Despite his best efforts, Crowley could feel himself start to smile into Aziraphale's shoulder. Plaiting his hair.. he said the damndest things, this angel. Six thousand years and he still managed to surprise him.
As Aziraphale drew him closer, Crowley took the risk of putting his boney hand on the side of his waist. He didn't hold him, exactly - that petrified voice in the back of his mind, the part that acknowledged he was demonic ticking time bomb, reminded him of Soho smog and neon lights and you go too fast for me, Crowley - but he thought he might risk this extra inch of contact if he stayed still enough. If Aziraphale moved away, then... then, Crowley would know, and at least they could go from there.
But right now, Crowley didn't want to move an inch. He had tensed up at some point, no doubt the fault of those slithering thoughts, but fingernails kept carding his hair, and that voice kept dripping words like honey, and even without his snakelike tongue tasting the air, he could smell lavender and settled dust and red wine - telltale signs of safety and home. He shouldn't have liked it here - too small, too old-fashioned, no sign of intelligent technological life anywhere - but despite his best efforts, Crowley grew fond. Crowley felt at his easiest around Aziraphale long before he got a hold of this bookshop, but in the past century or so, the associations settled in Crowley's mind.
Crowley blinked, long and slow, then peaked an eye out from behind Aziraphale's shoulder. "Really?" His words were muffled, mouth pressed against his presine vest, but uncertainly slipped through the cracks of his tone.
He shimmied a tad so that he could turn from those bright eyes, but he couldn't quite manage to break any other form of contact. Something stilled him. Something ancient, and something so tentative and new. Because Aziraphale wasn't pushing him away. He wasn't asking him to please get up and go now, oh, and maybe go fly to another planet while you're at it? No, Aziraphale was right here, petting his hair and talking about braiding it, and -
He closed his eyes. Something thrummed in his chest at those words. This wasn't new, neither Aziraphale's words nor Crowley's reaction, except this time, nothing in him thrashed. The instinct was there, centuries of lashing out instead of accepting the praise... the hersay that a demon of Crowley's caliber could be nice. It was unacceptable. Not if he wanted to survive Hell. More importantly, the stupid angel couldn't go around saying blasphemous things out in the open. Crowley remembered the cruelty of Heaven, too.
But now... there weren't any divine threats. We're on our own side, Crowley had told him, and Aziraphale hadn't denied it a second time. Now it was just them, on a couch, wasted in a tiny bookshop in Soho. They were free to feel without intervention, but there was no excuse to hide behind, either. Either Aziraphale was saying pretty little lies to set him at ease, or. Or. He couldn't think about "or", couldn't let himself think about -
"Angel..." His voice shook, quiet as a whisper, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. His resolve was fragile enough as it was. "Please. Don't you be kind. Not if... not if it isn't true." Demons didn't beg, so Crowley wasn't begging. But his voice trembled just the same.
Aziraphale became aware of the hand on his hip, the stroke of his fingers through Crowley’s hair pausing for the briefest instant as he registered it and then resuming as though there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. It was such a little touch, the barest point of contact between them, compared to how Crowley was very nearly curled into his lap at this point and Aziraphale had been close to holding him in his arms for quite some time, but he sensed the effort it took Crowley to do it, and did not for a moment discount its significance. He could feel the undercurrents of tension in the demon’s body, and he thought to himself, that wouldn’t do: but in many ways Aziraphale had bought this. He had his doubts too: leftover habits from centuries of being all too wary, the remorse of recently coming to understand what Crowley had been offering in those careful overtures he’d made over the years and how Aziraphale had pulled back from it every time, afraid of its meaning, afraid that it was wrong and that it would result in disaster for them both. Still there was at least a convincing voice within him that said it would be very much worth trying now, trying for something new between them.
Aziraphale smiled at him when Crowley looked up at him briefly. “Really,” he answered, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the uncertainty in Crowley’s voice yet responding to it anyway with a soft soothing scrape of fingernails along his scalp, traveling slowly down through the shorter strands of hair near Crowley’s temple to his ear. “Though I like your hair like this, too. Such a modern sensibility,” he added admiringly. He liked the ways Crowley dressed and styled himself very much. His flat could do with some improving, but that was another matter.
A fingertip traced gently over the shell of Crowley’s ear. He was looking away again now, but that was all right, Aziraphale needed the momentary pause too, the courage to go on touching him how he liked. How he’d wanted to for so long. His fingers slid down, his thumb rubbed softly over Crowley’s tattoo, and he felt the twist of his heart in his chest when Crowley spoke again. Aziraphale deserved that. He’d made him wait for so long; it was astonishing, really, that Crowley was permitting him this at all.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I’m not all that kind.” At the moment, at least, he felt selfish, tender, greedy: wanting Crowley very much, enchanted by how beautiful he was when he was so unguarded. It made his wings want to come out to wrap around him, protect him as he had so long ago in the Garden. “There is nothing I could say to you right now that would be a lie,” he went on, absolute reassurance in his voice. “If I told you how much I adore you. How lovely you are. How good,” and his voice had dropped to a whisper, hesitating—he could push too far, push for too much, when all was still fragile between them. But Aziraphale had sensed that reaction from Crowley a moment ago. He thought he had, at least.
He slid his hand tenderly to Crowley’s cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye in the lightest caress. “Of course, I won’t say any of that if you don’t like it.”
When he felt those heavenly fingertips journey from the side of his hairline, over the curve of his ear and down to the serpentine tattoo right below, he couldn't help but let out a breathy, happy sigh. Aziraphale had always known what Crowley was, of course, and they had many conversations over the years about their "sides" and "natures", usually with copious amounts of alcohol. He had never been offended when the angel called him demonic turns of phrase - they both would've gotten into a fat load of trouble if he hadn't, and more to the point, it was amusing, the moral games they played - but right now, beneath Aziraphale's hands, Crowley felt accepted. Nothing this holy should treat a sacrilegious symbol with such tenderness.
If it was true that Aziraphale wasn't lying for Crowley's sake, then maybe... Fuck, hope was such a fragile fucking thing. He wasn't sure he'd survive it, carrying it around for six thousand years. But then, here he was. Here they were. And as the angel's thumb brushed the skin beneath his marble eye, didn't feel quite so afraid anymore. The words of lovely and good wash over him like waves, and Crowley lets himself begin to yield to them. But one of them makes him sit up straighter, concern lacing through him.
"No - no, don't say that." Worried he might be misunderstood, he closed his eyes and willed some sobriety into him. Not the lot, because he wasn't sure he was brave enough yet to settle the rest of his anxieties, but he needed to make sure Aziraphale understood. He wrinkled his nose a moment, then, finally, opened his eyes.
"Unkind creatures don't shield demons from the rain not five minutes after meeting them." And any self-respecting demon wouldn't move closer to accept the shelter, but Crowley had accepted to loving Aziraphale a millennia ago, so he had no qualms about it now. "They don't give away their bloody swords to the first humans in existence. And they definitely don't try and save the world. Aziraphale, you are a bit of a bastard, yes, but you are the kindest person I know. The best."
He didn't mean for it to come out so earnest, but it was the truth, and he needed Aziraphale to understand. He had grabbed his hand at some point during his speech, his thumb brushing over the inside of his palm. And despite the difficulty of it, he didn't look away. He needed Aziraphale to believe him - not just in this, but in all of it. He trembled under the weight of that want.
"Demons... they shouldn't want to be good." His voice was so quiet, and he had to take a few more unsteady breaths before continuing. "But God above, I wanted to be good enough for you. I couldn't say, I couldn't let you say, because if Hell found out I didn't do almost everything I claimed to, I... humans, they hurt themselves so much and all I could do was watch, I couldn't help because of what I am, and I shouldn't even want too, I should revel in their demise, I should enjoy watching you fail but I never did, and, and, and I'm sorry, angel, I'm so sorry -"
He was losing control. His cheeks felt wet and his shoulders hunched over and he couldn't shut up and all he could do was hold onto Aziraphale's hand like a lifeline and pray that he didn't pull away.
Aziraphale was careful not to react when Crowley spoke up, except for letting his hand slip away from Crowley's cheek when he sat up, and met his gaze, watching him sober himself a little. He was determined not to foul this up, not while Crowley was so clearly in need of him to...understand, to show him that it was all right. If he'd misread the signals, if Crowley didn't want to be praised, then he'd stop, but he wouldn't cease holding him, reassuring him--he saw no need to cease doing that. Yet that didn't seem to be what was on Crowley's mind. Aziraphale folded his hand gently around the demon’s when he took it, and smiled; it would have been impossible not to be touched by the earnestness in his voice or the way he spoke as though desperate to convince Aziraphale that he was kind, and good, and true...the theological question of the kindness of angels was one up for debate, but Aziraphale knew it was his nature to try to spread kindness where he could. It was more astonishing, in his opinion, that a demon would do the same in his own backhanded way, though of course he’d never been allowed to say this to Crowley before.
Aziraphale put his other hand over Crowley’s too, squeezing his hand reassuringly between both of his. “Thank you, Crowley. I don’t mean to say that any of that is untrue. I meant I won’t ever lie to you out of kindness.” He watched Crowley gravely, wanting him to understand this. His head tilted quizzically when Crowley said a demon shouldn’t want to be good. He supposed that was true if one considered only the host of Hell; but one could also argue that demons had once been angels, too. He wondered if there were others who remembered it the way Crowley did, who so clearly perceived humanity’s suffering, all their creative ways of inflicting pain on one another, and didn’t like what they saw. Aziraphale didn’t think there were any others like him, but then he himself wasn’t much like other angels either. They’d both outgrown their respective sides too much.
“I know. I know why you couldn’t let me say it, Crowley.” Aziraphale lifted one of his hands to the demon’s wet cheek, brushing at the track of a tear with his thumb, and then slid it back into his hair again and drew Crowley’s head down to his shoulder. His grip tightened fiercely: he wouldn’t let Crowley stay in pain if he could help it. “But you have nothing to feel ashamed of. What does it matter if you don’t want what other demons want? Haven’t you been telling me, we’re on our own side? Surely we get to decide now.”
He pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple, following new and urgent impulses, giving in to the ways he wanted to touch him. They could do whatever they wanted now. “You can be good, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said in a low murmur. “You can be kind. You can be gentle. You’ll still be Crowley.”
Hearing Aziraphale say that he understood managed to calm something within Crowley, but only for a moment before he was overwhelmed with a million other sensations and started crying and blabbering on in a very undignified nature. He felt like a dam opening, releasing the flood of regrets and fears he'd been stoically housing for years. It was embarassing, but in the face of almost being wiped from existence, of losing each other for eternity, it seemed almost stupid to hide it all, now. Especially when his angel wiped away his tears like this was something he had done for him a million times before.
When Aziraphale didn't pull away, when he pulled him in even closer, Crowley released a stuttering breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Blinking away the tears as best he could, his body fell back into a natural rhythm of breathing, relaxing, finally allowing himself to trust that Aziraphale wasn't going to let go. That this wasn't a formality, or a kindness. That maybe... rendering the Arrangement unnecessary didn't mean he would lose Aziraphale for good.
And then Aziraphale kissed his forehead, and it felt like a benediction. Crowley was always so, so cold, but something in that kiss expanded inside of him, warming him from the inside out.
"You'll still be Crowley."
Crowley was on the edge of a precipice here and he knew it. This could be the end of it. He could sit up, smooth his hair back and find some excuse to go home, and they'd never have to talk about this again. It would be painful, but the other option was much more terrifying. It's one thing to yearn for something impossible and accept as many crumbs as you could get from it. It was another to have your existence's desire right above you, holding you tight. He trembled as he held onto the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, but as a few more moments passed, something resolute settled in his chest.
"We get to decide." Echoing Aziraphale's words, he tilted his head back and willed himself to reach out cup the angel's face with his own hand, gentle and reverent. He was a coward, always had been. But just being near Aziraphale helped him be brave. So, even though he trembled like a leaf in a storm and barely raised his voice above a whisper, he met blue eyes and didn't look away as he said:
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jfc why do i keep writing novels i am SO sorry please dont feel like u need to match length
As Aziraphale drew him closer, Crowley took the risk of putting his boney hand on the side of his waist. He didn't hold him, exactly - that petrified voice in the back of his mind, the part that acknowledged he was demonic ticking time bomb, reminded him of Soho smog and neon lights and you go too fast for me, Crowley - but he thought he might risk this extra inch of contact if he stayed still enough. If Aziraphale moved away, then... then, Crowley would know, and at least they could go from there.
But right now, Crowley didn't want to move an inch. He had tensed up at some point, no doubt the fault of those slithering thoughts, but fingernails kept carding his hair, and that voice kept dripping words like honey, and even without his snakelike tongue tasting the air, he could smell lavender and settled dust and red wine - telltale signs of safety and home. He shouldn't have liked it here - too small, too old-fashioned, no sign of intelligent technological life anywhere - but despite his best efforts, Crowley grew fond. Crowley felt at his easiest around Aziraphale long before he got a hold of this bookshop, but in the past century or so, the associations settled in Crowley's mind.
Crowley blinked, long and slow, then peaked an eye out from behind Aziraphale's shoulder. "Really?" His words were muffled, mouth pressed against his presine vest, but uncertainly slipped through the cracks of his tone.
He shimmied a tad so that he could turn from those bright eyes, but he couldn't quite manage to break any other form of contact. Something stilled him. Something ancient, and something so tentative and new. Because Aziraphale wasn't pushing him away. He wasn't asking him to please get up and go now, oh, and maybe go fly to another planet while you're at it? No, Aziraphale was right here, petting his hair and talking about braiding it, and -
He closed his eyes. Something thrummed in his chest at those words. This wasn't new, neither Aziraphale's words nor Crowley's reaction, except this time, nothing in him thrashed. The instinct was there, centuries of lashing out instead of accepting the praise... the hersay that a demon of Crowley's caliber could be nice. It was unacceptable. Not if he wanted to survive Hell. More importantly, the stupid angel couldn't go around saying blasphemous things out in the open. Crowley remembered the cruelty of Heaven, too.
But now... there weren't any divine threats. We're on our own side, Crowley had told him, and Aziraphale hadn't denied it a second time. Now it was just them, on a couch, wasted in a tiny bookshop in Soho. They were free to feel without intervention, but there was no excuse to hide behind, either. Either Aziraphale was saying pretty little lies to set him at ease, or. Or. He couldn't think about "or", couldn't let himself think about -
"Angel..." His voice shook, quiet as a whisper, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. His resolve was fragile enough as it was. "Please. Don't you be kind. Not if... not if it isn't true." Demons didn't beg, so Crowley wasn't begging. But his voice trembled just the same.
no worries, I enjoy longer tags!
Aziraphale smiled at him when Crowley looked up at him briefly. “Really,” he answered, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the uncertainty in Crowley’s voice yet responding to it anyway with a soft soothing scrape of fingernails along his scalp, traveling slowly down through the shorter strands of hair near Crowley’s temple to his ear. “Though I like your hair like this, too. Such a modern sensibility,” he added admiringly. He liked the ways Crowley dressed and styled himself very much. His flat could do with some improving, but that was another matter.
A fingertip traced gently over the shell of Crowley’s ear. He was looking away again now, but that was all right, Aziraphale needed the momentary pause too, the courage to go on touching him how he liked. How he’d wanted to for so long. His fingers slid down, his thumb rubbed softly over Crowley’s tattoo, and he felt the twist of his heart in his chest when Crowley spoke again. Aziraphale deserved that. He’d made him wait for so long; it was astonishing, really, that Crowley was permitting him this at all.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I’m not all that kind.” At the moment, at least, he felt selfish, tender, greedy: wanting Crowley very much, enchanted by how beautiful he was when he was so unguarded. It made his wings want to come out to wrap around him, protect him as he had so long ago in the Garden. “There is nothing I could say to you right now that would be a lie,” he went on, absolute reassurance in his voice. “If I told you how much I adore you. How lovely you are. How good,” and his voice had dropped to a whisper, hesitating—he could push too far, push for too much, when all was still fragile between them. But Aziraphale had sensed that reaction from Crowley a moment ago. He thought he had, at least.
He slid his hand tenderly to Crowley’s cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye in the lightest caress. “Of course, I won’t say any of that if you don’t like it.”
no subject
If it was true that Aziraphale wasn't lying for Crowley's sake, then maybe... Fuck, hope was such a fragile fucking thing. He wasn't sure he'd survive it, carrying it around for six thousand years. But then, here he was. Here they were. And as the angel's thumb brushed the skin beneath his marble eye, didn't feel quite so afraid anymore. The words of lovely and good wash over him like waves, and Crowley lets himself begin to yield to them. But one of them makes him sit up straighter, concern lacing through him.
"No - no, don't say that." Worried he might be misunderstood, he closed his eyes and willed some sobriety into him. Not the lot, because he wasn't sure he was brave enough yet to settle the rest of his anxieties, but he needed to make sure Aziraphale understood. He wrinkled his nose a moment, then, finally, opened his eyes.
"Unkind creatures don't shield demons from the rain not five minutes after meeting them." And any self-respecting demon wouldn't move closer to accept the shelter, but Crowley had accepted to loving Aziraphale a millennia ago, so he had no qualms about it now. "They don't give away their bloody swords to the first humans in existence. And they definitely don't try and save the world. Aziraphale, you are a bit of a bastard, yes, but you are the kindest person I know. The best."
He didn't mean for it to come out so earnest, but it was the truth, and he needed Aziraphale to understand. He had grabbed his hand at some point during his speech, his thumb brushing over the inside of his palm. And despite the difficulty of it, he didn't look away. He needed Aziraphale to believe him - not just in this, but in all of it. He trembled under the weight of that want.
"Demons... they shouldn't want to be good." His voice was so quiet, and he had to take a few more unsteady breaths before continuing. "But God above, I wanted to be good enough for you. I couldn't say, I couldn't let you say, because if Hell found out I didn't do almost everything I claimed to, I... humans, they hurt themselves so much and all I could do was watch, I couldn't help because of what I am, and I shouldn't even want too, I should revel in their demise, I should enjoy watching you fail but I never did, and, and, and I'm sorry, angel, I'm so sorry -"
He was losing control. His cheeks felt wet and his shoulders hunched over and he couldn't shut up and all he could do was hold onto Aziraphale's hand like a lifeline and pray that he didn't pull away.
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Aziraphale put his other hand over Crowley’s too, squeezing his hand reassuringly between both of his. “Thank you, Crowley. I don’t mean to say that any of that is untrue. I meant I won’t ever lie to you out of kindness.” He watched Crowley gravely, wanting him to understand this. His head tilted quizzically when Crowley said a demon shouldn’t want to be good. He supposed that was true if one considered only the host of Hell; but one could also argue that demons had once been angels, too. He wondered if there were others who remembered it the way Crowley did, who so clearly perceived humanity’s suffering, all their creative ways of inflicting pain on one another, and didn’t like what they saw. Aziraphale didn’t think there were any others like him, but then he himself wasn’t much like other angels either. They’d both outgrown their respective sides too much.
“I know. I know why you couldn’t let me say it, Crowley.” Aziraphale lifted one of his hands to the demon’s wet cheek, brushing at the track of a tear with his thumb, and then slid it back into his hair again and drew Crowley’s head down to his shoulder. His grip tightened fiercely: he wouldn’t let Crowley stay in pain if he could help it. “But you have nothing to feel ashamed of. What does it matter if you don’t want what other demons want? Haven’t you been telling me, we’re on our own side? Surely we get to decide now.”
He pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple, following new and urgent impulses, giving in to the ways he wanted to touch him. They could do whatever they wanted now. “You can be good, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said in a low murmur. “You can be kind. You can be gentle. You’ll still be Crowley.”
no subject
When Aziraphale didn't pull away, when he pulled him in even closer, Crowley released a stuttering breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Blinking away the tears as best he could, his body fell back into a natural rhythm of breathing, relaxing, finally allowing himself to trust that Aziraphale wasn't going to let go. That this wasn't a formality, or a kindness. That maybe... rendering the Arrangement unnecessary didn't mean he would lose Aziraphale for good.
And then Aziraphale kissed his forehead, and it felt like a benediction. Crowley was always so, so cold, but something in that kiss expanded inside of him, warming him from the inside out.
"You'll still be Crowley."
Crowley was on the edge of a precipice here and he knew it. This could be the end of it. He could sit up, smooth his hair back and find some excuse to go home, and they'd never have to talk about this again. It would be painful, but the other option was much more terrifying. It's one thing to yearn for something impossible and accept as many crumbs as you could get from it. It was another to have your existence's desire right above you, holding you tight. He trembled as he held onto the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, but as a few more moments passed, something resolute settled in his chest.
"We get to decide." Echoing Aziraphale's words, he tilted his head back and willed himself to reach out cup the angel's face with his own hand, gentle and reverent. He was a coward, always had been. But just being near Aziraphale helped him be brave. So, even though he trembled like a leaf in a storm and barely raised his voice above a whisper, he met blue eyes and didn't look away as he said:
"Aziraphale. I love you. I always have."