inlovewithmycar | open post

Oh, you did.

[ He gives Crowley such a lovely look and then sits up to get his legs under the tray so he can tuck in. He thinks about what he wants first, and then--]

I think you ought to feed me.

I'd feel very pampered then, I think.

Oh, would you now?

[ Crowley stretches and sits himself at Aziraphale's side, plucking the fork from the breakfast tray. This is both calming and familiar, and yet dazzlingly new. Their millennia-spanning friendship had involved many little dining excursions, where one or the other might offer up a forkful of something from their plate. The new bit is Aziraphale explicitly asking for this treatment from Crowley, and the demon couldn't be happier to oblige.

He uses the side of the fork to cut through the soft, rumsoaked sponge and layers of fruit, before offering up the morsel to Aziraphale. ]

Principality, indeed. All you need's a little crown.

[ At the suggestion, Aziraphale miracles a little crown onto his head. It's imperial style, bedecked in jewels, with cushy blue velvet in the center.

After that, he presses his hands together and delicately takes the offered bite. His lips come together in a cute little smile, and he practically bats his lashes the way that old cartoons with shiny eyelids do. ]

Oh my dear, that's glorious.

Where did you get that?

[ Crowley quickly stifles a laugh, and affects the demeanor of a prim and proper butler. Or at least, Crowley's idea of a prim and proper butler, as Crowley was absolutely none of the above. ]

My lovely liege - how may I serve you?

[ Crowley dissolves into a fit of snickering. That lasted all of, maybe, three seconds. ]

Stopped by the cottage to drop off cleaning supplies and decided to head into town to get a better feel for the area. Got themselves a charming Italian bakery; been in the family generations. 'Course I couldn't not pick you up a little treat.

[ Aziraphale cracks up too, half because of the words that he says, and half because of the way that he says it. Finally, when their laughter subsides, he says, in between little upstarts of giggles: ]

I do love a... a good Italian bakery.

And a... thoughtful lover.

[ He makes eyes at Crowley one more time before tearing his gaze away and then taking up the fork to continue dessert. He insists on his snack, of course. ]

[ Crowley puffs up with pride when the cake meets its mark. Of course it would - Crowley is almost as picky about baked goods as Aziraphale - mostly because he's usually buying them for Aziraphale.

When he takes the fork from Crowley's unresistant hand, the demon pours their wine, and settles behind Aziraphale to rub his shoulders.

It's not quite a compulsion, but Crowley takes a great deal of pleasure in making Aziraphale happy. He supposes one facet of his reasoning is that he's spent his whole life making others moderately miserable, it feels nice to brighten someone's day for a change. The other facet is that someone just so happens to be who he loves the very most. ]

I know - like getting to take care of you. Feels ... feels something. All warm, here.

[ He presses his chest against Aziraphale's back by way of explanation. ]

Mm.

[ He leans back, careful not to get his crown up in Crowley's face, but pillows the back of his head onto a shoulder and draws Crowley's arm around his shoulder like a cape. The massage was nice, but cuddling might be nicer. ]

That's just love, dear. It makes you feel good when you make someone you love happy.

And you make me so very happy.

[ The crown disappears, all so he can turn his face to steal a quick peck. ]

You know, I so rarely get to spoil you in return.

'Course it's love. Always loved you.

[ And now he can say it. Just casually, all out in the open. Like he can rub Aziraphale's shoulders or feed him cake. ]

...And you do spoil me. You're very indulgent to my own little whims.

[ It's the little things; the way Aziraphale welcomes Crowley into his life, makes room for him in the sanctuary of his bookshop, how much he trusts him and lets him ask all his questions ranging from trying to suss out the deep moral quandaries of life to the utterly inane or pedantic queries that amble through his brain at any given moment. These things mean more to Crowley than Aziraphale may ever know. ]

Well, yes, but that's hardly spoiling you.

[ It's much easier to spot with Aziraphale, who loves to be pampered in all ways, manners and forms. He likes to be touched, he likes to be fed, he likes expensive things and good shows and sweet kisses and wherever that leads. ]

Tomorrow. We'll do all the things you want to do. I'll draw you a bath. And then I'll weave you a dream. And we can go... look for more plants. And take a drive.

What do you say?

[ Crowley makes a stuttering protest. ]

It is - I am very spoiled, rest assured.

[ He presses a few kisses to the nape of Aziraphale's neck. If only the angel knew how much he did for Crowley already. ]

Those do sound nice though. Grab a hamper and take a nice drive into the countryside. Do a picnic. Nice bath in the evening...

[ His hands wander down Aziraphale's arms until he reaches a fork-free hand to hold. ]

...hop into bed, you with a nice book... it sounds perfect.

A picnic, and a bath. Oh, Crowley, what a perfect day.

[ But then again, so is this one. They're all perfect days, now that they're together, he thinks. ]

I'll read to you. What do you think? We've always followed humans on their adventures.

[ And they could do so without any chance of intervening, even. He extends his fingers all the way out so that Crowley's have to slip in between them, and then closes them, interlocking. ]

Or, perhaps... if you'd like, have you read those choose your own adventure books? What a novel idea!

Would you...?

[ Given what they've gotten up to, how utterly shameless they are in their affection, it's pretty astonishing what will make Crowley flush from head to toe. Here, in the privacy of their bed with no one else to see, he is positively blushing over the offer to be read to while they hold hands and Aziraphale eats cake. ]

Always wanted you to...

[ He mutters, ever so softly. ]

[ Don't think that Aziraphale missed that, because he didn't. He moves the tray aside and busses Crowley on the cheek before getting up to go select a book to read. ]

Any requests?

[ Otherwise, he might be down there for a little too long, and come up with tomes upon tomes for Crowley to choose from. He might already have fallen asleep by then. ]

Anything you want.

[ Even though he's doing the work, he supposes this is like how Crowley always treats Aziraphale to things. He gets no less enjoyment by being the narrator, than being on the receiving end of a good book reading. ]

[ Crowley stretches himself out, watching Aziraphale bent over his books with interest. ]

Mm - something funny. Or saucy. Or so saucy it's funny.

[ Crowley may have been a great patron of the arts and sciences, but his taste in literature could be almost absurdly pedestrian.

He gets himself comfortable, exchanging out his day-to-day attire for his silk pajama bottoms and a t-shirt sporting the logo of some rock group he'd seen at a pub once and liked enough to pay actual money for their merchandise. ]

It's not often I keep that sort of pulp around the shop.

[ His romances were usually... heavy on the romance, light on the sauce. ]

But humor on the other hand... Ah, I've got just the thing. Lend me a jiffy.

[ He jumps out of bed and goes downstairs for a moment, coming back and tossing the book on Crowley. It appears to be slightly old, leather-bound from the 1800s. And there's no title or anything on the spine. The sheets are rather thick. In fact, if he opens it, he'll see that it's written in Aziraphale's handwriting.

Or, hm. A messy, drunken version of Aziraphale's handwriting. ]

[ Crowley complains loudly when Aziraphale scurries off. Something ridiculous about the air being too cold to go without his wonderful body heat and woe is him, abandoned and forgotten, all the while draping himself across the cushions like a forlorn Victorian maiden having a bout of hysteria and fainting. The theatrics stop almost as soon as Aziraphale returns, and he nearly fumbles the catch as the book lands in his arms.

He opens it curiously; a handwritten manuscript of some sort. He wasn't surprised; Aziraphale kept a number of pieces that had never seen a publishing house for one reason or another. But then, it dawns on him just who the writing belongs to, and he looks up at Aziraphale with both love and astonishment. ]

You wrote this...?

[ He beckons for Aziraphale to come back to bed, eager (for once) to read something. His heart is doing that strange thrumming as he skims the thick parchment. ]

Well, yes. It's the single most ridiculous, terribly soppy, pulp piece of writing that I own.

[ He smiles confidently to hide that he's actually rather nervous on the inside, as he climbs back into bed, and says: ]

I believe I mentioned in passing that I once wrote of you. Of us, while... very drunk and surrounded by other, more talented writers who were sick of my pining, in their words. They encouraged me - they dared me - to write, and so, I did.

And I never looked at it again.

[ He's not actually sure he could read it, with his handwriting getting noticeably worse as the book went on, and with his line of thought meandering and full to bursting of a loved shot through and scarred with denial. ]

Not ridiculous.

[ Crowley says it emphatically, despite only skimming a sentence or two. He's clutching the manuscript protectively to his chest, as though Aziraphale had offered him something small, frail and delicate.

Crowley opens one arm invitingly, wanting to hold Aziraphale as they read together. ]

You're not ridiculous, Aziraphale. Not for writing this.

I am. It took several bottles of wine and some of my greatest friends at the time to pull it out of me. And then, ashamed, I chucked it in the back never to look at again, and certainly never to show you.

Oh, don't get all serious on me, Crowley, it'll be great fun.

[ In an embarrassing way, but maybe they could both laugh at how absolutely cheesy and purple Aziraphale's attempts at describing Crowley through his eyes in the 1800s after having missed him for part of the century. ]

[ Crowley makes a disgruntled noise out of his nose. Is he close to crying over the thought of Aziraphale writing anything at all about him? ...Maybe so.

He hunkers down in the pillows and winds his arm around the angel's shoulder, flipping to the first page.

And squints. ]

Right, I'll give you one thing, you were definitely drunk. Does things to you handwriting.

[ Aziraphale chuckles and arcs his arm around Crowley's waist as he skims over the front. ]

Oh, I did like an introduction, I'm not sure you're in here until... aha.

[ He flips through, and about halfway through chapter 1, he starts narrating: ]

From the corner of his vision, he spies the illustrious stranger come to grace their sleepy town, the one that had piqued everyone's interest and generated gossip anywhere from lonely widower to escaped convict. Upon closer inspection, William--

And I quite liked the name William at the time, can't recall why.

--William realizes that it's not a stranger at all. No, he recognizes this man, and politely exits his conversation with Ms. Beaton in order to go give him a piece of his mind for disrupting the townsfolk's lives, swanning in like that enfolded in drama and mystery, disappearing in the night without a word and after all these years, returning without even announcing himself to an old friend, not even sending word of his arrival.

And then, perhaps he is mistaken; after all, some time had passed, and he had seen that devilish smile in more than one passing by in a crowd, and he thinks perhaps he has just overreacted when he hears it, clear as a bell, that laugh he would recognize to the ends of the Earth, and it strikes his he--

Oh, dear. I was quite a bit more drunk than I remembered.

[ Crowley is already quite enraptured by the story, and snuggles right up to Aziraphale's side. He tucks his head into his favourite spot on Aziraphale's shoulder where he can breathe the comforting scent of his cologne and natural musk, while absorbing his heat like a warmth sponge. ]

Are you William? You'd make a passable William. But then, people'd call you 'Bill' and you're no 'Bill'. Need a fancier name. Maybe a Daniel, or Roderick? Or Beauregard, or Aloysius...? Hmm.

[ Crowley pondered this for a while. He liked aliases - it was the most fun part of never being given a proper name. ]

Are William and the mysterious stranger old lovers? What happened? Why'd they split up? Does the mysterious stranger have a dark and mysterious past?

[ One might take pity on Crowley for being kicked out of Heaven for 'asking questions' but once one actually sat down with said demon, they might feel a tad more forgiving to the Lord Almighty for putting up with him for as long as She did. ]

A Beauregard, really now.

[ And no, no one dared to call his character Bill, but he hadn't quite thought that through when he'd written it, had he? ]

No, they weren't lovers, just childhood friends. And he never told William, he just up and left one day, after they'd had a fight. And William had gone to apologize to him, and he hadn't been there, and a servant had told him that he was sl-- that he'd gone away.

[ He tries to salvage that by quickly moving on: ]

He does have a very dark and mysterious past, and William tries to figure it out for the majority of the novel, since the stranger - Phineas - keeps it from him.

[ Crowley doesn't miss the pause, but he doesn't linger on it either. This is Aziraphale's way of dealing with their fight and he's had more than enough of Crowley's apologies and self-flagellating. Let it be something that never happens again. Let it become something they look back on and smile about because they associate it with Aziraphale's manuscript and not with heartache. ]

You could be a Beauregard. You're very... Beau-y. ...And please tell me you didn't name my Byronic counterpart Phineas. I'm very much not a Phineas. I'm too -

[ Crowley gestures vaguely as if that could sum up why he was so very much not a Phineas. ]

Anyway, Phineas is a prat not telling William important things.

[ Aziraphale is not sure what Crowley is trying to articulate as to why he's not a Phineas, but it doesn't matter because: ]

Hardly anyone calls him Phineas anyway, everyone refers to him by surname, including William. It's only proper that they do so, so for most of the novel he's Mr. Ingram.

And... Yes, he's quite the prat. Leaves William speculating for most of the novel some things that might've happened during their time apart.

[ A pause, as he racks his brain. ]

I thought that was quite clever at the time, too. Perhaps Phineas had been pulled away for work and been too busy, or had gone away to take care of a sick family member and been too sad to say anything, or... been forced into a loveless marriage for political reasons.

It was supposed to be a story about friendship, but looking back, I think no one agreed with me.

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