faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

duckshaveears

There's a madman in Seville, the rumors say.

Not so interesting in and of itself. There are madmen everywhere. This one's caught the public interest, however. Maybe he's just fun to tell stories about. The stories certainly spread. He's been there for weeks, apparently, drifting from one cantina to another and drinking enough to drown himself and telling the most astonishing stories. He answers any question he's asked, and while the answers often don't make any sense they're certainly interesting to listen to. A learned man, he must be, debating philosophy or theology or mathematics or even smaller things like why crabs walk sideways. He has enough knowledge to astound the wisest, even when he's so drunk his words slur together.

The call him the angel because he never has a beard, stays as smooth-faced as a boy. The first time someone addressed him as angel his head whipped around in a mix of fear and hope, and then he laughed until he cried and begged for another drink. That's another funny thing: he always gets it. Somehow no one refuses him, even though no one's ever seen him with any coins. No cantina turns him away, and every camarero, even if they intend to say No, no, you must leave, you are bad for business and will kill yourself with all this drinking and I don't want your death on my conscience, go home and sleep it off, somehow they always find themselves handing over another bottle of wine instead. Fortunately he doesn't seem to mind the cheap stuff. He doesn't seem to mind anything, not his scraggly hair or the lice he scratches at or the dirt matting his clothes, he only minds not having a drink in his hands. Strange fellow, the Angel of Seville. At night he sleeps in the streets or wanders, singing off-key hymns, and whether it's holy or blasphemous no one can tell, and when asked he says he can't tell anymore either.

They see him angry only once, when a man is beating a Jew in the street. The Jews and Muslims have mostly all been driven away or forced to convert to Catholicism by now, in accordance with the royal decrees of Ferdinand and Isabela; whatever faith they practice in their hearts, or secretly in their homes, in public they must put on the faces of Catholics and be as devout as their neighbors, more. The Inquisition has eyes everywhere. Perhaps this Jew was less cautious, or not pious enough in his new faith, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But after two blows fall on his back there's a roar of fury, ferocious enough that even the man with the whip falters, and the Angel of Seville grabs the whip and makes as though to break it, rip it apart with his bare hands.

Then he stops, shudders. Tells the Jew to go, and in a voice as quiet as death hands the whip back to its owner and demands that he be given the stripes instead. Kneels on the ground and presents his own back instead. The first blow barely lands at all, the man with the whip is too shaken to use force, but the angel growls. The next blows fall harder, harder, and after twelve have fallen--twelve, for the apostles, the followers of Christ--the angel stands and thanks him in a voice that doesn't shake despite his bleeding back and shredded tunic, and walks down the street looking for another drink. The man with the whip looks at his hands as though they've betrayed him, and it's said he later burns his whip and takes orders and spends the rest of his life doing penance.

There are many stories of the Angel of Seville. But the angel, if angel he is, looks like any other drunk: dirty and wretched, stinking beyond belief, sitting in a corner and drinking straight from the bottle, while the camarera rolls her eyes from behind her bar as she cleans the wine mugs. "You'll come to a bad end," she says knowingly, "if you don't mend your ways. The devils will eat your toes and feast on your heart, and when you beg to be released to Heaven's kindness they will refuse you at the gates."

The angel laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and possibly he's sobbing instead of laughing, but the sound make everyone cringe, and the camarera curses him and returns to her work.

From:

confoundthemighty

The word “auto-da-fé” means “act of faith”; consequently Aziraphale is bitterly unsurprised that it’s the word assigned to the Inquisition’s public displays of cruelty.

He’s been making his way through Spain for about three years now, undermining these glorious works whenever he can. Aziraphale has always been excellent at casual blasphemy, and here in Spain there’s a near-endless supply of opportunities. It fills him with a spiteful glee that fuels his endeavors and his imagination—and distracts him from keeping count of all the human measurements of time that have passed since he last saw Crowley.

Heaven’s earthly agents keep him busy. Especially the Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada—the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the savior of his country, and one of the greatest human adversaries he’s ever faced. Even the Serpent can’t tempt Torquemada; he’s already been seduced by the blinding glories of Heaven. There is no glittering treasure and no carnal satisfaction that can overshadow the zeal in the Grand Inquisitor’s soul. He longs to do a great work for the Almighty, to purge the unfaithful from Spain, and the righteousness has rotted him from the inside in a way that seems to please the forces of Good.

(They must be pleased, he reasons, because he’s heard no stories of angels or heavenly visions condemning the path the Crown and the Inquisition have begun to blaze in a very literal sense through the country. There are a few brave and foolish humans who do protest, here and there, but then Aziraphale has long since learned that there are always a handful of humans in any era or part of the world who are driven by faith not in the Almighty but in doing the right thing.)

But a Great Seducer has hundreds of ways to make Torquemada’s job harder. Aziraphale undermines constantly. When he catches whispers that the Grand Inquisitor wants to ban heretical literature, Aziraphale introduces several printers and booksellers in back rooms over bottles of good wine, helps to facilitate several underground means of distribution for books the Inquisition deems too far from God. Quite a few butchers who refuse to give up halal or kosher practices find a friendly white cat outside their back doors, meowing prettily for scraps—and keeping a lookout for officers of the Inquisition. Sometimes on a Saturday if a particularly zealous soul is out looking for evidence of incorrect worship, a wisp of white smoke hovers over the chimneys of conversos who have forgotten they must now light fires on the Sabbath like their neighbors. Sometimes inside the houses of the conversos the residents suddenly become aware of music somewhere far away, a lute or a harp.

From city to city he slinks, whispering and wiling, scattering strange demonic luck in his wake. He can only keep so many from the bloody claws of Heaven’s engines of destruction, but for a little while at least Aziraphale can turn all his attention to the kind of thwarting that’s mostly preservation. If Heaven is so keen to get rid of undesirable thoughts and worshippers (or at least sanction their destruction), Aziraphale will make sure they survive, all across Spain.

(This is not to say that his efforts are entirely focused on keeping the undesirables out of danger. In every city he’s visited, some Inquisitor or local stoolpigeon has ended up wandering into a dark alley, beaten and robbed and often stripped of any evidence that might have convicted a converso. In Valencia an entire tribunal falls ill for a week after a dinner meeting [1]. Couriers carrying messages between Inquisitors find themselves lost in dark and unfamiliar places, sometimes wandering for weeks.)

Aziraphale moves often, purposefully, every journey a thwarting. Seville, being the seat of the Inquisition, is ripe for mischief to make against Torquemada. He’s been here before, but he likes to keep his knowledge as current as possible while he’s on an active project like this one. So he employs a trick he’s learned from humans: he seeks out someone chatty and an excuse to sit and listen.

*

Fernand, unlike many men in his trade, is respectable enough to keep a shop. Not a big one, but it’s a comfortable place, and he can even afford to hire an assistant. Local boy. Smart kid. He can even read and write—and so can Fernand, though he doesn’t always let everyone know that.

The man in the silver spectacles who walks in that morning shines on his doorstep like a new coin. He wears almost all white, except for stylish touches of gold and red, and his smile is broad and sunny. Fernand asks whether the gentleman is troubled with a toothache or in need of bloodletting, but the fellow smiles wider and tells him no, nothing so drastic. Merely a haircut.

They chat amiably as Fernand works. Or rather Fernand mostly chats, and the gentleman listens, occasionally asking questions. It seems he’s back in Seville after an absence, and wants to know what he’s missed. Fernand has plenty of stories from the last few months: weddings, births, affairs, people who’ve vanished after Inquisitors came sniffing around. And then of course there’s the madman, the Angel Of Seville.

The gentleman’s sunny smile melts away as Fernand relates how the angel wanders from cantina to cantina, how his wildness is a puzzle to everyone around him. Before Fernand quite knows what’s happened, the gentleman has seized him by the front of his shirt—and even with the silver spectacles in the way, Fernand can feel his gaze burning.

“Take me to the angel,” the gentleman says in a strange voice, “and I swear to you the good name of the best barber in Seville will live forever.”

[1] There is a very small amount of arsenic naturally occurring in apple pips. By some miracle, a large quantity of pips end up in the pepper grinder at the Inquisitors’ table. Smaller amounts of what science has yet to identify as E. coli also end up in every dish. Whether this is due to sixteenth-century food hygiene practices or perhaps has something to do with the white cat lurking outside the kitchen is up for debate.

From:

duckshaveears

"Why is it," the boy says, his twentieth question in ten minutes, "that you don't have a beard like my papa?"

The madman grins toothily and leans forward. His breath reeks of stale wine; the rest of him doesn't smell much better. "You want to know? Truly?"

The boy nods.

The madman leans close. "Truly?"

The boy nods again, even more fervently, his eyes wide.

The madman leans in closer still, his eyes wide. "Rats."

The boy frowns, not understanding. "Rats?"

"Rats." The madman leans against his wall once more, wine bottle held loosely in one hand as he rests his arm upon his knee. It's thin, bony, protruding. So is the rest of him, an angular interruption on the street outside the cantina. "I," he proclaims, as though making an announcement of great importance, "am friends with the rats. All of them, every one in the city. And at night they do me the kindness of nibbling all my beard stubble off for me. In exchange I share cheese with them, whenever I have any, and warn them if any cats are approaching."

The boy looks extremely dubious and opens his mouth to ask another question, but just then his mother happens upon them and shrieks loudly and rapidly, obviously chiding as she pulls him away and gives the madman a glance of furious disdain. The madman shrugs and takes a long drink from his bottle. It should be empty by now, really, but he's asked it not to be so he doesn't have to move. This isn't a bad spot. It's shadowed by an overhang, so he won't burn in the noonday sun, and the owner of the cantina is one of the more tolerant of the city. There's a small squeak next to him and he looks down, holds out his hand. There are breadcrumbs there, despite his having had nowhere to get breadcrumbs from a moment ago. His clothes are as much hole as cloth, and certainly don't have pockets. "Here, mi amiga rata," he says, as small paws climb onto his fingers and teeth nibble delicately at the crumbs. "He didn't believe me. No one does. Marvelous, isn't it?"

The rat squeaks, and he frowns and shrugs a little. "Well, no, it wasn't true, of course. So he was right not to believe. Though I'm sure you'd try if I asked." His eyes flicker to the street, where passersby deliberately look away from the sight of a notorious drunkard talking to a rat. "You'd try, at least," he repeats quietly, settling back to make himself more comfortable, as much as one can sitting on a hard floor and leaning against a hard wall. He takes another long drink and closes his eyes. "She used rats to send a punishment once, you know, to the Philistines. Sorry about that. Wasn't your fault. You were just being rats. Doing--" He takes another drink. "Doing the things rats do. Why do you do them?" The rat squeaks, and he smiles. "No, I don't know either. Not any of it. Oh, right, sorry." He twitches his fingers without looking, and a few more breadcrumbs appear, some shreds of nuts.

Several hundred yards away, the barber points. "There, señor. This is where he often is during the day, and at night. Or other cantinas, but this one most often, for the camarero has a kind heart and believes the mad are very close to God, and does not chase him away as others do. He is always outside of one cantina or another, unless he has gone to the quemadero to hear the sentences read, along with everyone else."

From:

confoundthemighty

The rat in Crowley’s hand hops to his knee to enjoy her miraculous meal and groom her ears with clever pink paws—but abruptly she stops, sniffing the air. Her whiskers quiver; sunlight flashes along them. Then all at once she’s leaped down from her perch, scurrying away in terror, as if she’s just caught the scent of an approaching tomcat.

A moment later, a human-shaped shadow adds to the shade of the overhang, falling across the drunkard’s lanky body. The noonday sunlight illuminates cloud-fluff curls, lighting them from behind like the brilliant wisps that cling to perfect summer skies; that same light bounces off two silver moons below the figure’s forehead, lenses that reflect back two tiny portraits of Crowley’s haggard face.

(“You have a room above your shop, do you not, Señor Fernand?”

“A small one, señor, yes.”

“I’ll give you twenty to let me have it for the day, and fifty for your discretion. He can’t recover if every gossipping granny in the neighborhood wants to beat down the door.”

“Ah, I—of course, señor, of course. You can count on me.”

“Fernand, your immortality is assured.”[1])

The stranger goes down on one knee. Passers-by ignore him—there are fools who try to speak to the Angel of Seville every day, it’s nothing new—but even the few who are curious find their gazes sliding elsewhere.

“Angel.”

His voice is soft, calm, steady. And faintly sad.

“Let me take you home.”

[1] Ironically, while Fernand’s name has been lost to human memory, his reputation as a clever, merry, helpful soul with a silver tongue survives in several plays and operas. Centuries later Aziraphale will befriend the playwright Pierre Beaumarchais and whisper a vivid portrait of the Spanish barber into his dreams, but the name will end up being corrupted when Beaumarchais decides to include a little private joke in his new script. Having been born Pierre-Agustin Caron, he decides his creation is worthy of his name, in a sense: fils Caron. Much later Aziraphale has another try at inspiring some direct tribute to him, but again the name ends up slightly wrong. Ten million copies of Anni-Fryd Lingstad’s “Fernando” are sold worldwide, though, so Aziraphale considers his promise ultimately kept.

Edited Date: 2020-04-06 11:55 pm (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

The madman sways a little, watching as the rat flees with a bemused, perplexed look. It fades as a deeper shadow falls over him, blocking the sky.

He looks up so slowly. His gaze stops somewhere around Aziraphale's chin before it plummets back down, his face crumpling. "No," he whispers, agonized. "No. No, please, not you, not--"

He shakes all over, curls into himself until his head is touching his bare feet, hands covering the back of his neck. "Don't look," he begs. "Don't. Don't look at me."

From:

confoundthemighty

Thousands of years ago, Aziraphale witnessed an angel weeping, body folded in agony and wings gleaming black in the smoky light of a too-quiet morning. Now he’s in the middle of a city street, surrounded by human life, watching gaps in an angel’s ragged and stained tunic reveal long red lines on his back when he cringes in on himself. Crowley’s voice is tight and cracking with shame, a heavy stench of sour wine rolling off him, and he curls up as if he can somehow make himself vanish.

And yet there’s no whiff of brimstone under the alcohol stink. Grace still shimmers slyly in his matted hair and his bruised dry skin.

For just a moment, Aziraphale’s entire being is lit up with purposeful rage. His throat aches to pour out battle song and condemnation; his palms itch with the absence of a sword hilt or a ball of flame. He could make war on all of Heaven by himself, could burn the Gates and tear the wings from archangels, could scream down the Almighty off Her throne.

But it’s only a moment, and then it’s broken by another ragged repetition of Crowley’s plea—don’t look, don’t look.

Aziraphale reaches out, rests soft fingers on the backs of Crowley’s hands where they clutch at the nape of his neck.

“Crowley.”

The word is itself another gentle touch, meant to soothe and settle and let him know he’s safe.

“Please,” he adds, not even really knowing what he’s asking. Please stand up, please don’t be ashamed, please don’t let them have broken you.

From:

duckshaveears

He shivers violently all over at the name. He hasn't heard it for a year, hasn't offered it to anyone. Hasn't offered any name. He wanted to be nameless for a while, to be hidden.

He still wants to hide, more than ever. Doesn't want to look up and see grief or pleading or anger or anything in Aziraphale's eyes. Would pity or disappointment be worse?

No. Love would be worst, the hardest to bear, and it's what he knows he'll see. Even now.

Please.

He's never been able to refuse Aziraphale anything. Never.

It takes a long, long time. But finally, inevitably, he pulls out one shaking hand and covers Aziraphale's with it. "'m really, really drunk," he mumbles. Apology, explanation, something.

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley’s long, beautiful fingers are filthy; there’s black grit under his nails, and Satan only knows what sort of unidentifiable stains along the ragged sleeve of his tunic. But he’s touching Aziraphale, even if he’s also trembling.

Aziraphale has survived dark moments on less hope than this.

He’s suddenly aware of his own breathing slowing, of his human corporation calming itself down. I can still do something for him, he thinks, and the thought spreads warmth through his chest with his next inhale.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s palm with his thumb.

“Come be drunk with me, then,” he replies, quiet and fond. “Out of the sun. Just the two of us.”

From:

duckshaveears

The tableau stays in place for another few minutes: the one bent over almost in half, the other on one knee before him, the only movement the slow caress of the demon's thumb.

The madman laughs all at once, turning his hand and catching at the demon's fingers, clutching them and using them as leverage so he can stagger to his feet. 'Stagger' is definitely the world; he's as unsteady as a ship in a storm, and his other hand is soon braced against the wall to keep him upright.

This time he does look at Aziraphale's face, his grin more than a little fey, but not displeased. "Well," says Crowley. "Can hardly refuse an offer like that, can I. 'Sides, Christ walked with madmen and drunkards; you might as well follow in his steps. He had large feet, not hard to follow." He hiccups suddenly, sways a little, and his expression changes to something a little more familliar. "I think. Did he have large feet? Don't remember."

From:

confoundthemighty

The sudden burst of reckless cheer is worrying, as is the stumble and sway in Crowley’s movements. They’ve been drunk together before, but Aziraphale has never seen him anywhere near this drunk, or this unsteady. Skinny as he is, Crowley almost seems to slosh as he moves; his eyes are barely focused.

Then he mentions Christ, and an old memory stirs, shakes the dust off itself somewhere at the back of Aziraphale’s mind.

Ask him why he wept as he did. It may help you understand.

Aziraphale gets to his feet and firmly, gently, lifts one of Crowley’s arms to hook around his own broad shoulders. With equal care he puts an arm around the angel’s waist, avoiding the red lash marks on his back, cloaking him in the same veil of unimportance that makes every human gaze slide away from Aziraphale now.

“I don’t think I ever really looked at his feet,” he says honestly, trying to keep his tone light. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. It’s not too far from here.”

(And if need be he can fold space a little to make Fernand’s place even nearer. He’s a touch out of practice these days, but he still remembers how.)

From:

duckshaveears

It's a good thing Aziraphale supports Crowley as he does, because it's clear that if the angel were walking on his own he'd be at best weaving in circles and quite possibly walking into things. Doorways, for one. As they pass by the entrance to the cantina he makes a small mewling noise of disappoinment. "Not going in there?" He sighs, craning his head over his shoulder to look back at it wistfully. "Should. The camarero's nice, nicest in the city. Never throws me out, however I'm babbling. S'nice."

He giggles, looks back at Aziraphale, paying absolutely no attention to where they're going or what his feet are doing. "Tried to bless 'im," he says, voice lowered to a confidential tone. "But missed! Got a chair instead. Holiest chair in all of Seville, now. Torquemada thinks it's his seat that's holy, but nope. That chair, in the cantina. Officially the holiest."

His eyes go wide all at once and he stops, grabs at Aziraphale's collar to drag him to a halt. "'ziraphale," he whispers. "'ziraphale. You're a demon, you could--you can--" His fingers scrabble at the cloth, the grip of them desperate. Crowley takes a shaky breath. "Hellfire. You can make hellfire. Please? I need--I can't--"

His voice is shaking. So is he. "Please."

Edited (Fixing an inconsistency) Date: 2020-04-15 08:49 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

An awful white silence crawls through Aziraphale’s brain.

They’ve never talked about this—the parts of their jobs and their very natures that are not only dangerous but lethal to one another—or at least not as explicitly as this. Nothing beyond warnings of imminent events beyond their control. It’s been an unpleasantness they’ve mostly been able to ignore, until now.

And Crowley is almost begging.

(Aziraphale remembers a grief that made him crave holy water, for a few terrible hours nearly a thousand years ago when God had taken his son. But Crowley had been there to share in his sorrow as he mourned Lancelot; his presence, as it always had, reminded Aziraphale that joy was still possible in the world. Seeing Crowley as distraught now as he himself was at his lowest loops cold coils of dread around his heart.)

All at once Aziraphale makes a decision. There’s a flex of power, a faint sharpness on the air as of a lightning strike nearby or a whiff of smoke, and then the building directly in front of them is Fernand’s.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he says firmly. With a flick of his wrist he asks the door to open itself, and it obliges.

Then he bends down, tucks the arm not around Crowley’s shoulders under his bony knees, and lifts him—quickly, but gently—off his feet.

“In fact,” he adds, as he shifts the angel’s slight weight in his arms, “why don’t we discuss it after you’ve had a bath?”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley flinches a little at the sudden tang of miraclulous energy, then blinks, unsure if the sudden change of surroundings is real or a drunken illusion. He looks back at Aziraphale with the same expression, grips his shirt harder, as though to keep him from vanishing like the cantina has. Normally he would be more careful of Aziraphale's high collar, well aware of how self-conscious the demon is about the scar on his neck. But just now Crowley's having trouble keeping his thoughts straight. They're all a jumble, emotions and words and images and one overpowering conviction. He tries to return to that. "No, I have to--it's--"

The sentence gets lost in a meep! as he's suddenly swept off his feet, a sensation more nauseating than uplifting (except in a strictly literal sense). He looks all at once a little more green, and stops struggling. As Aziraphale carries him through the doorway, that last word gradually sinks in. Bath. Yeah, a bath would be...would be good. Long time since he's had one. He doesn't know how long.

Crowley's fingers loosen their grip on Aziraphale's shirt, though he doesn't let go. "...okay," he says, suddenly quiescent. "Bath, yeah. That's...been a while." He shudders, turns his face towards Aziraphale's chest, closes his eyes. Inhales. Aziraphale smells good, clean and faintly perfumed with something. He'd forgotten that smell, somewhere in the haze of the past...however long.

"...you're really here?" His voice is muffled against the shirt now, even quieter than those last words. He'll wake up lying in the dust any minute now, surely, like always. But this is nice while it lasts.

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley begins to relax in his arms, turns his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and at last there’s the faintest whisper of real hope in the angel’s quiet voice. The door swings shut behind them, admitting them into a pleasant, sunny little space; the stairs up to Fernand’s spare room are only steps away.

Heedless of the alcohol-sodden stink of misery that lingers in Crowley’s matted hair, Aziraphale kisses one of the tangles just above his ear.

“I’m really here,” he murmurs, his heart twisting. “I will be even when you’re less drunk. Come on, angel. Not far to go now.”

Keeping his strides deliberate and smooth, mindful of how Crowley’s head must be spinning, Aziraphale carries him across Fernand’s empty shop. As he mounts the stairs he holds the angel a little more firmly, just to keep them both aware that he’s held safe and secure.

From:

duckshaveears

At that reassurance Crowley sighs and goes completely limp, all but melting into the embrace. He rubs his nose a little against Aziraphale's shirt. "Really am really drunk, though," he confides, in case this had gone unnoticed. "Dunno f'I 'member how t'be su--so--not drunk."

He doesn't bother to look up. It doesn't matter where Aziraphale's taking him, not in the least. It's hardly the first time he's put himself in the demon's hands, literally or figuratively. If Aziraphale wants to carry him to Australia and walk on water all the way, that's fine. So long as he doesn't wake up.

From:

confoundthemighty

“You won’t have to be for a while yet. I don’t mind if you stay drunk for the bath.”

Fernand, clever fellow that he is, does indeed keep a wooden tub in his upstairs room—he’s been a go-between for a number of clandestine meetings, during his career, and people pay well for certain amenities. Being a barber of quality, he also has a selection of soaps and perfumes to hand, as well as a clean sheet in the tub, for comfort. The only thing they need now is something other than Crowley to fill the tub, but Aziraphale spots a small copper pitcher and bowl by the open door, which will do nicely for someone who has miracles at their disposal.

The door closes itself politely once they’ve crossed the threshold.

Aziraphale brushes another kiss against Crowley’s filthy hair, and as he exhales there’s a ripple of power. The seams in Crowley’s already-threadbare clothes give in to the inevitable and unravel, all at once. Scraps of fabric tumble to the floor like withered leaves, until Crowley’s as naked as a branch in winter. Another ripple, and the copper pitcher is suddenly balanced on the edge of the empty tub; it teeters and tips over, hot water gushing out in what ought to be physically impossible quantities for a pitcher of its size.

As he waits for the tub to fill, Aziraphale looks down at the angel in his arms.

He’s as grimy as any street beggar; both the disintegrating clothes and the angel’s skin leave unappealing smears on Aziraphale’s white-and-red doublet. Not to mention there are actually lice attempting to migrate from Crowley’s scalp to Aziraphale’s clothes, and a host of fleas that skitter to the floor. Hurt tightens Aziraphale’s throat, sharp and swift, almost choking off his breath for a moment.

Almost.

The water rises, and rises, and finally Aziraphale is satisfied and it stops rising. With the sort of gentleness thoroughly unbecoming of a high-ranking demon he eases Crowley into the tub; the water is hot but not scalding. He lets go of the angel only briefly, to strip off his jacket with its long red and gold slashed sleeves and toss it in a corner; the plain white linen sleeves of his shirt he rolls up past the elbow.

Then he returns to kneel by the tub, hands running down the angel’s thin shoulders and back up, scooping up a little water along the way to massage the dirt and grime off his skin.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley doesn't even shiver as his clothes fall apart around him. They were halfway to that point on their own anyway, and he's never cared much about whether or not he's nude, around Aziraphale or anyone else. Bit awkward in some of the early days when he walked the Earth more openly as an angel and didn't bother with a full set of...human accoutrements, as it were.

He has those now, has for millennia. There were a few too many awkward occassions with awkward explanations needed. Besides, over the last few hundred years with Aziraphale he's actually found opportunity to use them, on the lucky, far too short times when they've been together.

None of that on his mind at the moment, however, for all that he snuggles into Aziraphale's hold with complete trust and surrender. Even though they haven't seen each other since...fuck, he's not sure how long. Too long. Time spent apart is always too long.

Crowley knows, deep down in the parts of himself where he keeps the things that he's not thinking about just now, that...recent times...wouldn't have been nearly so difficult with Aziraphale nearby. He wouldn't have hidden in alcohol and something like madness, pulling insensibility around himself like armour. And yes, he is ashamed of himself, hates to be seen in this state by Aziraphale of all people. Aziraphale, who deserves so much better than a sodden wreck of an angel.

At the same time, there's no one he'd rather see or be seen by. Now or ever. He keeps his face buried in Aziraphale's chest, just breathing in the smell of him, the reality of it. He shivers a little as lips gently touch his head again, tries not to wonder how the demon can stand it. Can stand him, in this state.

Worse things in Hell, no doubt.

Crowley clenches his eyes shut harder, grits his teeth. Tries to concentrate on the way Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against his cheek, the support of an arm under his knees, another against his back. The gentle splashing of water nearby. The slow, careful lowering into the tub.

He could weep at the feel of the water against his skin, soft and caressing. He could weep more at the actual soft caresses of careful fingers cleaning a year's worth of dirt and grime. He tries not to, tries to just...be there. Not shaking apart, not babbling inanely, not anything. Just to rest his head on arms folded across his knees as he accepts this kindness the way he's accepted so many of Aziraphale's kindnesses.

(It's not kindness, or not just kindness. It never was. It's love, it was love as far back as Babel or even further, and he knows it. But that's a little too hard to remember just yet. Love has more weight than charity and he doesn't know yet what he can carry, now. I missed you, I missed you, I needed you, I don't know how I've managed anything without you, I've been so lost and I missed you so much...

It's too much, and the words stick in his dry throat the same way the dirt sticks to his skin, all but embedded in the pores. It will take a little time to shake them loose)

Edited Date: 2020-04-18 05:21 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

Though Aziraphale starts with Crowley’s shoulders, he does cast a glare at the tiny scurrying dots on the angel’s scalp. What likely feels to Crowley like a brief surge of very hot air against his head is in fact a very small tendril of demonic vengeance. The head lice experience it in unison as a sudden burst of terror, a total awareness of their mortality, and a knowledge that they’ve disappointed everyone who’s ever loved them, followed by a swift but agonizing death.

He knows soap would have done the job, but it would also have been far less satisfying.

With quiet care Aziraphale washes Crowley’s shoulders, his upper arms, the nape of his neck. Then he continues down the long arc of Crowley’s back, and at last he gets a really clear look at the red marks there.

At first count, once the angel bends forward to rest his head on his arms, it looks like eleven separate lines, but there’s a fainter one beside the others, one that’s already mostly a scar. Twelve lashes. Strangely, these don’t look like the work of Heavenly instruments—just the ordinary welts and cuts a human-made whip would leave on human skin.

Aziraphale thinks about the marks on his own back, marks that linger but that fade a little more every time he and Crowley meet up.

Carefully, one at a time, he washes each of the thin long wounds. And though there’s a faint background hum of noise—footsteps and voices from outside, the slosh of water, the regular tide of their own breathing—it still feels too quiet in this room. If he could play something, he would, but with both hands busy all he has is his voice.

But the thing is, humans have been finding ways of making music without singing almost from the beginning of their history.

“I was back in England a few years ago,” he murmurs, as if they’re sitting across from one another over a meal. Or lying tangled up in bed. “They’ve been writing a whole mess of poetry about Arthur, did you know? There’s an entire book about Merlin.”

From:

duckshaveears

It's astonishing, having someone taking care of him. For most of their lives they've done without, and it's easy to slip back into old habits and expectations. Even so, his skin knows Aziraphale's touch, recognizes those fingers. It's a strange feeling, uncomfortable and desperately welcome at the same time. The demon is careful, but there's a lot to work through. Layers. Of dirt, and other things.

Crowley's drunk and tired enough to be limp, pliant and trusting under those hands. Even when they careful trace the lines of half-healed whip lashes. He shivers, but tenses only a little, mostly with resignation. Aziraphale won't like that story at all.

He expects questions, all sorts of questions. Angry, grieved, concerned...questions, at any rate. A quiet, almost offhand remark about Arthur and poetry? That he doesn't expect. Even less does he expect the information that someone has been writing about him.

(If there's part of Crowley still doubting whether this is real or a drunken hallucination, that silences it. He wouldn't have imagined that.)

He lifts and turns his head, gives Aziraphale an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Y'r kidding."

Edited Date: 2020-04-19 11:57 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

By now they’ve known one another long enough that Aziraphale can tell he’s really gotten Crowley’s attention. The drunken, disbelieving look the angel gives him is the surest sign Aziraphale can think of that he’s stopped whatever spiral Crowley’s been pacing within his own mind.

(It’s like playing the flute and watching a child look up, seeing the whisper in the melody sink in and take hold. It’s a tiny victory against the way Heaven thinks the world ought to be. It’s exactly what Aziraphale needs to keep going.)

“I’m entirely serious,” he says, still keeping his tone as light as if this is just another conversation—even as his fingertips smooth away a smear of caked-on mud from the pink edge of a lash mark. “Of course they got a lot of it wrong, or made up something they thought suitably weird when they were missing information. They think you were fathered by the forces of Hell, for one thing. Also claimed you had a hand in arranging Arthur’s conception—not personally, mind, just that you facilitated things.”

With a flick of his wrist he banishes the dirt already in the water to a back alley somewhere, leaving the bath clean again so he can continue his work.

“Though funnily enough they left out the most interesting bits. Not a word about you showing Arthur what it was like to be a sparrow. Or the arguments you’d get into with Bedivere over why potatoes have eyes.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's put significant effort into deafening the endlessly circling thoughts his mind has spun along for months. All that time and especially alcohol, and now they're detailed in a moment by a few sentences from Aziraphale. It's not the subject; of course Arthur would inspire legends, that was part of the point of the Round Table to begin with. And of course Merlin, enigmatic and powerful and so suspiciously absent at the crux points, would come in for his share. It's just so unexpected a choice of subjects for the circumstances.

Which is no doubt why Aziraphale chose it. Clever demon, tricking Crowley's brain into jumping off the too-worn tracks it's been stuck in.

Kind demon, talking to him as though nothing is wrong, nothing changed, letting Crowley pretend for a little bit. Crowley's smile is small and tremulous, but there. "He made a good sparrow," he says. "Good fish, too. Squirrel, now, that one was a problem."

He sighs, and shifts a little; the water sloshes against the side of the tub. "Those rumors were around even then, y'know. Plus others. One said I didn't have a father at all. Liked that one." Being more or less true. God might be called a the Father by humans but it's a rather different thing. "Not sure anyone would call me arguing with Bedivere the interesting bits of...all that."

Arthur. Christ, Crowley misses him. He misses Christ too, come to that, though it's always hard to reconcile the images of Christ everywhere with Yeshua and his unique mix of determination and selflessness.

But that, that's a thought he's had too many times, one to send him right back into that spiral, and Crowley shudders violently all at once and tries to lurch himself back on topic. "Have you got a poem?" he manages, grasping at...anything, really. "You should. Not just as a minor mention in mine, or--"

Lancelot's. He stops before he says the name, bites back a groan, would kick himself halfway to England if he could. The last, the absolute last thing he wants is to hurt Aziraphale, and reminding him of his lost son will do it. Crowley buries his face back in his arms. "... sorry. 'm an idiot sometimes, you know that."

From:

confoundthemighty

The shudder under Aziraphale’s hands gives him pause; his heart lurches when the angel curls forward. With the same steady care he’s used this whole time he strokes two handfuls of water over the sharp ridges of Crowley’s shoulderblades.

“You did say you were drunk,” he replies, as fondly as if it’s a casual I forgive you, hoping he hasn’t accidentally made everything worse. “But to answer your question, they get more of my story wrong than yours, so I don’t mind being in the background.”

(That, and he’s perfectly content not attracting a great deal of attention from his supervisors as the mother of a famously good and holy knight. Not that any of them read much, or are particularly invested in human stories, but he still prefers to keep a low profile.)

Having finished with the lash marks, he moves to start washing Crowley’s upper arms—but then he pauses, his wet hands gently rubbing at the angel’s thin shoulders.

“If you lean back a bit,” Aziraphale murmurs, as gentle as if he’s offering a few crumbs to a wounded sparrow, “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a sob. "'Lil bit drunk, yeah," he confirms. The hands smoothly running over his shoulders and arms feel like support, a bulwark. Against what, he's not entirely sure.

Then he's rubbing, not for cleaning, that's a gesture purely for giving comfort and pleasure, and tears sting at Crowley's eyes behind his closed lids. They used to do this for each other. He'd forgotten how good it felt.

His face is still hidden in his arms, do his reaction is hidden. Probably a good thing.

"...s'got all sorts of stuff crawling in it, y'know," he says reluctantly after a minute. He's already forgotten the precise surge of power a minute ago, and even if he hadn't he's discombobulated enough to not have realised what it was for. "And it's all, all matted and...pretty awful, really. Might be better just cutting it off."

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale can hear the distress rising again in the angel’s voice, and it tightens his heart. He sounds so lost, so pale an echo of the soul who comforted him in some of his darkest hours and loved him through some of the brightest.

“Nonsense, darling.” It might be a minor miracle that his voice doesn’t wobble. “All the crawling things seem to have fled.(1) And Fernand’s got all sorts of interesting soaps up here. I don’t think I’d mentioned Fernand—pleasant fellow, lovely sense of humor, excellent barber. Now just... lie back a little for me?”

It’s not quite a plea aloud, though in Aziraphale’s soul it resonates like one. For so many centuries Crowley’s been the brave one, recklessly generous with his compassion; seeing him in such desperate need of the most basic comforts... it hurts, in some raw red corner of Aziraphale’s heart that has never quite recovered from the shock of being expelled from Heaven.

But he can’t sit by and do nothing. He won’t. He never has. Even if he has to start small, with the stroke of his hands and the soothing hush of his voice.

(1) For those of you wondering if head lice have their own separate Hell, yes they do, and yes it is worse than human Hell, in ways the human brain cannot fathom. Or at least this has been the case since a very specific point at the turn of the sixteenth century.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley does, of course. Anything Aziraphale asks, he'll do. There's nothing new about that. He keeps his eyes closed but lifts his head and leans back with Aziraphale supporting him, which is only appropriate really, and tilts his head back as far as it'll go.

"Fernand..." he repeats, a faint stirring of curiosity rising, dusty and stuff from disuse but never gone. "That where we are? A barber's shop?" He opens his eyes, tries to focus on Aziraphale's face. "What are you doing here? In Seville? Not--" He stops, swallows hard. "For work?"