Aziraphale has barely managed a small nod before Crowley's already defending himself, and he looks up in mild surprise, though he doesn't say anything until the demon is finished, drinking again and muttering miserably about the future.
"I know, dear," he murmurs. What does he say next? 'Thank you' feels absurd, and 'I'm sorry' feels patronizing. He drinks instead.
"Deal with it later," he says, "that's worked out for us before. Most of the time." He pauses for a bout of continuous shots, refilling the glass after each pull. He sets it down heavily with an almost cartoonish "Ahh" and preemptively lowers the shop's lights to about half their usual brightness (which is already rather modest). This done, he curls back against the opposite corner of the couch and stretches his legs out partway (not drunk enough to rest them on Crowley yet).
"To... um..." He lifts his glass and refills it in midair, then pauses trying to think of a proper toast for the occasion. "To drinking," he says finally, decisively, and drinks.
no subject
"I know, dear," he murmurs. What does he say next? 'Thank you' feels absurd, and 'I'm sorry' feels patronizing. He drinks instead.
"Deal with it later," he says, "that's worked out for us before. Most of the time." He pauses for a bout of continuous shots, refilling the glass after each pull. He sets it down heavily with an almost cartoonish "Ahh" and preemptively lowers the shop's lights to about half their usual brightness (which is already rather modest). This done, he curls back against the opposite corner of the couch and stretches his legs out partway (not drunk enough to rest them on Crowley yet).
"To... um..." He lifts his glass and refills it in midair, then pauses trying to think of a proper toast for the occasion. "To drinking," he says finally, decisively, and drinks.