Once upon a time, Aziraphale had gotten infuriated at something Crowley had said and smote him. At the time both of them had been quite drunk. Many snide comments and humble apologies later, Aziraphale had taken great pains to assure that he would never again be an angry drunk.

As a result, he was two kinds of drunk: either quite flippantly happy, or distressingly angst-ridden.

He had been the former up until Barnaby had called him old.

He had tried so hard to shed the extra weight, and get rid of those wrinkles, and although it made mocking him based on being effeminant much easier at least it was better than being called old or fat anymore, and why hadn't it worked, and why was everyone so mean to him, and why wasn't this wine bottle refilling - oh, there it was. But still, the other things still applied!

Aziraphale's eyes filled up with drunk tears. To keep himself from wibbling, he drank some more.