[ 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. ]
[ Creativity, free will, passion, and deep, abiding affection - Crowley has to marvel at how they possessed these traits they were never supposed to have. Aziraphale had written a lovely little short story and, while to humans it may not seem like much, Crowley had to wonder how many angels created any kind of art at all. ]
If the mood takes you, I'd love to see what you do with them. I do love a good romance.
[ He kneaded his fingers gently into the yielding flesh, humming his approval. Nice, slow, languid strokes - it was a lazy evening in bed after all. No need to rush. ]
[ There's a lazy chuckle from Crowley as he reclines with Aziraphale in their nest of pillows, stroking along the dip of his joint and over his hip. It's become the sort of petting with less intent to arouse, and more pacify. ]
I did mention something about those, yeah.
[ He kisses along Aziraphale's jaw, before finally resting his forehead against the angel's temple. His stroking has become increasingly slower, and his eyelids drooping. He tries and fails to suppress a yawn. ]
Tell you all about aubergines and doughnuts in the morning. Better yet; I'll show.
[ He can't help but to smile at the very relaxed Crowley in his arms, sleeping well no doubt now that he had a literal guardian angel to hold him while he slumbered, and so, Aziraphale wouldn't mind if he chose to take advantage of the situation and take many naps.
He miracles for him a good dream, one of lush green gardens and rolling clouds overhead.
There would always be time for aubergines and doughnuts. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
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[ 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. ]
no subject
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.
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[ 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...
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[ 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...
no subject
If the mood takes you, I'd love to see what you do with them. I do love a good romance.
[ He kneaded his fingers gently into the yielding flesh, humming his approval. Nice, slow, languid strokes - it was a lazy evening in bed after all. No need to rush. ]
no subject
He takes Crowley's hand and moves it upward just the slightest, closer to where his legs fork. ]
Yes well, I'm not in the mood to write now, as it were.
You had said something about... ah, aubergines? Donuts?
no subject
I did mention something about those, yeah.
[ He kisses along Aziraphale's jaw, before finally resting his forehead against the angel's temple. His stroking has become increasingly slower, and his eyelids drooping. He tries and fails to suppress a yawn. ]
Tell you all about aubergines and doughnuts in the morning. Better yet; I'll show.
no subject
[ He can't help but to smile at the very relaxed Crowley in his arms, sleeping well no doubt now that he had a literal guardian angel to hold him while he slumbered, and so, Aziraphale wouldn't mind if he chose to take advantage of the situation and take many naps.
He miracles for him a good dream, one of lush green gardens and rolling clouds overhead.
There would always be time for aubergines and doughnuts. ]