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Crowley is quite sloshed when Aziraphale's ethereal form manifests opposite him in the bar. For long seconds, before Aziraphale speaks, Crowley thinks he's only imagining him, the particularly torturous offspring of fantasy and inebriation. Oh, how he aches when he sees Aziraphale, the outline of him all wibbly-wobbly. But then the apparition speaks, and it doesn't say anything particularly out of character for Aziraphale - nothing too... fanciful, nothing too similar to the things Aziraphale says in Crowley's dreams - and after six thousand years of incredulously watching him Crowley finds it easy enough to accept that Aziraphale did something so wildly outside the approved angelic playbook. He explains what happened to him, and Crowley explains- too much (too fast). Aziraphale's spirit shifts uncomfortably, and continues on quickly, something about finding a body. He says, "Pity I can't inhabit yours," and laughs it off.
Here is where it is especially relevant that Crowley is so piss drunk. There he is, sloshing around in his all but fermented brain, still aching, and also only vaguely listening, and he thinks to himself, 'I am so tired of this'.1 He's tired of acting like he doesn't want. He's a demon; it's against his nature.
"Well, why couldn't you then?" he asks belligerently, plopping his chin into his hand with a harrumph. Or rather, that's what he means to do. Instead his words come out slurred and whiny and his movement gives off the impression that one half of him is losing its structural integrity.
"Ah- well," Aziraphale splutters.2 "I'm an angel and you're a demon! We'd probably explode." He sounds sad about it and Crowley rolls his eyes so hard he has to miracle away the strain. Typical angel to be so heartbroken over some random harm that hasn't even come to pass.
"Only one way to find out, angel," Crowley points out, and it does actually manage to be a little pointy. His attempt to wiggle his eyebrows, less so.
"I hardly think we have the time to be experimenting with our metaphysicality right now, darling," Aziraphale scoffs. The sound has a strange formless echo to it, given that he's not actually moving any air around. But Crowley is drunk, and he's achy and tired, and he's been so full of this damnable yearning for so long, and there's hardly any chance that they'll succeed anyway. He would rather die than not have this, something, just one more chance to bask in it that no one has been closer to him than Aziraphale, one more chance to just- ask the question. Just one more question, just one more time, and go out with a boom before the answer befalls him.
"You hardly have time to find someone else," he insists, and his voice is so quiet it must be so obvious what he really means. But, in typical angel fashion, Aziraphale shows him mercy and pretends to take those words at face value.3 He shifts again, squirming along with his inconsistent edges, and sighs deeply.
"Yes," he says. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But..." He lifts his imaginary hand to nervously rub along the bridge of his imaginary nose. "Well... Are you quite sure?" Crowley doesn't so much shrug as undulate his entire body starting at the shoulders.
"I'm a being of self-interest, angel," he jibes. Silly that he has to say it. Even without the rest of their history together, this alone would make them both deeply aware. "I wouldn't offer something if I wasn't willing to give it." He attempts to tap his wrist. He misses. "C'mon, then! The time bomb's a-ticking." Aziraphale gives every appearance of taking a deep breath, of closing his eyes, of leaning in as if for a kiss. Crowley does not take a deep breath; he does not breathe. He does not close his eyes; he does not blink.
Aziraphale seems to come inside both gradually and all at once. There's a strange sensation across Crowley's face, over his neck, his shoulders, the tops of his thighs, like Aziraphale is sinking into him like he's a warm bath, and Crowley can feel himself moving out of Aziraphale's way and clinging to him exactly as such. At the same time, in every bone in Crowley's body, and in every space in between, there is a- a rushing, and the rushing is both like standing underneath a waterfall and like skydiving. And behind Crowley's eyes and all through his head Crowley feels a sugar rush, a buzzing, a crackle-popping, and also a vast, endless peace. And in his chest Crowley's heart feels squeezed, crushed, and also huge, growing, and as light and soft and delicate as a feather. And all down his limbs and through each artery and vein, Crowley feels hot like a burning, ravenous fire. And his fingers and his toes and his tongue all tingle, static, pins and needles, or the scratchy softness of wool. And he feels Aziraphale- he feels Aziraphale everywhere, inside him, in every pore and deeper, encapsulating every corporeal molecule, and deeper, pressed all up against his own soul. Aziraphale, pure and unadulterated. It feels like late nights in a low-lit bookshop, and it feels like wine on his tongue, like oysters, and it feels like consecrated ground on his feet, and like six thousand years of tender caresses, and six thousand years of glancing blows, six thousand eyes staring at him unblinkingly, unflinchingly. It feels like a lorry has been dropped right on his head, if a lorry could be filled with love rather than shrink-wrapped crates of frivolous consumer goods. It feels soft and hard, and hot and cold, and it's firm and solid and it's ticklish and furtive, and it hurts and it feels so fucking good.
The mortal human body is only equipped with five senses4 and therefore only capable of feeling so many sensations. That is so many at one time, and of so many kinds. The mortal human body cannot feel peace, nor is there the sensation of being utterly observed. The mortal human body cannot feel its own molecules or its own soul, or the presence of an extra one in there with the usual tenant. The mortal human body cannot feel love. Not in the physical sense.
All this to say, the mortal human body that Crowley currently exists in the form of has a very limited selection of ways to interpret the myriad (ineffable) sensations of having the unique complementary soul of a deeply, eternally, beloved friend enter it. The poor thing has only ever had one soul in it before, and that was Crowley. So:
Crowley's eyes cross and his vision goes black. His muscles seize, his spine arching and throwing his head back. His hands clench and the one on the table tears claw marks through his napkin. His toes curl and his stomach swoops. His temperature rises, making him flush across his cheekbones and down his neck and - though not visible underneath his jacket and shirt - over his shoulders and down his chest. A light sheen of sweat springs up from his tight, hot skin. His jaw drops and his throat opens and his voice cries out in confused all-encompassing ecstasy. Crowley comes in his pants. Crowley falls out of his chair.
Regaining full material consciousness is a slow process for Crowley, after all that. Perhaps contrary to convention, Crowley has only had approximately half of a half a dozen (3) orgasms before in his long immortal life. Once at the ministrations of Lin Siniang, once Shakespeare, and once by his own hand, all out of a simple curiosity. The first two he had an alright enough time, it was nice, a little boring, not worth any repeat performances, but not bad. The last was a subtle kind of unpleasant that left him just ever so slightly off-kilter for a day or two after. All three, obviously, were nothing like this. As he blinks the spots out of his vision and the ceiling of the bar comes into view piece by piece, Crowley realizes that he is sticky, he's taking on a chill, he's the subject of many scandalized glares, he's pretty sure his hair is messed up, and he is stone-cold sober.5 Which is all nothing to say of the buzz just under his skin, the unbroken electrical current of pin-prick bliss that is Aziraphale's presence. Crowley considers attempting to move, can't find the motivation, and whimpers instead.
"Well," Aziraphale says. Crowley feels his mouth move and the sound waves vibrate in his vocal chords, but it's wholly Aziraphale's action, and Aziraphale's voice comes out. "I suppose now we know." It takes a long few moments for Crowley to work up the wherewithal to respond.
"I think," he rasps weakly. "You'll have to operate for a while, angel."
It's not exactly like being carried, riding along in his body while it moves around without any effort or say so from him, but it is quite relaxing. Crowley lazes about as Aziraphale picks them up, apologizes calmly to the bartender who is yelling that he's going to call 112 if they don't leave, exits the bar ("And stay out!" shouts the bartender after them; "Oh, how gauche," Aziraphale mutters), and climbs into the passenger seat of the Bentley. It gives Crowley a nice comfortable minute to regret every decision he's ever made.
'Fuck!' Crowley thinks, and then attempts to lower his internal volume when Aziraphale's step falters. Aziraphale is so calm and steady, unaffected, aloof. Crowley had wanted to ask the question again, just one more time. Well, here is the answer, again, all over him, inside him, everywhere. Aziraphale is six thousand keen eyes on a lorry full of love - but not the kind of love Crowley feels. Aziraphale is an angel and he feels the love from on High; the pure love of the Almighty; love for All in equal, infinite fountains. Crowley is a demon and he feels love for himself and his own life and deeds and things, and just one other. Crowley is a demon, wrapped up inside a mortal human body, and his kind of love makes a mess in his pants just because his best friend touched him.
He shouldn't have asked. All the times Crowley asked for anything, for something more or something different, from the very beginning of everything up to right now, he should have just accepted whatever it was he was given. He should have always known he wouldn't like having the answers.
Aziraphale sits quietly, prim in the seat, and waits patiently for Crowley to come back around. When he does, Crowley blinks for them, frowns lightly.
"We can't drive from the passenger side, Aziraphale," he scoffs, and throws them back out of the car and round to the other side. He flops them down into the seat and the Bentley hums to life, purring, happy to see him. The steering wheel feels familiar and perfect under their hands, and it does make Crowley feel a tiny bit better about being such an unholy mess (literally). His car likes the way he loves it. Granted, it's not alive, but Crowley likes to imagine that it would be bereft if things changed between them. Crowley clears their throat as he pulls them out onto the road.
"Tadfield?" he asks.
"Yes, that's right," Aziraphale confirms.
"Right, then." Crowley attempts to drive like he normally does, but Aziraphale keeps squeezing their eyes shut tight so Crowley has to try his very best to slow down and remember to use the indicators. Now I'm Here plays quietly, gratingly, and continues on even after Crowley turns the stereo system off. They sit in silence, Crowley struggling under the gentle onslaught of bodily joy. It's nothing compared to when Aziraphale first came into him, but it's ceaseless and every second of it brings Crowley closer and closer to losing his mind. They get onto the M-25 and go for perhaps a kilometer before it, of course, comes to a complete standstill.
"Bugger," Crowley swears dully. He briefly contemplates praying for undeserved mercy when the song repeats. His grip on the steering wheel makes the leather creak. Aziraphale clears their throat now.
"Crowley," he says, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I- I think I owe you an apology." Deep inside him Crowley feels a squirming, super-heated shame. It's a familiar feeling, but it isn't his. Not this time. Regardless of the origin, Crowley has no idea - for one blissfully ignorant second - what it could be for. But as he takes a breath to ask Aziraphale what the Heaven he's talking about, Crowley realizes. Aziraphale is going to bloody well apologize for not having the same limited, perverted feelings that Crowley does. He's all mixed up in there now, he can feel Crowley's self-perpetuated pain, and Lord knows even if he wasn't he'd probably still notice it and take it upon himself. It's not as if Crowley is very good at hiding, at going a reasonable speed. Oh bless it, but he doesn't want to hear this. As if he doesn't feel guilty enough already, and when he shouldn't feel guilt at all!
"I didn't mean to..." Aziraphale claims softly. Crowley has a momentary fantasy about ramming the car forward into the bumper ahead and discorporating them, going down to Hell, and enduring a century long lecture on proper demonic behavior and double checking his work, just to spare himself from this. "I didn't mean to, ah, to desecrate our bond." Crowley is so wrapped up in his dread that he doesn't absorb Aziraphale's words at first, but when they finally work their way into his consciousness they don't make much sense.
"To- What?" Crowley blinks hard, clearing his vision of the last vestiges of his daydream, as if seeing clearly will help him hear better.
"It was very untoward of me," Aziraphale continues, so quickly that were they not speaking out of the same mouth surely he would have interrupted Crowley. "And please believe it was not intentional. It was so selfless of you to allow me into your body like this, and truly I am so grateful, you must understand. I just- I didn't expect it to feel like that, like this, and I suppose I got caught up in it and took it farther than I should have, farther than you would have preferred, clearly, and- Oh, I'll hardly be an angel at all if I don't get control of this earthly hedonism, will I? Good Heavens." He laughs nervously, pitched and thready. Crowley carefully unravels all of that.
"You- Hang on!" he yelps when he has a grasp on what's happened. He whips his head to the side on reflex, forgetting for a flash that Aziraphale is inside him rather than beside him. "You liked that?" Aziraphale squirms, shifting their legs up and down and causing the car to roll forward before Crowley slams their foot back down on the brake and halts them with a jerk.
"Well, yes," he admits, half grudgingly and half defensive. "It felt quite good, didn't it? And your body interpreted it as sex, which is alright." The buzzing under Crowley's skin kicks up in pitch, in volume, it expands and takes up space in his mind.
"You like sex?" he demands incredulously.
"It's alright," Aziraphale repeats. "Bit like sleeping, really." His tone speaks of a vague contentedness, pleasant non-commitment, but when he continues he's breathless. "It was never anything like that." He gets their breath back enough to add, grouchily, "I think we've gone a bit off-topic." There's another pause, and in the expectant silence Play The Game comes on. Crowley takes a deep breath, bracing himself, readying to confess. To ask again. Just one more time.
"I thought I was the one to - what did you say? - 'desecrate our bond'," he admits with effort. His teeth are gritted. This mortal human body might be weaker, but it's wiser than the soul inside; it doesn't want to let him take this risk again. "I didn't let you in here selflessly, angel, I wanted you in. I want- I want you." Crowley swallows hard, closes their eyes, waits for the answer to befall him.
"...Still?" Aziraphale whispers, letting their eyes stay closed. "Even after- Well." Crowley tips their chin in a shaky nod, trusting that Aziraphale will feel it. "I want you too, Crowley. I know I was... hesitant, before. And I know I've hurt you. But... I do. I want you." Crowley blinks their eyes open and breathes a sigh of the deepest relief he's ever felt. He opens their mouth but before he can say anything more embarrassing than what's already out there, the M-25 bursts into unholy flames.
"Oh, fuck me!" Crowley curses, and pounds the wheel. He does his best to ignore the bubble of naughty amusement that isn't his. He's newly motivated, now, to make sure that he has plenty of time to think about that later.
"Did you do that?" Aziraphale asks once he's gotten over his little giggle.
"No!" Crowley snaps. "Well, yes, but- Ugh, I had the bloody freeway shaped like Odegra."
"Oh! That's quite dastardly," Aziraphale says approvingly. Crowley does not preen. They don't have time for this.
"We don't have time for this," he states.
"We don't really have time for anything," Aziraphale agrees, incongruously calm. "And we've wasted quite a bit." Crowley is not calm6 and that is making him even less so. "You could always just drive through it."
"Pardon?" Surely Crowley must have heard that wrong.
"There won't be any traffic on the other side," Aziraphale reasons, in a reasonable tone. That is undoubtedly true, but the fact remains that between this side and the other side is a raging wall of fire. "We need to get to Tadfield to prevent the End, Crowley. We have to, if we want to keep living. If we want to... experiment with our metaphysicality. Together."
"Well," says Crowley hoarsely. "When you put it like that." Crowley straightens their shoulders and leans forward, and Aziraphale stretches a wide grin over their mouth.
"Crowley," he murmurs, and Crowley shudders as sparks of tantric pleasure dance up and down their spine. "Darling, go as fast as you can."
Crowley gulps, and floors it.
1: This is not an unusual thought for Crowley to have. It's just that usually he's not drunk when he has it. Usually Crowley is rather a cheerful drunk. Usually it is not the apocalypse, and usually he has been drinking with Aziraphale rather than at the loss of him.[BACK]
2: Had Aziraphale been in a corporeal human body at the time he would have been blushing tomato red. However, being incorporeal he must concentrate very deliberately on every facet of his appearance in order for it to occur. This is unfortunate, because perhaps if Aziraphale had blushed Crowley would have caught a clue and the whole situation might have been avoided or at least significantly abridged. But then again, perhaps not.[BACK]
3: Perhaps if Crowley's true meaning had been obvious to Aziraphale and Aziraphale had been pretending to take his words at face value the whole situation might have been avoided or at least significantly abridged. But then again... No.[BACK]
4: Some models may vary. The mortal human bodies currently in circulation on earth can come with anywhere from one to six senses. None are defective. Refunds and exchanges will not be tendered at this time. The Almighty thanks you for your understanding.[BACK]
5: Later, maybe days or maybe millennia, almost certainly hours, Crowley will discover that his mortal human body has made a neural highway from the rapid sober-up direct to the pleasure center of his mortal human brain. There will not be any traffic on this particular highway. There will be no jams, no blockages, and most notably no speed limit. Crowley will not be very keen on this highway.[BACK]
6: Aziraphale is not calm either. Aziraphale is panicking. He is panicking about Armageddon, and he is panicking about his Feelings, and he is panicking about Crowley's Feelings, and his is panicking about how much trouble he's soon to be in with the Heavenly Host, and he is panicking about how he'll never be able to replace all of the books that burned in his shop. But that is for Aziraphale to know.[BACK]