Crowley's answering some is soft and genuine, as is the kiss which this time lands on the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says. I know.
He breathes out again, rests his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder. It's such a warm, gentle day. He's lived on Earth for almost five and a half thousand years, and it still astonishes him how much evil can be done on warm, gentle days. Seems like that shouldn't be allowed, somehow. Though Crowley knows better than most how few rules there truly are.
But he's telling a story. Or exorcising a ghost. One of those. He sighs again and steels himself. "So...mission accomplished. Went off and did other things in other places for a while, then...heard rumors. Thought I should check in." He bites his lip and looks up again, at the running water. "You don't..." Breathe. Try again. "You know...what's been happening, here. If you're thwarting it all, then you know."
So he won't have to go into detail, talk about how the mass murders of innocents in the name of God was turned into ghastly spectacle. Torture and paranoia and the most poisonous sorts of righteousness combined with a kind of ecstatic bloodlust. It's not the first time such things have happened even on this scale, and likely won't be the last, and they both know it.
Crowley holds Aziraphale a little harder for a moment.
"So...that." Breathing, dammit, he might not need to but it's helpful. Think about breathing. "Came back to...have a look. I'd put them on the throne, after all, so I'd had a bit of a hand in it. Tried to, to help some people, where I could. And then a few weeks after I got here, or maybe months, it, there was, I got..."
No. This isn't working. He'll have to just show it. He'd been trying to work up to it, but he can't.
Crowley looses his arms and pushes Aziraphale gently to indicate he should move. Once they've untangled and there's a little space between them he takes a deep breath and makes a gesture, pulling at the air and then twisting his hand.
The scroll that appears in it reeks of holiness as only the purest divine writ can. "Don't touch it," Crowley says. His voice shakes a little; his fingers shake much more as they untie the ribbon and unfurl the parchment. "Don't want--it might burn you. Probably. Sting, at least." Not destructively, not the sort of damage holy water would cause, but every part of Crowley revolts at the idea of causing Aziraphale even the smallest iota of pain, particularly pain of this sort. So instead he holds it up to be read.
Not that there's much need to read the exact words, Aziraphale will recognize the sort of thing it is. A commendation. With a glowing ethereal seal at the bottom and Gabriel's name signed in letters of burning gold. Congratulating Crowley for his outstanding work on the Iberian Peninsula, and for the Inquisition in particular.
"There was a letter too," Crowley adds dully. "Went on at length about how ingenious my methods were, how subtle. Since all the ones who've left or converted still believe too, some more than ever. And Heaven doesn't care what name you use for Her or if you repent at the last minute or die a martyr so long as the numbers add up, you know that. All these people dying horribly, and it's just, just numbers, and I got a reward for it, and--"
YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOO
He breathes out again, rests his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder. It's such a warm, gentle day. He's lived on Earth for almost five and a half thousand years, and it still astonishes him how much evil can be done on warm, gentle days. Seems like that shouldn't be allowed, somehow. Though Crowley knows better than most how few rules there truly are.
But he's telling a story. Or exorcising a ghost. One of those. He sighs again and steels himself. "So...mission accomplished. Went off and did other things in other places for a while, then...heard rumors. Thought I should check in." He bites his lip and looks up again, at the running water. "You don't..." Breathe. Try again. "You know...what's been happening, here. If you're thwarting it all, then you know."
So he won't have to go into detail, talk about how the mass murders of innocents in the name of God was turned into ghastly spectacle. Torture and paranoia and the most poisonous sorts of righteousness combined with a kind of ecstatic bloodlust. It's not the first time such things have happened even on this scale, and likely won't be the last, and they both know it.
Crowley holds Aziraphale a little harder for a moment.
"So...that." Breathing, dammit, he might not need to but it's helpful. Think about breathing. "Came back to...have a look. I'd put them on the throne, after all, so I'd had a bit of a hand in it. Tried to, to help some people, where I could. And then a few weeks after I got here, or maybe months, it, there was, I got..."
No. This isn't working. He'll have to just show it. He'd been trying to work up to it, but he can't.
Crowley looses his arms and pushes Aziraphale gently to indicate he should move. Once they've untangled and there's a little space between them he takes a deep breath and makes a gesture, pulling at the air and then twisting his hand.
The scroll that appears in it reeks of holiness as only the purest divine writ can. "Don't touch it," Crowley says. His voice shakes a little; his fingers shake much more as they untie the ribbon and unfurl the parchment. "Don't want--it might burn you. Probably. Sting, at least." Not destructively, not the sort of damage holy water would cause, but every part of Crowley revolts at the idea of causing Aziraphale even the smallest iota of pain, particularly pain of this sort. So instead he holds it up to be read.
Not that there's much need to read the exact words, Aziraphale will recognize the sort of thing it is. A commendation. With a glowing ethereal seal at the bottom and Gabriel's name signed in letters of burning gold. Congratulating Crowley for his outstanding work on the Iberian Peninsula, and for the Inquisition in particular.
"There was a letter too," Crowley adds dully. "Went on at length about how ingenious my methods were, how subtle. Since all the ones who've left or converted still believe too, some more than ever. And Heaven doesn't care what name you use for Her or if you repent at the last minute or die a martyr so long as the numbers add up, you know that. All these people dying horribly, and it's just, just numbers, and I got a reward for it, and--"