faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Crowley obediently scoots back without argument. He doubts there's any danger to him, not from this distance, but Hellfire could truly and permanently harm him, on a level far, far beyond the damage he's done to himself over the last year. He won't put the strain of that kind of worry on Aziraphale.

He holds his breath as the paper begins to burn, and doesn't let it out again until the commendation is entirely gone, leaving not even ashes behind. Then it all comes out in a whoosh. Some dreadful tension leaves him in the same moment, and the lack of it of it is dizzying. It'd weighed so much, that reward. He could vanish it to the far ends of the earth or the deepest part of the ocean, he had done, but it'd still been with him.

Not anymore. What it represents is still a burden he'll have to carry, but even so, he feels lighter. It's there in his smile already. "Thank you," he whispers, when he can finally drag his gaze from the rock to Aziraphale. His face shines with relief.

He takes another easier breath, then makes a bit of a face. Hellfire smells dreadful, sulfuric to the nth degree and laced with a sweet rotted smokiness that even a mind as expansive as an angel's struggles to define as anything other than itself. The burned paper leaves behind a smell of ozone and electricity and ice. It's hardly a pleasant combination. Pity they don't just cancel each other out...

Crowley thinks of something then, reaches down for the pouch at his waist with his shorn hair in it, and unhooks it from his belt. "Here. Should do this, too. I want to leave as much of the past year behind me as I can."

Aziraphale’s long since guessed that Crowley hasn’t been hanging on to the remnants of his hair as a keepsake. But the little twist of pain it evokes is still a surprise. Even though it’s no more than dead cast-off bits of his corporation, it’s still a part of Crowley in some sense.

Still, a measured breath pushes the sting away. He has a keepsake of his own, tucked away in his sleeve, and more than that he has Crowley here with him for a whole three months. And this is important to the angel, a way of pushing off some of the terrible weight Heaven has laid on his shoulders.

He manages a small smile.

“Toss it over,” he says, and when Crowley does Aziraphale waves a hand to change the trajectory of the bag’s arc through the air so that it lands on the stone as well.

This time the smell is a touch worse. There aren’t yet words to describe some of the notes in the awful perfume of hellfire—in centuries to come Aziraphale will realize that it smells like burning tires, like a chainsmoker’s dirty laundry, like a ruined microwave. It’s all of those things and more, and itself in a way no other description can quite articulate, and the smell of burnt hair on top of that does not noticeably improve the sulfurous stink.

But at some point after they’ve left this sunny green space behind them, the wind will shift. Rain will roll in from some other corner of the world and wash away whatever ash or lingering stench might be left behind. The air will forget this moment; so will the land. The memory of this smell will fade from their own minds in time, its edges blunted by time.

Crowley realizes his mistake a moment too late, for all that Aziraphale hides his distress well. As soon as the pouch and its contents start burning he crawls back and latches his arms around the demon's waist. The stench is stronger even these few feet closer, almost enough to make him gag, but he doesn't care. Crowley squishes his nose against Aziraphale's back and watches over his shoulder, until all that remains are flecks of ash floating upwards. Only then does he sigh a little.

"M'sorry." The circle of his arms tightens. "Ordinary fire would probably have done for that, once it was cut. Just wasn't, wasn't thinking. Haven't been."

Crowley sighs again, nuzzling his nose just above the high collar of Aziraphale's shirt. It's mostly an attempt to comfort and say here, I'm here, that wasn't me, but it's also a little bit to hide from the hellfire reek lingering in the air. "M'sorry." A small kiss, just next to the ear. "Thank you."

Edited 2020-07-01 00:45 (UTC)

The kiss and the words wash warm breath over the back of Aziraphale’s neck; the clasp of Crowley’s arms and the press of his thin body against Aziraphale’s back are solid and real. They keep him grounded while the wave of grief and rage and hurt breaks over him, and when its tide goes out, Crowley remains.

(Bruised and scarred and thinner than he ought to be, his soul starved for kindness and healing, but he remains. Some spark of the joy that has lit Aziraphale’s world for millennia still flickers in him. And for a little eternity they can be here together on earth; Aziraphale’s softness can be a shelter for Crowley.)

Aziraphale exhales slowly. His eyes flutter shut; his hands rise to curl around Crowley’s forearms.

“I love you,” he breathes—you’re welcome, I forgive you, I’m glad you’re here.

Crowley's breath hitches, and he clings even more tightly. "I love you." Thank you for finding me, for helping me, for loving me. Please never stop loving me. I'm so sorry I hurt and frightened you. He'll find better ways to say and show it. They have time. Too short a time for their wanting, but a space of it. "Aziraphale, I love you."

They stay there for a time, entwined as closely as ivy around a tree. Even when they finally stand to walk back they keep arms around shoulders and waists, and their embrace lasts long past the point where their carriage crosses the border between countries.

The journey through the south of France is short but pleasant; under any other circumstances Aziraphale might linger, or perhaps insist at stopping more frequently for tastes of the local cuisine. But these are special circumstances, and Aziraphale finds himself a little more excited with each passing day. It’s an almost childish sort of excitement, a bright anticipation of joys to come, a hope that feels like it could perfume the whole world.

Less than a week (record time, as the coachman will brag for the rest of his life) and they’re in northern Italy. The hills of Tuscany unfurl before them, long rumpled folds in the fabric of the earth, green on every side.

He and Crowley talk more often now, with the worst of the hangover behind them. They sit close more often than not, holding hands or leaning into one another’s sides. Sometimes they kiss, but when they do it’s with the warmth of comfort or reassurance or tenderness, not the heat of desire.

(Which is not to say that Aziraphale doesn’t feel its pull. Sometimes, watching Crowley sleep when they’ve stopped the carriage to wait out an overcast night or stopped at an inn, he lets his hungry gaze linger on the parts of his angel he longs to kiss: shoulder, neck, wrists. The waiting only makes each pang keener, makes the anticipation sweeter.)

The night before they’re due to come within sight of Florence, Aziraphale waits till the carriage driver and Crowley (and everyone else at the inn where they’ve stopped, just to be safe) are asleep. Then he closes his own eyes, and though his human corporation remains breathing and functioning, Aziraphale slips out of it a while to survey the countryside. It’s a touch disorienting, to be a consciousness without the sensory input of a body, but also sort of refreshing.

Unseen, formless, he moves like a gust of wind across the drowsing countryside. Little flashes of sin illuminate his way in the night as he passes by human habitation, lanterns in the dark. But after some searching he finds a place human hands have built and human souls have vacated. It’s a small, cozy stone villa nestled up against the side of a hill, with a crumbling mossy wall marking out the borders of the estate.

In the light of day they’ll be able to see the farms and homes outside of the city; the walls of Florence are probably a half day’s carriage ride away. The furniture inside is half rotted, and the place has endured a century’s worth of weather without human maintenance; from the after-echoes of death Aziraphale can sense, the inhabitants mostly fell to the plague. Whoever survived left in a hurry, and their descendants haven’t returned.

It’s perfect. Granted, there will be some fixing-up to do, but Hell is far more liberal about the ways its agents bend reality than Heaven’s ever been.

Aziraphale inhales deeply as he returns to his body, the path ahead of them clear as a melody in his mind. He gives the driver an extra purse of coins and clear directions over breakfast, and spends that day’s ride in a state of happy anticipation, his heart jolting slightly every time they pass a landmark he recognizes.

The journey is a haze of exhaustion and relief for Crowley. He pays little attention to where they're going, though he expresses interest whenever Aziraphale points something out for him to see or asks what he hopes to find or do when they get to Italy. Crowley finds it difficult to think of specifics beyond an idea of gardens. Truthfully he doesn't yet care much. Aziraphale and away are his priorities, and just now he has both. He doesn't need to find a new purpose or reconcile his recent experiences with his faith yet, not while they're traveling. He can leave mundane details to his demon and sleep, and resting easily in Aziraphale's embrace the way he can't in Heaven's.

In all honesty he wouldn't mind if the journey were longer, boring roads and limited coach space or not. When the journey ends he'll have to wake up, in more than one sense, and part of him cringes from the idea. So much easier for now to the motion of travel lull him, to feel Aziraphale's affection covering him like the warmest of blankets. So much easier to not think.

He rests more easily now with the weight of Heaven's approval burned, and smiles or sighs in his sleep whenever Aziraphale strokes his new-shorn hair or caresses his face.

But miles pass and the journey draws towards its destination, and if Crowley is reluctant to drag himself back to greater awareness it doesn't show overmuch. He knows when it's the last day; Aziraphale's pleasure is obvious, his excitement contagious, and Crowley lets himself be swept up in it, rouses himself to ask questions and notice things.

(So strange, for noticing and questioning to now take effort, when they've been integral to his being for as long as he's existed. But that's too close to other more painful thoughts, so he doesn't think about it. Not yet. Not while they're still travelling)

"Half a day from Florence," he muses, looking out at the rolling hills beyond the tall thin trees that line the road they travel. He glances at Aziraphale and smiles, small and teasing. "Just far enough to not be convienent. Something tells me we'll have to cheat if we want that bed with a soft coverlet on our first night there." He squeezes Aziraphale's fingers with his own. A week has done nothing to reduce his amazed gratitude that Aziraphale's fingers are there to be squeezed. "Do you want to make our own furnishings, or shall we stay a night or two and then visit the city for a few days to buy things the human way?"

Edited (I like to edit yadda yadds) 2020-07-13 00:24 (UTC)

Every time Crowley’s smile takes on a spark of playfulness, every time there’s a note of curiosity in his voice, Aziraphale’s heart lifts. Each of these moments is a step away from the wild, filthy madman he met on the streets of Seville, back towards an angel who found joy in the first rainfall. For all that he’s meant to be a creature of despair and misery, there’s a secret shine to Aziraphale now—the luster of kindling hope.

The clasp of Crowley’s fingers around his own, however, has always been cause for something dangerously close to giddiness. This moment in particular is no exception.

“I think I can handle a bed and an appropriately soft coverlet,” Aziraphale smiles. “We’ll make a project of it, along with the gardens. Florence can wait a while.”

(Even if all they do in this new bed is hold one another, it means being close to Crowley, helping him with the weight Heaven has tried to shift onto his thin shoulders. That by itself is more than Aziraphale’s ever thought he would have of love. It’s a feast for his eternally hungry soul.)

Every time Aziraphale wriggles happily in his seat, every time he speaks of something they can do together over the coming days, Crowley almost aches with devotion. It's such a relief to look at the future--the present--with eagerness and pleasure, after his months of numbed despair. Crowley spent a lot of time in Greece arguing with philosophers. Socrates had waxed eloquent on a particular type of pleasure that comes from a pain having been removed. At the time Crowley hadn't been convinced, but now, centuries later, he silently concedes the man had a point.

Even so, the relief, great as it is, pales next to the joy of seeing Aziraphale smile at any given moment, feeling the warmth of his skin and breath, feeling the love that all but radiates from him. He can feel himself uncurling like a leaf in the sun, the roots of him drinking in all that love like water.

Crowley's smile grows and softens. "I like the idea of it, you know. Making it together. Arguing about the colour of the bedclothes or where to put the rosebushes or how many cushions to have. I've never gotten to do that before."

They lived together before, yes, for decades in Aziraphale's palace by the lake. But it was Aziraphale's. Crowley was been granted space in it, had loved it and been loved there, but it wasn't the same as a home they both make together from the start. Crowley can't imagine wanting anything more.

Sometimes when Aziraphale keenly misses Crowley and has nothing to do between assignments, he goes back to that castle—specifically to the rooms they’d spent the most time in together. Over nearly thirty years there had been corners Crowley had made his own: spots where he would sit and listen to Aziraphale read or play, a window they’d widened to give him a better view of the greenery in the courtyard. Though the place is shrouded in eerie quiet now, it’s always a reminder of a time when neither of them had to be alone.

Now they’ll have another place, one that will belong to them equally. Even if only for three months.

“I won’t argue with you on the rosebushes, unless you want them in the middle of the sitting room,” he teases. But with the press of his fingers and the softness of his smile he adds, I’m glad to be doing this with you.

The carriage begins to make its way up the slightly overgrown road that leads to their villa, the wheels jostling a little over grass and stones. In the afternoon sunlight the mossy patches on the wall around their new home nearly glow, Eden-green.

"You don't approve of indoor gardens?" Crowley teases back. "Fine, I'll concede that one."

He abandons the debate to look up as the villa comes into view. It's a largeish place; smaller than Aziraphale's palace by the lake, but still a few stories tall. But to call it run down is understating things. Some of the roof has fallen in, for one, and much of the border wall. Most of the windows are broken or open, which means weather damage and animal infestations and Lord knows what else. There will be a lot to do.

(Good, his traitorous mind thinks. Something to keep busy with, to get distracted by. So he won't have to think about other things...)

The sun's light is kind on the old stones, and the moss and ivy are welcoming. The house might not be in the best shape, but it still has hope to offer. Crowley lets himself be comforted by the metaphor, obvious as it is. "It's beautiful," he says quietly, leaning his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Thank you."

It looks smaller in the light of day—particularly the bits where the roof is mostly on the floor—and far more humble than its original owners probably intended. Perhaps this place was the project of an ambitious merchant, or a lesser noble hoping to move up in the world; now it merely looks shabby in a friendly way.

Aziraphale slips his arm around Crowley’s waist, basks in his nearness and the no-longer-tense set of his shoulders.

“I hoped you’d enjoy it,” he murmurs, squeezing gently. “Though I think our first order of business will have to be finding a spot with adequate roofing for the bed to go under.”

(The driver, meanwhile, finds his initial suspicions about his passengers’ ownership of the house sliding out of his thoughts entirely as they approach. Certainly it’s very run-down for a family home, as the gentleman in white claims, but the place gives off such a sense of peace that he merely finds himself approving of the decision to spend a summer here.)

As soon as Aziraphale's arm is around his waist Crowley is relaxing back into the hold. He chuckles at the caveat even as he reaches down and covers Aziraphale's hand with his, pressing their fingers together. "We've slept in worse," he points out, then turns his head and grins. "Or I have, lazy angel that I am. You've watched me sleep in worse places, more accurately."

He does not think of the past year, of dirt for bedding and his own elbow as a cushion and the open air as a blanket. He does lean in and kiss Aziraphale's cheek. "At worst we'll have the stars for our ceiling and each other as a coverlet. I'll be content with that, I promise." He grins, his expression turning a bit sly. "Well...mostly content. Wouldn't say no to a mattress. Or pillows."

Edited (Was rereading and the editing bug bit sorry please ignore me) 2021-01-15 02:07 (UTC)

“Well, I certainly won’t let you sleep on the ground now. I have standards.”

*

With the coachman paid and on his way back to Florence, they spend an hour or so wandering through the remains of the house, assessing the state of the place. They walk the length of the border wall, piecing together what the layout of the original garden might have looked like from the ruins. The plants here are all running riot; there’s a patch of wall near one of the bedrooms on the ground floor where honeysuckle spills through the window and over the remains of a stone bench nearby.

It takes them a while to pick their bedroom—several of the rooms with enough roof to qualify on the first night are occupied by sparrows, and Aziraphale hasn’t the heart to evict them today. But eventually they find a room that’s mostly intact and has a view onto the garden [footnote: And, by extension, a view onto the nearby road. Aziraphale may be confident, but he’s not naive.]. There’s a half-rotted bed frame in another room that can be easily convinced that it remembers what it was like in its glory days, so that’s where Aziraphale starts.

The mattress is a bit trickier. Anything that humans might have brought here is long since rotted or repurposed as nests. But there’s an abundance of moss in the garden, which is easy enough to miracle into the proper shape and cover with a sheet. And, just for the added comfort, he summons a coverlet from one of the rooms at the Lake—one that lay across their shared bed, once upon a time.

As the sun sets, he sits on the edge of this new bed with Crowley, plays his vihuela for a while. Just improvising little themes, occasionally mixing in a snatch of the millennia-old song he’s played for Crowley on a dozen other instruments by now. When the angel’s recovering stamina wears down, Aziraphale slips into bed beside him, gathers Crowley into his arms.

He doesn’t let go until Crowley’s awake again.

The days past swiftly and sweetly.

Crowley isn't usually passive by nature, but for those first few weeks he lets Aziraphale take charge. He helps, of course, offers opinions when asked, does his own miracles to make a safe place for the sparrows to roost in the chimney, starts fixing the holes in the walls and broken tiles on the floors when Aziraphale points them out. But mostly he just enjoys Aziraphale's company. He spends hours dozing, secure in the knowledge that his fiend is nearby; he spends more hours happily watching Aziraphale learn his new instrument. Sometimes he requests songs from the past, harmless happy things, nothing too associated with pain or loss. He knows Aziraphale is...not worried, but watching him closely, protective. And while he doesn't look closely at the past year, he knows it's not unwarranted.

Neither of them suggests stocking the wine cellar. Someday, perhaps. Not yet.

Every night Aziraphale holds him close in their bed, and Crowley's last thought before he sleeps and first thought when he wakes is to wonder what he ever did to be so blessed as this.

The turning point comes after about a month, when of his own initative Crowley begins working in the garden during the day while Aziraphale keeps improving the house. To say the weeds have taken over is to drastically understate the matter, but he gradually begins clearing them out. There are bulbs that might be irises or lilies, and he carefully replants those in a more organized fashion as he goes. One side of the house is lined with dormant roses. They'll look magnificent when they bloom.

He's been at it for a few days and is happily absorbed in the work when clouds gradually crowd the sky, and a drop of rain lands on the back of his hand. He laughs and looks up, covering his face to see the rain start to fall.

There is a music to watching Crowley build a garden that feels like an echo of the music of Creation. Sometimes he talks as he works, encouraging the plants or commenting on their growth. Sometimes he’s silent, and the expressions on his face are their own symphony, rolling from confusion to approval to sympathy to pride. Aziraphale could watch him for hours: when Crowley isn’t muttering his thoughts aloud, the demon easily loses himself in imagining what his angel must be seeing in every leaf and petal.

He’s lighter and easier when he talks to Aziraphale as well. Mostly they just discuss what they’re each doing as far as improvements to the house go, though Aziraphale also fills Crowley in on some of the other books he’s read while they were apart, and occasionally one or the other of them will remark on something they might like to do when they eventually make their way into the city.

The circumstances of their meeting no longer feel like a terrible shared tension. There’s no place for the horrors of Heaven’s crusade here, not in the softly breathing quiet where the air smells like grass and sunlight and wet earth.

On the day things truly change, it seems like a day like the short measure of those that have come before, except for how heavy the sky is. They’re sitting in the garden, Aziraphale picking at his vihuela and Crowley busy over a patch of earth.

The wind stirs; rain spatters against the backs of Aziraphale’s fingers on the strings. He looks over just in time to see Crowley glance up, to hear the wondering laugh break free of his lips.

Aziraphale’s heart swoops with a tender free-falling feeling. He’s loved that laugh from the very beginning of time, loved the hope and happiness it gives voice to and makes possible. And even after so much suffering, so many human disasters and tragedies and horrors and so much callousness by both their respective offices, Crowley can still laugh at an innocent thing like rain.

A searing wave of love rushes through Aziraphale’s whole being, body and soul. No matter what else may have changed, no matter what else still needs to heal, the shining capacity for happiness in Crowley’s heart hasn’t been fully broken by the Inquisition. It’s always been the single most beautiful thing about him, suffusing every other part of him with its light and rendering the world around him more fascinating for his presence.

Helpless, as struck with tender awe as any human discovering a beautiful and unexpected sight, he watches his angel laughing.

It's not quite true that angels always feel love. They can, but usually they have to be looking for it first, the same as a person not necessarily being conscious of a particular breeze.

The rush of love that flows over Crowley in that moment, however, is unmissable: deep and vast, warm and rich, layered and textured and decadent.

He doesn't have to wonder, and merely turns to Aziraphale with a grin. "Really?" he calls out over the stacatto of rapidly increasing raindrops. "Me not having enough sense to come in out of the rain, that's what does it for you?"

Edited 2025-02-11 01:03 (UTC)

This is hardly the first time Crowley’s ever teased him about being able to feel the love Aziraphale carries in his heart, [footnote: Demons can sense most emotions if they try, but their Fall strips them of the ability to sense love in others. Most humans can’t sense another’s love directly, but they have one advantage demons don’t: the ability to have faith in something or someone. The one exception to this rule is and always has been Aziraphale.] but it’s been so long that it catches him by surprise for a moment. His pulse knocks itself out of rhythm for a second under the sudden sensation of being known. Which in turn sends another wave of tenderness through him.

“I can’t help it,” he replies, his own voice raised to cut through the rising hush of the rain. “Reminds me of the day we met.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and places his pruning sheets on the ground, entirely heedless of potential rust. [footnote: They won't rust, of course. Aziraphale has made it Very Clear that no rust is allowed, and besides, Crowley has so much faith in them working well that they don't want to disappoint him.] He walks over towards Aziraphale, hips swaying a little with unconscious grace. "Well, I really didn't know enough to come out of the rain then, we'd never seen rain before."

He grins as he reaches up a hand to push dampened hair back from his forehead. It's still short, and he's been surprised by how much he's enjoying that, looking a bit different. It certainly hasn't put Aziraphale off at all, to judge by the waves of devotion still lapping at him. And there's a taste to that devotion, a heat, which he hasn't felt for a long time, hasn't thought about. They've been too distracted.

No, he's been too distracted. More fool him. He really ought to do something about that.

Crowley finally comes to stand in front of his demon, still smiling, still heedless of the rain. "What is it you remember about that day, then?"

For the past several weeks Aziraphale hasn’t let the heat of his own wants have enough air to spark back up into a flame. Crowley has needed his friendship and company more than he’s needed a lover in the physical sense; he’s needed time to heal from more than the lashes and the profound hangover. At certain moments, alone with his thoughts as Crowley slept in his arms, Aziraphale has wondered if this gentle companionship would be the full extent of the intimacy between them during these few months—or possibly for years to come. He knows he could be reconciled to that, if it came down to it; after all, his love for Crowley is made up of far more than desire.

Impossible not to feel twinges of that desire, though, as Crowley saunters towards him, with rain wetting his shirt and hair and clinging to his eyelashes.

He sets his vihuela aside [footnote: Like the gardening tools, it also knows better than to sustain rust or water damage.] and stands to face Crowley. And because he can’t help himself, because the temptation has been there since before the beginning of recorded time, he reaches out to brush a damp lock of hair back from his angel’s forehead. The shorter cut suits him—but then, almost everything does. Rain, sunlight, finery, simplicity: the whole world conspires to make Crowley beautiful.

“I remember you,” he says. “The way you laughed.” A laugh that changed Aziraphale’s world for the better, that burned away some terrible rot before it could take hold in his soul.

Crowley's smile grows even more fond, more sweet. "You laughed with me," he returns. A laugh that eased the grief and loneliness he'd carried unspoken since the war in Heaven, a moment shared between them, the seed of the greatest joy he's ever known. "I've loved the rain ever since."

He cups Aziraphale's face in his hands, leaning in. Crowley is the taller of the pair of them, but not by much, it's not far to bend. "But not as much as I love you," he whispers, just before their lips meet.

The kiss tastes of rain and memory and delight, and Crowley drinks it in.

Crowley leans in, closing some small but vital distance between them, and Aziraphale can’t help but let out a long breath. His human body has a way of holding on to tension that can be inconvenient and unpleasant, but in the exhale he feels the first blissful rush of being able to relax into his lover’s kiss. His fingers thread into Crowley’s hair—the texture of it is different now that it’s shorter, a change he notes with new delight—and his other arm loops around Crowley’s waist, pulling him in.

Then he inhales, breathing in the smell of Crowley: clean warm skin, wet earth, faint sharp notes of green sap. His lungs fill, and his head swims, and suddenly Aziraphale finds he needs more than arms to embrace his lover with.

His wings stretch up and out, dark-silver feathers extending wide, before folding around Crowley to shelter him and press him close. Scorched and corroded though they’ll always be, they’re still soft and warm and sleek, and they still encircle his beloved with tender care.

Crowley finds himself held not just by arms but within a cocoon of feathers, and laughs again at the wonder of it--the softness of Aziraphale's wings grazing his skin, the strength hidden under down and pinion. Crowley can never see them as corroded or tainted, whatever Aziraphale says; to him they're perfect. How could they be anything else, when they're used to hold him as sweetly close as this? When every brush of feather is another caress to tell him how much he's cared for?

All that on top of the love he can still feel radiating from Aziraphale is frankly intoxicating, in a lighter but even more dizzying way than mere alcohol could ever hope to achieve. Crowley reels with it, breathes even more of it in through their mouths, passes it back with each press of lips, and for the first time in centuries remembers what it is to feel hunger. His fingertips press into Aziraphale's scalp, and he moans a little, leaning further into the kiss.

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Summary of the show tbh! Also thx for A being careful with fire.

He’s been a mom, he gets fire safety. ;)

If only more people did! Also, bog of eternal stench? ;)

Little bit. ;) On to Italy?

On to Italy!

Sorry this took a while but HERE WE GO

I did leave all the scene-setting to you! But you had clearer ideas about what A wanted =)

Hello from cat ownership! Benedict slept on my pillow all night <3

Yaaaaaay hello Benedict!! Congrats on gaining a nifty person!

<3 <3 My mental & physical health are already improving.

YAY. also A whole week late ack what is time accck

It’s quarantine! Time is meaningless! Have a taco!

Time suddenly has meaning again this week and it's WEIRD mmm tacos though

OKAY SO I assume we fast forward a couple weeks after this?

Yep that's a plan!

Loved this too much to let it go so how about some rainy healing

bring on the vavoom!

INITIATING VAVOOMING

BRING IT ON and I'll edit for Gardening Implements whatever later

same, idk how much metal is actually in a vihuela but WHO CARE

btw it's not my fault your tags are irresistible and I have to pounce on them like desserts

awww shucks. have some wings!

What I said last time, and yay wings!!