faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Crowley flinches a little at the sudden tang of miraclulous energy, then blinks, unsure if the sudden change of surroundings is real or a drunken illusion. He looks back at Aziraphale with the same expression, grips his shirt harder, as though to keep him from vanishing like the cantina has. Normally he would be more careful of Aziraphale's high collar, well aware of how self-conscious the demon is about the scar on his neck. But just now Crowley's having trouble keeping his thoughts straight. They're all a jumble, emotions and words and images and one overpowering conviction. He tries to return to that. "No, I have to--it's--"

The sentence gets lost in a meep! as he's suddenly swept off his feet, a sensation more nauseating than uplifting (except in a strictly literal sense). He looks all at once a little more green, and stops struggling. As Aziraphale carries him through the doorway, that last word gradually sinks in. Bath. Yeah, a bath would be...would be good. Long time since he's had one. He doesn't know how long.

Crowley's fingers loosen their grip on Aziraphale's shirt, though he doesn't let go. "...okay," he says, suddenly quiescent. "Bath, yeah. That's...been a while." He shudders, turns his face towards Aziraphale's chest, closes his eyes. Inhales. Aziraphale smells good, clean and faintly perfumed with something. He'd forgotten that smell, somewhere in the haze of the past...however long.

"...you're really here?" His voice is muffled against the shirt now, even quieter than those last words. He'll wake up lying in the dust any minute now, surely, like always. But this is nice while it lasts.

Crowley begins to relax in his arms, turns his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and at last there’s the faintest whisper of real hope in the angel’s quiet voice. The door swings shut behind them, admitting them into a pleasant, sunny little space; the stairs up to Fernand’s spare room are only steps away.

Heedless of the alcohol-sodden stink of misery that lingers in Crowley’s matted hair, Aziraphale kisses one of the tangles just above his ear.

“I’m really here,” he murmurs, his heart twisting. “I will be even when you’re less drunk. Come on, angel. Not far to go now.”

Keeping his strides deliberate and smooth, mindful of how Crowley’s head must be spinning, Aziraphale carries him across Fernand’s empty shop. As he mounts the stairs he holds the angel a little more firmly, just to keep them both aware that he’s held safe and secure.

At that reassurance Crowley sighs and goes completely limp, all but melting into the embrace. He rubs his nose a little against Aziraphale's shirt. "Really am really drunk, though," he confides, in case this had gone unnoticed. "Dunno f'I 'member how t'be su--so--not drunk."

He doesn't bother to look up. It doesn't matter where Aziraphale's taking him, not in the least. It's hardly the first time he's put himself in the demon's hands, literally or figuratively. If Aziraphale wants to carry him to Australia and walk on water all the way, that's fine. So long as he doesn't wake up.

“You won’t have to be for a while yet. I don’t mind if you stay drunk for the bath.”

Fernand, clever fellow that he is, does indeed keep a wooden tub in his upstairs room—he’s been a go-between for a number of clandestine meetings, during his career, and people pay well for certain amenities. Being a barber of quality, he also has a selection of soaps and perfumes to hand, as well as a clean sheet in the tub, for comfort. The only thing they need now is something other than Crowley to fill the tub, but Aziraphale spots a small copper pitcher and bowl by the open door, which will do nicely for someone who has miracles at their disposal.

The door closes itself politely once they’ve crossed the threshold.

Aziraphale brushes another kiss against Crowley’s filthy hair, and as he exhales there’s a ripple of power. The seams in Crowley’s already-threadbare clothes give in to the inevitable and unravel, all at once. Scraps of fabric tumble to the floor like withered leaves, until Crowley’s as naked as a branch in winter. Another ripple, and the copper pitcher is suddenly balanced on the edge of the empty tub; it teeters and tips over, hot water gushing out in what ought to be physically impossible quantities for a pitcher of its size.

As he waits for the tub to fill, Aziraphale looks down at the angel in his arms.

He’s as grimy as any street beggar; both the disintegrating clothes and the angel’s skin leave unappealing smears on Aziraphale’s white-and-red doublet. Not to mention there are actually lice attempting to migrate from Crowley’s scalp to Aziraphale’s clothes, and a host of fleas that skitter to the floor. Hurt tightens Aziraphale’s throat, sharp and swift, almost choking off his breath for a moment.

Almost.

The water rises, and rises, and finally Aziraphale is satisfied and it stops rising. With the sort of gentleness thoroughly unbecoming of a high-ranking demon he eases Crowley into the tub; the water is hot but not scalding. He lets go of the angel only briefly, to strip off his jacket with its long red and gold slashed sleeves and toss it in a corner; the plain white linen sleeves of his shirt he rolls up past the elbow.

Then he returns to kneel by the tub, hands running down the angel’s thin shoulders and back up, scooping up a little water along the way to massage the dirt and grime off his skin.

Crowley doesn't even shiver as his clothes fall apart around him. They were halfway to that point on their own anyway, and he's never cared much about whether or not he's nude, around Aziraphale or anyone else. Bit awkward in some of the early days when he walked the Earth more openly as an angel and didn't bother with a full set of...human accoutrements, as it were.

He has those now, has for millennia. There were a few too many awkward occassions with awkward explanations needed. Besides, over the last few hundred years with Aziraphale he's actually found opportunity to use them, on the lucky, far too short times when they've been together.

None of that on his mind at the moment, however, for all that he snuggles into Aziraphale's hold with complete trust and surrender. Even though they haven't seen each other since...fuck, he's not sure how long. Too long. Time spent apart is always too long.

Crowley knows, deep down in the parts of himself where he keeps the things that he's not thinking about just now, that...recent times...wouldn't have been nearly so difficult with Aziraphale nearby. He wouldn't have hidden in alcohol and something like madness, pulling insensibility around himself like armour. And yes, he is ashamed of himself, hates to be seen in this state by Aziraphale of all people. Aziraphale, who deserves so much better than a sodden wreck of an angel.

At the same time, there's no one he'd rather see or be seen by. Now or ever. He keeps his face buried in Aziraphale's chest, just breathing in the smell of him, the reality of it. He shivers a little as lips gently touch his head again, tries not to wonder how the demon can stand it. Can stand him, in this state.

Worse things in Hell, no doubt.

Crowley clenches his eyes shut harder, grits his teeth. Tries to concentrate on the way Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against his cheek, the support of an arm under his knees, another against his back. The gentle splashing of water nearby. The slow, careful lowering into the tub.

He could weep at the feel of the water against his skin, soft and caressing. He could weep more at the actual soft caresses of careful fingers cleaning a year's worth of dirt and grime. He tries not to, tries to just...be there. Not shaking apart, not babbling inanely, not anything. Just to rest his head on arms folded across his knees as he accepts this kindness the way he's accepted so many of Aziraphale's kindnesses.

(It's not kindness, or not just kindness. It never was. It's love, it was love as far back as Babel or even further, and he knows it. But that's a little too hard to remember just yet. Love has more weight than charity and he doesn't know yet what he can carry, now. I missed you, I missed you, I needed you, I don't know how I've managed anything without you, I've been so lost and I missed you so much...

It's too much, and the words stick in his dry throat the same way the dirt sticks to his skin, all but embedded in the pores. It will take a little time to shake them loose)

Edited 2020-04-18 17:21 (UTC)

Though Aziraphale starts with Crowley’s shoulders, he does cast a glare at the tiny scurrying dots on the angel’s scalp. What likely feels to Crowley like a brief surge of very hot air against his head is in fact a very small tendril of demonic vengeance. The head lice experience it in unison as a sudden burst of terror, a total awareness of their mortality, and a knowledge that they’ve disappointed everyone who’s ever loved them, followed by a swift but agonizing death.

He knows soap would have done the job, but it would also have been far less satisfying.

With quiet care Aziraphale washes Crowley’s shoulders, his upper arms, the nape of his neck. Then he continues down the long arc of Crowley’s back, and at last he gets a really clear look at the red marks there.

At first count, once the angel bends forward to rest his head on his arms, it looks like eleven separate lines, but there’s a fainter one beside the others, one that’s already mostly a scar. Twelve lashes. Strangely, these don’t look like the work of Heavenly instruments—just the ordinary welts and cuts a human-made whip would leave on human skin.

Aziraphale thinks about the marks on his own back, marks that linger but that fade a little more every time he and Crowley meet up.

Carefully, one at a time, he washes each of the thin long wounds. And though there’s a faint background hum of noise—footsteps and voices from outside, the slosh of water, the regular tide of their own breathing—it still feels too quiet in this room. If he could play something, he would, but with both hands busy all he has is his voice.

But the thing is, humans have been finding ways of making music without singing almost from the beginning of their history.

“I was back in England a few years ago,” he murmurs, as if they’re sitting across from one another over a meal. Or lying tangled up in bed. “They’ve been writing a whole mess of poetry about Arthur, did you know? There’s an entire book about Merlin.”

It's astonishing, having someone taking care of him. For most of their lives they've done without, and it's easy to slip back into old habits and expectations. Even so, his skin knows Aziraphale's touch, recognizes those fingers. It's a strange feeling, uncomfortable and desperately welcome at the same time. The demon is careful, but there's a lot to work through. Layers. Of dirt, and other things.

Crowley's drunk and tired enough to be limp, pliant and trusting under those hands. Even when they careful trace the lines of half-healed whip lashes. He shivers, but tenses only a little, mostly with resignation. Aziraphale won't like that story at all.

He expects questions, all sorts of questions. Angry, grieved, concerned...questions, at any rate. A quiet, almost offhand remark about Arthur and poetry? That he doesn't expect. Even less does he expect the information that someone has been writing about him.

(If there's part of Crowley still doubting whether this is real or a drunken hallucination, that silences it. He wouldn't have imagined that.)

He lifts and turns his head, gives Aziraphale an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Y'r kidding."

Edited 2020-04-19 23:57 (UTC)

By now they’ve known one another long enough that Aziraphale can tell he’s really gotten Crowley’s attention. The drunken, disbelieving look the angel gives him is the surest sign Aziraphale can think of that he’s stopped whatever spiral Crowley’s been pacing within his own mind.

(It’s like playing the flute and watching a child look up, seeing the whisper in the melody sink in and take hold. It’s a tiny victory against the way Heaven thinks the world ought to be. It’s exactly what Aziraphale needs to keep going.)

“I’m entirely serious,” he says, still keeping his tone as light as if this is just another conversation—even as his fingertips smooth away a smear of caked-on mud from the pink edge of a lash mark. “Of course they got a lot of it wrong, or made up something they thought suitably weird when they were missing information. They think you were fathered by the forces of Hell, for one thing. Also claimed you had a hand in arranging Arthur’s conception—not personally, mind, just that you facilitated things.”

With a flick of his wrist he banishes the dirt already in the water to a back alley somewhere, leaving the bath clean again so he can continue his work.

“Though funnily enough they left out the most interesting bits. Not a word about you showing Arthur what it was like to be a sparrow. Or the arguments you’d get into with Bedivere over why potatoes have eyes.”

Crowley's put significant effort into deafening the endlessly circling thoughts his mind has spun along for months. All that time and especially alcohol, and now they're detailed in a moment by a few sentences from Aziraphale. It's not the subject; of course Arthur would inspire legends, that was part of the point of the Round Table to begin with. And of course Merlin, enigmatic and powerful and so suspiciously absent at the crux points, would come in for his share. It's just so unexpected a choice of subjects for the circumstances.

Which is no doubt why Aziraphale chose it. Clever demon, tricking Crowley's brain into jumping off the too-worn tracks it's been stuck in.

Kind demon, talking to him as though nothing is wrong, nothing changed, letting Crowley pretend for a little bit. Crowley's smile is small and tremulous, but there. "He made a good sparrow," he says. "Good fish, too. Squirrel, now, that one was a problem."

He sighs, and shifts a little; the water sloshes against the side of the tub. "Those rumors were around even then, y'know. Plus others. One said I didn't have a father at all. Liked that one." Being more or less true. God might be called a the Father by humans but it's a rather different thing. "Not sure anyone would call me arguing with Bedivere the interesting bits of...all that."

Arthur. Christ, Crowley misses him. He misses Christ too, come to that, though it's always hard to reconcile the images of Christ everywhere with Yeshua and his unique mix of determination and selflessness.

But that, that's a thought he's had too many times, one to send him right back into that spiral, and Crowley shudders violently all at once and tries to lurch himself back on topic. "Have you got a poem?" he manages, grasping at...anything, really. "You should. Not just as a minor mention in mine, or--"

Lancelot's. He stops before he says the name, bites back a groan, would kick himself halfway to England if he could. The last, the absolute last thing he wants is to hurt Aziraphale, and reminding him of his lost son will do it. Crowley buries his face back in his arms. "... sorry. 'm an idiot sometimes, you know that."

The shudder under Aziraphale’s hands gives him pause; his heart lurches when the angel curls forward. With the same steady care he’s used this whole time he strokes two handfuls of water over the sharp ridges of Crowley’s shoulderblades.

“You did say you were drunk,” he replies, as fondly as if it’s a casual I forgive you, hoping he hasn’t accidentally made everything worse. “But to answer your question, they get more of my story wrong than yours, so I don’t mind being in the background.”

(That, and he’s perfectly content not attracting a great deal of attention from his supervisors as the mother of a famously good and holy knight. Not that any of them read much, or are particularly invested in human stories, but he still prefers to keep a low profile.)

Having finished with the lash marks, he moves to start washing Crowley’s upper arms—but then he pauses, his wet hands gently rubbing at the angel’s thin shoulders.

“If you lean back a bit,” Aziraphale murmurs, as gentle as if he’s offering a few crumbs to a wounded sparrow, “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Crowley makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a sob. "'Lil bit drunk, yeah," he confirms. The hands smoothly running over his shoulders and arms feel like support, a bulwark. Against what, he's not entirely sure.

Then he's rubbing, not for cleaning, that's a gesture purely for giving comfort and pleasure, and tears sting at Crowley's eyes behind his closed lids. They used to do this for each other. He'd forgotten how good it felt.

His face is still hidden in his arms, do his reaction is hidden. Probably a good thing.

"...s'got all sorts of stuff crawling in it, y'know," he says reluctantly after a minute. He's already forgotten the precise surge of power a minute ago, and even if he hadn't he's discombobulated enough to not have realised what it was for. "And it's all, all matted and...pretty awful, really. Might be better just cutting it off."

Aziraphale can hear the distress rising again in the angel’s voice, and it tightens his heart. He sounds so lost, so pale an echo of the soul who comforted him in some of his darkest hours and loved him through some of the brightest.

“Nonsense, darling.” It might be a minor miracle that his voice doesn’t wobble. “All the crawling things seem to have fled.(1) And Fernand’s got all sorts of interesting soaps up here. I don’t think I’d mentioned Fernand—pleasant fellow, lovely sense of humor, excellent barber. Now just... lie back a little for me?”

It’s not quite a plea aloud, though in Aziraphale’s soul it resonates like one. For so many centuries Crowley’s been the brave one, recklessly generous with his compassion; seeing him in such desperate need of the most basic comforts... it hurts, in some raw red corner of Aziraphale’s heart that has never quite recovered from the shock of being expelled from Heaven.

But he can’t sit by and do nothing. He won’t. He never has. Even if he has to start small, with the stroke of his hands and the soothing hush of his voice.

(1) For those of you wondering if head lice have their own separate Hell, yes they do, and yes it is worse than human Hell, in ways the human brain cannot fathom. Or at least this has been the case since a very specific point at the turn of the sixteenth century.

Crowley does, of course. Anything Aziraphale asks, he'll do. There's nothing new about that. He keeps his eyes closed but lifts his head and leans back with Aziraphale supporting him, which is only appropriate really, and tilts his head back as far as it'll go.

"Fernand..." he repeats, a faint stirring of curiosity rising, dusty and stuff from disuse but never gone. "That where we are? A barber's shop?" He opens his eyes, tries to focus on Aziraphale's face. "What are you doing here? In Seville? Not--" He stops, swallows hard. "For work?"

It’s a small, brittle word in Crowley’s mouth, but huge in its significance.

All at once, like the moment a miracle sinks in and he finds himself comprehending the syllables and shapes of a human language, Aziraphale feels understanding start to dawn. He’s been on a non-stop thwarting tour of Spain, insinuating himself between the righteous and those they would strike down, and at the holy seat of the Inquisition he’s found an angel on the verge of madness.

Aziraphale has to breathe firmly and calmly through the first stirrings of rage. Later. Not now. This won’t help him, now. It wasn’t what he needed before the Flood, or after Sodom.

“Not the way you think,” he says at last, cupping a hand to smooth water over the matted mess of Crowley’s hair. “It’s all thwarting—from nuisances all the way up to sabotage. Been all over the country making certain humans’ job much harder for them than it ought to be.”

Crowley reaches up with surprising quickness and catches Aziraphale's wrist, looking at him with sudden intensity. "Thwarting," he repeats. "Thwarting, thwarting who? Is that, is it...official? Under orders?"

Aziraphale stills when he’s grabbed. He’s never been able to lie to Crowley; the thought doesn’t occur now.

“A work-sanctioned project.” It’s an easier confession to make than he’d suspected; he shifts so that his own free hand can brush at the slope of Crowley’s cheekbone. “It was initially reconaissance, but after that—well, you’d be surprised how easy it was to convince the forces of Hell that we ought to make a policy of being a thorn in the Inquisition’s side.”

Aziraphale tries for a smile, something small and hopeful.

Crowley takes a long shaky breath and closes his eyes, then turns his face into Aziraphale's hand so his lips brush against the demon's fingers. He stays like that for a moment, basking in Aziraphale's nearness and drawing strength from it.

Then he takes another breath, releases Aziraphale's wrist and sits up a bit straighter. "Cut my hair, would you please?" It's a thick sodden mass on his neck and back, dripping. "'m sure you could get it all, all fixed up. But I'd rather cut it. Please."

Edited 2020-05-03 01:41 (UTC)

As Crowley’s spine straightens, Aziraphale’s lungs expand, his chest filling with the light and heat of relief. He’s glad he’s sitting, because the force of it would cut his knees out from under him.

Crowley is going to be all right. Still ruinously drunk and partly filthy, but those things can change in a matter of hours. What remains unchanged, beneath the rest of the weight Crowley’s been carrying, is the glimmer of hope—however distant, however hard to reach.

Aziraphale gathers up the dripping mat of hair, begins to shape it into the closest thing to a queue he can manage.

“How short?”

"Short."

The word is as clipped as the subject, and his hands are firm where they rest on his folded arms. He's not shaking anymore. Still drunk--and fuck, dealing with that will be a headache of truly epic proportions however he goes about it. But not shaking. Not trying to hide, from Aziraphale's gaze or his own thoughts or anything else.

"And don't...miracle it off, after," he adds, more quietly. "Got a, there's. Something I want to do. With it." He snorts. "To it, I mean. Symbolic."

You can't live on Earth without picking up a few things about the value of symbols.

Aziraphale allows himself a single moment to be overwhelmed by gratitude, to be silently and desperately glad that he’s not too late. That he’s done what he needed to do. It shivers down his arms, bending his back so he curves down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head.

The angel smells terrible. That’ll go away too, in time.

“I won’t shave you bald,” he says at last, his voice gaining a lightness that’s only partly forced. “But I think I can manage short without resorting to that. And Fernand can neaten you up if I make a mess of it.”

Unspoken between them is the understanding that Aziraphale won’t simply get rid of the hair before Crowley can do whatever he has in mind. Aziraphale may put it aside to avoid getting tiny itchy bits of cut hair everywhere in the tub, but only as far as a nearby table, not the Mediterranean.

"Can't be more've a mess 'n now." Crowley tried to stay still. It was tricky; he was still dizzy. He focused on a knot on the edge of the wooden tub and stared at it, trying to make his reeling mind concentrate only on not moving. Not that a few nicks from a barber's scissors would be anything to worry about, even in this state he could probably heal those. But he knows, deep down, that he's already given Aziraphale enough to carry today.

He closes his eyes briefly, remembers why that's a bad idea at present, swallows his guilt, and looks back at the knot of wood. "Do it."

The scissors come easily to Aziraphale’s hand; he stays bent for just a moment longer, his lips still pressed to Crowley’s wet hair, before straightening up again.

“All right,” he murmurs, and gets to work.

The initial bit—hacking off all the matting—is the easiest. While he does it Aziraphale talks quietly to distract Crowley, telling him about the books he’s added to his small collection this century. On a swing back through England he’s acquired a copy of some rather delightful poetry by a fellow named Geoff Chaucer; a recent trip to China netted him a fascinating fictional account of historical events, the Romance of Three Kingdoms. The scissors tug gently at Crowley’s scalp as they disentangle him bit by bit from the weight on his neck.

Once most of the worst tangles are gone, though, Aziraphale finds himself falling quiet to concentrate. Thankfully he hasn’t had to cut close enough to the scalp to have any bald spots that need covering, but the overall effect is still pretty ragged. Admittedly it gives Aziraphale a perfect excuse to run his fingers through what’s left, and gives them both a small bubble of time to be touching in a quiet room.

Crowley lets the words flow over him like the water does on his skin, just as cleansing. He listens, makes a comment or three, but the subjects don't really matter. It's all soothing, Aziraphale working to bind Crowley in the here and now, instead of beimg trapped inside his own head. Making him think about the larger world, and not just what he's seen during the past year. Reminding him there's more. More than this.

Then Aziraphale quiets, runs fingers through the now-short hairs. The gentle tugging feels wonderful. Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "'ve given you a pretty shit reunion here, love," he says softly. "M'sorry."

He sighs and opens his eyes, turns to look up at Aziraphale with a small, apologetic smile. "'ll make it up to you. Might need sleep first, 'n a few gallons of one hangover cure or 'nother. But I will."

He reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers on Aziraphale's face, heedless of the water dripping from them. "Missed you." It's a whisper this time. "So much."

Crowley’s fingers paint a gentle wet line along the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, and though the angel’s smile is small it’s free of manic urgency or limp despair. It’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale’s seen in at least fifty years.

He tips his head, kisses the base of Crowley’s palm.

“I missed you too.” When he inhales, Crowley smells more like himself, that underlying scent of skin and growing plants beneath the still-present fog of alcohol. It’s a start, at least. “And you don’t have to make it up to me—but,” he adds, interrupting Crowley’s protest before it can get started, “if you insist on it, you’ll have a whole three months. Maybe more if I can get in some long-term undermining.”

"Three months..."

He breathes the words like a prayer, his eyes widening. It's rare for them to manage so long. Camelot and the years after was the longest period they had, and even it had been punctuated with one or the other or both of them being pulled away. Three months would be a blessing.

...no, not a blessing, he won't use that word, not now. A luxury, then. A gift.

(A miracle.)

Aziraphale is leaning low, close enough that Crowley can stretch up and press their foreheads together, brush his nose alongside the other's. "Yes. Oh, yes, please. That, that'd be--"

Crowley stops and swallows. His eyes are closed, and he smells soap and faint sulphur instead of dirt and stale wine. Aziraphale smells like home. He always has. "Can we go somewhere?" Crowley asks softly. "Not here. Not...not Seville. Just, stay somewhere. For three months. Could get away w'that, f'r once." He laughs a little, and there's a hint of a sob in it again, though only a hint. "Done good work lately, so they're all, all pleased with me."

He reaches up his other hand so both frame Aziraphale's face, and concentrates on that. Warm breath on his mouth, warm skin under his hands, fluffy curls teasing his fingertips. "'ziraphale." Oh Lord, he's still so fucking smashed and he needs not to be if only so he can get this foul taste out of his mouth and kiss his demon. "Jus', let me be with you somewhere. For three months."

In this case possibly it's me who sucks, but oh well! Tender rescues are a lovely thing.

Well, Heaven sucks regardless, but. ;D

No arguments from me about that! ;)

he’s also going to murder all those head lice.

No arguments from Crowley about *that*!

no subject

Thank you for the cathartic nit death

My pleasure. Also wow the Vulgate Merlin is a thing.

I've only vaugely heard of it, I admit!

Found a prose translation online. Arthur has like five bastard sons? And a full sister?

Say what?? Welp, Crowley will laugh at that when he reads it.

Yeah apparently Merlin is the one who advises him to get all those bastards started. Which... lol.

Head Lice Hell. <3 And Crowley's going "I NEVER."

My own tribute to the Death of Rats. ;D A’s cackling.

Death of Rats approves. Crowley sulks. ;)

Augh I love this verse.

Auughhh me too. And I didn't plan this but he's very insistent.

Well, might end up being good for both of them!

It will, yeah. It'll help Crowley, which will help Aziraphale. Already is. :)

Will this turn into a bonfire of hair and commendation? :D

Yep, though I imagine A would NOT be okay with burning any part of Crowley in hellfire

Not so much! Apologies for how late this is gaah

Don't be silly, I know how busy your work is! *Hugs*

A might steal a lock. Just... to keep.

Years later when C funds out he'll wish he'd given a proper one. <3 and be cutely flustered

No arguments from Crowley about that!

Don't be silly, I know how busy your work is! Hugs