miracling | Open post

To say that it had been a close call was probably very much understating the case, but then, Aziraphale didn't like to dwell on these things. The Nazis were dead, neither he nor Crowley had gotten discorporated, and the books were...the books were quite safe, in the leather case he clutched in his lap as they careened through the dark streets of London. He'd had occasion, in the decades since automobiles became popular, to ride with Crowley before now, and to say that he drove like a madman was probably also understating the case, but tonight Aziraphale didn't berate him. Actually, he wasn't paying very much attention to the road at all. His thoughts were back in the church. The operatives he'd thought were on his side were obviously very much not, but they were dead now, so need to worry about them; only he supposed someone ought to warn Intelligence, and as he was the only one left it would have to be him. He ought to go to Whitehall tomorrow...but his plans kept slipping from his mind as he returned to the moment Crowley had arrived, dancing down the aisle like someone hopping across hot coals. A demon coming onto consecrated ground--it had to be absolutely unheard of. Certainly Aziraphale had never heard of it. But Crowley had. Rescued him from an untimely bullet and the arduous, bureaucratic mess of getting himself issued a new body, and in the midst of all of that, even when Aziraphale himself had forgotten, saved his books, his books, those precious volumes that would be virtually irreplaceable...why?

He couldn't seem to make sense of it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. It was so extraordinarily kind, so unexpected, and when Aziraphale thought of their various Arrangements, their snipes and spats over the years, none of it seemed to matter right at that moment as much as what had just happened. He stole glances at Crowley as they drove, opening his mouth several times to speak and then closing it again without a notion of what he wanted to say. Everything he might have said was a jumble, an entirely confusing mess of half-formed feelings and ideas. All he really knew was that looking at Crowley just then kept making him feel unaccountably breathless, particularly for an entity that had no real need to breathe, and so he mostly kept his gaze on the dark streets and buildings they passed, windows blackened to hide any hint of light within, as they headed into Soho.

When at last the car stopped, idling at the street corner outside the bookshop, Aziraphale found it was difficult to make himself move. "Well," he said after a pause, fingers smoothing over the leather handles of his case. Darting a swift look at Crowley, he went on, "You're welcome to come in, if you'd like." He paused again, but briefly; yes, this was what he wanted. He very much wanted Crowley to say yes. "I'm sure I've got a bottle of something nice upstairs. And it's been some time since we caught up."

"Could use a nip," Crowley admitted, drumming his fingers on the wheel of the Bentley, too casually, the sort of casual that meant you weren't casual at all. It had been too close a thing, and his nerves were jangling still. A moment later from hesitation or cowardice, and... well, it didn't bear thinking on. At least not actively. He didn't have much choice where his mind went when it came to the safety of his partner in the Arrangement; it got away from him more often than he would ever admit to. "My feet will be blessed aching for hours, could use something to take out the sting. Let's go, angel." He slipped out of the car and stuck his hands in his pockets as he strode ahead, waiting for Aziraphale to catch up with him.

Of course. He hadn't even thought of that, how Crowley must still be feeling the effects of being on consecrated. He'd seemed so...so breezy when they'd left, handing over the case with his books and offering a lift home with barely a glance, that Aziraphale had failed to imagine that he might be in any sort of pain after the church had been blown to thorough smithereens. He fumbled his way out of the car, taking a few extra moments between trying to hang onto the case and open the car door at the same time, several moments, in fact, after Crowley had slid out, and it certainly wasn't his most graceful moment. Huffing briefly once he stood on the curb, a little red-cheeked, Aziraphale wondered why on earth that should matter. "Yes, very good."

The bolts and locks sprang open to the touch of his hand, and he stood back to let Crowley in ahead of him and then stepped in after, lamps lighting at his entrance. "Please--please, have a seat." Upstairs was more figurative than literal, as Aziraphale didn't exactly have much living space in the bookshop, but there were at least a few cozy armchairs, maybe even a settee from time to time.

Crowley obviously knew his way around the bookshop well enough by now, so made his way to a seat with ease and made an effort to relax. "I'm tired of Nazis," he declared, gesturing impatiently. "Taking over the world's all well and good, we can't stand on moral or demonic principle on that one, considering, but they're bombing perfectly good jazzhalls, Aziraphale. That really should be the tip-off to the head office that none of this was my idea, but do they check? No, they just send up the commendation."

He glanced around to Aziraphale. "But if it's big and it works, they think, has to be Crowley. It's one thing to have a reputation, but." He pulled a face. "Nazis. I have better ideas than Nazis. All this to say," he finished grandly, "my side had nothing to do with all that."

While Crowley settled himself, Aziraphale set the leather case down on his desk and opened it with a certain air of reverence. All of the books he had tied up in a bundle earlier that evening were there, the Nixon, the Shipwell, the Binns, his priceless first editions. He lifted them out one by one and carried them back to their proper places in the bookshop, running his fingertips over the bindings rather like someone might stroke a favorite pet. It was so good to have them back where they belonged.

He turned back to Crowley when he was done. "It was uncharitable of me to assume your side was involved," he agreed, and about to leave it at that, he paused and thought better of it. "No, it was unkind of me to assume you were involved," Aziraphale amended quietly. "It is indeed a nasty business. Not at all your, er, style." Glancing around, he reached for an ottoman that may or may not have been there a moment ago, and pushed it over to the settee where Crowley was reclining. "Why don't you put your feet up on that, dear fellow, and I'll see about that drink."

Crowley popped his feet up and considered Aziraphale for a moment. "Have to say," he said, musing, "Principality Aziraphale, OSS, it's a good look. Surprised me when I heard word come 'round." He leaned his head back. "My favorite part's when you show that bit of tough you've got, 'cos I know you've got it."

Mostly, it was to rile him up. Mostly. But, as was frustratingly usual, it was based in genuine sincerity, which was one of those things that he probably should've been working to stamp out. He couldn't. He liked the look on Aziraphale's face far too much.

"What?" Aziraphale was afraid he rather squawked the word. "I don't have any bits of tough! I--I--" Actually, he might have been the slightest bit flattered. A demon, considering him a tough, who would ever think it? The phrase played for suckers flashed through his mind again--he'd gotten it out of some American pop novel, and he'd been rather pleased to find a place to use it that night. Yes, it was rather cracking, getting to play a secret operative. "Ridiculous thought," he added, firmly trying to convince himself of the same.

He decided this night called for hard liquor, and got out a very nice scotch blend, a Dalmore he'd been saving for special occasions. "Anyway, I am sorry you had to come into a church," he said, because if Crowley wouldn't let him thank him properly at least he could still apologize. "Are you in any pain? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, don't fuss," Crowley chided, though the attention, as usual, was flattering, and all demons had their vanity. "A drink, that's all I'm asking." He contemplated Aziraphale, then spoke up before the angel could. "Thought about sleeping this whole thing out. It can't take more than a few more years, can it?" Of course, he rejected the thought nearly as it came out of his mouth; Aziraphale was going to get himself involved again and again, because humanity was being monstrous and the angel couldn't help but get into the middle, and Crowley couldn't well let him get cornered in situations that polite conversation and a hasty miracle couldn't solve. Still, ignoring a human conflict was a good and demonly thing to do, so he let the comment stand for a moment before adding, "'Course, there's lots to do on the ground in times like these, told the head office as much myself. I might as well... stick it out. Keep my finger on the scale. Balance against all that good you're doing. Drink here now and again."

"Yes, of course. Coming right up." Aziraphale fetched a pair of glasses. Heavy crystal, they were, with a beautiful glitter as he turned them in the light; he did love beautiful things. Pouring a measure of the Dalmore into each glass, he turned to Crowley, about ask again if he was sure this was all he needed when Crowley spoke up once more. Aziraphale kept silent, handing over the glass and moving around the ottoman to sit down gingerly on the settee next to him. He would hardly blame Crowley for not wanting to stick it out for the length of the war. A few years was...well, in angelic terms, not very long at all, but certainly long enough for humans to do quite a lot of damage to each other, and Aziraphale privately hoped that it would be over much quicker than that. But with the way things were going, it seemed a hope in vain.

Gazing down at the glass he held between his hands, trying to think of some reply to make, some way to explain how he felt obligated to see it through himself, Aziraphale looked up when Crowley continued, and a swift smile suddenly crossed his face. "Am I to take it that you'll be sticking it out locally?" Better angels than him would no better than to wish for a demon around in a time of war, but Aziraphale couldn't help but think how lonely it would be without him.

The idea was unthinkable, but Crowley wasn't interested in voicing that anytime soon for hundreds of reasons. Instead, he raised his glass to Aziraphale and drank as he considered what to say, and delayed a moment further by looking at his glass. "Well. You know. There might be a Blitz on, but I did tell the head office there was a lot to get on with here. And nearly everywhere's a bit of a mess right now, isn't it? Might as well stay somewhere comfortable." He barely paused before adding mildly, "Good scotch. This is why I keep you 'round."

Somewhere comfortable, Crowley said.

For some reason, Aziraphale's imagination ran away with him for a moment or two, fueled by those innocuous words. In that instant he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Crowley was not merely local for the next few years, oh, perhaps the next decade or so, but...here. With him. It wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight, he was distantly aware, because there were certain boundaries they did not cross, even though Aziraphale had for centuries allowed the bookshop to be a place they could drink and talk in private, even though they had their other meeting places, like St James Park. But to wish for more than that, something more intimate than their occasional meetings--

Aziraphale drank some of the whiskey, gulping down a mouthful rather than savoring it as was his wont. It was good, very, very good. He found he couldn't think about it at all. "Is that why, Crowley?" he asked before he'd even really thought of what he was going to say, his voice soft and low.

There was something to the tilt of Aziraphale's gaze and vulnerability in his tone that took Crowley aback, further mental steps than he could easily recover from without a noticeable pause after the angel spoke. "Love a drink, me," he said, but his eyes didn't leave Aziraphale's. A wry smile sneaked across his face, and he instinctively twisted it into a smirk before he could deal with the fact that it was sincere, of all things. "But I'll help you preen your feathers if you like. Good liquor's not a blessed thing without good company."

It had seemed like a good attempt to sate Aziraphale's ego and dismiss the topic, with the more uncomfortable truths that lurked beneath, but the instant the words passed his lips he regretted them. Sincerity. There were few things more embarrassing.

The pause before Crowley replied did nothing for his nerves. It was a space to allow the imagination to run wild again, with theories about everything under the sun that could go wrong from asking a question like that. Aziraphale didn't quite let out a breath when Crowley did answer; he wasn't sure whether to call this sensation relief or not. It seemed to defy such simplistic definitions. Crowley's gaze holding his, the glimpse of a smile before it turned into a more familiar smirk: he wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he wanted to linger over those little gestures like he'd linger over a book to be read cover-to-cover.

"Ah," he said when he became aware he'd been quiet a moment too long himself. "Good. Then we'll always have something to offer one another." There was a little smile curving his lips as he glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Can't remember the last time I had a good preening."

It wasn't the first time that Crowley, at least, had sensed this kind of tension, though Aziraphale had usually been cheerfully, dreadfully polite through it - probably completely unaware, knowing him - and not fixed him with such a fascinated look as he wore right now. It was new. It was interesting. It was probably stupid to the point of insanity to entertain. His eyebrows quirked up with interest anyway.

"You're thinking something," he challenged Aziraphale. It might have been foolish, but, oh, it was what the moment demanded, wasn't it? "Are you too polite to say it, or will I have to guess?"

If he'd thought back over the many, many centuries they'd known one another he might have been able to pinpoint one or three of those times when this sensation, this strange electric anticipation had risen between them, and realize how he had gone right past them without seeing the opportunity to let something new grow into their relationship. But he wasn't thinking at all of the past just now, finding it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything beyond this precise moment, with Crowley regarding him in that way, asking questions that made him feel just the slightest bit flayed open. The choice of playing it off with some frivolous remark and encouraging them both to get silly drunk was always available, he supposed. Seemed cowardly, though, and somehow shameful. Perhaps after the events of that night he was feeling as though he owed it to Crowley to offer the truth.

"I, ah." It certainly wasn't easy to put into words, but he tried. "I was thinking, I was just thinking about the books." Fearing it might sound like a non-sequitur, he hastened on, "It's just that I'd forgotten all about them at that moment, you know, but you didn't. You didn't have to do that. It's more than enough that thanks to you I'm not discorporated right now." Aziraphale took a nervous drink of the scotch, chasing it nearly to the bottom of the glass. "And I suppose now I find myself looking at things, ah, differently."

There was no good hellish excuse for the books, and he'd known that right away as they'd gotten into the Bentley. It was pure sentiment, purely wanting to avoid the pinned back devastation on Aziraphale's face when priceless books burned, and maybe that was the cause of all this right now. Books. Of all things to tip Aziraphale in this direction, it did make the most sense.

"Never know when a good prophecy book might come in handy." No, that was a stupid thing to say. He shook his head abruptly. This conversation might wait another thousand years if he let it go this time, even if it was dangerous to entertain. "Tell me, Aziraphale, what do you see?"

He would let it go, he told himself, if that was what Crowley wanted, he would put these thoughts and feelings away, maybe for another day or maybe not. It might be all to the better that way anyhow, for the two of them--angel, demon, all of that. Or...he would speak truthfully if truth was demanded, as perhaps one ought to when given an opportunity that seemed so rare and precious.

"Well, I think...you, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him again. "Not that you're different, I mean to say, but I--" Oh heavens. He hadn't thought of how difficult it would be to say what he meant without resorting to the kind of sentiments that would probably make Crowley hiss at him for daring to credit him with any undemonic qualities. Aziraphale sighed. "You're so dear to me. I suppose I've failed to see it clearly until now, but you are."

He had thought he was ready for whatever sentiment was ready to escape Aziraphale's mouth, but he really hadn't been. It was so him, so perfectly sweet and genuine, and it just made mustering a denial all that much more difficult. There was a pause he knew was probably agonizing for Aziraphale as he examined the bottom of his empty glass, then he spoke. "Imagine me without you and you without me." It lacked his usual drawl, more matter-of-fact than anything. "Can you?"

Maybe it was easier to put the impetus completely on Aziraphale for this. He had plausible deniability for dealing with Aziraphale, a claim that he was tempting an angel downwards, maybe, but the angel would have nothing to say to Heaven. It was his decision.

It was agonizing to some extent, that long pause, but Aziraphale understood it. Perhaps because the effort of trying to explain all of this was so new, not at all practiced--he'd never in his 6000 years on Earth attempted to make feelings of this nature clear to anyone. He'd never had such feelings, not for a single other entity. He loved, of course, it was what he was made to do, but in a general sense, broadly and gently, never focused on any one individual being. To feel to such magnitude--to have such feeling narrowed to a single entity, one who he could quite honestly admit was his oldest and perhaps only true friend--to become so suddenly aware of the enormity of it was almost fearfully overwhelming.

He didn't blame Crowley if he needed a minute.

"I can't. I--I would never want to." It was a surprisingly painful thought. Aziraphale set his glass aside, shifting uncertainly and to no purpose, until with abrupt resolution he turned his body towards Crowley. That was the easy part of what he wanted to do; the other took a little more struggle, but in the end Aziraphale reached out his hand and laid it over the top of Crowley's, stroking briefly over the backs of his fingers.

Oh for hell's sake, it was just hand over hand, but Crowley's stupid corporal form burst heat through him. He spoke before the sentiment could overtake him any more than it already had. "Do you realize what you're doing?" There was no judgment in the words, just a plain and direct response. His fingers curled around Aziraphale's anyway, and he raised his eyebrows to punctuate the question, maybe encourage him a little. "On the other hand." His grip and gaze held firm. "Is this worse than what we usually get up to?"

"Of course I do." It was difficult to speak with dignity when your cheeks were almost certainly red and your voice threatened to shake, but Aziraphale did his best. He glanced briefly down at their hands when Crowley's curled around his, gripping back, perhaps almost too tightly out of nerves, and then met his eyes again. "I'm, well, I'm attempting to make it plain that I do know, actually." Humans made this sort of gesture all the time. They did...all sorts of things to convey their feelings towards the object of their affection.

"As for that--" He hesitated, and then forged on ahead with a determined sort of recklessness, "It may be no better or no worse, but it would certainly be something--something new to try. If you wanted."

Ugh, it was cute, and he pressed his free hand to his face as he tried to recover some demonic dignity, before swiping it over his face. That was better. He could look Aziraphale in the face, now, without feeling like a right idiot. "Something new," he drawled instead, his tone bearing more bravado than his traitorous face, as if he hadn't just ducked his face away. "Always up for new experiences, me." He was a demon; temptation was baked into him, wasn't it, and Aziraphale had already given his own type of permission, hadn't he?

So he lifted their linked hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's hand, lingering there for just a moment before he returned their hands back to the arm of Crowley's chair.

It was a lot to be getting on with all at once--trying to say the right thing, and hoping it didn't somehow change or even, Heaven forbid, ruin the camaraderie they'd had with one another for all these years, and if Crowley was going to tease him on top of it all then really...really, he ought to do something about it, Aziraphale thought.

He found himself smiling, a little tremulous but nonetheless genuine, watching Crowley after he had lifted his hand and kissed it. The hint of tenderness he felt underneath everything else was surprising. It was the bravado in Crowley's voice, maybe, that brought it out of him--this couldn't be simple for Crowley, either. "Well then." It seemed that he was at liberty to pursue what he wanted, so Aziraphale said, "Would you like to come closer?"

Aziraphale had to know what he was getting into. Right? Doubt flashed through Crowley anyway, then he cursed himself for treating the angel with kid gloves. He was as old as Crowley was, he wasn't tempting some ingenue human, someone without a sense of perspective. Or was that just an excuse to mask his own fears?

"Oh, fuck it," he muttered to himself, pushed himself out of the chair, and pinned Aziraphale back against his own chair in a swift motion. "Tell me you mean it," he said pointedly.

It was a swifter reaction than Aziraphale had been expecting, and it made his breath catch when Crowley had pinned him back to the chair, his lips parting as he tried to take it in all at once--Crowley against him, very close indeed now, almost as close as Aziraphale secretly hoped and wished for...but perhaps it wouldn't stay a secret very long. He settled his hands on Crowley's hips.

"Oh, yes." His voice was rather breathless. "Yes, of course I mean it." Goodness, didn't Crowley realize? Aziraphale stroked his hips, and then his waist, and then reached up both hands to cup them tentatively around Crowley's face and draw him down. He wanted...yes, this, his lips against Crowley's, his eyes closing as he tilted his head a little to accommodate for the glasses.

For justcauseimheartless

Re: For justcauseimheartless

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