"I don't know how I let you talk me into these things," Aziraphale said. Or rather, tried to say: it came out more as a muffled groan, because his face was buried in Crowley's shoulder, which rather complicated the whole speaking process. "Because a good bottle of wine is one thing, but this! This is something else altogether."

"Yes," Crowley agreed gravely. "It is. It's called vodka."

Aziraphale made a rather undignified noise. What he had meant to do was explain that yes, he was quite aware that it was nominally different than wine, thank you very much, but it was its intrinsic difference upon which he was commenting-- but Crowley, he realised, smelled uncharacteristically good, and Aziraphale got no further than the word "yes" before he fell silent.

"What?" Crowley said.

"You-- " Aziraphale started.

"What?" Crowley said.

"You do smell very nice," Aziraphale said after a time, as though maybe there was some doubt about this.

"What?" Crowley said again.

Aziraphale tilted his head up, and looked at Crowley through one rather bleary, blurry eye. The other one he wasn't even certain he could open. "I was merely remarking," he started, then sat up suddenly. The room seemed to be doing some sort of spinning caper around his head. "I had never noticed what you smelled like before."

"Before what?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale suddenly seemed very warm, for all that the alcohol's efforts. "Before," he said, fumblingly. "Before this," and pressed his lips, with only a small degree of misdirection, against Crowley's rather surprised, warm mouth.

"Oh," Crowley ascertained, finally.

 

back | e-mail