[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ Mr. Ingram sounded a bit better than Phineas at least. Crowle settled comfortably against him, mollified for the time being. ]
Given the circles you usually run in, no surprise there.
[ They must have seen right through Aziraphale. Something in him feels both jealous and grateful to them, looking out for his angel while Crowley had his snit. ]
So do William and Mr. Ingram get their happy ending? Does he find out what he'd been up to all that time?
No. Actually, I can't remember what I wrote, I'm not even sure I ended it.
[ He flips through, book not reaching the last page, as it was just scrawled down in a journal. ]
Oh, this is dreadful.
"Well, how about lunch?" inquires Mr. Ingram, the olive branch William is accustomed to receiving now, whenever they argue. But he won't be quelled this time, his face bone-white and lips in a tight line.
"I'm afraid that I have plans. And I'm very busy tomorrow," William replies, curtly. He takes a breath as if to say something else, but the moment passes.
And another moment passes, before Mr. Ingram speaks again. "Mr. Albrecht-- Ang--"
[ Aziraphale clears his throat, catching himself. ]
"William. I am sorry, I really am. Whatever I've said to offend you, I apologize, I meant none of it."
"You don't even know what it is you said, how can you know you don't mean it?" comes the response, more snappish than he had anticipated.
There is a pregnant silence between them, both starting and stalling and stopping several times, before the conversation gives up and dies.
"Well," says Ingram. "You'll be late for your-- plans. I'll take my leave."
"You're going to leave again," William interrupts, as Ingram looks on, suddenly curious. It's clear to him that William does not just mean for the day. "Mrs. Bertrand says so. Everyone says so, were you just going to, to steal away into the night for another twenty years and not even say goodbye?"
"A-- William. Is that what this is all about? Yes, I've been called away. It was all very sudden, I didn't tell anyone, I..." he stops, as he sees the look in William's eyes, struck as if by the back of his hand, and he quickly amends, "I've told them I'm not going. They can manage without me, and I am much more needed here. The children--"
"Yes," William interrupts, voice peaky. "Yes, the children. You'd never abandon the children, how careless of me."
[ He squints at some scrawlings, but it's unreadable after that, and he'd fallen asleep and drooled on the next bit. ]
I do believe William and Phineas were going to take the argument outside into the rain.
[ Crowley feels a terrible sting in his heart. Almost word for word from Ingram is his desperate apology to Aziraphale after their fight at the bandstand.
He wants to tell Aziraphale he never meant it, because if it's something horrible and careless, he will take back every syllable, lock the words away and never utter them again.
Their little arguments and debates are one thing, but Crowley's inflicted enough pain in his professional life - he has no desire to do something so terrible to Aziraphale.
He pulls Aziraphale into an embrace, and presses a gentle kiss to his brow. ]
...I liked it. A lot. I mean, Phineas ought to get splashed by a passing carriage at least, and then they... I hope they sort it out, yeah?
[ This was a lot less fun than he'd originally thought when he'd dug it out of his archives, particularly looking at Crowley now. He shuts the book and leans into his embrace. ]
I think it took them quite a long time, but eventually they do, yes. In fact, I...
[ He gets all misty-eyed and his voice gets all pitchy. ]
I think they've finally confessed their love for each other. It wasn't too late for them, and they're... living together on the Albrecht estate, I think.
[ But then he fetches a pen from his nightstand, and he starts writing on the next empty page. ]
William watches with his heart dropping to the ground as the train pulls out of the station, the one spiriting away his future for an unspecified amount of time, possibly for another twenty years of waiting, of greeting the mailman at the door every day, and hearing nothing.
He drops to his knees, to the ground, his head in his hands as he grieves the way the Greeks did, tearing their faces and rending their clothes. He's in full public but no one who matters can see him now, as he wets the platform ground with his tears.
He doesn't notice the footsteps creeping up behind him, and wills away the hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine," he says, to the concerned party, wiping away at his face. "Just... tripped, is all, honest."
"Can't leave you alone for a minute," comes the familiar and very unexpected voice of Mr. Ingram.
William rises to his feet, stumbling and almost really taking a tumble, if not for Ingram's hand to steady his fall. "You... but you just pulled out of the station, I watched you!"
"I couldn't do it," Ingram confesses in reply, leaving it unsaid that what it was he could not do was leave a second time. He hands William his handkerchief, red-bordered and monogrammed PI.
"For the allergies. Yes," William says, as he dots his eyes. "Thank you."
"Lift home then, Angel?" proffers Ingram.
Suddenly very worried about folding up the handkerchief just right, William considers his answer carefully before answering. "Yes, yes alright. Home, then."
[ He marks his last apostrophe, and sets the book aside for the ink to dry. ]
[ Crowley watches curiously as Aziraphale figures out an ending for his two gentlemen. He remembers a moment in a pub, where the real despair hadn't quite got its hooks in him yet, and then, a miracle. ]
Of course Phineas changed his mind. Can't just leave his best friend.
[ Crowley smiles, burying his face in Aziraphale's chest. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
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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. ]
no subject
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.
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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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
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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.
no subject
Given the circles you usually run in, no surprise there.
[ They must have seen right through Aziraphale. Something in him feels both jealous and grateful to them, looking out for his angel while Crowley had his snit. ]
So do William and Mr. Ingram get their happy ending? Does he find out what he'd been up to all that time?
no subject
[ He flips through, book not reaching the last page, as it was just scrawled down in a journal. ]
Oh, this is dreadful.
"Well, how about lunch?" inquires Mr. Ingram, the olive branch William is accustomed to receiving now, whenever they argue. But he won't be quelled this time, his face bone-white and lips in a tight line.
"I'm afraid that I have plans. And I'm very busy tomorrow," William replies, curtly. He takes a breath as if to say something else, but the moment passes.
And another moment passes, before Mr. Ingram speaks again. "Mr. Albrecht-- Ang--"
[ Aziraphale clears his throat, catching himself. ]
"William. I am sorry, I really am. Whatever I've said to offend you, I apologize, I meant none of it."
"You don't even know what it is you said, how can you know you don't mean it?" comes the response, more snappish than he had anticipated.
There is a pregnant silence between them, both starting and stalling and stopping several times, before the conversation gives up and dies.
"Well," says Ingram. "You'll be late for your-- plans. I'll take my leave."
"You're going to leave again," William interrupts, as Ingram looks on, suddenly curious. It's clear to him that William does not just mean for the day. "Mrs. Bertrand says so. Everyone says so, were you just going to, to steal away into the night for another twenty years and not even say goodbye?"
"A-- William. Is that what this is all about? Yes, I've been called away. It was all very sudden, I didn't tell anyone, I..." he stops, as he sees the look in William's eyes, struck as if by the back of his hand, and he quickly amends, "I've told them I'm not going. They can manage without me, and I am much more needed here. The children--"
"Yes," William interrupts, voice peaky. "Yes, the children. You'd never abandon the children, how careless of me."
[ He squints at some scrawlings, but it's unreadable after that, and he'd fallen asleep and drooled on the next bit. ]
I do believe William and Phineas were going to take the argument outside into the rain.
no subject
He wants to tell Aziraphale he never meant it, because if it's something horrible and careless, he will take back every syllable, lock the words away and never utter them again.
Their little arguments and debates are one thing, but Crowley's inflicted enough pain in his professional life - he has no desire to do something so terrible to Aziraphale.
He pulls Aziraphale into an embrace, and presses a gentle kiss to his brow. ]
...I liked it. A lot. I mean, Phineas ought to get splashed by a passing carriage at least, and then they... I hope they sort it out, yeah?
no subject
I think it took them quite a long time, but eventually they do, yes. In fact, I...
[ He gets all misty-eyed and his voice gets all pitchy. ]
I think they've finally confessed their love for each other. It wasn't too late for them, and they're... living together on the Albrecht estate, I think.
no subject
[ Crowley's voice isn't in a much better state and he folds his arms around Aziraphale, curling himself protectively close. ]
Even if they're a pair of idiots, they deserve at least that much.
no subject
[ But then he fetches a pen from his nightstand, and he starts writing on the next empty page. ]
William watches with his heart dropping to the ground as the train pulls out of the station, the one spiriting away his future for an unspecified amount of time, possibly for another twenty years of waiting, of greeting the mailman at the door every day, and hearing nothing.
He drops to his knees, to the ground, his head in his hands as he grieves the way the Greeks did, tearing their faces and rending their clothes. He's in full public but no one who matters can see him now, as he wets the platform ground with his tears.
He doesn't notice the footsteps creeping up behind him, and wills away the hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine," he says, to the concerned party, wiping away at his face. "Just... tripped, is all, honest."
"Can't leave you alone for a minute," comes the familiar and very unexpected voice of Mr. Ingram.
William rises to his feet, stumbling and almost really taking a tumble, if not for Ingram's hand to steady his fall. "You... but you just pulled out of the station, I watched you!"
"I couldn't do it," Ingram confesses in reply, leaving it unsaid that what it was he could not do was leave a second time. He hands William his handkerchief, red-bordered and monogrammed PI.
"For the allergies. Yes," William says, as he dots his eyes. "Thank you."
"Lift home then, Angel?" proffers Ingram.
Suddenly very worried about folding up the handkerchief just right, William considers his answer carefully before answering. "Yes, yes alright. Home, then."
[ He marks his last apostrophe, and sets the book aside for the ink to dry. ]
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Of course Phineas changed his mind. Can't just leave his best friend.
[ Crowley smiles, burying his face in Aziraphale's chest. ]
His dearest friend.
no subject
[ Aziraphale drapes his arm over Crowley's shoulder and buries his other hand in that lovely burnished copper. ]
As it was meant to be.
--I'm sorry, that I didn't end up picking a very saucy or funny story.
...I could always add a saucy epilogue.
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Mm, let's give them a bit of privacy for now. We have our own saucy epilogue.
[ Running his hand over his thigh, Crowley grins up at his angel. ]
...And if that's how you write drunk, I'd love to see what you do sober. You try your hand at any more?
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[ He places a hand over Crowley's, not to stall him, but to keep it there, warm on his leg, spreading to other parts of his body. ]
And here I thought you'd wanted a nap...
no subject
[ He did so love a good serial romance. But then, Crowley was a good deal soppier than he let on. ]
And I did. I do. But your thighs are so lovely and soft, I thought they might need some seeing to.
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[ He licks his lips and leans down to kiss Crowley's temple. ]
Always starved for it.
I can write you some Ingram and Albrecht later, if you so wish...
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