Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and the bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again.
- - - -
"Aziraphale is not one to overindulge in alcohol.
Except for when the occasion really calls for it.
And this one does.
Because - because -
He wants Crowley. He wants his companionship. He wants him here, now. He wants Crowley - he wants. He wants-
Another glass of wine. By now he’s lost count.
Because Crowley is not here. Aziraphale could call him. He could, but - but. Aziraphale is in no state. Probably. And besides, Crowley cannot come. Not tonight, at least. Maybe never. Crowley drove off, after all. Maybe Aziraphale has waited too long. Maybe he’s gone too slow.
And this thought is painful enough to warrant another drink. Or three.
He’s drunk his way through a Chateau Pontet Bordeaux red blend, an Albert Mann pinot noir, the Monsanto Chianti Classico Riserva, and half of the crystal encased Glenglassaugh whiskey by this point, and he’s fine. He is. Really. Even if the room has begun to sway around him."