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"My dear boy…" Aziraphale paused for another sip of wine, and completely lost track of what he had been about to say.
There had been quite a few sips of wine. Rather more than was probably advisable.
"See? You can't, can you?" Crowley was unbearably smug. "You can't justify it."
Aziraphale could not, mostly because he couldn't remember what it was he was attempting to justify.
"I suspect," he said importantly, "that it's ineffable."
"Pfff." Crowley drained the last of his cup and looked around for the barmaid. "More wine!"
The barmaid, clutching a broom like a sword, shook her head. "It's late. We're closed."
"I have a bottle or two at my lodgings," Aziraphale offered and, before he knew what was happening, they were outside in the cold night air that blew in from the moors.
He'd taken temporary lodgings somewhere in the village of Lustleigh, but at present he was struggling to recall where. Sobering up would probably be prudent, but then he wouldn't be leaning against Crowley, propping each other up as they stumbled along in what he thought might be the right direction.
It was not. The village's buildings disappeared behind them as they meandered into the moor.
"Angel," Crowley said eventually. "Angel, is your house in the middle of Dartmoor?"
"No," Aziraphale admitted. "Perhaps we should turn around."
This was easier said than done. Crowley turned one way, Aziraphale the other, unbalancing them both. First Crowley toppled, arms wheeling, and when Aziraphale reached out a hand to steady him, he was dragged over too. They both landed, minus any remaining dignity, in a bog.
Now would have been an excellent time to sober up; if only they had been sober enough to remember that was an option. Or that they could miracle themselves clean of the sticky, clinging mud that seeped through their layers of clothes.
By the time they found their way back to Aziraphale's lodgings, thoughts of more wine had completely flown their heads, fully replaced with dreams of being clean. Dry. Warm.
There was a large tin bath in the kitchen, easily big enough for two grown men—or man-shaped beings—and Aziraphale dragged it in front of the fireplace as Crowley scowled a blaze into existence. It filled with hot water with barely a thought. It wasn't a frivolous miracle; cleanliness was next to Godliness, after all. Except Crowley was always so clean—when not recovering from a fall into a bog—and he wasn't Godly at all. Which was rather the problem, really.
"Right." Crowley's coat landed with a dull splat on the stone floor. "Fucking bogs. Fucking Dartmoor. Dreadful place."
Aziraphale rather forgot himself as the rest of Crowley's clothes joined his coat. He'd seen Crowley in the nude before, of course. Several cultures over the centuries had enjoyed public bathing. Rome, Japan, Turkey.
But…never alone. Never in Aziraphale's home, temporary as it was.
Aziraphale's eyes were drawn downwards, the long lines of Crowley's body practically directing his attention to the soft prick between his legs. Just…hanging there. No sign of interest in proceedings.
Aziraphale tried not to care about Crowley's lack of arousal. He tried not to sneak looks as he removed his own wet clothing. He was so distracted, he forgot to worry about the smooth, featureless bit of skin between his own legs, and Crowley didn't mention it.
The water was blissful. Cleaning the peaty mud away was better. Crowley's fingers, working the muck from Aziraphale's hair—oh, Lord, Aziraphale was drunk, to allow such a thing—was a pleasure so great that only Her presence could compare.
Suddenly, Aziraphale wished for more wine. For more courage. He turned around, sending waves of dirty water splashing against the edges of the tub. Found his own longing mirrored in Crowley's golden eyes.
They shouldn't. But then, they shouldn't be doing any of this.
Crowley's mouth tasted of cheap wine and sin. Of things Aziraphale should regret but didn't. Of something…ineffable.