[ But he had seen the injured soldiers, had seen the aftermath of all the loss, all the rebuilding. He'd always been faithful, but even he had to feel tested. He'd tried to intervene with the Upstairs, but naturally everything was all part of a bigger plan. It wasn't his to question. ]
But it was awful. I had almost forgotten that humans were capable of such cruelty.
[ Or maybe he'd just grown to believe they'd finally learn that they are all the same, that they need to look after each other.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale starts to poke Crowley gently in the arm and then down his side, just to check. When he's satisfied finding nothing, he breathes a sigh of relief and visibly un-tenses. ]
Everything will be alright, Crowley. You must believe that.
Ah, well, you don't really...really forget, us demons. [ More wine, this line of thinking calls for. He drinks again, and looks bemusedly at Aziraphale as he starts poking along his arm and his side, apparently checking for any sign of injury. There are none, but he obligingly holds still for the angel anyway, and then when Aziraphale is done and looking relieved, he reaches for the wine bottle and pours his glass full again. ]
Mmm. See? I told you.
[ He studies Aziraphale when he tells him that everything will be all right. Will it? He'd like to believe so, but it's Aziraphale who has the faith, not him. ]
Come and sit with me, angel. Drink your wine. Tell me--tell me what you've been up to.
[ It's not that Aziraphale forgets, either, but just that his faith is strong, his optimism thoroughly unshakable. He hadn't wanted to drown an entire civilization of humans, but it was God's will. And so this must have been as well, hadn't it been? They've seen the good, bad and ugly of the human condition, hadn't they? They'd lived through wars and god-emperors and dictators alike, this was just the latest iteration.
Nevertheless, he can see how this one has particularly gotten to Crowley. Maybe it's the last straw, maybe he's just tired for being blamed for such atrocities. In either case, Aziraphale pours himself a glass and slots himself on the cushy couch next to Crowley, half on his arm simply due to the lack of geographic space on said couch. ]
Oh, well. The usual.
[ Closing up shop early, not selling a thing, and looking up every page or two from his tomes, pointedly at the phone as if it might ring or else catch on fire. Normal. ]
[ Ah, yes, divine will. Crowley's sure that God had Her hand in it, just as Aziraphale is, moving all the little pieces around on the gameboard in accordance with Her plan. But why must it be such a cruel plan? Does She really want Her creation behaving in such ways to one another? He wishes he could ask sometimes.
Aziraphale sitting so close makes him think of simply tipping to the side and letting his head rest against the angel's shoulder. He might just do it, after another drink or so. ]
Yeah? What's the usual then?
[ It would be nice, he thinks, just to hear Aziraphale talk. Even if it's about utterly mundane things, puttering around with his books and his shop or what delicious new dessert he's lately tried. Anything he had to say, Crowley would listen to. ]
Oh, angel. You shouldn't say that, it'll go to my head.
[ He hasn't minded in a few decades, maybe a century or two. In fact, though their Arrangement has existed for a thousand years, it's quite recent in the scope of their friendship. And though Aziraphale has more or less always felt certain affections towards Crowley, they've certainly magnified lately.
And Aziraphale hasn't gained the powers of mind reading just yet, but he reaches over and draws Crowley's shoulder near, to tip his head on his shoulder since it's just more comfortable to sit that way. Obviously. Clearly no ulterior motive can be had. ]
I've got several new books. A nice lady moved in next door with her two cats. I'm not very fond of the cats, but she's pleasant enough.
[ Crowley snorts at that, but inwardly preens just a little. He likes it when Aziraphale takes notice.
Then he freezes for an instant when Aziraphale touches him, but then the angel is drawing him down, offering him--literally--a shoulder to lean on, and Crowley can't possibly resist that, pillowing his head against the angel's shoulder with a hint of a sigh escaping him. A tension he's carried with him long before coming here begins to unwind a little, his thoughts turning away from darker things as he listens to Aziraphale go on about the neighbor woman and the cats. ]
Are they getting in your shop, tearing up your papers? [ He settles a little more firmly against Aziraphale, almost sprawled against him. ] Want me to do something about them for you?
No, no, Crowley, that's quite alright. They just howl at night, but they are cats. There's nothing you can do about that.
[ He does appreciate that Crowley will come to his beck and call whenever he senses any danger that Aziraphale is in: it's touching, really, and a tad overbearing. But he's always one to read intentions as good, even if Crowley won't own up to being good or nice or anything. ]
But thank you.
[ Despite not having been in the form of a snake for several thousand years, Crowley did manage to always sit on a couch like he still was one, almost limbless in his sprawl. But Aziraphale reminds him what body he's in, and soothes out his hair. ]
I think I'll manage somehow. You needn't worry about me.
[ It's said with some amusement; he recognizes Aziraphale's hasty assurances and protests that he need do nothing about the cats, and really, it's not like he'd have them come to any harm if he didn't need to. Surely he's more creative than that. Perhaps he'd send them out into the world to discover a really excellent band of street cats to become the bosses of. Ah, but that would probably grieve the neighbor lady, and then Aziraphale would have to deal with her wailing. Perhaps she wouldn't very much mind being a cat. He considers and discards various ideas, while Aziraphale begins to stroke his hair and cause him to become even closer and handsier in his sprawl against him.
Really, Aziraphale ought to rethink this. It just makes Crowley want to wrap all his limbs up tight around him. ]
I know I needn't worry. Demons don't worry, I assure you.
[ He doesn't want to argue about it, because angels do worry, and Crowley was one of those, once. He's just glad to be done talking about the cats and the woman, shutting all of the outside world out until it's just the two of them in this very room, just him and Crowley and his books.
Meanwhile in his absentminded petting of Crowley's hair, and strong reminder that he was once a snake, Aziraphale is starting to feel this sudden surge of joyousness, of being carefree.
For so long, he'd resisted that nights with Crowley left him feeling this way. No, it was just pride of an accomplishment of something getting done, that was all. Maybe with a little side of temptation, obvious demon business. But Crowley didn't have to save his corporation, didn't have to save his books. And without awareness, Aziraphale had grown to love him; and when he finally thinks he maybe might come to terms with this, he finds Crowley nestled in his touch. This could be a problem. ]
Would you like me to read to you? Or, I think I might have a phonograph lying around here.
[ He was gifted a radio sometime in the 1930s but hasn't touched it. ]
[ Crowley, too, lets the subject drop; he's not in the mood for much snark tonight. And he doesn't want to give Aziraphale any reason to stop what he's doing, stroking over his hair in that lovely, soothing way. In the grand scheme of things, in the long lifetime of a demon, the time between getting discorporated and at last being able to return to Earth was really quite short. But all things are relative, and it turns out you never really know what you might miss until you don't have it.
Crowley missed this, very much. Not the way they're touching one another right now, because it hadn't been like this before, but this sense of being able to curl up in Aziraphale's presence and just bask in it, like feeling the warmth of sunlight. Strange, he never realized that this must be what angelic comfort is like. He doesn't dare to try to give it any other name. ]
Mmmf. Whatever's closest.
[ Either suggestion sounds nice, but he really doesn't want Aziraphale to break away and perhaps decide they shouldn't be so...intimate anymore. He curls himself a little closer, anxious at the very thought. ]
[ Aziraphale extricates himself from this embrace for just a moment to go put a record on, because he chooses books like other people choose Netflix shows, which is to say that he'll gather up eight only to realize there's a ninth one four paragraphs in that he'd prefer to be reading.
The record he chooses is a Queen record that Crowley had probably left for him in the shop once, music that he knows Crowley would prefer to all the old classical recordings he has. He very clearly has never actually played it before.
When he comes back to the couch, he brings his hands up to Crowley's face and draws it back down to his shoulder, but brings out his wings before he leans back, wanting to give Crowley's hands something to preoccupy themselves with. ]
[ The strains of a familiar song fills the space as Crowley waits on the sofa for Aziraphale to come back, telling himself he doesn't feel bereft and anyway the angel is only gone for a few moments. And if he doesn't want Crowley's head on his shoulder again when he comes back, he won't feel bereft then, either.
But then Aziraphale returns, and the first thing he does is reach out to guide him to lay his head back down--Crowley complies bemusedly, wondering where all this invitation to physical contact has come from and at the same time thinking jealously of throwing his coils around Aziraphale and wrapping him up tight, all for himself. When Aziraphale's wings come out, he settles a hand against the edge of one and gives it a tentative stroke. Such pure white feathers, ethereal and beautiful. ]
Obviously. [ His voice seems to have gone somewhat rusty, a slight catch in it when he speaks. ]
[ 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. ]
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[ But he had seen the injured soldiers, had seen the aftermath of all the loss, all the rebuilding. He'd always been faithful, but even he had to feel tested. He'd tried to intervene with the Upstairs, but naturally everything was all part of a bigger plan. It wasn't his to question. ]
But it was awful. I had almost forgotten that humans were capable of such cruelty.
[ Or maybe he'd just grown to believe they'd finally learn that they are all the same, that they need to look after each other.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale starts to poke Crowley gently in the arm and then down his side, just to check. When he's satisfied finding nothing, he breathes a sigh of relief and visibly un-tenses. ]
Everything will be alright, Crowley. You must believe that.
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Mmm. See? I told you.
[ He studies Aziraphale when he tells him that everything will be all right. Will it? He'd like to believe so, but it's Aziraphale who has the faith, not him. ]
Come and sit with me, angel. Drink your wine. Tell me--tell me what you've been up to.
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Nevertheless, he can see how this one has particularly gotten to Crowley. Maybe it's the last straw, maybe he's just tired for being blamed for such atrocities. In either case, Aziraphale pours himself a glass and slots himself on the cushy couch next to Crowley, half on his arm simply due to the lack of geographic space on said couch. ]
Oh, well. The usual.
[ Closing up shop early, not selling a thing, and looking up every page or two from his tomes, pointedly at the phone as if it might ring or else catch on fire. Normal. ]
But it's been quite dull without you.
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Aziraphale sitting so close makes him think of simply tipping to the side and letting his head rest against the angel's shoulder. He might just do it, after another drink or so. ]
Yeah? What's the usual then?
[ It would be nice, he thinks, just to hear Aziraphale talk. Even if it's about utterly mundane things, puttering around with his books and his shop or what delicious new dessert he's lately tried. Anything he had to say, Crowley would listen to. ]
Oh, angel. You shouldn't say that, it'll go to my head.
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[ He hasn't minded in a few decades, maybe a century or two. In fact, though their Arrangement has existed for a thousand years, it's quite recent in the scope of their friendship. And though Aziraphale has more or less always felt certain affections towards Crowley, they've certainly magnified lately.
And Aziraphale hasn't gained the powers of mind reading just yet, but he reaches over and draws Crowley's shoulder near, to tip his head on his shoulder since it's just more comfortable to sit that way. Obviously. Clearly no ulterior motive can be had. ]
I've got several new books. A nice lady moved in next door with her two cats. I'm not very fond of the cats, but she's pleasant enough.
[ Crowley, you asked. ]
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Then he freezes for an instant when Aziraphale touches him, but then the angel is drawing him down, offering him--literally--a shoulder to lean on, and Crowley can't possibly resist that, pillowing his head against the angel's shoulder with a hint of a sigh escaping him. A tension he's carried with him long before coming here begins to unwind a little, his thoughts turning away from darker things as he listens to Aziraphale go on about the neighbor woman and the cats. ]
Are they getting in your shop, tearing up your papers? [ He settles a little more firmly against Aziraphale, almost sprawled against him. ] Want me to do something about them for you?
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[ He does appreciate that Crowley will come to his beck and call whenever he senses any danger that Aziraphale is in: it's touching, really, and a tad overbearing. But he's always one to read intentions as good, even if Crowley won't own up to being good or nice or anything. ]
But thank you.
[ Despite not having been in the form of a snake for several thousand years, Crowley did manage to always sit on a couch like he still was one, almost limbless in his sprawl. But Aziraphale reminds him what body he's in, and soothes out his hair. ]
I think I'll manage somehow. You needn't worry about me.
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[ It's said with some amusement; he recognizes Aziraphale's hasty assurances and protests that he need do nothing about the cats, and really, it's not like he'd have them come to any harm if he didn't need to. Surely he's more creative than that. Perhaps he'd send them out into the world to discover a really excellent band of street cats to become the bosses of. Ah, but that would probably grieve the neighbor lady, and then Aziraphale would have to deal with her wailing. Perhaps she wouldn't very much mind being a cat. He considers and discards various ideas, while Aziraphale begins to stroke his hair and cause him to become even closer and handsier in his sprawl against him.
Really, Aziraphale ought to rethink this. It just makes Crowley want to wrap all his limbs up tight around him. ]
I know I needn't worry. Demons don't worry, I assure you.
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[ He doesn't want to argue about it, because angels do worry, and Crowley was one of those, once. He's just glad to be done talking about the cats and the woman, shutting all of the outside world out until it's just the two of them in this very room, just him and Crowley and his books.
Meanwhile in his absentminded petting of Crowley's hair, and strong reminder that he was once a snake, Aziraphale is starting to feel this sudden surge of joyousness, of being carefree.
For so long, he'd resisted that nights with Crowley left him feeling this way. No, it was just pride of an accomplishment of something getting done, that was all. Maybe with a little side of temptation, obvious demon business. But Crowley didn't have to save his corporation, didn't have to save his books. And without awareness, Aziraphale had grown to love him; and when he finally thinks he maybe might come to terms with this, he finds Crowley nestled in his touch. This could be a problem. ]
Would you like me to read to you? Or, I think I might have a phonograph lying around here.
[ He was gifted a radio sometime in the 1930s but hasn't touched it. ]
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Crowley missed this, very much. Not the way they're touching one another right now, because it hadn't been like this before, but this sense of being able to curl up in Aziraphale's presence and just bask in it, like feeling the warmth of sunlight. Strange, he never realized that this must be what angelic comfort is like. He doesn't dare to try to give it any other name. ]
Mmmf. Whatever's closest.
[ Either suggestion sounds nice, but he really doesn't want Aziraphale to break away and perhaps decide they shouldn't be so...intimate anymore. He curls himself a little closer, anxious at the very thought. ]
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The record he chooses is a Queen record that Crowley had probably left for him in the shop once, music that he knows Crowley would prefer to all the old classical recordings he has. He very clearly has never actually played it before.
When he comes back to the couch, he brings his hands up to Crowley's face and draws it back down to his shoulder, but brings out his wings before he leans back, wanting to give Crowley's hands something to preoccupy themselves with. ]
You're staying the night, aren't you?
sorry for my slow!
But then Aziraphale returns, and the first thing he does is reach out to guide him to lay his head back down--Crowley complies bemusedly, wondering where all this invitation to physical contact has come from and at the same time thinking jealously of throwing his coils around Aziraphale and wrapping him up tight, all for himself. When Aziraphale's wings come out, he settles a hand against the edge of one and gives it a tentative stroke. Such pure white feathers, ethereal and beautiful. ]
Obviously. [ His voice seems to have gone somewhat rusty, a slight catch in it when he speaks. ]
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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no worries! I can always do prose
only if you prefer!
I’m good either way :)
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