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Long Night

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Just when Aziraphale thinks he has the warning signs down pat (three bottles of mediocre chardonnay plus an ill-advised gin and tonic), some other combination trips it off (two bottles of stellar California red and a pitcher of citrus-heavy sangria). At the moment, Crowley is staring glaze-eyed at the stereo, empty glass in hand, chewing idly on a cherry-stem. Why this song out of the whole lot should catch his attention, Aziraphale has no idea. They've been listening to the album for an hour.

"Sss'true," Crowley hisses fervently. The stem falls harmlessly back into his glass.

"Hmmm?" Aziraphale asks, pretending he hadn't heard, taking a tactful sip of sangria. It's all they have left, so he'd better make it last. At least for a little while. He's almost used up his quota of miracles for the month, and although nobody seems to be keeping close tabs anymore, he errs on the side of caution, just in case. He would rather not explain rogue alcohol.

"Ssslips away," he murmurs, nodding sagely. "That they do."

"What do, Crowley?"

"Dreamsss," he explains. "Down the drain they go. Plop. Like soap."

Aziraphale blinks at Crowley, setting his glass down on the coffee table. "Like—?"

"You know," Crowley continues, waving his hand, "washing-up liquid. Fairies."

"I think you mean Fairy, singular," Aziraphale sighs, taking the empty glass off of him. He'd nearly just scattered ice cubes and sucked-dry slices of orange and lime all over his own sofa. "It's a brand. Which you never buy."

Crowley jabs one finger at the stereo, abruptly and intensely emphatic.

"Who does wanna live forever anyha—how—way?"

"We'll live forever. Er. Provided there aren't any more...close calls." The thought makes Aziraphale squirm a little, as he's vaguely tipsy in spite of being leagues ahead of Crowley in the sobriety department. He's only just got Crowley, it feels like, in the sense that he has any right to ownership. To love. If he's ever told to give the demon up, by God, there will be blood. And feathers. Lots of them, quite likely.

"Yeah," Crowley counters, "but do we want to?"

"Well, I—"

"Nobody asked us," he says, slowly, with a hint of bitterness. "And as for daring to, well, I'd have chosen truth if I'd been given the bloody option, thanksss."

Aziraphale presses two fingers cautiously to Crowley's cheek and turns his head away from the stereo, until they're staring at each other, wide-eyed and slightly unfocused.

"The truth, Crowley? Is that what you'd like?"

Crowley blinks and swallows, his tongue flicking briefly past his lips. He's dehydrated, the poor dear, Aziraphale thinks hazily, overwhelmed by the sudden, stupid urge to carry Crowley off to bed and bring him a glass of water, and then join him.

"Yes?" he ventures, the sibilant unnaturally clipped.

"If I didn't have you, I wouldn't want to," Aziraphale says. "But, since I do, I'm very glad we will." He slips an arm around Crowley, tugging him closer.

"Ah," Crowley sighs, relieved, his eyes darting towards the stereo. "You can jussst sod off, then," he tells it, and collapses against Aziraphale's shoulder, snoring softly.

Aziraphale finishes his drink in peace, enjoying the tickle of Crowley's hair against his nose.

Who waits forever anyway? asks the stereo, the song fading into static.

He would have, if that's how long it would have taken.