficult, especially when you -" Aziraphale's fingers are now rubbing against Crowley's mouth, persistent and distracted, and he gives a shaky little moan when Crowley's tongue glides out to taste them. "When you - would you stop that, I can't think when you do that - when you touched me back, which you did sometimes, and I remembered - which I always remembered. So, I confess, I'm a little overwhelmed to have you so close, to be able to touch you. To know that you're amenable to being touched intimately by me, that you want me to. Oh, you have no idea."

Which is just - un-fucking-bearable - knowing that all this time Aziraphale was just secretly finding ways to touch him without him realising, when he could have known all along, when he could have known and been touching him back. They could have been touching each other. He drags Aziraphale's wrist down, wet fingers gliding down his throat.

"Nng, angel, you could have touched me any time you wanted. You could have done it on purpose, could'a done so many things on purpose. Could'a had anything, just had to ask."

"Oh, you mean that, you do," Aziraphale breathes out, and it sounds relieved and delighted, and the fact that Crowley made him sound like that is enough for him to nod, helplessly. "Crowley, can I please take your clothes off?" It's so polite, such a polite request from a drunken angel that it makes Crowley laugh. Because Aziraphale is ridiculous, and no one has ever seduced him half as well.

"Yes, Satan in a handbasket, yes. And I'll do yours," he says. They're both somehow up on their knees, on a sofa that's too small for any of this, swaying like drunk lunatics and trying to undress each other at the same time. Crowley's dizzy, heart pounding too hard to be anything but real, and he honestly doesn't know if it's all the alcohol, or the anticipation, or the way Aziraphale slides his hands up under his shirt while his own hands pop open the tiny buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat. "It'll be perfect. S'just us, right, when've I ever let you down?"

"Never," Aziraphale says firmly, and lets Crowley push off his open waistcoat and start on his shirt. There are so many buttons, he starts off kissing the angel but quickly works out that he can't open the buttons if he's not looking at them. Stupid, fiendish bloody buttons.

Aziraphale is warm underneath the material, all smooth skin, and chest hair, and nipples and all those other exciting naked things that Crowley has spent so long dreaming about but never got to touch. He's thought about it constantly, often with his fingers around himself, and inside himself - sometimes both.

"Ugh, did you think of me while you wanked?" he asks, dragging cotton up and out of Aziraphale's trousers, pushing it over his solid shoulders so he can get his hands on more of him. "Did you, please say you did - thought about you, all the time. Made a complete mess of myself - Unh, so many times - thinking about you."

"What a stupid question, stupid, of course I did," Aziraphale says. Not even a lick of shame, like he wants Crowley to know, and it's so fucking hot he can't stand it.

"Was it good?" Crowley wants to know suddenly, wants to know everything he did. "Ugh, was it filthy?" He hopes it was. He hopes Aziraphale thought obscene things about him while he touched himself. Because he wants to think about that, the next time, he wants to think about Aziraphale touching himself and needing Crowley just as much as he did.

"It was," Aziraphale admits. "I thought about you naked constantly. And it'd been years, far too long, since I saw you like that. Thought things I could never tell you - things I wanted and didn't have the courage to admit to. So many things, how could I not, you're so - you're so much, and you were so good to me. I couldn't touch you, wouldn't touch you. I was a coward, I was a coward, and I didn't deserve any of them - and oh, some of them were obscene." He cuts Crowley a look at that confession, and that, that is a fucking temptation that is, he can spot that a mile off, and he gives a little groaning laugh that's half proud and half frustrated agony.

"Angel, you're gonna tell me. I can't - ugh - can't do them for you, make 'em happen, if you don't tell me." Crowley's managed to get Aziraphale's belt open, but can't remember if it has to come out, or if the trousers can just come off now. And he somehow missed the part where the angel stole everything of his above the waist, because his hands are sliding up Crowley's bare back and dragging him closer. "Gonna do all of them, even the ones y're ashamed of, especially the ones you're ashamed of."

Aziraphale gives a scandalised little laugh, almost loses his balance trying to get his own shirt out from under his knee.

"You don't even know what - you'd want to do that, for me?" he asks. He sounds surprised, why is he so fucking surprised, doesn't he know by now. Doesn't he understand that Crowley would do anything that he asked?

"F'course, f'course, anything, doesn't matter what." Crowley has managed to work out how to get the trousers down, or at least how to get his hands in, and Aziraphale is warm underneath. And it suddenly becomes very real, what they're doing, where they're going and he wants it like he's never wanted anything else. "What've you got?" he asks. "Mm too drunk to - with the lube, or the stretching - and I want to get in, or be gotten in, somewhere."

Aziraphale looks down, as if he'd forgotten, or as if it might've changed without him noticing. Crowley wonders if his does that to. He'll have to ask some time, and it occurs to him that he probably can ask him things like that now, sex things. He can say sex things to Aziraphale. It's like his whole world is suddenly inside out.

"Oh, I have a penis," Aziraphale says, like he's certain, and that makes Crowley smile and squeeze him. "Will that do? I still - I haven't changed anything."

"Right, I'll have the opposite - the other one - for efficiency's sake." Crowley unzips his trousers and slithers them drunkenly off his hips and down, briefly kneeing Aziraphale somewhere he grumbles about, and also briefly losing a leg down some cushions and nearly skidding sideways when he puts his foot on a wine bottle. Until he can push the bunched mess of them off the couch, so they might as well no longer exist. Who knows perhaps they no longer do. That's a problem for the morning. Sober Crowley can deal with it.

He waves a hand in the vague direction of his crotch.

"There, cunt, have at it. And - I mean literally, please have it." That makes him laugh, he has no idea why.

Aziraphale has insisted on taking his socks off, and is still trying to remove his own trousers, far too slowly and carefully, like he thinks he might be judged on his accuracy later. Crowley grumbles frustration and impatience, catches hold of them once they're half way down his thighs, and just hauls them off. Throwing them over his shoulder with maybe a little too much enthusiasm, because he nearly falls backwards after them. Aziraphale catches him, and laughs at him, but he doesn't even care, because the angel is already kissing him in overly wet, drunken pushes which are far more arousing than they have any business being.

A sturdy hand slips between his thighs, and he tries to spread them wider to make room without falling off the sofa. He immediately loses all his air in a moan when Aziraphale's fingers slide over and then inside him.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, shaken and breathy, like he's surprised himself with his forwardness. Or maybe it's the way Crowley immediately rolls into him, pushing his fingers deeper.

"Ugh, fuck, yes." Crowley loops an arm round the angel's back and groans into his cheek, open mouth sliding on skin as he rocks gently but insistently into Aziraphale's hand. "Yeah, just like that, gonna make you spend hours fingering me some other time," he decides, and Aziraphale groans agreement and bites his shoulder. "Cunt, mouth, arse, any other holes I've forgotten - don't really care, you're just gonna - fuck, gonna put all your fingers inside me."

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, voice gone low and greedy, in a way that makes Crowley's whole body clench. "Absolutely, I can do that for you, you can put me to use however you see fit."

Crowley makes a gurgling sound he doesn't intend, because the angel can't just say things like that. He can't just let him have everything he wants, and now he's impatient for everything he can get his greedy hands on. He can't help shoving his hands in Aziraphale's very sensible underwear, stripping them down and letting the solid weight of his dick sway free, to bump and then settle against the low curve of his stomach. Crowley sucks a breath and makes a quiet noise of approval. Because Aziraphale's dick deserves a moment. It deserves several moments. He can't help sliding his hand around it, watching Aziraphale's whole body try and press up into him as he shudders out a breath.

"That's a nice one, that's nice that is. Knew you'd have a beautiful dick. S'thick, going to feel that going in." He can almost feel it already, the heavy stretch of it, the way it'll open him up. "And coming out, and going in again."

"Please stop," Aziraphale says desperately. "If you keep saying things like that there'll be no - there'll be none of that. I'll come all over your thighs."

Crowley's throat punches out a noise. Oh, he can picture that, he has a great imagination for picturing things. Aziraphale just painting his thighs and stomach with come, without even getting inside, just at the thought of him.

"Fuck, I'd like that. I'd let you do that, if you wanted." He slips a hand down between his thighs, and presses it against his cunt, where he's warm and already slickly wet. He's so fucking ready - what is taking Aziraphale so long? Why are they not fucking already? It's like the refrain of his entire life in one big drunken crescendo.

Does he have to do everything himself?

Crowley pushes Aziraphale harder into the sofa, almost laying him down, and then slithers up his body, long legs straddling his waist, knees somewhere in the cushions. He braces himself up on Aziraphale's lovely chest, then wobbles a little when Aziraphale nearly knocks him off again trying to help.

"Alright, come on, put your dick in me."

He feels the press of Aziraphale's arm, the way one of his legs eases sideways, and then briefly the jut of a cockhead against his inner thigh. Close enough to be maddening, his thighs are shaking, throat pulled tight with arousal.

"Just shove it in," Crowley mutters impatiently.

"I'm endea - endeav - trying to." Aziraphale sounds just as ruined as Crowley feels.

They briefly get in the way of each other, both trying to get a hand on Aziraphale's dick. Crowley is impatient, he wants the greedy stretch of it inside him, wants to be pushing down on it and making Aziraphale come already. He feels the press of it, feels it slide wet and awkward against his labia, before it juts hard against his clitoris and slides away. Aziraphale makes a frustrated, helpless noise - but Crowley just shushes him, tilts his hips, finds the head and then pushes down on it, feels Aziraphale's dick stretch him open as it slides all the way in, as he sinks all the way down.

"Unh, motherfuck, yes." Crowley loses all his air, thighs pulling up, and he's clenching down on it like it's a prize he wants to keep. He was right, it's a good one, and hard enough to feel every shift and throb of it inside. "S'good, s'sssogood."

Aziraphale makes a noise like he's been gutted, hands pulling down hard on Crowley's waist.

"Aziraphale, fuck, you feel good," Crowley slurs. "Knew you would - always knew you would." He starts moving, using the back of the sofa and Aziraphale's half-raised knee as leverage. "Unh, wanted this so badly. You have no idea - none - what I would have done for this."

Aziraphale expression is utterly open, watching Crowley move over him with something like awe. The angel can't seem to stop touching him, fingers moving on every part of him, from the curve of his throat to the peaks of his nipples, his shifting waist, the rolling sensitivity of his clitoris, big drunken hands just going everywhere like he couldn't decide what to touch and settled for everything. Which is probably good, because Crowley thinks if Aziraphale actually focused anywhere he'd come apart at the seams.

It's the clumsiest, messiest, most uncoordinated fuck Crowley has ever had, and it's fucking perfect.

"You're so lovely," Aziraphale says, voice shaken by the push and shove of Crowley's hips. "I should have told you - should have told you all the time. There's not a single - not one - nothing about you which isn't exquisite."

Crowley's hips shudder, and he chokes an exhale, which turns into a laugh without his consent.

"Ugh, shut up, trying to fuck you here."

He leans back a little, a different angle, a different pace, pressure in exactly the right spot, everything is so very good. And judging by the way the angel mutters something vaguely blasphemous and pushes up into him it's good for him too. Until Aziraphale's hands find his waist again, grip tight and slow his pace by force.

"Crowley. Crowley, you lovely thing, wait, I want to - can we - I want -"

Crowley stops, because that was barely coherent, and he really needs to know what Aziraphale wants. Whatever he wants, whatever it is, Crowley will give it to him.

"Wha'dya want?"

"I want you under me," Aziraphale says quietly, and admitting it makes a long shiver go through him, like even saying it is almost too much. "If you'd like that. I want to - into you - can I, please?"

"Yeah, f'course, definitely," Crowley agrees, because he can absolutely work with that. "You wanna put me on my back, yeah, pin me down, spread my legs open and fuck me?" He needs to stop saying things, it's distracting listening to all the things he wants in his own voice. "Gonna make it good for me?"

Aziraphale nods and makes a deep, affirmative noise in his throat, hands already pulling like Crowley gave him an order.

They try and twist in the cushions, realise it's not going to work, and then continue to try it for a minute or so anyway, because they're both that bloody stubborn. Eventually Aziraphale pulls out and turns them both, pins Crowley to the sofa, grips his thighs and spreads them open in one impatient movement. And that threatens to shatter any higher brain function Crowley still has, reducing him to inarticulate noises and digging fingers. Aziraphale takes hold of his dick and pushes it back in, fills that wet space he'd barely left, in a way that makes Crowley gurgle in his throat and grip at the armrest over his head.

"You need to never stop fucking me," Crowley slurs, tongue feeling entirely the wrong shape, or size, or species. Because if he remembered how to control it at any point he's completely forgotten how. "You need to just be fucking me constantly."

They're a little too enthusiastic, Aziraphale slips out twice and then jabs awkwardly into Crowley's pelvis, and the crease of his thigh. Crowley wonders if he should lube his arse up just in case. Could be a good idea, it'd be there, and then if Aziraphale wanted he could just keep going, until he'd been absolutely everywhere inside Crowley, until every part of him remembered what Aziraphale felt like. Because he thinks he needs that, Aziraphale inside every part of him. Or every part of him inside Aziraphale - and they need to do that later. They need to do everything.

It's a good job Crowley's so bloody flexible, because Aziraphale keeps pulling him in close enough to kiss him, while pushing his legs open wider, until one falls off the sofa entirely. Until he's a shuddering mess of sweaty skin, desperate noises, and slowly clenching tightness. Crowley slips his free hand down, slides against where Aziraphale is moving into him, over and over, to wet his fingers, then pulls them back up and rolls his clitoris. Giving little punchy breaths when Aziraphale groans and shifts his body up so he can watch him. Which is only the third hottest thing to happen to him in the last ten minutes.

"I'm going to come," Crowley slurs. "Soon, ah, fuck, really soon."

Aziraphale makes a noise, something lost and desperate, and Crowley doesn't know if it means 'wait for me' or 'yes, me too,' or possibly 'oh, splendid, carry on then.' But he can't wait any longer, he can't.

"Can't," Crowley insists, just in case he was supposed to wait. "'Ziraphale, s'too good, can't wait."

"Don't, I want to see it, I want to watch you do it," Aziraphale tells him. And it's too firm, too demanding, not to do exactly what he's told.

His orgasm rolls over him, and then takes him under. Aziraphale slows but doesn't stop, and the steady, greedy pushes drag him through it. Crowley's clenching and shaking, and pulling his thighs in to feel every damn second of it. Until he's dizzy and warm, and every breath is sawing in like he actually needs it. When he's done Crowley lets his legs fall open, whole body utterly spent but still deliciously sensitive. He lets Aziraphale grip his waist, lets the angel have him in any way he wants. And it's good, it's so good, because he can watch like this. He can watch Aziraphale braced over him, the width of him moving, all naked softness and gripping hands, expression desperate and focused in a way that makes Crowley feel split open.

"Y're beautiful like this," Crowley tells him, and he means it.

Aziraphale groans and presses closer, curves an arm under Crowley's back and holds him, working fast and hard where Crowley is almost ridiculously wet, and he's seriously thinking about rubbing himself off again. Instead he slides a hand down, catches at the plush curve of the angel's arse. He digs his fingers in, feeling every draw back, and thrust forward.

"Come on, come inside me," Crowley demands.

There's a sharply bitten off curse against the warmth of his mouth, and Aziraphale shoves to a stop and does exactly as he's told.

"Yeah, that's it," Crowley says breathlessly, bringing his thighs together and squeezing them tight on Aziraphale's waist, while the angel moans his name and spills inside him. Aziraphale falls apart over him, buried all the way inside, and Crowley doesn't have to close his eyes, so he watches every second of it.

They spend a few long minutes kissing, drunkenly, while the room sort of wavers in and out. Before Crowley lets his legs fall open again, and groans satisfaction.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes into his mouth, one hand buried in his hair, the other at the sweaty narrowness of his waist. "You are so absolutely necessary to me. Please tell me - you must know."

Crowley's probably past trying to look cool, trying to look as if he has literally any of his shit together. So he just hums assent, then pats the angel, in a way that he hopes conveys that he feels the same, and also his desire to close his legs at some point in the not too distant future. Aziraphale says 'quite' in an amused tone, so he clearly got something from it. Though he nearly falls off the couch when he slips out and pushes himself upright, luckily Crowley's drunken, post-orgasmic reflexes are still apparently up to the task of rescuing him. Aziraphale ends up smooshed into Crowley's left side. The beautiful, sticky weight of him no trouble at all.

"You need supervision at all times, angel. Don't know what you'd do without me."

Aziraphale sighs against his throat and agrees, one hand sliding up Crowley's thigh, fingers stopping when they reach the mess they'd left.

"Don't you fucking dare miracle that away," Crowley tells him. Because he feels sore, and wet, and incredibly well-used and it's perfect. And he wants sober him to remember this, and be jealous that he didn't get to it first. Sober Crowley is a fucking coward. Clean-up is no less than he deserves.

Aziraphale settles against him, soft against all of Crowley's sharp edges, he kisses Crowley's sleepy mouth, and strokes his hair, says his name like Crowley is something beautiful. As if he has no intention of leaving.

It's honestly just too much for Crowley right now, so he presses his face into Aziraphale's skin and stops fighting unconsciousness.