Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

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[salutosinedelectat]

Their hands are simply meant to stay locked together for the foreseeable future, resting comfortably on the angel's stomach. He brushes his thumb idlt over Crowley's fingers every so often, even well after his grandiose plans of a gigantic blanket nest are voiced.

Aziraphale lets his head rest back, closing his eyes, Crowley's yawn bringing up one of his own. He shifts, carefully, settling down as comfortably as he can, the gentle, familiar weight of Crowley's head resting on his chest being no small part of it.

"Then we really should bring out the best wine." Make it a celebration.

[duckshaveears]

"Mm." Crowley murmurs sleepy agreement. "Cake, maybe. Multiple tiers. Multiple cakes." He's babbling inanely by this point, mostly trying to summon silly ideas to amuse Aziraphale, but he's also falling asleep. He's never been so tired, never. "Get new pyjamas just to lounge in. Blue silk, for you. Like you in blue."

He makes another soft noise, briefly turns his head and nuzzles a kiss against the flannel covering Aziraphale's chest, whispers "Angel."

And then he's asleep.

I apologize for the size of this mess

[salutosinedelectat]

Crowley’s rambling grows more distant by the second, a pleasant hum in the background helping the angel relax. He feels himself slip into sleep, because it feels right, right then, thinking of blankets, and wine, and cake, and blue silk pajamas.

And then, it’s quiet. Then, they sleep.




He wasn’t wrong, before, to assume it would all come back in the quiet. Sleep had only become a habit as of recently, all particulars of relative time considered, more of an excuse to spend more time together in an indulgence of comfort. But dread, fear, and most negative emotions have a natural way about them that make them particularly good hunters. They’re patient, waiting for the moments when you’re alone - literally or figuratively -, when no weapon that could be used against them is within reach. The strongest ones are sneaky enough to get you when you’re well deep in the home of your subconscious, where everything is hazy and lacking in form, and it’s granted the capability of permeating the air all around you and covering you as you simply swim helplessly through it.

He sees nothing, at first. Or, rather, he sees merely darkness. Darkness that is there, darkness that is something as well as nothing, and he doesn't know how long he’s there for. It’s not overwhelming, it doesn’t bring him fear, it just is, like most things are. But then, he hears - tracks. A train on tracks, with the simple bumps in the rains and he swears he feels movement, but he sees nothing, still. Or, rather, he just sees the dark.

He can’t see himself. He is vaguely aware of a self, somewhere, there, slowly growing more conscious of it as the sound becomes clearer. He becomes aware of others, somewhere, not here, but existing at some point in time and space, beyond himself.

Nothing else changes. Just the sound, the dark, the self, and nothing else.

Nothing else.

He thinks time passes by. It must. Time had well become real a long time ago, and the whole thing about it is that it passes. So if he’s there, and he’s aware, then it must pass. But nothing is there to prove it’s reality, only the sound, and him hearing it. But, surely, that’s enough, correct?

Is he going anywhere? Are they going somewhere? Is there a ‘they’? If feels like there should be. Surely, it feels like it makes sense. It feels like there must be a they somewhere, and that they all go places. Or they don’t. But they go. Or they do. Or they don’t? That’s still something, the not doing.

...there should be something else.

That’s when he knows. Knows that something’s wrong. He’s aware enough to know there should be more. There should be something. There should be a place. There should be a from. There should be a he and a they, and time, and more than just the darkness. Should he know? He should know. If he knows that there should be, he should know What it should be, it just makes sense. Does it make sense? It makes sense. Right?

The sound is getting louder and he still doesn’t know. There’s something missing. Somethings. He wouldn’t be able to know it if it was wrong. Right? Something’s wrong. This shouldn’t be. Something’s wrong and he knows it is and he doesn’t know why. Why doesn’t he know why? Should he know? What is-

It’s so loud. It’s so loud and he can’t think. There should be more here and he knows it, why doesn’t he know it, this isn’t right, there’s more, there should be more, should there be more, this is not-

It’s so loud.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t- what is he missing— he knows— why is it going so fast, where is it going, why can’t he see—why can’t he say—why can’t he move—why can’t he—no, no, stop, he knows this, why is it all empty, this can’t be all there is, he knows it, this is wrong, wrong wrong wrong

Somewhere, feathers bristle and wings pulse and eyes open, and he shakes.

Here, he wakes up with a rather violent jolt and a gasp, sat up before he’s aware of things that really are, of being real and of being corporeal, of the sheets grasped aggressively in his fists, of the bed under him and the body next to him, of the bed, the walls, the room, the rain outside.

It all creeps in slow, quietly through the lack of sound, at first, as that comes back too. He feels himself breathing deeply.

He’s here. And here is real.

good lord why it's wonderful. Besides it's revenge for the existential crisis I gave Crowley, yes?;)

[duckshaveears]

Crowley is jolted back into being awake, which at first he deeply resents.

He's never liked being woken up quickly (who does?), and he knows he was deeply asleep and that for once he'd needed to be deeply asleep, that he was recovering from something. For the first fuzzy few seconds after he's shoved roughly off his pillow and onto the bed that's all he's aware of. He doesn't make a sound beyond a protesting mmphfnrgh that gets muffled into the pillow.

Wait, there's a pillow here. So what was he lying on a second ago?

Aziraphale.

He wakes up more at that thought, protective instincts that have worked overtime for centuries kicking in well before memory of recent events catch up to him. Aziraphale is next to him, and breathing, so none of the worst has happened; good.

But then memory does catch up, and so do other details: the ragged, anxious sound of the angel's breath, the way the sheets are drawn up an gripped, tension an almost tangible presence.

Crowley doesn't have to think. He sits up at once, scoots over, wraps his arms around Aziraphale from the side and pulls him in. "S'okay. S'okay, angel. We're here. We're both here."

that and i like writing vague surreal dreams lmao

[salutosinedelectat]

He would have jumped at the touched had he not been still in the process of remembering how to be, though there’s still some confused alarm, just for a second, in the way he turns his head to glance. But he’s pulled in and Crowley’s voice sinks in like everything else, delayed but desperately welcomed and needed.

So he tries to steady his breathing - shouldn’t take more than a thought, of course, but those are experiencing some technical difficulties as of right now - and compose himself, but such efforts are not usually for times in which the concept of vast, eternal Nothing feels too real, and too close.

“Oh....” is all he can muster between breaths and dryly swallowing his stress, and he brings a shaky hand up to touch on one of Crowley’s arm, and the other to wipe the sweat off his face. The bedsheets are free for now, the surprising aspect being he didn’t rip them out of sheer force.

“I’m-“ Here. He’s here, they are here, and here is something. Here is. Theres a deep, shaking breath through his nose. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Like wanting to write vague surrealism isn't what began all this, oh hi there death metaphor train!

[duckshaveears]

Crowley can feel the damp, clammy skin on Aziraphale's face and pulls him in closer, one hand nestling in the angel's scalp, long fingers pressed against soft wispy curls. "Ssssshhhh," he murmurs, a sort of comforting hiss of a noise.

His free hand strokes at Aziraphale's back. Normally he'd say 'it's just a dream, nothing to worry about, just a nightmare,' some other soothing nonsense. Not tonight, however. (today? what day is it? how long have they slept? doesn't matter). It doesn't take any great stretch of logic to guess what sort of thing might have been in those dreams. "I'm here," he says instead, voice low and soft. "It's all right now, angel." That much also seems to be true. He kisses Aziraphale's forehead, lets his lips linger on the skin, tastes the cold fear-sweat there. "We're here. We're home. You're home."

(Somewhere else, scales wrap close around/within bright wings, caress across closed eyelids)

True that!

[salutosinedelectat]

It's silly, really, that something like a nightmare would have that much of an effect on a creature that's been here before things that are. Perhaps there's something to the growing humanity, perhaps it's just the reality of the thing that wasn't real. Too close to home, as they would say.

He doesn't know what time it is, what day it is. Time continues to be an particular illusive rapscallion, and if he were to go by personal feeling, he'd think he'd just closed his eyes a minute ago. For all he knows, they've could have been here for hours, days, weeks already.

The tension doesn't break, but his breathing comes down to something a bit more manageable. Crowley's soothing words and his fingers cradling the angel's head help in letting the cold pit in his stomach and the fuzzy spiral in his head fade into better awareness and a sting in his eyes. Couldn't call it the most pleasant of trade-offs, but it's better than blind panic.

He turns his head and leans more against the demon, gripping, gently, at his sleeves. Another deep breath, another step toward feeling more real, and Here. He'll feel a little embarrassed that he's gotten to this state, probably, at some point, but, right now, he just wants to hold onto his partner very, very tight.

"--I'm alright." A lie, clear as crystal, if not for how it's muffled against Crowley's collar, and how it sounds less than steady.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley knows better than to dismiss nightmares as silly. Hell learned early on that physical punishments, while effective, were nothing compared to the torments the human mind can devise. Real torture lay in combining the two. Another life now, thank someone for that...but Crowley knows better than to underestimate the imagination. Any imagination. Nothing bites like fear.

He closes his eyes, hearing the lie in the quiet words, but doesn't call Aziraphale on it. "What do you need?" he asks instead, as he always has, but more directly than he used to have to. "Tell me what you need, angel. Anything."

He'll do it, is the thing. Whatever's asked for, whatever's needed, anything Aziraphale wants. Drive through fire, prevent the end of the world, come back from the dead. Anything. It's there in his words, the tightening of his arms and hands.

[salutosinedelectat]

For all the things that can be uncertain, and there are many, Crowley has never disappointed. Ever. And the angel hasn't always noticed, and has certainly taken it for granted more than once, but it's also always been the only assumption that, time and time again, always proven to be true. Sometimes even when he didn't think it probable, or legitimately impossible.

Crowley cuts right through the easy lie, and they both know, more than ever, that that is what that is. A reflex to try and make himself believe that things are fine. But he's always been terrible at lying, and even more terrible at hiding his emotions, for as much as he tried.

He brings his arms around Crowley now, hands first flat against his back, then gripping faintly at the back of his pajamas. Takes his time before any answer, just keeping himself in the demons arms, keeping himself in something real, hearing the demon breathe, feeling the warmth of his embrace. Privileges he didn't think possible just a while back, and now they're more precious than ever.

He could go on some fake nonchalant line about how he's fine, it was just a nightmare, he's okay now. He could go on an overly even speech about how he's okay now, they should go back to sleep, or have a spot of tea. But everything of the sort feels disingenuous, to an almost offensive degree when considering recent events.

"Just this." Are the more honest words that slip out, against the demon, like before.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley lets out a long breath, and shifts a little. He doesn't let Aziraphale go--never--but he moves on the bed until he can lean back against the headboard, slides a leg behind and around Aziraphale, finangles them both into a position where he can sit comfortable and wrap himself around his angel, pull Aziraphale to lie against his chest. His legs cradle him from either side, his arms are wrapped firmly around. One hand keeps gently carding through cloudsoft curls.

"'m here," he says again, resting his cheek against Aziraphale's head. "We can stay here forever, if you want. Long as you need. Just like this."

[salutosinedelectat]

Just like this...

Aziraphale lies on Crowley's chest, vaguely remembering something about Crowley not letting go. Jokes that weren't jokes at all, of course, and he was more than prepared to take them as such, but it's quite daunting to be hit with such a pure necessity for it.

He shifts only a bit, quiet, a moment before he pulls in a long breath and exhales, hoping it'll make his body relax at least somewhat. Brings a hand up to rest on one of Crowley's arms again, letting his head be tucked under the demon's chin.

"...just like this." He breathes out in a mumble, closing his eyes again, only temporarily. Doesn't quite have a fondness for the dark, right this moment.

"I'm..." Words fail at first, trailing off into a vaguely lost quiet, before he tries again. "I didn't mean to wake you. It..."

Back to the quiet, because what even needs to be said?

[duckshaveears]

Holding Aziraphale like this frees Crowley's hands somewhat. With the angel's head against his chest, under his chin, with long spindly legs wrapped around him, he's held even if Crowley uses his hands. Which he does, one to tangle in Aziraphale's hair, the other to draw long strokes down his back. Slow, soothing touches meant to lull them both into relaxation.

"Don't be daft," he murmurs, interrupting Aziraphale as soon as the angel's voice trails off. Another kiss gets pressed into the soft, curly hair. Of course the angel can wake him up. Of course he should, whenever anything is wrong. That one is a given, and was even before these circumstances. Crowley's said as much. How could he let himself sleep if he couldn't trust Aziraphale to wake him if something, anything, was wrong?

After a few minutes of hypnotic caresses, Crowley speaks again, once more in an ordinary tone of voice. "Was thinking of getting some of those, whaddyacallit...fairy lights? The ones they put up at Christmas. Ridiculous name, but pretty things. Could put them up in here, maybe. Decorative."

Decorative, and also a sort of inoffensive, aesthetic nightlight. Neither one of them is comfortable with the dark at the moment.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale doesn’t respond to the first comment, the hand in his hair and the one stroking his back helping in making him feel safe and soothed and tethered, and he keeps his eyes closed for a few more silent seconds. He’s still holding onto Crowley’s sleeve, loosely, just trying to will his mind into something a little less frantic. Seems like he’s never quite lost the habit of just trying to deny the unpleasant things that are staring him dead in the face.

But Crowley speaks again and his eyes open, blinking and broken out of his train of thought right then. For half a moment, he doesn’t even understand what the demon is talking about, before what he’s doing becomes clear.

“That sounds...nice.” He eventually responds, tentative in tone. He’ll play along. “Very festive.”

[duckshaveears]

Crowley snorts a little. "Yeah. Festive." He sighs. His breath stirs the fine hairs on top of Aziraphale's head.

Finally he shifts a little, lifts his head so he can look down at Aziraphale. "Talk to me, angel. I can practically hear your mind whirring."

It's an entreaty more than a command. The days when Aziraphale kept his anxious fears to himself and tied his thoughts up in knots over them are supposed to be done. Crowley's fingers drift down Aziraphale's face, brushing his cheek. "We do this together, right? Like everything else. So talk to me."

oh lord that one hit me right in the heart

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale looks up at him, the look in his face something almost akin to surprise, but not entirely. Those days should have been done, should have been gone, miles and miles behind them, but such things tend to be part of one's nature, which makes them rather difficult to change.

He's made that promise, though. He's made the promise to at least try. It never did come from anywhere malicious. Just learned behaviors, often necessary, often out of fear, for survival in one way or another.

When he glances away, it's just nerves. He thought he was handling it well. He thought he'd put himself together enough and could just deal with it as time went. He thought...something. It hardly matters now.

He hesitates to answer, not knowing where to start. He does try, tries to find the words, the right thing to say, the honest thing to say. But he can't, right then. He can't, so he takes to wrapping his arms around Crowley again and lean into his chest, holding him tight.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley's expression might surprise someone who knew him less well. There's no impatience in him. Once there might have been, or frustration at least. He's spent a not insignificant part of his existance waiting for Aziraphale.

But that was before. Even then he was perfectly willing to do more of it, as much as needed, and now? Crowley can wait forever. Even if it means they sit in this bed in silence for a week or more while Aziraphale tries and fails to find the right words.

"There's no rush," he says, in case that wasn't clear. He pauses his stroking to hold his angel just as hard in return. "Take your time. Not goin' anywhere. Just, don't try to block it out or pretend you're fine. I know you're not." He lets out a small, rueful huff of a laugh. "I'm not either. We couldn't be, not after...whatever the fuck that was. But we will be, yeah?"

[salutosinedelectat]

I'm fine, he feels the urge to say, even after what Crowley just said. I'm fine and some sort of charming, nonsense British-sounding expression just for emphasis. Something that should come to him naturally, just willing himself into sounding alright. Failing miserably, of course, but he still would.

But not right now. Not over this. Not even after the near end of the world. This is personal, this is confusing, this is upsetting, and he can't even bring himself to try and pretend. And Crowley, Crowley is once again trying to comfort him, asking him to be honest, letting himself be vulnerable and asking the angel the same, and he...

There's a rather shaky breath pulled in and exhaled out against the demon's chest, one he allows himself, not that he has that much choice on the matter. He tries to steady himself, at least somewhat.

He pulls his head back enough that at least he can speak. "Yes." His voice sounds funny, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. "Yes, we...we will be."

[duckshaveears]

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale's hair, breathes in the scent of it. Like rain mostly. Rain, and cotton, and that papery Aziraphale smell.

"We will be," he says again, quietly. "So it's okay if...if you aren't, just now. If you need to break." He holds on so hard. "I've got you."

[salutosinedelectat]

That part about not letting go for a week? Well, he's certainly feeling it now, as they're locked in a desperate embrace as if one of them was at risk of simply floating off and never returning.

Considering where they found themselves, and how they still don't know how they got there in the first place, perhaps that idea feels a little too real for comfort.

He closes his eyes tight, as if that will keep them from stinging. They can get through this. They did get through it. They're back, and they have each other, and that's all they ever need. Could need. Will ever need.

His hands grip the back of Crowley's pajamas. The words come out like he's afraid he might not have another chance to say them - and he could now say he knows that feeling quite personally.

"I love you, so, so very much, my dear."

[duckshaveears]

Crowley closes his eyes. "I know, angel. Aziraphale." He can feel the terror in that grip on his clothes, tries to soothe it a little with stroking hands and gentle kisses. "I love you. More than anything in the world. More than the world, even." His palm slides down Aziraphale's spine, stops at the small of the back, pulls him in closer. "I love you."

[salutosinedelectat]

In this world that they've lived in, loved, they made their home. Their own side, their own story, their own world to shape, together.

He shifts along with the pull and holds Crowley tight, a pause to just feel the moment, take in the warmth and the scent of the demon, familiar, home, trying his best to gather himself enough to pull himself out of this feeling.

He does eventually raise his head, a hand pulled back so that his fingers may gingerly touch the side of Crowley's jaw. He looks at him, into those bright yellow eyes, and even his upset expression can't cover the honesty of his words.

"I'd do it all again. In a heartbeat."

[duckshaveears]

"So would I."

Crowley's golden eyes dart over Aziraphale's face, quiet and serious. He reaches up and brushes his fingers lightly down Aziraphale's cheek, echoing the angel's own gesture. "I'd Fall ten thousand times over if you were waiting at the end of it. More."

Slowly he bends his head down, presses their mouths together softly.

[salutosinedelectat]

Have they ever found this kind of comfort before they had each other? Different paths in life as they might have had, interconnecting at a large portion of its points, but there never really was anything that matched this kind of feeling, not even among them before they were free to be with each other in such a manner. At least not for the angel. People will say that angels are beings of Love, but the actual experience of one is much different, much less if it's Aziraphale.

He closes his eyes as their lips touch, letting his hand stroke down from Crowley's jaw to his neck, where it rests. There's so much he could probably say if he really tried, a lot he could never truly express, but the way they're connected makes it all the more obvious and less necessary to put into words. He's scared. He's thankful. He's angry as much as he is sad, and the conflicting emotions about so many different things make it all so difficult. But he has Crowley, and he has him here. He rather much focus on him, and on the bed and the home and the life that they share.

[duckshaveears]

Comfort isn't a thing demons do, or get, so Crowley at least can definitively say: no, no he never experienced comfort like this before Aziraphale, never. It was completely foreign to his experience. Still is, in many ways. There are reasons why he was so quick to believe the worst and despair on the train, and they have to do with tens of thousands of years of conditioning. There's no comfort for a demon, no forgiveness, no salvation, no anything.

No softness, no love--but those he allows himself, now, those he's taught himself to accept. It wasn't easy. But he needed them so badly. Needed Aziraphale that badly.

A lot in common, you and me, Crowley had once said, and not least of those was how damn alone they were, in different ways. But not anymore.

There's another thing countless time in Hell teaches you, and it's to savor the good things while you have them, before they're taken away. So Crowley finds it easier than Aziraphale does to push recent events aside and just be here, now, his angel in his arms and both of them where they should be, where they want to be. Everything else can wait. He's still upset, yeah, and scared. All those things. But they'll keep.

So he kisses Aziraphale long and slow, using this other language they speak to say all the things that words don't convey as well:

I'm here. We're both here. I love you. I love you. I love you.

[salutosinedelectat]

I love you. He echoes, in that other language, in that other place. I love you, and that will never change. I love you, and I'll do anything to stay by your side.

He'd proven that already. It didn't take much thought then, which is possibly why it's catching up with him now. Something with less severe and lasting consequences would have most certainly been ignored for whatever immediate positive or negative consequences arised in the moment, but not something like this. Something with its own web of meanings and significances that bite away at him in the quiet. If he lets them trick his mind into believe that he is or will be alone, he's not sure he's strong enough to fight it. But he's not alone. Could never be alone, not anymore.

He'd always held out some faith. Still does, in some ways, even for those that may wish them harm. It's a complicated subject, reserved for times when the conversations are long and the mood is near silent, filled with words to never be uttered out loud again. But there's nothing, no one, that he holds more belief for and confidence in than his beloved.

So he would do it again. He would defy them again. He would step away again. Nothing could ever give him anything near what Crowley gave him of the pure love in his heart.

Eventually, he breaks their kiss, gingerly, resting his forehead against the demon's. His eyes are closed, and his thumb brushes against the side of Crowley's jaw. He sniffs, and there is a subtle tear, much like when they couldn't reach through the barrier between them.

We're here., another echo, for the both of them.