It's a good thing Aziraphale supports Crowley as he does, because it's clear that if the angel were walking on his own he'd be at best weaving in circles and quite possibly walking into things. Doorways, for one. As they pass by the entrance to the cantina he makes a small mewling noise of disappoinment. "Not going in there?" He sighs, craning his head over his shoulder to look back at it wistfully. "Should. The camarero's nice, nicest in the city. Never throws me out, however I'm babbling. S'nice."

He giggles, looks back at Aziraphale, paying absolutely no attention to where they're going or what his feet are doing. "Tried to bless 'im," he says, voice lowered to a confidential tone. "But missed! Got a chair instead. Holiest chair in all of Seville, now. Torquemada thinks it's his seat that's holy, but nope. That chair, in the cantina. Officially the holiest."

His eyes go wide all at once and he stops, grabs at Aziraphale's collar to drag him to a halt. "'ziraphale," he whispers. "'ziraphale. You're a demon, you could--you can--" His fingers scrabble at the cloth, the grip of them desperate. Crowley takes a shaky breath. "Hellfire. You can make hellfire. Please? I need--I can't--"

His voice is shaking. So is he. "Please."