Work Text:
Crowley was draped over a mildly dubious mattress in a cheap hotel in a middle-of-nowhere town in Spain, 1478. Perhaps draped wasn’t the right word; sprawled would have been a more apt description. He had arrived in the country a week ago, and hadn’t been sober since.
He had been awarded a commendation for outstanding job performance and decided he’d better see what he was getting credit for. Two and a half hours later he was finishing off his first bottle of wine (or the equivalent of - he’d miracled up an endless bottle) in the nasty hotel. He only stopped drinking when he passed out, which is where he was now.
The demon stirred and gagged, barely holding down the latest few hours worth of alcohol. He rolled onto his back and fumbled blindly for the bottle which had fallen from his grasp, covering his eyes from the light which made the space behind them ache. He found the pool of blood red liquid before he wrapped his fingers around the glass and took another swig, not bothering to clean up the mess.
“Did you do this?” He heard a familiar voice speak in a very unfamiliar tone from the doorway. He squinted in it’s general direction and saw Aziraphale (rather, three Aziraphales) standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a disapproving glower on his face.
“I g-got an… an commed—, command—, commendation for out—… very good work done,” he hiccupped, trying to push himself up with his arms but nearly falling off the mattress when the room dipped precariously.
“I just convinced two very angry young men that allowing a six year old child to see her mother one last time might do the world of good when it came to enlightening her on the correct religious affiliation,” the angel said bluntly. The thought nearly made Crowley gag again, and he shut his eyes against the image.
“Go away angel,” he droned. If he was aware enough to care, he would have been humiliated at the miserable tremor in his voice. Aziraphale wasn’t backing down.
“Crowley, did you do this?” He asked, slower this time, punctuating every word so Crowley couldn’t possibly have misunderstood the question. He shook his head and felt his lip tremble before he pinched it between his teeth and dropped his head in an attempt to hide the emotion.
There was a shuffling somewhere in the room as he heard the door swing shut and felt the bed dip beside him. The angel’s fingers wrestled his for the bottle in his hands, but finally managed to pull it away after a valiant effort on Crowley’s part to keep it close to him. It disappeared into nothing at the same time as the stain.
Finally, after nearly eight days of drinking and passing out and drinking until he passed out again, Crowley couldn’t hold back the single tear that escaped his eye, very much without his permission. He gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists so hard his nails nearly ripped the skin on his palms. He took a few shaky breaths to steady himself, refusing to acknowledge the fact Aziraphale was still sitting beside him, but felt his entire body start to shiver like a leaf in a tornado.
“It’s okay dear,” he felt a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles with it’s fingers. Crowley felt another tear burn a fiery trail down his face and shook his head, burying it in his hands. He was vaguely aware of the fact he wanted to say something else, but his head had been filled with a fog that itched uncomfortably every time he tried to think through it, so he gave up trying to articulate. He let out a sorrowful noise as his shoulders shook and his hands were flooded with tears. He felt the angel scoot closer to him and wrap his arms around his hunched form, doing all he could to comfort him. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care that this was not the way a proper demon behaved. If this was the sort of thing demons were rewarded for, he’d rather die than act like one.
“I don’t wan— wan’t the… credit f— for this,” he mumbled when he finally regained an ounce of composure.
“All that matters is that it wasn’t you,” Aziraphale hummed in his natural soothing tone. Crowley wiped his eyes and glanced up at him, watching as his eyes grew impossibly sadder when he saw the state of the demon. Crowley wasn’t an idiot, and despite being utterly wasted knew exactly what a mess he was. His head was throbbing from crying so much and the walls were bending in ways that were distinctly wrong.
The demon groaned and threw his head back against the mattress, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like it could possibly do any good. His mind was going as fast as it could (which wasn’t very fast) to find a way to get out of this with any dignity when the angel spoke up.
“I think you should sober up dear,” he said gently. Crowley thought about it for a while before sitting up (with Aziraphale’s help) and pushing the alcohol from his system. He had to try very hard to avoid a very unpleasant reaction to the taste in his mouth.
“Better?” The angel asked him.
“No,” he mumbled, well aware he was about to be hit with the full and sober revelation of what was happening all around him in no time at all.
“Okay.” Aziraphale seemed content with that as he got to his feet and waited for Crowley to stand as well (a task which was immensely difficult for him considering he hadn’t been upright in days). “Let’s get you out of Spain.”