hey kid......hey could i get a 'things you said when you were drunk' for azcrow....
send me a ship and one of these prompts
Aziraphale is not entirely sure about all of the things that make a six-thousand year friendship work. It’s a complicated thing, full of unspoken agreements and compromises. He knows this though: in order to make an immortal friendship between an angel and a demon work, there are just certain things one doesn’t bring up. This made a lot of sense to him about five or six glasses ago.
However, things have gotten rather fuzzy since then, and not just because he misplaced his spectacles around glass number three.
They’ve known each other this long, and Aziraphale has never really managed to insult Crowley before. So why not?
He attempts to gather his thoughts, fails, and then goes on anyway. “Crowley,” he says, cutting the demon off mid-monologue about... something. He had been listening rather intently a moment before, but he can’t exactly remember what it was they were discussing. Crowley trails off, making a noise that is both an affirmation and a question, which ends up sounding a bit like “Weh?”
“You never really told me. Why, exactly, did you Fall? What did you do?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley’s face does a number of funny things, and then eventually he lets a long, loud sigh escape his mouth. “Well, y’know I just,” he gestures widely with his hands, “misbehaved, I s’pose. Asked questions, I think. It’s a bit muddled, before the Fall.”
“Surely you remember some of it,” Aziraphale presses, pouring wine liberally into Crowley’s glass.
Crowley gives him a bland look. Aziraphale looks back with an expectant smile, only realizing that perhaps he should have backtracked and changed the subject after Crowley opens his mouth to speak again. He’s got a serious, rather grim look on his face. His jovial drunkenness from a moment before is gone. His cheeks are still red, speech slightly slurred, but all the enjoyment has gone.
“I just told you, I asked questions. About Her motivations.” Aziraphale sucks in a breath through his teeth. If there were an angel rulebook (which there isn’t), he’s fairly confident that Rule One would be “Do not question God’s motivations.”
“I wanted to know! Why did She make the things She did? And why did She make them only to discard them for something newer after She’s had her fun? Could She never be satisfied? Make the angels, but nah, they’re no fun anymore. Galaxies, sure, pretty, but couldn’t there be more? Humans, which She supposedly cherishes, but it seems to me all they’re really meant to do is suffer in the name of Her love,” Crowley snaps out, each word harsher than the one before.
Aziraphale swallows, an apology on his lips, but Crowley just shakes his head. “Best be getting on, angel. It’s late, and I have a whole day of nefarious wrongdoing planned for tomorrow,” he says, staggering awkwardly to his feet. Aziraphale chokes out his name, but Crowley ignores him.
He stops at the door, and turns just enough to look at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. “And you know what the worst part is? She never actually answered any of them.” Then he’s gone, swinging out into the damp London night.
