Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Comments

SUBTLE, ANTHONY. SO *SUBTLE*

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale rambles on about the play. About the actors, about the delivery of lines, criticisms, compliments. It's when he's already a bit into it when he notices he isn't really getting any answers when he asks things. That Crowley is neither ranting nor raving nor teasing, or...much of anything.

But they had a lovely evening. Dinner was grand, the conversation sparkling and entertaining and flirty at times. Crowley was his usual delightful, wily self. There was banter. The drive to the show was fine. The play seemed to go just fine, quite nice, actually.

They had a lovely evening. He thinks.

The suddenly question has him doing a double take, looking quite genuinely confused. "What?"

What in all your dealings with Crowley tells you he even knows the word?

[duckshaveears]

"Wilde!" Crowley says it impatiently, as though it should be obvious what he's asking despite his own complete inability to put the question in words. He waves a hand. "You know, you and Wilde and...and gentleman's clubs and the gavotte, all that, what was--"

He stops, swallows. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Looks somewhere else. "Uh. All that. What...was that like?"

All right, so he's a fucking coward. That's not news.

Tbf law of balance between them means Aziraphale takes a while to even understand

[salutosinedelectat]

Well, his cowardice will only serve to prolong this absolutely painful experience, but most things Crowley sets out to do are cursed anyway. Aziraphale still looks vaguely confused, clearly not really understanding the...implications of the question.

“Oh.” Very obviously missing the point. “Lovely man, he was. Even wittier than would seem by just his works. A penchant for the spoken word that would put most to shame.”

He unlocks the door to the shop, gesturing inside. “After you.”

Obviously

[duckshaveears]

"Lovely," Crowley repeats. It doesn't mean anything. The angel uses that word all the time, it doesn't denote anything special aside from approval. So that's....good, right?

He still wants to grind his teeth.

Crowley slinks into the bookshop, lobs his hat and coat at the coatrack (they land perfectly, because they know better than to do anything else).

also he has a HAT

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale follows him in, the door locking behind them with a thought.

"Yes. Would draw in a room, if he so wanted. Often did, too." He neatly puts away his coat, smoothing it straight. The fresh flowers sit in a nice new vase, right on the front desk. Such shows of pride had unwittingly made it either somewhat suspicious, or very obvious, to most locals that know the shop that Mr. A.Z. Fell may have had a recent change in his life.

Hands gently clapped together, he gives his demon a pleasant smile. "Drinks?"

I wanted a hat so by god I gave him a hat!

[duckshaveears]

"Course he did," Crowley mutters to himself, hopefully quietly enough that Aziraphale doesn't hear.

But Aziraphale is smiling, and behind him on the desk are the flowers Crowley gave him just a few hours ago, and humans come and go but Crowley is still here, always still here, so he tries. He does. He smiles and nods, and they pour drinks and he exerts himself to actually make conversation, and if he veers the topic more towards their dinner or theatre in general and away from the show they just saw, well. He's trying, all right.

For a while. After an hour the wine is kicking in and Crowley is comfortably sprawled on the sofa with his socked feet on Aziraphale's lap, and out of nowhere he blurts out, "So, uh, did you and Wilde ever...dance the gavotte...?"

Suave.

good!!! also alcohol was clearly the best addition to crowley's whole headspace that evening yep

[salutosinedelectat]

The earlier passing doubts fade from the angel's mind as the conversation goes on and through much better topics. The wine flows freely, as it often does, making certain looks and certain comments a tad more cheeky than they would have been.

He sits, a hand resting on one of Crowley's legs, and he's sipping his wine when the new sudden question comes up. Aziraphale hasn't noticed a pattern, not yet, at least not an unpleasant or tense one. They watched one of Oscar's plays, and Crowley knows they got along, and that's all he thinks is happening.

"Hm, a least a couple of times, yes." He looks up vaguely, with a tipsy glow, reminiscing. "He seldom did, but sometimes he would delight everyone with a dance. Quite the sight."

it usually is!

[duckshaveears]

Crowley's relaxed somewhat by this point, enough to exchange banter the way they always do, though nowadays his teasing has a more obviously affectionate edge. But he stays tense, however he tries to ignore it, and distracted, however he tries to hide it.

He has at least lost the glasses by now, however--they never survive drinking in the bookshop--so the way his eyebrows lift halfway off his head is more obvious than it would've been earlier. Along with the way he sputters into his wineglass. "Everyone...? Oh, wait, gavotte, yeah..." He forgot for a moment that it wasn't a euphamism, and takes another drink while recovering. "Quite the sight how, exactly?"

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale looks over when he sputters, a curious look that doesn't last long enough for him to actually ask any questions. There's a bit of the alcohol-fueled haze, of course, but he's mostly just relaxed, happy to talk about his friend and to remember good times past, while living good times present.

"Oh, he just had his own way about it." He smiles into his wine glass, a smile of fond memories in his face. "Would often break the steps, make it his own. He claimed he couldn't remember all of them, but I'm quite sure he did it on purpose."

[duckshaveears]

Crowley squirms a little, which has the (for once) unintended side effect of making Aziraphale's hand ride a little higher on his thigh. It almost distracts him. "No doubt," he says, with a forced sort of neutrality.

I can’t imagine any one refusing you.

He should have picked Hamlet. Anything by Shakespeare. Bloody Timon the Athenian, even, or Cymbeline, that convoluted mess. Anything but Oscar Wilde. He can't get at what he desperately wants to know and just as desperately wants to not ask, and he can't set it aside, and fuck Oscar Wilde, sideways, which the old reprobate would possibly have enjoyed, and enjoyed with the same lush, deep appreciation and enthusiasm that Aziraphale applies to earthly pleasures, and Crowley is quite rapidly going out of his damned mind and suddenly can't stand it and just says it. "He ever proposition you?"

It could have come out worse. At least it wasn't did you fuck him. Even so, he flushes abruptly dark red and drains the rest of his glass, leans forward (dislodging Aziraphale's hand in the process) to refill it. And babbles. Of course. "Nevermind, shouldn't have asked. Water under the bridge, and anyway it's none of my damned business. What you did. Or didn't do. With Wilde. Or anyone else. No business at all."

hey, crowley, this is gonna suck!

[salutosinedelectat]

Well, a whole lot happens in just a couple of seconds, and one could blame the wine for Aziraphale's prolonged, confused pause. His idly thoughts of times past and reminiscing over old human friendships is suddenly put to a half, and he watches Crowley move about in a way that far too obviously spells that there's something else to it.

He might not know everything that's going on in the demon's mind, but even the angel can't miss it when it's that obvious.

"Proposition-..." Aziraphale trails off, having pulled his glass out of the way as Crowley moved to refill his glass like the world may end if he didn't. Of course, the meaning is rather clear, and it does pass the angel's mind, but...perhaps there's an active choice in considering it might mean something entirely innocent.

(Are they still having a lovely night?)

"What do you mean?"

I'm trying to make it not suck *too* much. I don't want them actually fighting.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley fidgets. Impossible to miss that he's uncomfortable, that he's got a burr in his tail about something. He takes a breath, planning on disavowing it and trying to run this conversation back onto the usual tracks and away from dangerous territory--

But Aziraphale is looking at him, his eyes uncertain and guileless and not quite hurt (not yet, shit, shit, he really shouldn't have gotten into this), and the thing is that Crowley is a terrible liar unless he's planned ahead. Which he didn't. He fell into his trap all on his own, dug the ground and laid the spikes and then stepped into it anyway.

Crowley sighs heavily and runs a hand back through his hair, which makes it spike and stand on end a bit. "What I said," he says, glancing quickly at Aziraphale. His eyes are bright yellow, hesitant and guarded. "Wondered if you and he ever..."

The question trails off, and he waves a hand frustratedly in the air. "Don't make me say it, angel, I know it's none of my business, and even if the pair of you did there wouldn't have been anything wrong with it, just, I wondered and then I couldn't stop wondering and I keep wondering and if you're going to dump the bottle of wine over my head and tell me I'm a pillock, which I am, just, just go ahead and get it over with, yeah?"

Don't think they're going to necessarily argue but still awkward

[salutosinedelectat]

Oh.

Aziraphale doesn't say a word as Crowley rambles on and fidgets and scrambles his way to the metaphorical exit, just sitting there with his glass in both hands. He doesn't look angry or irritated. Doesn't look offended or hurt. What he does look is mostly surprised, uncertain, as mentioned, and entirely more sober than he was a few minutes ago. Quite literally, on that last one.

He can't help but to go through parts of their evening where he might have missed the signs something was bothering the demon. A couple stand out, but he isn't about to ask him if this or that was about this...subject. Did he just not pay enough attention to how Crowley was feeling? Should he have?

"...hum." He shakes off those thoughts for a moment, or tries to, lest he fall too far down into his doubting mind. Composes himself, keeps the glass in his hands still. "Why-- why do you want to know that?"

It could have gone that way if I weren't keeping Crowley from being a prick though. ;)

[duckshaveears]

"I don't!" Crowley groans his frustration as he more or less flings himself backwards in his seat, face pointed at the ceiling. "But I just. Keep. Picturing. It. Driving me bloody mad, and I--"

He stops, and this time he flings himself to his feet, paces a few steps. "Never met the man, you know that, but he sounds like--like some impossible combination of both of us, all witty and bookish and wicked and tempting, and I know he must've adored you, and I was asleep, and I--"

He stops in his track, eyes widening as the rest of the sentence drops from his mouth. "--wasn't there--"

Oh.

That's it, is it. That's why.

Oh.

...shit.

in some alternate timeline

[salutosinedelectat]

As Crowley flings his body about on the sofa, Aziraphale continues to protect his glass from the demon's long limbs. As he paces, the angel watches, utterly at loss for words for once, although he couldn't quite figure out why. There were a few things, certainly, and one of them is definitely not knowing how he feels about the demon so frantically ranting about the concept of the angel having...been with someone who he once called a friend, but with whom he never could share his real identity, still managing to strike a connection.

Crowley reaches his conclusion, and the angel hasn't moved from his seat yet, still protectively holding his glass of wine, slightly frozen in his spot.

He does try to say something, in those heavy seconds of silence after the demon's realization. He does also realize that he may regret having sobered up, but it's not like he would know how to deal with this any better if he was drunk.

( Why did they go to one of Oscar's plays? What was the point of it? At one point in the evening did things turn and he completely failed to notice?)

The angel eventually breaks the silence, which feels far longer than it lasts, by clearing his throat with all the casual attitude of someone who's found himself suddenly stranded in a particularly unpleasant situation. "Yes, well..." And he does not know where to go with that sentence. Maybe he doesn't want to go anywhere with it. And, yet...

"...we were quite close, at a point. And he was..." He purses his lips for another pause, eyes on the carpet and glass finally set down on his lap. " There was...a discussion. But..." And he leaves the implication there.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley, still rather poleaxed by his own sudden understanding, looks up. "But." he repeats.

It's not a question. He can hear Aziraphale's answer in that one word. Tension leaves him in a rush, and he makes his way back to the sofa, sits back down. Leans towards Aziraphale until he's resting his forehead on the angel's shoulder. "...m'sorry."

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel looks at him, with yet another quiet pause. When he moves, he simply puts his glass away on the table by the sofa, and brings a delicate hand up to Crowley's back, comforting.

"It's alright." It's not, not really, but he rather it be. It's not that he's hurt or particularly offended, the subject is more complex than that. Such as wondering how long will things from before they became free will come up to be dealt with. Probably for a very, very long, but he has no way of really knowing.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley rolls his head a little, which is as close as he can get to shaking it while being completely unwilling to move. "Not...this," he says. Aziraphale's shoulder feels warm and comforting. He smells warm and comforting, he is warm and comforting, what is Crowley even doing here? He swallows, closes his eyes. "For 1862, and that stupid fucking argument. For saying all that utter tripe to you and then sulking off to sleep for half a century."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale brings both his arms around him. Surprising, really, how he can just do that now. That they can both be vulnerable, and the potential to go through millenia of conversations and arguments and misunderstandings. It's completely, utterly terrifying to consider.

He struggles to reply. "We... Both said a lot of things then. No a lot of them quite good." He does admit it, vaguely. If he faces the misguiving in that argument too directly, that'll just send him to the next thing, and the next, and an infinite line of things he did wrong. Given the choice, he rather not. But he feels like he might not have a choice in the first place.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley says in the embrace, more grateful for it than he'll ever be able to explain. Does Aziraphale know how astonishing it is, how impossible, to be able to say he's sorry and then be comforted? Forgiven?

Truthfully, he hopes not.

"Yeah, I know." It took a long, long time to move past that F word. But that's not the point. "It's just...think it's the idea that I might've, might've driven you away, and then that while I was inconsolable and angry and fucked up, you could just..." He laughs, and it's a little bitter. "Gavotte your way into a gentleman's club like the angel you are, and found someone else to, to care about, to be cared about. While I was asleep and stubborn and refusing to admit how much you meant. To me." He wraps his arms around Aziraphale and squeezes. "'m glad you had...friends, then. I am. Just, hate that at the time, you maybe didn't know I was still one of them. To say nothing of all, all this."

All this love, he means. He knows now that it was there back then, intrinsically a part of him, though at the time he hadn't realized at all. Willful blindness.

[salutosinedelectat]

The only reason Aziraphale might not know how it is to not be forgiven, or to suddenly have that available when it's never been, it's because he's had someone who tolerated his mistakes and misgivings. And it certainly wasn't other angels, for as much as he attempted to put faith in his kin by the end. He'd always been rather blind to a lot of concepts, naive, still is, but most most of them can be traced back to justifiable origins.

Long pauses keep on creeping into the conversation, short respites to process grand topics. It's necessary, and possible, and holding and being held through it is... Somewhat grounding. Comforting. He didn't think he would have felt like he needed it.

"I don't think I knew we were." He finally says, quietly, letting his head rest against Crowley's. "I didn't..." But he stutters into a pause and a soft huff. And chooses to turn the conversation away from himself - it's safer. Easier, probably. At least, easier to find the words for. "I'm sorry, Crowley."

[duckshaveears]

"What for?" Crowley sighs as Aziraphale's head rests against his. "You didn't do anything. I'm the one being outrageously jealous of a human just 'cause you might've loved him a century ago during a time when neither of us knew I was off my head over you."

Sounds pretty pathetic put like that, at least to Crowley's ears. This is the measure of his trust, so far: that he can be weak, show weakness. His world has been one where showing weakness is akin to wearing a large sign with an arrow stating "Stab here on this spot for maximum damage!" Might as well ask for death outright.

Aziraphale's world has been as intolerant of any weakness or deviance as his, Crowley knows. They just have different coping mechanisms, different armour. Different ways of hiding it avoiding the subject.

He knows Aziraphale is deflecting. He always knows when Aziraphale is deflecting. Can't play a player, and Crowley is as slippery as they get. Doesn't matter. He's patient. And it's not like he doesn't understand the need. Habits of millennia aren't lightly set aside. It's frustrating sometimes, sure, but he gets it.

And Aziraphale said enough to banish the worst of his idiotic worry, at least. It'll do, even if it's not everything. Crowley's greedy enough to want everything and more. But he also knows damned well how lucky he is to have as much as he does, and he's not about to risk it. Except it feels like he just did, so he'll take Aziraphale's part-answer and deflecting apology and embrace and be grateful. He will.

[salutosinedelectat]

Does he even know what he's apologizing for? Only partly, really, if he reduces it to that stupid little spat they had back then. For insinuating what he did, for stepping away, for not trying to contact him at all. For not checking, even though he was worried. Saying he was hurt, back then, wasn't possible, not with all that it implied, and for all that their friendship was unnatural then. There were many times in their time on Earth where the angel refused to recognize their obvious kinship - whenever he had to admit it, or whenever it pained him to look at it straight. But it still hurt when Crowley said he didn't need him. It still scared him when he thought the demon was risking his life. Still felt overwhelmingly lonely when dealings with Heaven had come up and he found himself with no one to talk to about it.

"For that day. In the park." Still quiet as he speaks. "I should have...checked. Talked to you. Done something." Of course he can say that now, but he couldn't have done it back then. He could have, but he couldn't have.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, long and heavy. Feels Crowley warm in his arms. " You know there could have never have been anyone else." This isn't about romance. This isn't about a romantic relationship, this isn't even about being friends. It's about the reality of their situation has it's always been. About isolated agents who find out they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies, regardless of how that develops.

"I found something to do. I enjoyed what I found. I've met many great personalities. I've...we've been experienced more than we were intended to." He closes his eyes, lets himself speak, before he gives himself the chance to stutter and stall. "That doesn't mean I forgot-..." And there's the stall. It's difficult, this. It probably shouldn't be. "There's never been anyone else who... understood. Couldn't be. How could there be?"

[duckshaveears]

Crowley raises his head enough to take a kiss: acceptance and apology. "We both fucked up that day," he says, his mouth still only a breath away from Aziraphale's. They've never apologized for that particular argument, not explicitly. They reached a pax about it in 1941 and another in 1967, but neither has ever come out and said sorry for harsh words that had aimed to hurt and succeeded beyond either's most angry intentions. It helps, that Aziraphale's apologized. It soothes something that's never quite rested.

Crowley's eyes are still closed, but he can feel the angel's breath on his face, warm and sweet-smelling. "There couldn't be. I know, angel. That much I knew even then. Just didn't know you did, at the time." He raises a hand to Aziraphale's face, presses it to his cheek, rubs his fingerips slightly against the skin above his ear. "I am glad you weren't alone then, even if it wasn't me, wasn't this. I mean it. 'm sorry I got so, so worked up."

[salutosinedelectat]

The kiss they share is soothing. But he can't help but to start thinking about so many other things. So many other mistakes he hasn't apologized about. He's spent so long talking about not questioning the future, that he never bothered to look back very closely. And Crowley, despite everything, always forgave him, always came back to him. But he's still wondering, now, if that's fair. It comes up, some times, when he does look back.

"I didn't know." He admits, not without some struggle. "I don't think I realized until...until time had passed. There was so much to do, so much to see, and work, but..." But he had been so angry about it. No, he'd been...hurt. He'd been scared. He didn't know how to handle the situation except to step out of it. But even when he found a kind hear to talk to - Oscar often lent his -, he could still never truly explain what happened. (But the things his friend said - they didn't sat well with him, either. Not then. He'd stopped talking about it.)

Oh, no. He's started, he realizes - he's said too much, and he doesn't know how he got here. Despite Crowley's gentleness, despite what really started this conversation, the angel still wonders what he might think of him. "I took so much for granted." He shouldn't dig any deeper than this.