The flesh is weak, but he is something different altogether.
The flesh is weak, this skin of human he is wearing; too tight – he understands it, he really does (he's been here far too long, and he is not stupid), why mortals are so easy to tempt, so eager to sin; he understands. But. He. Can't. Won't. He is stronger than that.
He tells himself that, repeats it firmly, even when they get so drunk their bodies can't take it anymore; it's a mantra, a desperate prayer; it keeps him composed and makes him feel tad bit better about himself. He is strong. He will not succumb.
(at night, when all the good boys and girls and sometimes Crowley are asleep, he wonders how would it feel to run his palms over Crowley's chest. To do it with his tongue)
/
Crowley doesn't know; Crowley doesn't even try to tempt. Not that way. He cannot know what effect loosening his tie has on Aziraphale; that bit of skin where his neck meets the shoulder. Aziraphale, smiling and offering tea wonders how would it feel under his mouth.
Crowley doesn't know, and he will never tell. He will not succumb. Crowley talks and grins and declines tea but demands something far stronger. Aziraphale wants to kiss his palms and lick honey off his backs; find the spot where Crowley's wings would be and shower it with kisses. He knows he is hopeless romantic. He will not fall.
/
He can handle it. He is strong.
It helps that they do not meet all that often; an occasional dinner at Ritz – he can take it, enjoy it; it's their drinking sessions that drive him half-mad. He will, will not give in.
/
He sways, leans closer.
/
Sometimes he wants to walk and walk and walk until he can't remember Crowley anymore; he wonders how long would it take to forget and would it be worth it.
He decides he doesn't want to be lonely.
/
The flesh is weak, but he is stronger than that.
Sometimes he thinks he should just let himself be.
/
Please, God, he whispers, but he is not sure what he is begging for. He doesn't really want to know.