faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

duckshaveears

Crowley should have realized it would all go wrong when he tried to do something nice. That was definitely his mistake. Never do nice things. He might not work for Hell anymore but he's still a demon and therefor a fount of wickedness, mischief, sin, and vice in general, and therefore has no business doing nice things.

Except, it'd been for Aziraphale.

It isn't even that he likes doing nice things for Aziraphale. He doesn't. ^[1]Oh, the angel deserves nice things, Crowley won't deny that. All things great and small and cute and cuddly and beautiful and wonderful and okay, fine, so maybe, just maybe he's done Aziraphale a few kindnesses in their time. Maybe.

But for selfish reasons, ultimately. Because he is ^[2] addicted to the smile Aziraphale wears whenever Crowley does something nice for him. Crowley likes that smile. So it's purely selfish and not for the angel's benefit at all. Crowley is the one who benefits. He's justified it to himself like that for centuries--millennia now, really--and the logic is as sound as ever.

It's also now completely moot.

Several months ago, the world failed to end. Several weeks after that, Crowley and Aziraphale managed to actually get their act together (at the same speed, on their own side) and start something that might, just might, possibly, be considered a relationship. With kissing and everything.

And Crowley's never been happier, and judging by how often Aziraphale wears the smile Crowley used to go to great lengths to try and coax out of him, neither has Aziraphale.

So Crowley thought he'd do something...nice. The sort of thing humans in relationships do. A date. Dinner, flowers, an evening out.

Which is how he's ended up sitting at a performance of An Ideal Husband next to Aziraphale, watching actos and actresses exchange Oscar Wilde witticisms in the name of art and theatre.

It does not explain why he's got his arms folded over his chest and has been gradually looking more and more scowl-y as the play's gone on. Granted, one of the main themes is forgiveness for past mistakes, which is always going to be something as a sore point.

This was a bad idea and it's biting him and he's trying to hold his tongue and just enjoy the play, or at least enjoy Aziraphale enjoying the play, which was always going to be the real point of the evening for Crowley. But it's proving hard going.

And that's why Crowley shouldn't be caught doing nice things. Obviously. It only leads to trouble.

...fucking Oscar Wilde.

^[1] As a professional fount of wickedness Crowley spends a lot of time lying, especially to himself.

^[2] Also was, has been, and always will be

Edited (html failures) Date: 2020-03-10 04:58 pm (UTC)

From:

salutosinedelectat

He's happy, all things considered. He thought he knew what happy was, what it felt like, but it didn't feel like this. It's not just what he has with Crowley now - though that is clearly no insignificant part of it and comes from a long, long line of events; a web, really, an intricate web that would take far too long to fully follow -, but the fact that so much pressure has been taken off his shoulders. The kind of weight that had always been there, so he stopped noticing it. Believed it had to be there, so it was just part of him. Now, it's gone, and he's learning to move around without it, effectively stumbling around life like a newborn deer, even if the terrain is so familiar.

A date. He was delighted at the idea. Being who he is, he put far too much effort on preparing himself for an outing that was only different than their usual ones by context. He'd even got, surprisingly, a new vest (though, nobody panic, his beloved, at least two century old piece is safety put away in his shop and will return to his person when this is all over), along with some advice from his very patient barber.

He was even more delighted when it turned out that Crowley had got them tickets to one of Oscar's plays. He's seen many, of course, many versions of as many of them as he could get to, but it never lost its spark. It was always a different experience to see new actors bring his words and his ideas to life, to breathe new energy to his witty remarks and his commentary, his insidious jokes. It warms Aziraphale's heart to see his works survive to this day - there are many minds whose names are still uttered, many from long, long before Oscar's time, but, having seen the waves of humanity pass by, they're all just drops in a bucket. Rather shiny, lovely drops, most of them, resplendent or poisoned depending on what they have done, but they're barely a handful of them when you think about it.

So that made it all the more special, really, that the angel's friends words kept being repeated, his ideas newly interpreted, his name still known, even after it had been stripped away from him and what he had created, for a time. Aziraphale wishes he could have known, that he could have seen the impact he made.

The angel is lost in these thoughts as he watches the story he's watched so many other times. A swell of emotion that may well seem out of place for the scene, but the lack of lighting helps conceal it, and he's Fine. He thinks to hold Crowley's hand - in fact, he looks, searching for it on the arm rest, only to find it hidden away in the demon's crossed arms, and to notice the scowl on his face.

He doesn't understand. And he wonders if there's something he's missed.

Gingerly, he places a hand on Crowley's elbow, giving him a quizzical look.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is good at noticing things. It's a necessary skill, first of all because being a denizen of Hell means paranoia is a valuable life skill and second because it's much easier to tempt people if you've paid enough attention to them to know where their weak points are. And there's no one he's ever paid more attention to than Aziraphale. The new vest was noticed at once, and complimented in Crowley's usual fashion (which is to say, with a lot of good-natured teasing that Aziraphale perfectly understood).

All the same he's lost enough in his own preoccupation that he doesn't notice Aziraphale's, not until suddenly there's a hand on his elbow, which jolts him back into the moment with a visible jerk.

Aziraphale looks confused. Not one of the expressions he wants to see there.

Crowley shrugs, quirks his mouth in a smile, everything's fine, nothing to see her, everything is some demonic equivalent of tickety-boo. His eyes, fortunately, are covered, as they usually are when they're out in public.

He catches at Aziraphale's hand and squeezes it, twines their fingers, turns his attention back to the play. There. Comforting distraction accomplished, hopefully.

Self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law, someone says onstage. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.

...fucking, fucking, fucking Oscar Wilde.

From:

salutosinedelectat

When Crowley squeezes his hand, the angel smiles, a warm, affectionate look given freely. He still wonders, vaguely, if there's something he's missing. He's unfortunately good at missing things.

But maybe it's in his head. Maybe he's reading too much into Crowley's usual cool, aloof demeanor, and taking it for something else. Maybe it's just date night jitters, and he's nervous there might have been a misstep, though he can't really pinpoint any. The evening has been delightful so far, as far as he can tell.

Aziraphale squeezes back, and looks toward the stage again.

Oh, Oscar. Aziraphale can hear him in these words spoken by someone else. Many an exchange about the uniqueness of self, many a debate indulgence and self sacrifice. A few of them stayed with the angel nearly word for word. He does wonder what he would have said about the near end of the world.

From:

duckshaveears

My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not one’s own.

Fucking Oscar Wilde.

I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited.

Fucking Oscar Wilde.

What conceited ass has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you?

(Surely Aziraphale hadn't actually been...well, fucking Oscar Wilde, though. Surely not. He would've said. Wouldn't he? All right, so it's not as though the subject has ever come up, but...surely not)

If you knew anything about anything, which you don’t, you would know that I adore you. Everyone in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you.

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand perhaps a little more than is really necessary. His other hand has something of a death grip on the opposite armrest, which is on the verge of splintering.

I can’t imagine any one refusing you.

Crowley would just bet not. Fucking fucking fucking fucking Oscar Wilde. Never again. He'll do Hamlet ten times over instead of this.

Gertrude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely?

(Crowley doesn't ask that question. He doesn't dare. The answer wouldn't matter anyway, he'd do just as he has regardless)

When the play winds its way around to its ending, all loose ends nicely tied and happy couples made happy, for the most part beyond their deserving. Crowley manages to relinquish his grip on the poor abused armrest, which has been somewhat warped and scored by too tight a grip and very pointed nails, and will be the source of much speculation by future theatregoers. He even claps. It's polite, and Aziraphale will expect it. If Crowley curses the director just a little bit, ensuring he'll be splashed with muddy water every time it rains for the next week, that's his own business.

From:

salutosinedelectat

Lines, witty lines, and memories of times past, of friends and long conversations, of a time he grew once again closer to humans, and how it helped combat the loneliness. Of dances and music, literature and debate, private chambers and drinks until the sunrise. Of someone who could never understand, not completely, but whose words simply made sense.

( He thinks vaguely, what his friend would jave thought about... Them.

He thinks he knows what he would have thought. Would have said. How he would have been wrong then.

Maybe.)

Aziraphale feels Crowley squeeze his hand. It grants, in the very least, a look at their hands tangled together, and a glance at the demon again.

He doesn't notice the chair. He can't see his eyes. He notices Crowley claps. They have a lovely evening.

People pour out into the streets as the show ends. The angel holds onto the demon's arm in a show of recent familiarity, as it feels appropriate as two people on a date. He rambles, softly and cheerfully, about the performance. The passion, the play.

"It's a classic. I do feel the male lead has quite a lot of potential."

From:

duckshaveears

"Yeah, loads."

Crowley is more than willing to have his arm taken but his conversation is a little lacking by his usual standards. He makes small grunting noises of agreement when appropriate but is monosyllabic at best. All the way back to the bookshop, where they usually end an evening now, drinking and talking (and sometimes other things) until they decide to stop. Or until Crowley falls asleep on Aziraphale's couch and Aziraphale finds something else to do.

It's not until they're at the bookshop door that he says, so very very casually, "So...you and Wilde..."

And he leaves it there, the rest of the questions unspoken.

From:

salutosinedelectat

Aziraphale rambles on about the play. About the actors, about the delivery of lines, criticisms, compliments. It's when he's already a bit into it when he notices he isn't really getting any answers when he asks things. That Crowley is neither ranting nor raving nor teasing, or...much of anything.

But they had a lovely evening. Dinner was grand, the conversation sparkling and entertaining and flirty at times. Crowley was his usual delightful, wily self. There was banter. The drive to the show was fine. The play seemed to go just fine, quite nice, actually.

They had a lovely evening. He thinks.

The suddenly question has him doing a double take, looking quite genuinely confused. "What?"

From:

duckshaveears

"Wilde!" Crowley says it impatiently, as though it should be obvious what he's asking despite his own complete inability to put the question in words. He waves a hand. "You know, you and Wilde and...and gentleman's clubs and the gavotte, all that, what was--"

He stops, swallows. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Looks somewhere else. "Uh. All that. What...was that like?"

All right, so he's a fucking coward. That's not news.

From:

salutosinedelectat

Well, his cowardice will only serve to prolong this absolutely painful experience, but most things Crowley sets out to do are cursed anyway. Aziraphale still looks vaguely confused, clearly not really understanding the...implications of the question.

“Oh.” Very obviously missing the point. “Lovely man, he was. Even wittier than would seem by just his works. A penchant for the spoken word that would put most to shame.”

He unlocks the door to the shop, gesturing inside. “After you.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Lovely," Crowley repeats. It doesn't mean anything. The angel uses that word all the time, it doesn't denote anything special aside from approval. So that's....good, right?

He still wants to grind his teeth.

Crowley slinks into the bookshop, lobs his hat and coat at the coatrack (they land perfectly, because they know better than to do anything else).

From:

salutosinedelectat

Aziraphale follows him in, the door locking behind them with a thought.

"Yes. Would draw in a room, if he so wanted. Often did, too." He neatly puts away his coat, smoothing it straight. The fresh flowers sit in a nice new vase, right on the front desk. Such shows of pride had unwittingly made it either somewhat suspicious, or very obvious, to most locals that know the shop that Mr. A.Z. Fell may have had a recent change in his life.

Hands gently clapped together, he gives his demon a pleasant smile. "Drinks?"

Edited Date: 2020-03-13 08:40 pm (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

"Course he did," Crowley mutters to himself, hopefully quietly enough that Aziraphale doesn't hear.

But Aziraphale is smiling, and behind him on the desk are the flowers Crowley gave him just a few hours ago, and humans come and go but Crowley is still here, always still here, so he tries. He does. He smiles and nods, and they pour drinks and he exerts himself to actually make conversation, and if he veers the topic more towards their dinner or theatre in general and away from the show they just saw, well. He's trying, all right.

For a while. After an hour the wine is kicking in and Crowley is comfortably sprawled on the sofa with his socked feet on Aziraphale's lap, and out of nowhere he blurts out, "So, uh, did you and Wilde ever...dance the gavotte...?"

Suave.

From:

salutosinedelectat

The earlier passing doubts fade from the angel's mind as the conversation goes on and through much better topics. The wine flows freely, as it often does, making certain looks and certain comments a tad more cheeky than they would have been.

He sits, a hand resting on one of Crowley's legs, and he's sipping his wine when the new sudden question comes up. Aziraphale hasn't noticed a pattern, not yet, at least not an unpleasant or tense one. They watched one of Oscar's plays, and Crowley knows they got along, and that's all he thinks is happening.

"Hm, a least a couple of times, yes." He looks up vaguely, with a tipsy glow, reminiscing. "He seldom did, but sometimes he would delight everyone with a dance. Quite the sight."

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's relaxed somewhat by this point, enough to exchange banter the way they always do, though nowadays his teasing has a more obviously affectionate edge. But he stays tense, however he tries to ignore it, and distracted, however he tries to hide it.

He has at least lost the glasses by now, however--they never survive drinking in the bookshop--so the way his eyebrows lift halfway off his head is more obvious than it would've been earlier. Along with the way he sputters into his wineglass. "Everyone...? Oh, wait, gavotte, yeah..." He forgot for a moment that it wasn't a euphamism, and takes another drink while recovering. "Quite the sight how, exactly?"

From:

salutosinedelectat

Aziraphale looks over when he sputters, a curious look that doesn't last long enough for him to actually ask any questions. There's a bit of the alcohol-fueled haze, of course, but he's mostly just relaxed, happy to talk about his friend and to remember good times past, while living good times present.

"Oh, he just had his own way about it." He smiles into his wine glass, a smile of fond memories in his face. "Would often break the steps, make it his own. He claimed he couldn't remember all of them, but I'm quite sure he did it on purpose."

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley squirms a little, which has the (for once) unintended side effect of making Aziraphale's hand ride a little higher on his thigh. It almost distracts him. "No doubt," he says, with a forced sort of neutrality.

I can’t imagine any one refusing you.

He should have picked Hamlet. Anything by Shakespeare. Bloody Timon the Athenian, even, or Cymbeline, that convoluted mess. Anything but Oscar Wilde. He can't get at what he desperately wants to know and just as desperately wants to not ask, and he can't set it aside, and fuck Oscar Wilde, sideways, which the old reprobate would possibly have enjoyed, and enjoyed with the same lush, deep appreciation and enthusiasm that Aziraphale applies to earthly pleasures, and Crowley is quite rapidly going out of his damned mind and suddenly can't stand it and just says it. "He ever proposition you?"

It could have come out worse. At least it wasn't did you fuck him. Even so, he flushes abruptly dark red and drains the rest of his glass, leans forward (dislodging Aziraphale's hand in the process) to refill it. And babbles. Of course. "Nevermind, shouldn't have asked. Water under the bridge, and anyway it's none of my damned business. What you did. Or didn't do. With Wilde. Or anyone else. No business at all."

From:

salutosinedelectat

Well, a whole lot happens in just a couple of seconds, and one could blame the wine for Aziraphale's prolonged, confused pause. His idly thoughts of times past and reminiscing over old human friendships is suddenly put to a half, and he watches Crowley move about in a way that far too obviously spells that there's something else to it.

He might not know everything that's going on in the demon's mind, but even the angel can't miss it when it's that obvious.

"Proposition-..." Aziraphale trails off, having pulled his glass out of the way as Crowley moved to refill his glass like the world may end if he didn't. Of course, the meaning is rather clear, and it does pass the angel's mind, but...perhaps there's an active choice in considering it might mean something entirely innocent.

(Are they still having a lovely night?)

"What do you mean?"

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley fidgets. Impossible to miss that he's uncomfortable, that he's got a burr in his tail about something. He takes a breath, planning on disavowing it and trying to run this conversation back onto the usual tracks and away from dangerous territory--

But Aziraphale is looking at him, his eyes uncertain and guileless and not quite hurt (not yet, shit, shit, he really shouldn't have gotten into this), and the thing is that Crowley is a terrible liar unless he's planned ahead. Which he didn't. He fell into his trap all on his own, dug the ground and laid the spikes and then stepped into it anyway.

Crowley sighs heavily and runs a hand back through his hair, which makes it spike and stand on end a bit. "What I said," he says, glancing quickly at Aziraphale. His eyes are bright yellow, hesitant and guarded. "Wondered if you and he ever..."

The question trails off, and he waves a hand frustratedly in the air. "Don't make me say it, angel, I know it's none of my business, and even if the pair of you did there wouldn't have been anything wrong with it, just, I wondered and then I couldn't stop wondering and I keep wondering and if you're going to dump the bottle of wine over my head and tell me I'm a pillock, which I am, just, just go ahead and get it over with, yeah?"

From:

salutosinedelectat

Oh.

Aziraphale doesn't say a word as Crowley rambles on and fidgets and scrambles his way to the metaphorical exit, just sitting there with his glass in both hands. He doesn't look angry or irritated. Doesn't look offended or hurt. What he does look is mostly surprised, uncertain, as mentioned, and entirely more sober than he was a few minutes ago. Quite literally, on that last one.

He can't help but to go through parts of their evening where he might have missed the signs something was bothering the demon. A couple stand out, but he isn't about to ask him if this or that was about this...subject. Did he just not pay enough attention to how Crowley was feeling? Should he have?

"...hum." He shakes off those thoughts for a moment, or tries to, lest he fall too far down into his doubting mind. Composes himself, keeps the glass in his hands still. "Why-- why do you want to know that?"

From:

duckshaveears

"I don't!" Crowley groans his frustration as he more or less flings himself backwards in his seat, face pointed at the ceiling. "But I just. Keep. Picturing. It. Driving me bloody mad, and I--"

He stops, and this time he flings himself to his feet, paces a few steps. "Never met the man, you know that, but he sounds like--like some impossible combination of both of us, all witty and bookish and wicked and tempting, and I know he must've adored you, and I was asleep, and I--"

He stops in his track, eyes widening as the rest of the sentence drops from his mouth. "--wasn't there--"

Oh.

That's it, is it. That's why.

Oh.

...shit.

From:

salutosinedelectat

As Crowley flings his body about on the sofa, Aziraphale continues to protect his glass from the demon's long limbs. As he paces, the angel watches, utterly at loss for words for once, although he couldn't quite figure out why. There were a few things, certainly, and one of them is definitely not knowing how he feels about the demon so frantically ranting about the concept of the angel having...been with someone who he once called a friend, but with whom he never could share his real identity, still managing to strike a connection.

Crowley reaches his conclusion, and the angel hasn't moved from his seat yet, still protectively holding his glass of wine, slightly frozen in his spot.

He does try to say something, in those heavy seconds of silence after the demon's realization. He does also realize that he may regret having sobered up, but it's not like he would know how to deal with this any better if he was drunk.

( Why did they go to one of Oscar's plays? What was the point of it? At one point in the evening did things turn and he completely failed to notice?)

The angel eventually breaks the silence, which feels far longer than it lasts, by clearing his throat with all the casual attitude of someone who's found himself suddenly stranded in a particularly unpleasant situation. "Yes, well..." And he does not know where to go with that sentence. Maybe he doesn't want to go anywhere with it. And, yet...

"...we were quite close, at a point. And he was..." He purses his lips for another pause, eyes on the carpet and glass finally set down on his lap. " There was...a discussion. But..." And he leaves the implication there.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley, still rather poleaxed by his own sudden understanding, looks up. "But." he repeats.

It's not a question. He can hear Aziraphale's answer in that one word. Tension leaves him in a rush, and he makes his way back to the sofa, sits back down. Leans towards Aziraphale until he's resting his forehead on the angel's shoulder. "...m'sorry."

From:

salutosinedelectat

The angel looks at him, with yet another quiet pause. When he moves, he simply puts his glass away on the table by the sofa, and brings a delicate hand up to Crowley's back, comforting.

"It's alright." It's not, not really, but he rather it be. It's not that he's hurt or particularly offended, the subject is more complex than that. Such as wondering how long will things from before they became free will come up to be dealt with. Probably for a very, very long, but he has no way of really knowing.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley rolls his head a little, which is as close as he can get to shaking it while being completely unwilling to move. "Not...this," he says. Aziraphale's shoulder feels warm and comforting. He smells warm and comforting, he is warm and comforting, what is Crowley even doing here? He swallows, closes his eyes. "For 1862, and that stupid fucking argument. For saying all that utter tripe to you and then sulking off to sleep for half a century."