[ That catch in Crowley's voice, the way he reaches for Aziraphale's wings with such gentle trepidation but relaxes, is precisely why he's feeling so generous with his physical affections this evening. He looks on fondly at his friend, his aura much like his wings: unsubtle and warm.
He huffs a pleased laugh. ]
Obviously.
[ He doesn't have a guest room - he think his superiors might have questions if they were to ever come snooping around - but this couch is very comfortable and there's another very squishy one upstairs, all of which have been broken in for centuries. Crowley's always welcome, of course, though Aziraphale never bothered extending a formal invitation. ]
How long have you been back?
[ His voice has dropped now that it's the two of them, and the music isn't very loud, more of a background waft. ]
[ He thinks he should say something smart back, but Aziraphale’s soft laugh winds into the feeling of warmth and affection that surrounds him much like Aziraphale’s wings, and Crowley finds himself inexplicably worried over breaking the peace of this moment. At the same time, though, it seems to him as though there’s no need for worry now, that everything is exactly as it should be, that he is just where he belongs.
That feeling comes from Aziraphale, he thinks, from his aura around them. He doesn’t question it for long. It’s too good to bother wondering what he’s done to deserve it (nothing good, Crowley would say). Instead he nestles against Aziraphale and continues on toying with the part of his wing that’s in reach, the strokes of his hand becoming surer along its edge, his fingers burrowing a little into the sleek feathers and soft down. ]
Not long. A day or so.
[ He’d come to Aziraphale as soon as he’d thought of doing so. Crowley nudges his chin into his shoulder. ]
[ Of course he had missed Crowley, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual; been back for one day and practically the first thing he'd done was come home to Soho, to this bookshop. Aziraphale finds himself distracting his thoughts and anxieties at the base of Crowley's skull tugging gently at the root of his hair and worrying circles along the nape of his neck near his tattoo. ]
With whom else am I supposed to feed the ducks?
[ Behind those words lay the truth, that Aziraphale had missed Crowley's company so very terribly but knew that he sometimes just spent a whole century to himself and so therefore, things were alright. Had he known what had happened, he would've been much more upset the whole time.
Even as he says it, he extricates his fingers and rests his hand instead around Crowley's broad shoulders, turning his chin against Crowley's dark red locks and holding him there in an open embrace. He takes a breath, and it wakes the dormant memory of the smell of his hair. Yes, he wants to say, you absolutely daft demon. Yes, I did. ]
[ He stifles the sound he wants to make in response to Aziraphale's fingers tugging at the roots of his hair, drawing little patterns gently across the nape of his neck, which is suddenly so sensitive to every stroke, every teasing circling brush: a sound like a drawn-out groan of pure pleasure and contentment. Crowley can't remember the last time he was touched like this. Not only touched but offered the chance to touch, to stroke his fingers fervently through the lovely soft feathers of Aziraphale's wing and think longingly of drawing it close to feel those feathers brush against his cheek like a kiss. It's a gift. He doesn't know why Aziraphale is giving him this, and he doesn't really care. Maybe the angel really did miss him. ]
Bloody ducks have all they want from you.
[ But Crowley would go with him to the park tomorrow and scatter breadcrumbs until every duck in every canal and on every lawn was fat and happy, if Aziraphale kept holding him now. He buries his face into Aziraphale's collar, with the angel's arm around his shoulders and his chin tipped against his hair, and throws an arm over his chest, curling close. And he does his best to think only of Aziraphale and not the things he saw in the war or the lonely years that followed his discorporation. It's easier than he expects, with Aziraphale's wings and aura all around him. ]
[ Aziraphale's wings fold over Crowley, as does his aura, to the best of his ability. He's never been too good at managing it any more than he's able to control his own nerves or heartbeats, but he tries all the same. His hands, much more dextrous, rub at Crowley's arm in a placating way.
Crowley could fall asleep like this, if he wanted, and Aziraphale would just resign himself to this position, wake up in the morning with an unfortunate sore in his shoulders from this loaned frame, but he wouldn't complain one stitch. Six thousand years they'd spent together, and Crowley truly knew Aziraphale better than anyone else. And why wouldn't he? They were sort of best friends, when they weren't trying to tiptoe around the mortal enemy thing. ]
You know it wouldn't be the same.
[ He doesn't mean the ducks, and he's sure Crowley knows. Everything would just be... dull, a truly lifeless experience. Not to mention that, should either of them be gone, Heaven or Hell would send a replacement. And there wasn't anyone, demon or human or angel, who could replace Crowley. ]
But Heaven help me, nothing's going to happen to either of us. Not for a long while yet.
[ Wrapped up in Aziraphale's wings and aura, it's absurdly difficult to resist the urge to rest here, with his angel (Crowley so wants to think of him as his, though even with all the careful overtures he's made over the years, even with the two of them closer now than he can ever remember being, he's still not sure Aziraphale feels the same) and with this sense of goodwill and solace stealing into him like a physical caress. He might very well be asleep soon. Perhaps Aziraphale will let him, and keep holding him just like this; perhaps he'll wake in the morning with the awareness of having had something new.
He nods a little, with a sound of agreement, face still tucked against the angel's collar. In the whole history of the world he's never been able to let a century pass without seeking out Aziraphale at least once; he can't really imagine the future without him. ]
Yeah? You'll protect us, angel?
[The words are muzzy with sleepiness, not really teasing; he rather likes the idea of Aziraphale defending him. His glasses are pressing into his face uncomfortably, so he takes them off and lays them aside, without really even thinking about it. ]
Well, I think it's high time I offered a little reciprocation.
[ Not that he feels like their relationship - outside of their Arrangement - should have anything to do with bargaining with each other over who gets what part and who owes whom. No, he'd do this because he wants to, lays a soft hand on Crowley's cheek because he likes the feel of it.
He would never say as much, but he does wish that Crowley would take the glasses off more often, when they're alone. His face is always expressive enough to make up for the lack of direct eye contact, but really he just likes looking at them. He remembers what they look like in the Before; they were beautiful and very Crowley, but they are no less so now on either account, just in a different way.
He catches himself involuntarily trying to tip Crowley's face to sneak a peek, but he stops himself and decides he should let him rest instead. His voice is soft, and now barely above a whisper. ]
[ He’s always come to Aziraphale’s defense because he wants to, as well: it’s never really occurred to him to expect reciprocation outside of the normal Arrangement, though Aziraphale has plenty to offer. Conversation, company, late nights like these. It surprises him sometimes to think of how much he values their time together, how much he’d miss it if something kept them apart. Being in Hell, being unable to see Aziraphale any time he wanted—he didn’t like it one bit.
With Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek, his wings around him and his low voice telling him he’s safe, the lure of rest is impossible to resist. He falls asleep without divining that Aziraphale wants to see his eyes, but the angel gets his wish sometime later when Crowley wakes again. Stirring slightly as he becomes aware of his surroundings again, he lifts his head a little, taking a look around the workshop. Then he looks at Aziraphale, meeting his gaze with sleepy, unguarded eyes. ]
Aziraphale. [ Utter relief comes through in the name. It’s so good to see him, to wake with him. ]
[ Aziraphale hasn't moved one inch, though he's of course, at the very least, stopped looking at Crowley while he sleeps. It isn't like he did nothing; he had very many thoughts to catalogue, and even if he hadn't, he would enjoy the breather. A short nap is practically a blink of an eye, and even though it's very late in the night (or very early in the morning), it feels like hardly any time has passed. ]
Crowley. How did you sleep?
[ He doesn't do much of it himself, though he tried it once or twice. But most of Crowley's other hobbies were all so active, so perhaps it made more sense for him to unwind by shutting his eyes to fully recharge.
Crowley seems to be easing into wakefulness, or more slithering into it, which suits Aziraphale just fine. He's in no rush to leave this moment behind, searches Crowley's eyes as if counting the number of colors in them. It's so very rare Crowley goes without his glasses anymore, after all. ]
[ He thinks vaguely Aziraphale really ought to give it another go sometime, especially like this--waking still nestled against his angel, like he's been holding him all the time he slept. ]
Since--can't remember since when.
[ He looks back at Aziraphale, too unguarded at the moment to care that his eyes are still uncovered, or that Aziraphale seems to be taking the opportunity to study them at his leisure. It can't have been that long that he slept--the air has the taste of the dark hour just before dawn--but he feels as though it was an age, Hell and his recent discorporation something like a bad dream that he can now put behind him. ]
I love your wings.
[ He says it without really thinking, in a voice languid from sleep. Aziraphale's wings are still folded around them, bright and beautiful, and he does, he really does love them. ]
[ They're big enough to sort of cocoon around them like a private winged fort, and with the early morning light creeping in playing off of the white, they're a pleasant dark blue. It's shaping up to be a beautiful day already.
He can feel Crowley's aura, and it puts him much at ease. But when he says the bit about his wings, Aziraphale feels as if his gaze might be hot enough to kill him permanently, and has to tear them away to look at the ground instead, though he smiles despite himself. ]
Before you, I didn't know demons were capable of feeling love at all.
[ He'd wrestled with the idea recently, and of course loving something is not quite the same as the kind of love that Aziraphale has for, say, God herself, or the love he has for Crowley. He still wasn't certain, but the series of events and moments culminating to this one, he thinks he is now. ]
[ Morning always had a way of making the world seem full of new possibilities. Crowley usually resists such foolishly optimistic thoughts—they aren’t at all a demon’s style. Still, he feels something different in the atmosphere at this early, unguarded hour, something he can almost taste. It has to do with the brief, searing look Aziraphale gives him, the way it suddenly makes Crowley shiver.
He doesn’t respond at first. The words Aziraphale speaks echo in his mind, frantically trying to attach themselves to significance. Surely the angel doesn’t mean them in the way Crowley thinks he does. He’s gone dry-mouthed, needing to swallow before he answers. ]
We all started off like you.
[ Angels. Beings of love, pure divine love, almost too wonderful to bear. ]
[ Does Aziraphale feel bad about this? Yes, he does, of course he does, because not a hundred years ago he boiled down six thousand years of their relationship to fraternization, and reminded Crowley that upstairs disapproved. So did downstairs, and that was just with them exchanging words. Who knows what they'd think of their little agreement, or what they'd think if they could see, right now, how sweetly Aziraphale looks on at Crowley. ]
Not all of you. You remember.
[ There's no question in his voice. Though he's sure that all the time he's felt it, he thought it might have just been his own. It was hard to pin a source or direction, and Aziraphale was an angel, after all. It didn't matter anyway, because-- because this whole thing was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was bad news for both of them, he shouldn't have brought it up, they should just put this conversation behind them.
Yet, Aziraphale makes no attempt to move. He can't. He is allowed to hope. ]
[ Perhaps Heaven doesn't see right now, but Crowley does. He sees how Aziraphale looks at him, with that scorching sweetness, and he hungers for it. Only from Aziraphale, always and forever Aziraphale. The years have not been so unkind: he's had the angel's company, the dinners and the drinks and the long nights talking. Aziraphale's kept up his end of their Arrangement. He'd learned to ignore the gnawing ache within him long before Aziraphale had made it abundantly clear in a few choice words that arrangements and conversation were all they would ever have. The rest of it--well. That's Crowley's to manage.
He'd thought so, anyway.
He draw back a little, staring at Aziraphale as though he is the last piece of a puzzle Crowley is trying to slot into place. Ordinary words don't come to mind; he feels himself in unfamiliar waters. ]
How can you know? What if I've fooled you all this time?
[ His voice is low, the rest of him gone a little tense. ]
[ He hadn't meant to ruin this moment, but he sees that he has, and he's very sorry. It was a good moment. He doesn't really see the point in having lied or played along to something like this, but in his brief moment of heartbreak he can't begin to realize that Crowley isn't trying to reject him.
He looks a bit struck, eyebrows knit upwards like he might just cry, but he presses on. No, perhaps things were not just going to fall into his lap and go his way, but that was alright. Enough in his life has done just that, and he's a very lucky being regardless. ]
I suppose...
[ His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. ]
Then I suppose that we will just carry on as we always have.
[ And he's already back to smiling. A little more watery this time, but it isn't like Aziraphale has thought that Crowley might love him for a long time. Honestly it isn't even like Aziraphale has even been aware of how much he really does love Crowley for very long, and he certainly hasn't come to terms with it. It was just that he held on so long to the notion that he shouldn't, and therefore, didn't. And so things can return to how they were last century, last year, last night even, both of them burdened only with the memory of this conversation, but otherwise back to the status quo. As soon as Aziraphale stops feeling like his heart's suddenly been crushed under a large weight, anyway. ]
[ At first he doesn’t realize exactly what’s gone wrong, he only knows that it has, from the way Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s been struck, been suddenly, deeply wounded, and Crowley can’t speak even when Aziraphale does, though he winces at the catch in his voice. It’s terrible. He knows he never wanted to be the cause of Aziraphale looking like that, it’s one of the most bloody awful things he’s ever seen; and it’s almost as awful to see him smile after saying that they will just carry on. Crowley is—he’s a blessed idiot is what he is. Dumbstruck, he thinks—he should go, shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t that be best, to let Aziraphale salvage his pride? If there’s any chance that, as the angel says, they can go back to the way they were before, they can forget the things that were said or almost said, the touches, the way Aziraphale looked at him...
Oh, Hell, he doesn’t want them to go back to the way they were before. He doesn’t think he could stand it. ]
Aziraphale—
[ Crowley seizes his hand, afraid that Aziraphale will be the one to pull away first; he presses it to his cheek, palm to skin, his mouth at the base of Aziraphale’s thumb, a plea for understanding on his lips. ]
[ Three hundred thousand emotions race through Aziraphale's mind but none of them stick, though he comes very close to jerking his hand away and requesting that Crowley stop playing this damned game, until he speaks.
And Aziraphale has to rewind the last ten seconds of their conversation and play it over again in his head.
And once again.
So it takes him a bit, breath stuck in his throat and wholly tense, but he's only an angel. Like butter, he softens his hand against Crowley's cheek, eyebrows knitting and un-knitting as he looks away and tries to gather his thoughts into words. When none come, he instead slides his hand around Crowley's neck and the other around his waist, pulling him forward in embrace and burying his face in the sharp corners of his collar.
Crowley might feel Aziraphale's mouth form into a smile. ]
[ It’s an agonizing silence, Aziraphale still sitting tense in front of him with his brows knitted in what Crowley hopes is thought, is a reconciliation of what he’s just said and not an effort to compose rejection or admonishment. He can’t look for long, shutting his eyes and turning his face to Aziraphale’s hand, shivering a little as he waits. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the angel doesn’t believe him. But then, like a miracle, Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek softens, and Crowley gasps in helpless relief as the angel reaches for him and pulls him into an embrace, his face against Crowley’s collar. ]
Angel.
[ He buries trembling fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, clutches him close and tries to steady his breathing. He can feel Aziraphale smiling and it sends a warm rush of reassurance through him, limbs relaxing a little bit even as he wraps himself adamantly around Aziraphale, snake-like. Fingers burrow into his feathers at the base of his wings. They’re soft in his hands, wonderful to touch. ]
[ Crowley's arms fit just so around Aziraphale that he feels fully enveloped, precious and secure. And when it takes a whole six thousand years and a scary teetering precipice of five seconds to culminate in three little words, such simple words, Aziraphale can't help but experience contrasting emotions of complete contented satisfaction and of being totally overwhelmed at the same time; he melts into the feeling as one might slide into a bath, cautiously but eventually reaching his muscles and his joints and warming his bones.
He is a being composed entirely of love and of light, but he usually manages to contain it in his relatively small human form. He can't seem to do so at the moment, and the entire block is suddenly, miraculously, having dreams so strong that they will inexplicably be in a good mood all day.
He lifts his head from its resting spot on Crowley's shoulder as if wanting to say something, but he racks his brain for all the words in all the languages they've ever spoken and none come up sufficient. Instead, he looks on with the kind of fondness he'd had finishing reading his very first book, or the first time he'd heard birds singing after a rain. He thinks he might be able to see all the stars in the night sky reflected in Crowley's eyes, and doesn't realize he is inching closer as if it might give him a better look. ]
[ That radiant sensation of utter contentment and bliss, of angelic love--Crowley's felt it before at times, it's impossible not to, really, when you're around Aziraphale, but never as enormous and nearly overwhelming as he feels it now--catches hold of him, too, and he finds himself sinking into it, assurance settling deeper into his bones, until he's no longer holding the angel quite as tightly. Still very close, still keeping him wrapped up in his arms, but his hands relax and his fingers rake softly through the downy feathers at the base of Aziraphale's wings, his chest no longer tight with the fear that he might have said too little too late, or that the angel might not love him back. It's impossible to mistake.
He looks back at Aziraphale when he lifts his head from his shoulder to gaze at him. Crowley's eyes have possibly gone a little dark, the slit pupils wider, and he stares at Aziraphale as if to drink in that gentle, affectionate look in his eyes, as though just gazing at him gives the angel the kind of pleasure he usually reserves for his favorite foods. It doesn't really seem to matter what Aziraphale's intent is in leaning closer; after the agony and fear of chasing Aziraphale away a few moments ago, in the rush of bliss that comes with those emotions dissipating into unimportance, he feels as though nothing he could do would be unwelcome. Crowley's hand comes up to Aziraphale's cheek, and he leans forward just the slightest distance between them and kisses him tentatively, the press of his mouth light and soft. ]
[ His eyes, a golden ring on a round pupil, looks positively like a halo, though Aziraphale would never say so aloud. He'd made this mistake before, but Crowley really was, deep down, good. If he were, truly, all evil, then Aziraphale wouldn't be here and certainly not so satisfied.
Practically on instinct, he finds himself clumsily navigating towards Crowley's mouth though it's entirely unnecessary, as their lips meet just fine in the middle. Though he doesn't try to escalate beyond a light press, there's absolutely no trepidation or tentativeness about him, finding this instead the most natural and easy thing to do.
Crowley has a warm, slightly spicy scent to his skin, which Aziraphale is currently finding to be nothing short of intoxicating. And in his serpentine embrace with hands in his wings and a lightness in his heart, his entire face illuminates and blooms into a smile against Crowley's lips. ]
Stay with me today.
[ He murmurs, barely audible, having ended the kiss but having not moved away. ]
[ The miraculous sensation of Aziraphale kissing him back brings him a kind of bone-deep contentment along with an ache of longing, as though he’s missed this though they’ve never done it before, missed it without knowing it. Crowley doesn’t try to press for more, either, the kiss staying soft and light, his fingers on instinct digging gently into the handfuls of feathers they grasp, and then letting go to rub up Aziraphale’s back. He feels the angel smiling against his mouth, and it feels almost painfully sweet.
When the kiss ends he slowly opens his eyes which had fallen shut, seeking out Aziraphale’s again. Crowley draws breath and nods a little, resisting the urge to pull the angel harder against him and holding him carefully instead, like something precious. ]
I can do that. [ His voice comes out a little scratchy. ] No plans either.
[ The longing must be contagious because Aziraphale is practically aching, his whole body buzzing with excitement as if he's gotten his hands on a new book and he can't wait to dive in and absorb all its contents. But tempting as it is, he always manages to keep from skipping straight to the end, and he nestles into Crowley's arms instead; having managed to repress this on either or both parts for six thousand years, he doesn't think any lack of urgency is likely to muck things up.
The sun, now casting a calm yellow outline on Aziraphale's wings, now sits wholly over the horizon to mark the dawn. He absentmindedly thinks that this is his favorite part of the day and he'd like to share every morning with Crowley just so, but promptly shuts down all further notions of the like in his dreamy runaway thoughts.
He allows today, and perhaps in the future he'll allow stolen moments behind closed curtains and away from prying eyes, but let that be enough. ]
I think perhaps we could find something to occupy the time.
[ He makes a promise to himself to enjoy this now, to delay his worry until inevitably when Crowley has to leave again and isn't presently the only thing in his entire field of perception. It might just work, with Crowley being ever so devastatingly distracting. ]
[ He's never felt anything quite like Aziraphale settling comfortably into his arms, leaning into him as though this has happened a thousand times before. It makes Crowley's heart jump, makes him fear he doesn't know what to do with his hands, at least for a an instant or two before he just does what is instinctive and goes back to stroking over Aziraphale's spine with a slightly rough kind of affection, or petting over the edges of his wings where the sunlight inscribes them in gold.
There are a thousand temptations he should be out there in the world doing right now, all the sorry little jobs Hell gives him, but Crowley wishes he would never have to leave this bookshop again. The thought of Hell or Heaven looking in brings a twist of anxiety into him that makes him clutch a little tighter, but he tries not to let the worry show, tries to let himself be distracted by the warmth in Aziraphale's voice and touch. The angel's request certainly manages to capture his attention, and Crowley nods wordlessly before reaching out to pull Aziraphale into a kiss again.
It's hungrier this time, the yearning in him not quite so well disguised. Aziraphale's mouth is soft and lovely and Crowley didn't realize--didn't let himself think--how much he's wanted this. His hands shake a little as he drags Aziraphale closer. ]
[ Perhaps it had happened a thousand times over, but only in Aziraphale's dreams, sequestered away where they were safe from Heaven's grasp. Yet, in the privacy of his own home, here in his celestially insignificant bookshop away from prying eyes, he gives way to honesty. And his truth is melting into Crowley's touch, huffing a little surprised gasp into his mouth when he gets pulled in, his hand on Crowley's cheek clutching on instinct.
In retrospect, Aziraphale should have definitely anticipated that Crowley would kiss him like this, and he should therefore have logically concluded the effect it would have on him. Something about the catch of Crowley's lips draws out little sounds from Aziraphale's throat, his head tilting as he shifts on the couch for easier access, allowing his other hand to come around Crowley's neck; it as a fist there until he spreads it out and into soft hair that he tugs at by the very root.
The angle he finds himself at is rather uncomfortable, and though his mind is preoccupied, his body takes over in wisdom and boldness, lightly nudging Crowley's shoulder to move him so as to slide easily into his lap. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
PSA i changed my username also np!
He huffs a pleased laugh. ]
Obviously.
[ He doesn't have a guest room - he think his superiors might have questions if they were to ever come snooping around - but this couch is very comfortable and there's another very squishy one upstairs, all of which have been broken in for centuries. Crowley's always welcome, of course, though Aziraphale never bothered extending a formal invitation. ]
How long have you been back?
[ His voice has dropped now that it's the two of them, and the music isn't very loud, more of a background waft. ]
I like it
That feeling comes from Aziraphale, he thinks, from his aura around them. He doesn’t question it for long. It’s too good to bother wondering what he’s done to deserve it (nothing good, Crowley would say). Instead he nestles against Aziraphale and continues on toying with the part of his wing that’s in reach, the strokes of his hand becoming surer along its edge, his fingers burrowing a little into the sleek feathers and soft down. ]
Not long. A day or so.
[ He’d come to Aziraphale as soon as he’d thought of doing so. Crowley nudges his chin into his shoulder. ]
Missed me, angel?
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With whom else am I supposed to feed the ducks?
[ Behind those words lay the truth, that Aziraphale had missed Crowley's company so very terribly but knew that he sometimes just spent a whole century to himself and so therefore, things were alright. Had he known what had happened, he would've been much more upset the whole time.
Even as he says it, he extricates his fingers and rests his hand instead around Crowley's broad shoulders, turning his chin against Crowley's dark red locks and holding him there in an open embrace. He takes a breath, and it wakes the dormant memory of the smell of his hair. Yes, he wants to say, you absolutely daft demon. Yes, I did. ]
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Bloody ducks have all they want from you.
[ But Crowley would go with him to the park tomorrow and scatter breadcrumbs until every duck in every canal and on every lawn was fat and happy, if Aziraphale kept holding him now. He buries his face into Aziraphale's collar, with the angel's arm around his shoulders and his chin tipped against his hair, and throws an arm over his chest, curling close. And he does his best to think only of Aziraphale and not the things he saw in the war or the lonely years that followed his discorporation. It's easier than he expects, with Aziraphale's wings and aura all around him. ]
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Crowley could fall asleep like this, if he wanted, and Aziraphale would just resign himself to this position, wake up in the morning with an unfortunate sore in his shoulders from this loaned frame, but he wouldn't complain one stitch. Six thousand years they'd spent together, and Crowley truly knew Aziraphale better than anyone else. And why wouldn't he? They were sort of best friends, when they weren't trying to tiptoe around the mortal enemy thing. ]
You know it wouldn't be the same.
[ He doesn't mean the ducks, and he's sure Crowley knows. Everything would just be... dull, a truly lifeless experience. Not to mention that, should either of them be gone, Heaven or Hell would send a replacement. And there wasn't anyone, demon or human or angel, who could replace Crowley. ]
But Heaven help me, nothing's going to happen to either of us. Not for a long while yet.
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He nods a little, with a sound of agreement, face still tucked against the angel's collar. In the whole history of the world he's never been able to let a century pass without seeking out Aziraphale at least once; he can't really imagine the future without him. ]
Yeah? You'll protect us, angel?
[The words are muzzy with sleepiness, not really teasing; he rather likes the idea of Aziraphale defending him. His glasses are pressing into his face uncomfortably, so he takes them off and lays them aside, without really even thinking about it. ]
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[ Not that he feels like their relationship - outside of their Arrangement - should have anything to do with bargaining with each other over who gets what part and who owes whom. No, he'd do this because he wants to, lays a soft hand on Crowley's cheek because he likes the feel of it.
He would never say as much, but he does wish that Crowley would take the glasses off more often, when they're alone. His face is always expressive enough to make up for the lack of direct eye contact, but really he just likes looking at them. He remembers what they look like in the Before; they were beautiful and very Crowley, but they are no less so now on either account, just in a different way.
He catches himself involuntarily trying to tip Crowley's face to sneak a peek, but he stops himself and decides he should let him rest instead. His voice is soft, and now barely above a whisper. ]
But you are always safe with me, you know.
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With Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek, his wings around him and his low voice telling him he’s safe, the lure of rest is impossible to resist. He falls asleep without divining that Aziraphale wants to see his eyes, but the angel gets his wish sometime later when Crowley wakes again. Stirring slightly as he becomes aware of his surroundings again, he lifts his head a little, taking a look around the workshop. Then he looks at Aziraphale, meeting his gaze with sleepy, unguarded eyes. ]
Aziraphale. [ Utter relief comes through in the name. It’s so good to see him, to wake with him. ]
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Crowley. How did you sleep?
[ He doesn't do much of it himself, though he tried it once or twice. But most of Crowley's other hobbies were all so active, so perhaps it made more sense for him to unwind by shutting his eyes to fully recharge.
Crowley seems to be easing into wakefulness, or more slithering into it, which suits Aziraphale just fine. He's in no rush to leave this moment behind, searches Crowley's eyes as if counting the number of colors in them. It's so very rare Crowley goes without his glasses anymore, after all. ]
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[ He thinks vaguely Aziraphale really ought to give it another go sometime, especially like this--waking still nestled against his angel, like he's been holding him all the time he slept. ]
Since--can't remember since when.
[ He looks back at Aziraphale, too unguarded at the moment to care that his eyes are still uncovered, or that Aziraphale seems to be taking the opportunity to study them at his leisure. It can't have been that long that he slept--the air has the taste of the dark hour just before dawn--but he feels as though it was an age, Hell and his recent discorporation something like a bad dream that he can now put behind him. ]
I love your wings.
[ He says it without really thinking, in a voice languid from sleep. Aziraphale's wings are still folded around them, bright and beautiful, and he does, he really does love them. ]
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He can feel Crowley's aura, and it puts him much at ease. But when he says the bit about his wings, Aziraphale feels as if his gaze might be hot enough to kill him permanently, and has to tear them away to look at the ground instead, though he smiles despite himself. ]
Before you, I didn't know demons were capable of feeling love at all.
[ He'd wrestled with the idea recently, and of course loving something is not quite the same as the kind of love that Aziraphale has for, say, God herself, or the love he has for Crowley. He still wasn't certain, but the series of events and moments culminating to this one, he thinks he is now. ]
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He doesn’t respond at first. The words Aziraphale speaks echo in his mind, frantically trying to attach themselves to significance. Surely the angel doesn’t mean them in the way Crowley thinks he does. He’s gone dry-mouthed, needing to swallow before he answers. ]
We all started off like you.
[ Angels. Beings of love, pure divine love, almost too wonderful to bear. ]
We just—forgot how. Some of us.
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Not all of you. You remember.
[ There's no question in his voice. Though he's sure that all the time he's felt it, he thought it might have just been his own. It was hard to pin a source or direction, and Aziraphale was an angel, after all. It didn't matter anyway, because-- because this whole thing was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was bad news for both of them, he shouldn't have brought it up, they should just put this conversation behind them.
Yet, Aziraphale makes no attempt to move. He can't. He is allowed to hope. ]
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He'd thought so, anyway.
He draw back a little, staring at Aziraphale as though he is the last piece of a puzzle Crowley is trying to slot into place. Ordinary words don't come to mind; he feels himself in unfamiliar waters. ]
How can you know? What if I've fooled you all this time?
[ His voice is low, the rest of him gone a little tense. ]
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[ He hadn't meant to ruin this moment, but he sees that he has, and he's very sorry. It was a good moment. He doesn't really see the point in having lied or played along to something like this, but in his brief moment of heartbreak he can't begin to realize that Crowley isn't trying to reject him.
He looks a bit struck, eyebrows knit upwards like he might just cry, but he presses on. No, perhaps things were not just going to fall into his lap and go his way, but that was alright. Enough in his life has done just that, and he's a very lucky being regardless. ]
I suppose...
[ His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. ]
Then I suppose that we will just carry on as we always have.
[ And he's already back to smiling. A little more watery this time, but it isn't like Aziraphale has thought that Crowley might love him for a long time. Honestly it isn't even like Aziraphale has even been aware of how much he really does love Crowley for very long, and he certainly hasn't come to terms with it. It was just that he held on so long to the notion that he shouldn't, and therefore, didn't. And so things can return to how they were last century, last year, last night even, both of them burdened only with the memory of this conversation, but otherwise back to the status quo. As soon as Aziraphale stops feeling like his heart's suddenly been crushed under a large weight, anyway. ]
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Oh, Hell, he doesn’t want them to go back to the way they were before. He doesn’t think he could stand it. ]
Aziraphale—
[ Crowley seizes his hand, afraid that Aziraphale will be the one to pull away first; he presses it to his cheek, palm to skin, his mouth at the base of Aziraphale’s thumb, a plea for understanding on his lips. ]
I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I do—I do love you.
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And Aziraphale has to rewind the last ten seconds of their conversation and play it over again in his head.
And once again.
So it takes him a bit, breath stuck in his throat and wholly tense, but he's only an angel. Like butter, he softens his hand against Crowley's cheek, eyebrows knitting and un-knitting as he looks away and tries to gather his thoughts into words. When none come, he instead slides his hand around Crowley's neck and the other around his waist, pulling him forward in embrace and burying his face in the sharp corners of his collar.
Crowley might feel Aziraphale's mouth form into a smile. ]
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Angel.
[ He buries trembling fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, clutches him close and tries to steady his breathing. He can feel Aziraphale smiling and it sends a warm rush of reassurance through him, limbs relaxing a little bit even as he wraps himself adamantly around Aziraphale, snake-like. Fingers burrow into his feathers at the base of his wings. They’re soft in his hands, wonderful to touch. ]
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He is a being composed entirely of love and of light, but he usually manages to contain it in his relatively small human form. He can't seem to do so at the moment, and the entire block is suddenly, miraculously, having dreams so strong that they will inexplicably be in a good mood all day.
He lifts his head from its resting spot on Crowley's shoulder as if wanting to say something, but he racks his brain for all the words in all the languages they've ever spoken and none come up sufficient. Instead, he looks on with the kind of fondness he'd had finishing reading his very first book, or the first time he'd heard birds singing after a rain. He thinks he might be able to see all the stars in the night sky reflected in Crowley's eyes, and doesn't realize he is inching closer as if it might give him a better look. ]
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He looks back at Aziraphale when he lifts his head from his shoulder to gaze at him. Crowley's eyes have possibly gone a little dark, the slit pupils wider, and he stares at Aziraphale as if to drink in that gentle, affectionate look in his eyes, as though just gazing at him gives the angel the kind of pleasure he usually reserves for his favorite foods. It doesn't really seem to matter what Aziraphale's intent is in leaning closer; after the agony and fear of chasing Aziraphale away a few moments ago, in the rush of bliss that comes with those emotions dissipating into unimportance, he feels as though nothing he could do would be unwelcome. Crowley's hand comes up to Aziraphale's cheek, and he leans forward just the slightest distance between them and kisses him tentatively, the press of his mouth light and soft. ]
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Practically on instinct, he finds himself clumsily navigating towards Crowley's mouth though it's entirely unnecessary, as their lips meet just fine in the middle. Though he doesn't try to escalate beyond a light press, there's absolutely no trepidation or tentativeness about him, finding this instead the most natural and easy thing to do.
Crowley has a warm, slightly spicy scent to his skin, which Aziraphale is currently finding to be nothing short of intoxicating. And in his serpentine embrace with hands in his wings and a lightness in his heart, his entire face illuminates and blooms into a smile against Crowley's lips. ]
Stay with me today.
[ He murmurs, barely audible, having ended the kiss but having not moved away. ]
I don't have plans, I'll close up shop.
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When the kiss ends he slowly opens his eyes which had fallen shut, seeking out Aziraphale’s again. Crowley draws breath and nods a little, resisting the urge to pull the angel harder against him and holding him carefully instead, like something precious. ]
I can do that. [ His voice comes out a little scratchy. ] No plans either.
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The sun, now casting a calm yellow outline on Aziraphale's wings, now sits wholly over the horizon to mark the dawn. He absentmindedly thinks that this is his favorite part of the day and he'd like to share every morning with Crowley just so, but promptly shuts down all further notions of the like in his dreamy runaway thoughts.
He allows today, and perhaps in the future he'll allow stolen moments behind closed curtains and away from prying eyes, but let that be enough. ]
I think perhaps we could find something to occupy the time.
[ He makes a promise to himself to enjoy this now, to delay his worry until inevitably when Crowley has to leave again and isn't presently the only thing in his entire field of perception. It might just work, with Crowley being ever so devastatingly distracting. ]
Kiss me again?
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There are a thousand temptations he should be out there in the world doing right now, all the sorry little jobs Hell gives him, but Crowley wishes he would never have to leave this bookshop again. The thought of Hell or Heaven looking in brings a twist of anxiety into him that makes him clutch a little tighter, but he tries not to let the worry show, tries to let himself be distracted by the warmth in Aziraphale's voice and touch. The angel's request certainly manages to capture his attention, and Crowley nods wordlessly before reaching out to pull Aziraphale into a kiss again.
It's hungrier this time, the yearning in him not quite so well disguised. Aziraphale's mouth is soft and lovely and Crowley didn't realize--didn't let himself think--how much he's wanted this. His hands shake a little as he drags Aziraphale closer. ]
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In retrospect, Aziraphale should have definitely anticipated that Crowley would kiss him like this, and he should therefore have logically concluded the effect it would have on him. Something about the catch of Crowley's lips draws out little sounds from Aziraphale's throat, his head tilting as he shifts on the couch for easier access, allowing his other hand to come around Crowley's neck; it as a fist there until he spreads it out and into soft hair that he tugs at by the very root.
The angle he finds himself at is rather uncomfortable, and though his mind is preoccupied, his body takes over in wisdom and boldness, lightly nudging Crowley's shoulder to move him so as to slide easily into his lap. ]
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no worries! I can always do prose
only if you prefer!
I’m good either way :)
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