[ It had been several years since their latest lunch, though in a friendship that spanned six thousand years, was really rather inconsequential. Aziraphale wasn't sure if Crowley was just going to sleep through the rest of the century, and he found himself thinking it would be quite a shame if he did.
He stared at his phone, the one with an old rotary dial that he'd kept in good condition since he'd bought it in the 1930s, but thought to himself that he'd get around to it tomorrow. After all, people in general did not like to be disturbed from their sleep and he imagined that if it wasn't important, he probably shouldn't, just in case.
A month later, he'd come around to picking up the phone, and even dialed in a single digit, before hanging up once more.
Aziraphale was in the shop when he'd heard a hard knock. ]
Terribly sorry, but we're closed!
[ The knocking persists, so Aziraphale eventually gets up from his desk and musters up a polite but stern expression. Yet, when the door swings open, it falls from his face. ]
[ Painful things had happened during the Second World War, things that didn’t really bear thinking about. Seeing Aziraphale towards the beginning of it had been the bright spot in an otherwise terrible, awful slog of years which had put a point to the abhorrent things humans could do to one another, demonic influence barely necessary. Crowley didn’t want to think about them, though since the war was at the forefront of his most recent memories of Earth, it was hard to get away from. It was easy enough to get oneself discorporated in the middle of all that violence, if one wasn’t careful enough, and towards the end he hadn’t been.
He found nearly a decade had passed when he finally managed to get himself back to Earth. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but a depressingly long time to spend Below with no better company that Hastur and Ligur and, on more unpleasant occasions, Beelzebub. It didn’t surprise him, really, to find himself outside of the bookshop, rather soon after he’d gotten back. He would have wanted to see Aziraphale even under the best of circumstances, which these certainly weren’t. It was always disconcerting, coming back, trying to catch up on everything you’d missed.
His hard knock on the door finally caught attention from within; Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had opened the shop a day since the 1700s. ]
Hello, Aziraphale.
[ He wanted to think of something quippy to say, but it wasn’t coming to mind. Crowley was aware he was letting the doorjam take most of his weight, as though a step one way or the other would result in collapse. ]
Yeah, yeah, all’s fine. Do you have anything to drink?
Edited (Something happened to a sentence ) 2019-06-26 19:30 (UTC)
[ Aziraphale had the shop open just about every day, except Sunday, thank you very much, though his hours were variable and highly subject to change at any moment's notice. Despite all this, the store still stood, which was a good thing as it was now a receptacle for a demon about to tumble onto the carpets adorning his floor. ]
Of course. Let me get you something to drink, do come in.
[ He reaches out his arms to guide Crowley into the foyer, ready to take the brunt of his weight should the need arise. He has many thoughts in his head, like what happened and who did this and are you in trouble and why didn't you call me sooner? But he frowns and fusses, kicking the door closed behind them and trying to get Crowley a nice cushy chair to fall into so he can be free to go retrieve that requested drink. ]
I hope wine is alright.
[ He pours a glass for Crowley, himself still armed with a tea he'd been nursing for the past hour or so; it's gone cold now but he warms it up in his hands with liberal use of angelic miracles. ]
Pardon my saying so, but I really don't think all is fine.
[ Aziraphale lasted so long not saying anything, too. ]
[ Crowley doesn't usually lean on Aziraphale--not as a literal figure of speech, but now seems to be the exception, his steps stumble slightly as he's led in through the door and Aziraphale's arms are right there. Crowley lets him have a little, just a little bit of his weight as he guides him to a chair, not unselfconscious about it but simply glad to be back, to be here, in the very familiar atmosphere of the bookshop. Aziraphale's chair is soft and comfortable and he sinks back into the cushions until he looks as though his spine has half-melted, tilting his head up towards Aziraphale and nodding at the offer of wine.
Something tight in his chest, something that felt a little like a vice clamped painfully taut beneath his ribs since the moment he found himself back in Hell finally begins to ease a little. He lets out a slow breath, just because it feels good to do so even if he doesn't technically need to breathe, and reaches out for the glass Aziraphale pours for him. ]
Oh, I got discorporated.
[ It doesn't surprise Crowley that Aziraphale didn't manage to hold his silence. If there's one thing that can be counted on, it's his concern: bothersome sometimes, but at the moment Crowley rather feels like basking in it, as though basking in the touch of warm sunshine. ]
Towards the end of the war. Couldn't send you any word, it all happened too fast.
Oh, Crowley. Is that why you haven't been in touch?
[ He should've been more on top of things. After all, last time they'd met, Crowley had walked onto consecrated ground for him, had saved him from his own discorporation, and had even saved his books. That demon knew Aziraphale so well, was always so willing to lend him a hand. His eyes get a little misty thinking that he could've prevented this, and that he would've called if he could.
But he blinks those away.
He also imagines that along with the copious amounts of paperwork involved, Crowley's bosses aren't the type to enjoying restoring his old one, threaten him with the idea of having to maybe wear around a different skin. And that would've been dreadful. ]
Well don't tell me you've come all this way to do it a second time, what can I do for you?
[ It would be a dreadful shame for this to be the last time they see each other in the twentieth century. And it's coming up, it's more than halfway over, even. ]
[ For some reason it seems important to him that Aziraphale know this. They've relied on one another over the years, though they've had plenty of time apart as well, going a decade or more without seeing one another before the needs of their Arrangement bring them back together again. It's just that something seems to have changed recently, perhaps from the last time they met in the church; perhaps it was Crowley who changed, because some centuries or millennia ago he wouldn't have believed that he would walk willingly onto sacred ground to save anyone, any angel, even one who was his friend. But when the time came, it wasn’t anything that needed wrestling with, or even a moment’s consideration. Aziraphale needed him, and that was all.
As for the books, that was just because Crowley hated seeing him unhappy. ]
No, no, of course not. Not about to discorprate again, if that's what worries you. [ The wine glass in his hand is dangerously close to tipping over the arm of Aziraphale's chair. He must be looking rather pathetic, Crowley imagines. He was already a little ways towards drunk already, before he came here, but he swallows a deep gulp of the wine before speaking. ]
I hate Hell. Hated being back there. [ It's really not a nice place for anyone to have to spend a lot of time in, even a demon. ] But, you know, I thought of you. In this...your bookshop. [ He waves the glass around in his hand. ] Afraid it might be bombed in the war. You stayed safe?
[ Oh, Crowley. Aziraphale's eyes widen when Crowley asks over him, as if he had any doubts that Crowley thought of him while he was in Hell. But of course he did; Aziraphale would think of Crowley -- his strongest connection to this Earth that he loves. But it's sweet to hear, after all these years, a confirmation. ]
Perfectly safe.
[ Though he's performed several miracles and got into some tight spots, but reports were sent and nothing else of extreme note had happened. Things were, on the whole, at least much better than they had been in the fifteenth century. Crowley would surely agree. ]
Thanks to you. Are you very sure you're not hurt somehow?
[ Healing generally doesn't fall under the category of frivolous, and Aziraphale had also found several anatomy books over the years and feels like he might have a good grasp of medicine, at least up until the 1700s. Now is probably not the time to put theory to practice, but at the very least, things wouldn't go to total shit.
He surveys Crowley, having categorized all his little gestures and gait long ago, finding all the minute differences. ]
[ Crowley nods, looking up at Aziraphale through the dark lenses of his glasses, closing his eyes briefly when he takes another long drink of the wine but then opening them again to watch him. It's...comforting, somehow, to watch the angel here in his own domain, whole and well as he promises. It gives Crowley a sense that he, too, is at last in a place where things might be well again, at least for a little while. ]
That's good. That's good to hear.
[ He waves the hand not holding the wine glass, dismissing the credit Aziraphale gives him. ] I'm all right. [ The angel's regard is almost palpable. It makes Crowley think briefly of taking off his shades, which he hardly ever does, even around Aziraphale, unless he's quite drunk--maybe he's well on the way there already, he thinks, taking another drink. ] It's--you won't find what you're looking for, angel. No wounds. See?
[ Spreading his arms out, he offers himself to Aziraphale's gaze. ]
It's just--
[ He stops, searching for words to explain what is going on, why he can't seem to--feel like his old self again. ]
That war, it was so terrible, Aziraphale. The things they did to each other. Did you see much of it?
[ 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.
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He stared at his phone, the one with an old rotary dial that he'd kept in good condition since he'd bought it in the 1930s, but thought to himself that he'd get around to it tomorrow. After all, people in general did not like to be disturbed from their sleep and he imagined that if it wasn't important, he probably shouldn't, just in case.
A month later, he'd come around to picking up the phone, and even dialed in a single digit, before hanging up once more.
Aziraphale was in the shop when he'd heard a hard knock. ]
Terribly sorry, but we're closed!
[ The knocking persists, so Aziraphale eventually gets up from his desk and musters up a polite but stern expression. Yet, when the door swings open, it falls from his face. ]
Crowley! Heavens, are you quite alright?
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He found nearly a decade had passed when he finally managed to get himself back to Earth. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but a depressingly long time to spend Below with no better company that Hastur and Ligur and, on more unpleasant occasions, Beelzebub. It didn’t surprise him, really, to find himself outside of the bookshop, rather soon after he’d gotten back. He would have wanted to see Aziraphale even under the best of circumstances, which these certainly weren’t. It was always disconcerting, coming back, trying to catch up on everything you’d missed.
His hard knock on the door finally caught attention from within; Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had opened the shop a day since the 1700s. ]
Hello, Aziraphale.
[ He wanted to think of something quippy to say, but it wasn’t coming to mind. Crowley was aware he was letting the doorjam take most of his weight, as though a step one way or the other would result in collapse. ]
Yeah, yeah, all’s fine. Do you have anything to drink?
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Of course. Let me get you something to drink, do come in.
[ He reaches out his arms to guide Crowley into the foyer, ready to take the brunt of his weight should the need arise. He has many thoughts in his head, like what happened and who did this and are you in trouble and why didn't you call me sooner? But he frowns and fusses, kicking the door closed behind them and trying to get Crowley a nice cushy chair to fall into so he can be free to go retrieve that requested drink. ]
I hope wine is alright.
[ He pours a glass for Crowley, himself still armed with a tea he'd been nursing for the past hour or so; it's gone cold now but he warms it up in his hands with liberal use of angelic miracles. ]
Pardon my saying so, but I really don't think all is fine.
[ Aziraphale lasted so long not saying anything, too. ]
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Something tight in his chest, something that felt a little like a vice clamped painfully taut beneath his ribs since the moment he found himself back in Hell finally begins to ease a little. He lets out a slow breath, just because it feels good to do so even if he doesn't technically need to breathe, and reaches out for the glass Aziraphale pours for him. ]
Oh, I got discorporated.
[ It doesn't surprise Crowley that Aziraphale didn't manage to hold his silence. If there's one thing that can be counted on, it's his concern: bothersome sometimes, but at the moment Crowley rather feels like basking in it, as though basking in the touch of warm sunshine. ]
Towards the end of the war. Couldn't send you any word, it all happened too fast.
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[ He should've been more on top of things. After all, last time they'd met, Crowley had walked onto consecrated ground for him, had saved him from his own discorporation, and had even saved his books. That demon knew Aziraphale so well, was always so willing to lend him a hand. His eyes get a little misty thinking that he could've prevented this, and that he would've called if he could.
But he blinks those away.
He also imagines that along with the copious amounts of paperwork involved, Crowley's bosses aren't the type to enjoying restoring his old one, threaten him with the idea of having to maybe wear around a different skin. And that would've been dreadful. ]
Well don't tell me you've come all this way to do it a second time, what can I do for you?
[ It would be a dreadful shame for this to be the last time they see each other in the twentieth century. And it's coming up, it's more than halfway over, even. ]
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[ For some reason it seems important to him that Aziraphale know this. They've relied on one another over the years, though they've had plenty of time apart as well, going a decade or more without seeing one another before the needs of their Arrangement bring them back together again. It's just that something seems to have changed recently, perhaps from the last time they met in the church; perhaps it was Crowley who changed, because some centuries or millennia ago he wouldn't have believed that he would walk willingly onto sacred ground to save anyone, any angel, even one who was his friend. But when the time came, it wasn’t anything that needed wrestling with, or even a moment’s consideration. Aziraphale needed him, and that was all.
As for the books, that was just because Crowley hated seeing him unhappy. ]
No, no, of course not. Not about to discorprate again, if that's what worries you. [ The wine glass in his hand is dangerously close to tipping over the arm of Aziraphale's chair. He must be looking rather pathetic, Crowley imagines. He was already a little ways towards drunk already, before he came here, but he swallows a deep gulp of the wine before speaking. ]
I hate Hell. Hated being back there. [ It's really not a nice place for anyone to have to spend a lot of time in, even a demon. ] But, you know, I thought of you. In this...your bookshop. [ He waves the glass around in his hand. ] Afraid it might be bombed in the war. You stayed safe?
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Perfectly safe.
[ Though he's performed several miracles and got into some tight spots, but reports were sent and nothing else of extreme note had happened. Things were, on the whole, at least much better than they had been in the fifteenth century. Crowley would surely agree. ]
Thanks to you. Are you very sure you're not hurt somehow?
[ Healing generally doesn't fall under the category of frivolous, and Aziraphale had also found several anatomy books over the years and feels like he might have a good grasp of medicine, at least up until the 1700s. Now is probably not the time to put theory to practice, but at the very least, things wouldn't go to total shit.
He surveys Crowley, having categorized all his little gestures and gait long ago, finding all the minute differences. ]
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That's good. That's good to hear.
[ He waves the hand not holding the wine glass, dismissing the credit Aziraphale gives him. ] I'm all right. [ The angel's regard is almost palpable. It makes Crowley think briefly of taking off his shades, which he hardly ever does, even around Aziraphale, unless he's quite drunk--maybe he's well on the way there already, he thinks, taking another drink. ] It's--you won't find what you're looking for, angel. No wounds. See?
[ Spreading his arms out, he offers himself to Aziraphale's gaze. ]
It's just--
[ He stops, searching for words to explain what is going on, why he can't seem to--feel like his old self again. ]
That war, it was so terrible, Aziraphale. The things they did to each other. Did you see much of it?
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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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no worries! I can always do prose
only if you prefer!
I’m good either way :)
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