'Mmm, please.' At the moment, Crowley is feeling immeasurably improved from how he'd felt when he'd woken up this morning, but that doesn't do anything to lessen his desire to drink himself into a coma. If nothing else, he feels like he ruddy well deserves it.

'Thanksss,' he hisses, when Aziraphale obliges (with some effort, it must be said), and miracles up another bottle of excellent tequila. Crowley lifts it in his direction in a faintly wobbling toast. 'G'on, angel, drink up.'

The wonderful thing about being really quite drunk, Crowley has always thought, is the way the numbness of one's tastebuds allows one to do things like chug straight spirits.

Some time later, Crowley has drunk his way well past the more or less contented state he'd been in after only one bottle and into what is more or less a choleric puddle. His legs have been thrown over Aziraphale's at some point in proceedings, and the angle at which he's slumped down against the arm of the sofa has shoved his chin into his chest. The only reason he's not frowning is because he's not sure he possesses the motor skills to actually do so at the moment.

He shifts, snakily, and prods Aziraphale somewhere in the general vicinity of the torso with his foot. 'Wha're we gonna do?' he asks, staring past the angel at nothing in particular. His voice is weighty with resignation. 'I mean... we're gonna hafta do. Do ssssomethin'. Aren't we? Like... properly. 'ventually.'