faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Crowley immediately (for a value of immediately that equals slowly because the banging in his head is distracting but nonetheless still with determination) covers Aziraphale's hand with his other one, sandwiching it between his. "Not for years." Not since the 14th century, fuck, that'd been horrible. Though at least the plague years hadn't been people doing it to each other on purpose. Mostly.

Not thinking about that. He tangles his fingers with Aziraphale, enjoying the easy intimacy of it. "'d like to go back there. See how it's doing." He trusts Aziraphale has an idea of what's going on in Italy and that it's nothing like as sickening as what's here. He smiles a little again, looking at their joined hands. "Rent a house. Florence, maybe. Or Milan. Somewhere with trees." There's beautiful countryside in Spain, of course, but he hasn't seen it for a while and now he's suddenly longing for green things. Living things, beautiful things, not made of blood and dust and ash. "Think we could find a place?"

Even in the fading light, Aziraphale’s eyes glitter.

“Mmm... Florence, I think. There are some exquisite gardens in the city, and the countryside is gorgeous.” For several hundred years it’s also been steadily producing brilliant writers and artists; human curiosity and creativity flourish there. “A little villa out on a hillside, I think. Someplace with gardens.”

There may even be an abandoned place they can make their own, the way he had with his Lake nearly a thousand years ago. The thought of watching Crowley coax a garden into life does something strange and tender to his heart, something so sweet it’s perilously close to painful.

"That sounds..." Crowley stops and breathes in, squeezes Aziraphale's hands. "Perfect. Idyllic, even. You could have a harp, a proper full size one. I'd love to hear you play that." Every day, please. That's what he wants, wants desperately, growing things and Aziraphale making music by day and holding him by night and Heaven and Hell just leaving them alone. Even if it's only for a while.

Crowley lifts Aziraphale's hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers, then tugs at them harder. "Lie next to me?"

Though in a human body it’s far less graceful than it would be in his feline form (or nearly any other form, for that matter), Aziraphale moves as he’s tugged, shifting his weight so they both fit on the cot side by side. It’s always been wickedly easy to coax his arms around the angel’s thin waist and shoulders, and that’s exactly what he does now, gathering Crowley in close.

“They’ve got a lovely stringed instrument here called a vihuela,”(1) he murmurs. “Could bring one of those too. Just for variety’s sake.”

Truthfully, if the angel wants an entire orchestra, Aziraphale will find some way to make it happen. Even if there’s still a tiny smoldering ember, somewhere deep in his patched-together heart, that wants to blast Heaven with the force of his rage on Crowley’s behalf... it’ll keep. There are things he can do here, to deprive the Lord of the suffering She seems to love so much.

(1) On the family tree of stringed instruments, a vihuela is somewhere between a guitar and a lute. With one of the main differences being that the lute holds less beer than the vihuela, which in turn holds far less beer than the average acoustic guitar.

Edited (As I meant to say: sorry not sorry for the music joke) 2020-05-23 02:42 (UTC)

Crowley is an Angel of the Lord, traditionally supposed to be fearsome warriors of the faith, inspiring awe and divine terror. The thing is he's a pretty lousy angel (literally lousy, until Aziraphale cursed them all off), and knows it. Never is he more relieved about the fact that when he snuggles up against Aziraphale, wrapping an arm around him and letting himself be bound and return. Fearsome warriors of the Lord are definitely not supposed to snuggle. Their loss.

"All of them," he murmurs. His headache is feeling better already, which might be Aziraphale's influence or might be Crowley's own divine nature healing his corporation a bit now that he's not too discombobulated to attend to it, or most likely is just the water. He should have more of that. In a minute. "One of every instrument in the world. We'll need a pretty large villa for that but it'd be worth it."

They've ended up face to face, so he can feel Aziraphale's breath every few seconds, and it's wonderful. They don't need to breathe but it definitely has its pleasures, like so many human things. Crowley strokes his fingers down the demon's spine. "When shall we go? And how?"

At the declaration that he intends for them to have a collection of instruments, Aziraphale smiles fondly. Truthfully he does have a collection, kept back at the castle where he raised Lancelot, safely tucked out of human perception. Humans just keep inventing new ways to make music, and he’s fascinated by all of them.

“Sundown tomorrow,” he purrs, relishing the gentle press of Crowley’s hand on his back. “When the sun’s gone down, we’ll hire a carriage. Ride through the night till we get to Florence.”

(Granted, there will likely be a touch of demonic magic involved so the journey doesn’t take them days on end. It’ll attract less attention and take less energy out of Crowley than if he were to suggest the two of them fly.)

“And then we’ll find a house, and a harp, and a bed with a soft coverlet. First order of business.”

Crowley sighs happily at the gentle vibration that emerges from Aziraphale's throat. His purring isn't as pronounced in this form as it is when he's a cat, but it's still a happy noise, and he welcomes it. "Sounds good. In a diabolical 'You tempting fiend, how dare you offer me my heart's desire' way, of course."

Crowley has made it clear on any number of occasions that Aziraphale is welcome to tempt him. Also that he will very willingly give in. It does help that Aziraphale never tempts him with anything Crowley truly doesn't want or would be conflicted about, granted.

Aziraphale laughs softly.

“I’d hardly offer anything less. I do have standards when it comes to temptations.”

One of Aziraphale’s hands wanders to Crowley’s hair again. It feels so strange, this short, tickling between his fingers in an entirely new way. Not unpleasant at all, just different.

“But we can pretend you put up a valiant fight.” He noses a touch closer to brush a kiss against the ridge of Crowley’s eyebrow. “Loads of virtuous resistance. Terribly noble of you.”

Crowley makes a rude noise. "No one would believe it. I've never been able to resist you. I've never even tried to resist you."

Aziraphale's mouth is right there, and it's so very easy to just take a kiss, soft and sweet. "So, nope. 'm not valiant or virtuous--not by angelic standards, anyway--and I'm certainly not noble. Just a winged idiot in love." He nuzzles against Aziraphale's cheek, chuckling a little. "Albeit now with a haircut and slightly better breath."

He yawns a little at the end of this. More sleep would probably be smart, and more water (and a new head and probably a new liver, but those still aren't on offer). But not just yet. His arm tightens around Aziraphale's waist instead.

As much as Aziraphale would like to declare great pustulent mangled bollocks to angelic standards, the night is drawing closer around them, wrapping them in a safe, soft darkness. This is one of those precious temporary places where he can give in to his un-demonic softness, where he can give and receive comfort. Very little else matters right now.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. The words always feel like an exquisite blasphemy in his mouth: demons aren’t supposed to love, aren’t supposed to be capable, but he’s always been terrible at being a demon in the ways that really count. Loving Crowley feels like getting away with something, in the best possible way.

Another kiss—gentle, slow, as if he’s using it to tell a secret—and then he finally lets a question fall into the warm little space between them.

“How long have you been in Seville?”

Crowley goes completely still.

He'd been able to...not to forget, for a little while, but to push it aside. The world outside of this spare, this safe little room. As though he was able to leave...certain things...at the door.

He hasn't. It's still with him. He feels it. Even barrels of wine could only dull his awareness, even twelve bleeding lashes on his back only amounted to a distraction, and while a hangover and Aziraphale's words and arms do an impressive job of catching his focus he can still feel it, even if he tries to ignore it. Like a glaring light seen from the corner of the eye. Well done thou good and faithful servant...

No, no, no, no, no, no. No. He won't. Just the thought of it makes him ache for the oblivion he could find at the bottom of enough bottles of alcohol, but...

But Aziraphale is here, holding him on this cot in this quiet room, and Crowley can't...can't. Can't do that to him. Won't.

He takes a deep breath, releases it. Does it again. Tries to make muscles now rock-hard with tension relax, even a little. "...don't know," Crowley says finally. It's only barely audible and buried against Aziraphale's shoulder to boot, but a demon's hearing will catch it. "Not sure...what month it is." He laughs without humor. "Not sure what year it is, I don't--"

He shudders all over, buries his face in Aziraphale's chest. "I'll--I will tell you about it. I will. But not yet. Before...before we leave Iberia, I will. But please--"

Please not now. Please let this room stay a sanctuary for a bit longer, please. He's so tired.

Aziraphale feels Crowley tense, and his heart twists hard. Though he can make an educated guess about part of what’s happened before today, there’s some vital piece of the puzzle missing, and it’s the thing the angel is trying to hide from in his embrace.

His arms tighten around Crowley, folding him in close. Slowly, avoiding the half-healed lash marks beneath the shirt he’s conjured, Aziraphale strokes a long path up and down the length of the angel’s trembling back. His hands have had a thousand years of stolen moments to learn his lover’s body; now he brings that knowledge to bear as he tempts the taut cords of muscle in Crowley’s back to relax a little.

“Shh...” His touch coaxes tenderly up from the small of Crowley’s back to the bases of his sharp shoulderblades, petting. “Of course, darling.”

I’m sorry, he adds wordlessly as he presses a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley sighs and relaxes a little more as Aziraphale gently caresses his back, the movements slow and soothing, a balm on a wound. The release of tension again is such a relief that combined with Aziraphale's warmth and the sense of being protected, being cared for, it lulls him back to sleep before long.

When he wakes again, hours later, there's daylight shining through the small windows, and Aziraphale is gone. Crowley lays there in silence for a while, listening to the noises of Seville outside, the chatter of the barber and his customers downstairs. His head is still aching and his body is still sore and tired, he feels parched and stretched too thin. But his heart is a bit lighter than it was.

He drinks as much water as he can stand and falls asleep again to wait for his demon's return, curled up under blankets that still smell like Aziraphale, and dreams of grass-covered hills and a ivy growing up the wall of a villa.

When dawn begins to stain the sky in pink and lilac, Aziraphale gently disentangles himself from his angel’s embrace. Crowley’s too exhausted to stir—which, quite frankly, makes it much easier for Aziraphale to ease himself out of bed. He’s not sure either of them is in any shape for goodbyes, however temporary.

From the moment he steps out onto the streets of Seville again, Aziraphale moves with purpose in every step. He has a lot to do, to ensure that his thwarting projects here can continue in his absence.

Some of the work is easy, spur-of-the-moment stuff. It takes only a moment for a white cat to dash out in a horse’s path, so that its rider—a notario del secreto, on his way to record testimony against heretics—is thrown from his saddle and breaks his arm. Likewise it’s very simple for errant gusts of wind to snatch papers from couriers’ hands and tumble them into muck or a nearby fire. There are lots of tiny ways to stall the work of any organization with any degree of bureaucracy, and Aziraphale has had thousands of years to practice.

Some of his work that day is more mundane: a breakfast meeting with the owner of a private printing press, a lunch meeting with a forger (1). He makes it clear to his contacts that he’s simply passing through, but will be back to check in on things; he conjures generous payments for their time and trouble.

Then, as the afternoon starts to mellow, he finishes his other errands with a quickened heartbeat and a spring in his step. It’s quick work to hire a carriage to take them to Florence, no questions asked. But he lingers over his last task. He’s already acquainted with the best luthier in Seville; the fellow is glad to see his friend Señor Fell after an absence of several years, and equally glad to show him around the workshop. Aziraphale does end up buying a vihuela—a brand new design, shaped a bit like a pear with a very long neck. The instrument feels satisfying to hold; the sound it makes when he strums a chord is warm and rich.

The sun is just beginning to set when he gets back to Fernand’s.

Crowley’s still asleep. He still looks weary and worn, but not nearly as desperate as he had the day before; the sight only firms Aziraphale’s resolve to coax as much of his joy back to life as he possibly can.

Quiet as a cat, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leans over to press his lips to the ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone.

(1) Aziraphale has always been impressed by how certain humans have learned to manipulate paperwork to their advantage. At this particular point in history he’s especially impressed at how easy it is to buy letters declaring trials suspended for lack of evidence.

Crowley wakes slowly, and at first reluctantly. Waking is rarely a pleasant prospect, and in the haze between sleep and reality recent habits of wanting to hide are hard to overcome. Sleep is an excellent place for hiding from things you don't want to think about.

But there's a comforting smell nearby, and a soft touch to his face. They wrap warmth around him.

Crowley rouses with a sigh, turning his face towards that touch, mouth upturned for a kiss even before his eyes are open. "Mi demonio más querido," he murmurs sleepily, reaching up a hand and wrapping it around Aziraphale's neck.

By now it feels like instinct to lean down and claim the sleepy kiss Crowley offers him. Aziraphale breathes in deeply, relishes the feel of the angel waking beneath him just a little. He’s always treasured these moments with Crowley, moments of complete unthinking trust.

Somehow it always feels like coming home.

Aziraphale’s smile curves wide against Crowley’s lips.

“Caro mio,” he replies, softly. “How’s your head?”

Centuries fall away as their lips touch, and for a moment Crowley could almost believe they're back in Aziraphale's castle by the lake, surrounded by a wall of mist thick enough to let them pretend they were hidden from the eyes of Heaven and Hell alike. It'd been a good illusion, that.

But this part...this was never an illusion. Not the tender way Aziraphale calls him my dear, not the sweetness of the kiss.

"Like it might forgive me in time," he says. "Though it definitely wants me to suffer first. Can't blame it, I've abused it pretty badly."

And the rest of himself too, to be honest. Crowley is uncomfortably aware that he's done himself no favors lately. There's a little bitterness mixed in with his sardonic amusement. It's a hell of a thing, when an angel can't trust his own judgement.

He sighs and takes another kiss, then sits up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, wincing at the sharp burst of pain in his temple as he moved. "Ugh. Riding in a carriage for days with this head should count as penance, even with your company. Did you finish all your errands?"

Now that Crowley’s sitting up, Aziraphale takes the opportunity to reach over to the table next to the cot, where he left a stoneware bottle of water for the angel earlier. It’s stayed full all day at his request; he offers it to his lover now with a sympathetic smile.

“I did.” His new purchase is already in the carriage; they’ll find a harp in Florence, perhaps pick one out together. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

Edited 2020-05-29 00:30 (UTC)

"I'm ready now," Crowley says simply. "Lets shake the dust of Seville from our shoes."

Fortunately Aziraphale had provided Crowley with shoes as well as new clothes, so that's what they do, though not so literally. Crowley does first take time to try and bestow a proper, sober blessing on Fernand: safety and prosperity and friendship. All things the clever barber can provide for himself, perhaps, but Crowley feels a debt is owed.

In his exhausted state he's not entirely sure that vague beneficence works, however, so he adds a lesser blessing as well just in case. It's a funny thing, but Fernand finds he never has to sharpen any of his blades or scissors again, and despite their sharpness they almost never nick his customers by mistake.

* * *

Crowley doesn't remember much of the first few days of the carriage journey. He spends most of it asleep, then waking long enough to hydrate, exchange a few words and embraces with Aziraphale, to ground himself as much as can be done in this liminal traveling space, then sleeps again. For the first day or so it's less sleep and more a full exhausted collapse, like that first night. And it helps; his color stops being so pale and greenish, and he stops wincing at loud sounds and bumps in the road (though the road does seem to be unnaturally smooth, all things considered).

He spends more time awake after that, still tired and quiet but able to sit and talk, or look at the scenery, or listen and smile as Aziraphale practices whatever instruments may be practiced in a moving carriage. His sleep becomes more restless, and there's no question that his dreams are fraught. But a soft word or melody or the gentle stroke of a hand chases them away. The restless, haunted look isn't fully gone, but it diminishes.

Their coachmen idly notices now and then that they're making truly excellent time, and don't run into the usual sorts of obstacles that tend to plague even the most well-known roads. No breakdowns or unexpected animals or horses throwing shoes. Only smooth, quick travel.

There are many more things he doesn't notice.

They appproach the border between the countries in a few days, and Crowley calls a halt, his first. He's been almost entirely and uncharacteristically passive so far, letting Aziraphale make all the decisions about when or if to rest, obediently eating or drinking whatever is given him. His miracles have been sparse and small.

But he's adamant that they halt at the rest stop before the border. The coachman says it isn't necessary and the horses will be fine for another few hours yet--or means to, but somehow he finds himself pulling off the road all the same. There's a small inn here, and despite having not been hungry at all a moment ago he suddenly decides a bit of late lunch wouldn't go amiss. The horses, of course, are only too happy to be allowed to graze and lie in the sun for a time.

"Walk with me?" Crowley says, holding out a hand to Aziraphale. "Not too far. Just a little ways off." His jaw twitches a bit with nervousness, but his eyes are determined.

Edited 2020-05-29 01:45 (UTC)

Normally a trip like this would take more than a fortnight. Human travel is, after all, not especially sophisticated, and a lot of things can go wrong at any given time. But Aziraphale is impatient to be away, to put as much distance between his angel and Seville as he can in the shortest possible amount of time. So he helps the journey along, here and there, covertly.

All the while he gives Crowley quiet, sometimes punctuated by music or a little conversation. In return Crowley allows Aziraphale to take care of him, as he never has before. For a few precious days before they reach the border of Iberian lands, the angel lets himself be fed, held, comforted. Sometimes he falls asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tucked into the seat beside him; sometimes he simply curls up on his side on the seat opposite. Each day that passes sees Crowley looking a little healthier, a little more himself, even if his dreams grow more troublesome.

(Leave him be, Aziraphale thinks, in the moments when he notices his angel’s face contorting with remembered or imagined grief. You’ve had hold of him long enough. He’s mine now. Then he reaches out to take Crowley’s hand, or begins a song on the flute or vihuela, and watches the shadows withdraw.)

He doesn’t ask about Seville. The memory of Crowley shuddering in his arms, trying to hide from the world, is still far too sharp. Now and again Aziraphale will catch a glimpse of the small cloth bag attached to Crowley’s belt—he’d insisted on bringing his hacked-off hair along, though he still won’t tell Aziraphale what he means to do with it.

(Light-fingered and silent, Aziraphale dips into the bag while Crowley sleeps. He finds a lock of hair not hopelessly matted, folds it up in a handkerchief and hides it in one of his sleeves.)

When at last Crowley himself insists they stop for a while, Aziraphale’s heart takes notice. Suddenly, and not for the first time, he feels the presence of his own spectacles like a shield: he’s always felt as if Crowley could see all his secrets, and is glad not to have them exposed now.

Aziraphale waits for their coachman to disappear inside the inn, then takes Crowley’s hand. Their fingers knot together easily.

“Of course,” he says, gentle but not smiling.

Crowley does smile, with gratitude, and squeezes Aziraphale's fingers.

There's a small hill behind the inn, and Crowley guides them around it. It's not a far walk, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, enough to give some privacy and enough distance from the road for quiet. On the other side of the hill is a small river, barely more than a creek, and a pleasant copse of trees, near the remnants of a ruin. Impossible to tell what it was from the stones alone, only half a wall and a few odds and ends. There's a faint tinge of holiness to it, but it's so old it only barely registers.

"Thought I remembered this being here," Crowley says. He sits down by the river with a small sigh of relief, pulling Aziraphale down with him to sit between his legs and in his arms, so Aziraphale can lean back against him while Crowley leans against a tree trunk. The river--not really a full river, but more than a mere creek--trickles its way along.

It's a soothing place, and for a while they just sit there in silence, holding each other and enjoying the feeling of not being in a small moving carriage.

"1455," Crowley says finally, apropos of nothing. No, not apropos of nothing; it's the conversation that's been waiting in the wings all these days, it hardly needs a cue. "Maybe 1456? Near then. That's when I came out here." He shifts a little, lowers his face and kisses Aziraphale's neck lightly, not with any ulterior motive but just for his own comfort and because it's there and it's welcome. Because he can. "To Castile, really, not here specifically. Had a list of things to do in the whole area, spent a few decades running around here and there arranging things. Castile, Seville, Aragon..." He stops and shrugs a little, rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder and looks over at the river. "Around. Not a long term assignment, not the sort where you stay in one place for decades on end, but I've kept having to come back here to line up ducks in rows. That type."

Edited 2020-05-30 16:54 (UTC)

The spot Crowley leads him to is pleasant, sunny, quiet. The slightest touch of holiness hangs in the air, like a faint perfume somewhere far away, too long faded to be aggressive. When Crowley sits and pulls him into an embrace, Aziraphale goes willingly, his back against the angel’s chest, his forehead leaning lightly against Crowley’s temple.

If he had the power, he would fold this place and this moment away, tucking it into his sleeve alongside the stolen lock of Crowley’s hair. A little fragment of peace, to take out and look at when he’s alone.

Then Crowley begins to speak.

Aziraphale stays relaxed in his embrace, quiet, listening. His heart contracts a little, hearing the date—even though time shouldn’t mean much to an immortal being, forty years is a long, long time. Though at the angel’s last statement, his mouth twitches slightly. If anyone in Heaven had half the sense Crowley does, they’d realize the thing about ducks is that they wander off if you try to keep them in a row too long...

They’re close enough that he can turn and kiss Crowley’s cheek, a wordless prompt to keep going. He’s not quite ready to break his silence yet.

Crowley's eyes flutter closed for a moment at that brush of lips on his cheek. How has he managed the past years without that?

Three months. They'll have to make the most of it. It's more than they've had for a while, and more than he'd hoped for a week ago. Not that he'd hoped for much, a week ago...

Right. Context, he's trying to give context. A bit of it, anyway. He sighs and keeps going. No way out but through. "So, yeah...came to Castile. Needed to get to know the royals, you know that drill. Arrange a betrothal for the little princess Isabella. She was only five or six at the time." He smiles with sudden sharp wistfulness. "Liked her. She was smart and passionate about justice, even when she was that young. And as royal betrothals went it didn't seem a bad one. The other kid was a second cousin about her age, the two kings were friends and wanting to solidify ties between their nations, joyous intentions all around, etc, etc."

He groaned slightly and rested his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, heedless of how pointy it might be. "You know how royals are, though, always playing the politics game. Next time I checked in a few years later it'd been broken off and she'd been re-engaged to someone else. A few times over, actually, it was amazing how the suitors were lined up and then un-lined up. Would've expected influence from one of our sides but as far as I could tell I was the only one around. One of her suitors was actually en route to the wedding with three thousand men marching behind him when he suddenly took ill and died. Isabella thought God had struck him down personally in answer to her prayers."

He's skipping bits. Well, so be it, Aziraphale is used to how his brain hops around sometimes. "By that time she was eighteen and every bit as determined as she'd been at six. Lucky for me, we had the same goal. Heaven still wanted her to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, the boy she'd been engaged to at the first, and she was going to have him or no one. God only knows what I'd done if she'd had someone else in mind, I think she would have stood up to Gabriel himself if she thought it was right and necessary..."

Crowley sighed. "Anyway. That part was fun, actually. Theatrical, even. Secret meetings and letters to the Pope, eloping from her half-brother's castle, Ferdinand disguising himself as a servant to come meet her..." He chuckled. "You'd have loved it. I was running my feet off between Castile and Aragon, but it was worth it. They loved each other, you know? It wasn't just political for them, they loved each other. Five years later that half-brother kicked the bucket, Isabella was crowned Queen, and they formalized an agreement to rule their countries jointly and had all sorts of reforms planned. Seemed like they'd be a formidable pair. I gave them my blessing--just my personal goodwill, not an official one--and went on to the next. Didn't come back for a few decades."

He goes silent for a moment, listening to the sound of Aziraphale's breath near his ear, the breeze around them. One leg drapes itself over one of Aziraphale's. He has new clothes, bought somewhere by Aziraphale, black and white and dark grey shades, with a scarlet belt. He likes the belt. He doesn't wear colors often, but it's a shade Aziraphale usually has on his person somewhere, and it's nice to be carrying a bit of Aziraphale with him. Even though the real thing is so wonderfully near to hand.

On impulse he turns his head and kisses Aziraphale's cheek. "You're being really patient with this. With me. Thank you."

It’s all charmingly easy to picture: Crowley sneaking around with a gleeful secret grin to aid the royal lovers, watching over a Princess like a fond uncle. Like the benevolent force in one of the stories humans like to tell each other, stories that don’t attempt to explain how the world works but seem to exist for their own sake. It’s a thought that makes Aziraphale smile, despite the gravity of the subject.

Then Crowley stops a moment, shifts slightly to kiss him, and Aziraphale finds himself moved by an affectionate impulse of his own.

He reaches up with one hand and takes off the silver spectacles he’s wearing. Just so he knows Crowley knows they’re making eye contact when Aziraphale twists to look at him.

“Don’t go telling everyone,” he murmurs, low and fond, but with his eyes he says there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

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--"

Edited 2020-06-11 01:47 (UTC)

GOOD. Best outcome. I vote for that future timeline.

Btw up to you whether they rent a place or find one. ;D

No opinion tbh. Crowley doesn't care either. A have an opinion?

i think he’d probably like to rehab an abandoned one. Inspire fairy tales.

Sounds good. It'll give Crowley something to focus on..and they can do it together.

Exactly! A shared project. <3

That will be fun.

Already have some ideas. And relishing googling Tuscan countryside.

Auughhh yes. So beautiful.

no subject

I keep changing my mind about the year aaaaiiighh. Maybe 1495ish.

If we want historical accuracy to a degree, Leo was away from Florence till 1500

Torquemada dies 1498 though. Let's aim earlier, C can stay in Italy a few years after C leaves.

Ahh gotcha! Yeah 1495ish sounds about right then.

Can't wait for Crowley to tell his story. It got longer than I intended.

I’m excited to suffer!

Not suffering so much, just details. He's been there a while.

Excited all the same. ;D also apologies for short tag, shall we assume it’s a 2-day journey?

Compulsive research says more like two weeks plus. But I have ideas.

I suspect they’re much like my ideas on the matter. ;D

Very likely. =) Dunno if they've been stopping at night or changing drivers?

At night when it’s overcast, probably changing drivers at the border.

Ehhhh /handwave

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