#im tired n drunk and felt like giving the '41 night trend a go

[actual-changeling]

1941, Soho, Aziraphale's bookshop

There are three empty wine bottles on the table and a fourth between them on the floor, freshly opened. While the couch is in perfect condition, they had both ended up in front of it, leaning against it to keep themselves somewhat upright.

Crowley in particular is swaying on the spot, allowing Aziraphale to top off his cup and handing it to him with a stern look that said don't you dare leave wine stains on my furniture.

In the low candlelight, they keep drinking, and Crowley can't help but watch the flame flicker over his cheekbones, the grey shadows softening his lips, tracing the sparkle in his eyes when the angel turns his head to look at him; they're both equally drunk and happy to leave the day behind.

"Didya' listen to a single word I jus'said?"

His nose wrinkles adorably, eyelids flutter, and he licks a stray drop of wine from his lips. Crowley mirrors him without even noticing, too caught up in trying to keep himself from reaching out, plucking the glass from his hand, and tasting the wine on his tongue.

"I almost killed you," he says, voice more fragile than he expected it to be, and the annoyance etched into Aziraphale's forehead immediately bleeds away.

"You didn't, love, 'm all here."

Oh, Crowley wants, he wants to feel that pet name against his lips and hear it whispered into his ear in the middle of the night. He wants to curse heaven and hell alike and take as much as Aziraphale is willing to give; he has lived off of scraps of affection for centuries.

Somewhere in the distance, a bomb falls, rumbling through the ground and shaking their windows, and Crowley does not make a choice as much as he empties his glass in one go and stops holding his body back from taking what it desires.

Aziraphale's thighs are soft and warm, his pupils blown so wide his irises turn them into a lunar eclipse, and he carefully extracts his angel's wine glass from his fingers, downing the rest, and puts it to the side. His shades are... somewhere, and have been for quite a while, not that he cares.

Reality is blurry, his vision swims more than it is steady, and if anyone were to ask, he'd blame it all on the alcohol and the thrill of adrenaline. He wants to slide a hand up his neck and cup his face, so he does, fingers threading through silky hair.

"Angel?"

They both have to blink several times until they can focus on each other again, but once Aziraphale fully processes the demon in his lap and the decreasing distance between their lips, well, he has never said no to pleasure.

The first touch is tentative, but the next is a proper kiss, wine-slicked lips sliding against each other, mouths opening on their own accord. Hands on his back pull him in, closer and closer until there is no space left and he can feel Aziraphale's human heart beat beneath his own.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, dreading the approaching dawn, but for now they are safe in an ink-black cocoon of their own making, a bubble in time no one will be able to pop. It is 1941, and for a few hours, an angel and a demon become an us, the bombs singing in a horrible imitation of a nightingale.

When Crowley leaves in the grey morning light, sober and with a bitter taste in his mouth, he doesn't look back.

The next time they talk, the war is over, Crowley has gained a new collection of hellish scars all over his body, and neither of them ever brings up the night they tasted freedom for the first (and perhaps last) time.

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