faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

At the sound of his name, Aziraphale shifts, his weight relocating closer to Crowley’s head and shoulders. Soft fingers stroke across Crowley’s forehead. What light there is in the room is a hazy blue—the sun has set, but not yet faded entirely. Somewhere distant, a nightingale’s thin call rises into the evening.

“Shh. I’m here, angel.” The words are pitched at a whisper, to avoid the hangover pounding them into the insides of Crowley’s skull. “What do you need?”

"Nghhh. New head would be nice." The words are muffled against the pillow. The fact that Crowley only has himself to blame for this particular agony isn't lost on him. Whoever invented hangovers really understood suffering.

But the only way out is through. He rolls onto his back, sighs as gentle fingers stroke along his face, light and soft as feathers. "Water?"

Edited 2020-05-21 20:42 (UTC)

Almost at once the rim of a cup brushes against Crowley’s chin, and a hand coaxes its way between his head and the pillow, encouraging him just a little further upright.

The water in the cup is cool but not cold. There’s a faint taste of something else in it—lime and mint leaf, and just the slightest touch of honey.

“There...” His fingers curl gently into Crowley’s hair. “There you go. Drink up. Plenty more where that came from.”

He’s had Fernand fetch some simple food as well—bread, cheese, fruit—but for now they’ll take things one step at a time.

Crowley drinks the entire cupful, slowly and carefully, with Aziraphale's guidance. It's delicious, like a cool breeze running through him, both sharp and soothing against the dull ache of his sore head.

Belatedly he realizes the rest of him isn't in great shape either, drained and bruised, to say nothing of the only sort of healed scars on his back. He's an angel, his body isn't exactly like a true human's, but there are still limits to what a corporation can withstand and he's hit a number of them. Nothing that can't be fixed with some time and a few miraculous efforts. He just...wasn't motivated, before.

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, sitting so nearby and watching him so closely, and smiles with a sweetness no one else ever sees. "You're really here. I didn't dream it." His hand is trembling a little as he reaches up to caress Aziraphale's face, but only with exhaustion, not fear or any other riotous emotion. "You lovely fiend. However did you find me?"

Now that Fernand has gone out for the evening, Aziraphale has taken off the spectacles, so the full scope of his smile is on display as it blooms. He recognizes the look on Crowley’s face: it’s the way the angel looked before kissing him for the first time. Even in the half-darkness, it’s a beautiful sight.

“I came in for a haircut and some gossip, and heard a story about an angel,” he says, turning his head to kiss Crowley’s fingers. “Several stories, in fact. So I decided to see for myself, and there you were.”

His feline eyes are soft, their gaze caressing as he takes in the familiar contours of Crowley’s face. As weary as Crowley looks, there’s some shadow that’s cleared away, a weight easing.

The past however-long has been filled with hot days, the sort where the sun is an oppressive ever-watchful presence, and nights are restless and itchy. This room is small and sparse, but it's cool and comfortable. And Aziraphale's smile is like starlight, brightening everything, but gently. Crowley sighs a little as his fingers are kissed.

"Lucky you were in the area, then." For the first time in a long time Crowley does feel lucky, even blessed. He touches Aziraphale's lips and face, then lowers his hand back to rest on his own chest.

“I suppose you were.”

One of Aziraphale’s hands moves to cover Crowley’s, his thumb stroking along the backs of the angel’s knuckles. I’m here. I’ll be here.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs, almost idly. “About where we could spend the next three months. Have you been to Italy lately?”

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’ll be honest, I’ve invented quite a few folk song ideas for this verse. ;D

Toss lyrics my way and I'll BS a melody for them! ;)

OH LORD NOW I MIGHT. <3

BRING IT ON <3

God if we end up writing actual songs for this fic. I never thought I had it in me.

Give it a try! Could be fun!

We’re all going to emerge from lockdown unstoppable creative titans of weirdness

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?