Jun. 11th, 2023 06:36 pm
The City Inbox
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inlovewithmycar ⛧A.J. CROWLEY⛧
"This is Crowley. I'm not in. You know what to do, so do it with style. Chow." |
inlovewithmycarinlovewithmycarinlovewithmycar ⛧A.J. CROWLEY⛧
"This is Crowley. I'm not in. You know what to do, so do it with style. Chow." |
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Pardon? Get me ready?
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Want me to do the honours...?
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right, yes. that's what he means.
aziraphale takes a moment to consider the offer and then nods. he might as well. )
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How's that? Much better than sleeping in your regular clothes, I guarantee. I think I've still got indents in unspeakable places from the last time I slept in my jeans.
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( his tone is tender, softened by the affection heavy in his voice. crowley doesn't need to do all this—it's not what had been asked of him, but he is still choosing to do it anyway. to help calm aziraphale's nerves about it.
gingerly, aziraphale presses the tips of his fingers against crowley's knuckles in wordless gratitude. )
Now what would you have us do?
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He's not sure what to think. ...He certainly knows not to think about Aziraphale accepting those soft pyjamas put on him with an even softer miracle, or how warm his plump and prettily manicured fingers feel against the cool, dry skin of his knuckles. Those are very much not thoughts for just right now.
Instead, he goes through his own routine for getting ready for a nice snooze. He plumps the pillows, and if a mug of hot chocolate with a pump of peppermint syrup appears on the bedside table, he's sure it's just coincidence.]
S'all about making yourself comfortable. Lots of pillows and blanketsss and then you sit up for a little bit, or you just lay down and close your eyes. Depends how tired you're feeling.
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aziraphale will get back to him once he better learns how to gauge his tiredness level, which may or may not involve note-taking. at the moment, he feels pretty tired. enough so that he didn't want to go through the act of physically changing clothes.
after moving to stand, he carefully peels back the comforter and sheets to allow himself to properly climb into bed. like humans do. he can feel some of his nervousness starting to set back in, deeply uncertain of what might happen next. )
Comfortable.
( said out loud more so for himself. )
You don't imagine I'll sleep too long, will I?
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[Crowley drags out the word with an exaggerated shrug. He can see the way the apprehension sets back in. But he's familiar with the different kinds of tired, and Aziraphale isn't even close to the bone deep exhaustion that has led Crowley to switch himself off for decades at a time. If that were the case, Aziraphale wouldn't be drowsy but otherwise lucid enough to ask probing questions, he'd be face down on the mattress, still in his day clothes and Crowley would be having a bit of a panic.]
Probably a couple hours, maybe through the night if you like it. And --
[He grins, stretching out on his side atop the comforter, propped up on his elbow with his cheek in his palm.]
-- afterwards, we'll go get a nice breakfast. So, nothing to worry about, and plenty to look forward to, yeah?
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( he makes a quiet little noise, unsure. this demon has been nothing but cavalier about the entire affair, but his own fears feel a little louder. louder, louder, louder.
but he trusts crowley more than he trusts his fear.
aziraphale leans back, letting his head fall against the freshly-fluffed pillow. then he turns to look over at crowley. )
Will you be alright until. . .?
( until he wakes. )
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[He reaches over, brushing a curl from Aziraphale's brow. Ah - his hair really is just that soft, isn't it...?]
You get some rest...
[He grins, and there is the faint sound of a little demonic miracle.]
...and dream of all the things you like best.
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when the demonic miracle pushes him towards slumber, the last thought on his mind is about crowley. his eyes flutter closed, nearly resisting before ultimately drifting off into a slumber. that's how he sleeps, face turned towards crowley like a sunflower searching for the sun, one hand slightly outstretched in front of him.
in his dreams, they are back at his shop. crowley is kicking off his shoes, complaining loudly about what a terrible night they'd had—they hadn't—pouring the both of them a glass of one of aziraphale's finer vintages. aziraphale puts on one of his records and pushes back against crowley's complaints, regaling him with the historic facts of the play they'd just seen.
it's a perfect evening. just of two of them in the shop. )
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Aziraphale's hand is linked with another; smooth, cool, and dry long fingers tangled with his own.
The only sound is the ticking of a clock and the scratch of a pen on paper. Crowley's lower half is visible, but the wing sheltering Aziraphale from any potential indoor rainstorms or meteor showers blocks his upper half from view.
There is a distinct smell of cocoa still on the bedside table, still as fresh as when Crowley miracled it there.]
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a sweet smell compliments the room.
then there is the hand in his, the one that fits so perfectly that it might as well have been designed to slot together with his. his fingers curl against crowley's before groggily tugging their joined hands together.
aziraphale presses the back of crowley's hand against his face, letting it rest against his lips and part of his cheek as he admires the coolness of his skin.
it's still a very nice dream. )
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Aziraphale hadn't budged an so much as an inch.
So when he feels the angel's hold on his hand tighten, when his knuckles are pressed to the soft give of Aziraphale's cheeks and the brush of his lips, he wonders if his friend has woken up.
Or at least he wonders that after his thoughts cycle through a panicked flurry of disjointed, incoherent nonsense that generally involve the words 'lips' and 'hand' and 'kiss???'. It's all very demonic, rest assured.
Eventually he brushes it all off as Aziraphale either still in the throes of some pleasant dream or in that barely-there state between sleeping and waking and not something he would ever do while conscious.]
...Good morning, angel.
[He tries for cheery and lands roughly in that vicinity, but there's something choked in his voice because Crowley is presently in the process of swallowing down that massive surge of want that rose suddenly from the very pits of his lightly charred soul.
He draws his wing aside, just enough to peek at Aziraphale's waking face.]
Sleep well...?
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( a soft, groggy hum. slowly, slowly, the angel can feel himself start to wake up. the dreamy haze has started to recede and fade away; almost like someone peeling back an all-encompassing film. it's a strange feeling, one that would normally bother aziraphale, but his thoughts don't linger on it.
he is still thinking of his dream. like a memory that never happened. )
I dreamt of Italy.
( he offers, speaking the words against crowley's hand. then he shifts the position of their joined hands, leaving crowley's pressed against his cheek. )
We drank wine under a bright moon. You told me about the stars again. . .
( his voice is still thick with sleep, but it is also heavily laced with warmth and affection.
what a nice thing to dream about. )
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It sure built up a tolerance though. The callouses on the soles of his feet were something else.
His reminiscing is halted abruptly as he realizes what all the things Aziraphale had dreamed about - all the things he liked best - and now his insides are doing strange wiggly somersaults.
In retrospect, it shouldn't completely surprise him - he and Aziraphale had been doing things exactly like that for centuries. If Aziraphale were really opposed to their rendezvous, he'd have cut them off before they ever began. But it's still a jolt to Crowley's tangled emotions that someone might not just tolerate him, but actually enjoy his company. The way Aziraphale speaks the words into his palm, like a precious secret just for him to hold...
He has to wait for the tight feeling in his throat to recede, because the thought of sharing the stars with Aziraphale stirs one of those empty holes in his memory where something should be but isn't.]
I should take you up sometime --
[He cuts himself off quickly so he doesn't choke on whatever's crawled up from his chest into his throat, before he can, eventually, speak again.]
-- pack some goodies, bring a good vintage with us. I could show you properly.
[His smile is fond as he chances a glance down at Aziraphale, still muzzy with sleep. Bad idea -- the urge to slither under the blankets and curl up against the angel and never leave this bed again is already too much. Seeing him now, he's the very embodiment of temptation.]
Then we could head home and vacation in Tuscany. Visit all the new little restaurants that must've popped up since we were last there.
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it is even more lovely to have it spoken aloud by crowley, said with such intention that it might as well have been a promise. a promise to take him among the stars, the very same that he had himself had been able to help create, and then another to appreciate some of the many delights of the earth. )
By the sound of it, I must still be dreaming.
( and what a sweet dream it is. )
Plenty of new shops must have opened as well.
( more than enough for the two of them to spend the day on the street, peering into the shops for anything that might catch their eye. crowley would find no shortage of things to complain about or poke fun at, but aziraphale would love every moment together under the bright sun. )
We've yet to see that golden tree. . .
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[It's a quick, reflexive assurance. Crowley's mouth is sort of left on automatic a the moment because his brain is still trying to process how soft and warm Aziraphale's face is under his palm.]
Told you, you'd have plenty to look forward to when waking up.
[Watching the slow process of Aziraphale go from sleeping peacefully to waking into the warmth of their bed, nestled amidst pillows and blankets and reaching for him, wanting to take his hand and hold it, and it fills Crowley with questions he doesn't know how to ask because he never thought it would be allowed. To ask would be to name this thing between them, to give it shape that even the declaration of Our Side could not encompass. No, for now, better it remain nebulous as always, until they can both come at it, bright-eyed and alert.
They're getting there. Step by step in their dance.
Crowley can ask the questions he does know how to put into words for now.]
...What golden tree is that, anyway?
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An art piece. It took two goldsmiths over a hundred years to complete it.
( which is something that he finds to be incredible in itself. the dedication, the care! he thought it to be rather inspiring. it's something that he has wanted to see for quite some time and it was located in a little village close to tuscany.
he just didn't want to go without crowley with him. )
It's gotten a reputation for being a representation of eternal love.
( aziraphale explains, his tone delicate. crowley might already know of it by another name: the tree of love. it was one of the places that tourists would flock to every valentine's day, hoping to be rewarded with a blessing of eternal love.
it was incredibly romantic. unfortunately unnecessary, but romantic nonetheless.
he imagines there's a certain joy to the ritual of it itself. )
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Aziraphale wants to join him up in the stars, and then go to Italy and see this tree that represents eternal love.
Crowley isn't exactly great at some of the more round about ways they talk to and at and past each other, but he's not an idiot. He knows what Aziraphale is telling him here, coming at it sideways the way they've always had to come at anything between them that's bigger than dinner at the Ritz.
Love's a heavy thing - not a burden but so, so heavy, and it weighs Crowley down, as he lays on his side with only a few inches of empty air and the thick soft down of the duvet between him and Aziraphale. He's dumbstruck, not really sure what to say, but he doesn't want to leave his friend -- his dearest, most beloved friend -- hanging out to dry after saying something so monumental.
So Crowley does what he does best when words fail him. He acts.
The hand held to Aziraphale's mouth and cheek turns over, long, deft fingers curling around the angel's hand, and Crowley guides it to the same position on his own face, bringing Aziraphale's palm to his lips in the same not-quite-a-kiss-but-definitely-not-not-a-kiss Aziraphale had given him moments before.
Not once do his eyes leave Aziraphale's face, watching for any sign he might want to put a stop to... to whatever is happening between them.
Is this okay? he wonders. Am I going too fast?]
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over the years, there has always been a steady line between the two of them. a proper divide for individuals who were supposed to be divided. an unfortunate, but necessary thing. requirements for their safety, for their continued ability to exist, and for their own sake. still, gradually that line has been steadily chipped away at. like the waves of the ocean eroding the rock and earth, slowly shaping it into something new.
an arrangement. 'their side'. an anxious clasp of their hands on a bus.
it's felt like something of a rapid freefall since, a frequent testing of each other's boundaries. pushing, pushing, pushing for just a little more.
this one, this push, knocks something loose.
cool, elegant fingers wrap around his, tugging their joined hands across the bedsheet. it's a mirror of what aziraphale had done earlier, an echo of the warm affection he feels for the other. that they feel for each other. it's almost dizzying.
aziraphale smiles, bright and warm. )
I suppose that's a "yes".
( he answers for him, words tightly wrapped in love. his expression seems to brighten further, almost radiant. )
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It's not as though Crowley has never seen the angel smile like that, but it's so rare. His smiles are usually nervous, flickering things, as though he's feels guilty and has to ask permission for any joy in his life. Short, brief, and usually guttered out before Crowley can get a proper look.
What a wonder it is that, removed from the influence of Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale has been smiling so much more freely; with the sort of reckless abandon that had made Crowley fall ass over teakettle with him on top of the wall.
Now it's happening all over again, has been happening again and again for thousands of years. And it's not like the Fall, none of the fear or anguish, but more like what he can recall of hurtling in a freefall through space, zipping through the cosmos where there is no up or down, just him pointing himself somewhere he wants to go and letting the currents of gravity carry him.
It's terrifying, perhaps, in the way rollercoasters are terrifying because yes, he's afraid, but also elated, thrilled, relieved and so, so many other things.
It's strange how all those great big hurdles in their lives seem to be little more than speed bumps now. How the great impenetrable walls between them have been revealed to be nothing more than moldering bricks and crumbling mortar. Here they are, no longer just peeking through the cracks to glimpse the great and marvelous wonders on the other side, but now they're putting great big holes in it and ah, there you are. How good to finally see you.
Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand from his mouth and lays it over his beating heart. He doesn't need one, neither of them do, but he has one all the same. He suspects Aziraphale does too.]
S'always been a 'yes', I think.
[They just needed to be somewhere where that 'yes' wouldn't get them destroyed.]
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but it sings for aziraphale, clear against the underside of his palm.
his fingers curl, tightly bunching up in crowley's shirt in a gesture reminiscent of holding that heart of his. there is something that aziraphale wants to say, but the words seem to die in his throat.
all the same, nothing seems appropriate anyway. )
I suppose it has.
( he says eventually, clumsily.
there may not be words profound enough to convey what aziraphale wants to say, wants to convey in this moment that holds so, so much weight. it is more than the two of them tucked into a little nest, more than promises for a future ahead of them.
his hands tremble.
aziraphale closes the distance.
he gives another another push at the line between them or perhaps this one is more of a punch, much like how he had once forced open a hole in a mighty wall of eden. he leans forward, pressing a soft and lingering kiss to crowley's forehead.
it is more than just a kiss. )
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Six thousand years is a very long time to go not acknowledging this thing between them and now the walls are crumbling to pieces, and considering the vastness of it, it's a marvel they managed to keep it hidden as they did.
And then Aziraphale is so, so much closer, and the angel just takes a sledgehammer to every single barrier they built to keep each other safe, because really, what do they need those for now? And how did he go this long without knowing how warm Aziraphale's lips feel against his palm and brow? How can he possibly go back with that knowledge secured in his head if Aziraphale realizes he regrets this?
His breath stutters as he searches his friend's face for any sign that may be the case, but all that's there is the mirror to the love he's been feeling for millennia. He is sure something's gone and gotten into his eyes because they feel damp and itchy, and something wet rolls down his cheek when he moves to repeat the kiss, pressing cool, dry lips to the lines where Aziraphale's brow furrows when he's fussy or fretful, the way he's always wanted to do for so, so long.
He's not sure he's supposed to feel this happy. He knows he's not allowed, of course, that's part of the demon's job description. But he also never thought it possible, and yet...
...and yet. Here they are.
Crowley settles back into the pillows because as nice as kissing is, it also means he had to take his eyes off Aziraphale's face for a whole second and that's completely unacceptable. He can't get enough of the sight of him and his grey/green/blueish eyes and long lashes and laugh lines and soft cheeks and softer curls, and he drinks in the sight like a man parched from decades in a desert.]
Look at you -- [He breathes, not quite a hiss, but there's the echo of the serpent, and then something from before the serpent. He reaches up, brushing his knuckles along the length of Aziraphale's jaw.] -- you're gorgeous.
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there's no uncertainty in aziraphale's gaze, his sky-like blue-grey eyes only looking forward. there is no question that he has meant every word spoken, every action taken. something like regret hasn't even occurred to him—how could it? how could it when he finally feels like he's reaching through a hole in their dividing wall?
a hand outstretched.
then a hand taken. crowley reaches across the divide himself, mirroring the angel's show of affection. he offers aziraphale his own kiss in return, gentle in a way that a demon should never be; a way that's dangerous for him to be. crowley does it anyway, his actions so firmly intertwined with his own Love that aziraphale cannot help but feel it.
he feels crowley against his skin and resonating within the core of him and it's nearly overwhelming. although not in an unpleasant way. he feels lit up, shining, and perhaps even a little giddy. )
Me?
( aziraphale asks, his face feeling flushed. the demon's words are overwhelming too, but it's still not in an unpleasant way. it almost feels like this truly is a dream, a reality far too pleasant to be real. )
You must mean you.
( he tells him, warm and loving. aziraphale has thought this very selfsame thought since the very beginning, thought the individual beside him to be gorgeous in a way unlike any other.
aziraphale is still smiling as he moves to wipe away crowley's tears, catching them with the edge of his fingers. )
Thank you for staying with me.
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