When angels Fall, they are scarred.

And not just mentally. Physically, as well. An ugly "x"-shaped mark, right above their hearts.

Aziraphale stares at the thick, red scar on Crowley's exposed chest. It looks bloody and deep and painful, like a brand on cattle, to signify that they're Nothing.

Because the bigger you are, the harder you fall.

Crowley is drunk.

He's been downing wine and something a lot stronger for most of the evening, the result being that's he's totally and utterly 'wasted' as today's young mortals would say.

If this was a cartoon, Crowley would have had alcohol-induced bubbles floating over his head.

"What're y'lookin' at?" Crowley grunts suddenly.

"Nothing, my dear," Aziraphale murmurs, looking away. He's rather surprised that Crowley's still coherent enough to speak.

"Don' you "dear" me," mutters Crowley. "'M'not your dear. 'M a demon.

"Ain't nobodies dear, 'nymore." He mumbles into his drink.

Aziraphale would like to say something comforting, but how, exactly, does an angel tell a fallen angel that it's all going to be alright?

But then, Crowley's never really been one for words, anyway.

Aziraphale slides his body next to Crowley, so that their shoulders touch. He leans gently against the demon.

"Azz'raphale?" Crowley says blankly, blinking groggily.

"Yes," whispers Aziraphale. His hand is resting against Crowley's thigh.

"What're y'doing?"

"Nothing."

Crowley seems to decide not to worry about it. "M'kay."

He leans his head against the angel, drink slipping into his lap.

Aziraphale watches Crowley's eyes slide closed.

It must be hard, to Fall.

But somehow, it's all going to be alright.