faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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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?"

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s a small, brittle word in Crowley’s mouth, but huge in its significance.

All at once, like the moment a miracle sinks in and he finds himself comprehending the syllables and shapes of a human language, Aziraphale feels understanding start to dawn. He’s been on a non-stop thwarting tour of Spain, insinuating himself between the righteous and those they would strike down, and at the holy seat of the Inquisition he’s found an angel on the verge of madness.

Aziraphale has to breathe firmly and calmly through the first stirrings of rage. Later. Not now. This won’t help him, now. It wasn’t what he needed before the Flood, or after Sodom.

“Not the way you think,” he says at last, cupping a hand to smooth water over the matted mess of Crowley’s hair. “It’s all thwarting—from nuisances all the way up to sabotage. Been all over the country making certain humans’ job much harder for them than it ought to be.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley reaches up with surprising quickness and catches Aziraphale's wrist, looking at him with sudden intensity. "Thwarting," he repeats. "Thwarting, thwarting who? Is that, is it...official? Under orders?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale stills when he’s grabbed. He’s never been able to lie to Crowley; the thought doesn’t occur now.

“A work-sanctioned project.” It’s an easier confession to make than he’d suspected; he shifts so that his own free hand can brush at the slope of Crowley’s cheekbone. “It was initially reconaissance, but after that—well, you’d be surprised how easy it was to convince the forces of Hell that we ought to make a policy of being a thorn in the Inquisition’s side.”

Aziraphale tries for a smile, something small and hopeful.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley takes a long shaky breath and closes his eyes, then turns his face into Aziraphale's hand so his lips brush against the demon's fingers. He stays like that for a moment, basking in Aziraphale's nearness and drawing strength from it.

Then he takes another breath, releases Aziraphale's wrist and sits up a bit straighter. "Cut my hair, would you please?" It's a thick sodden mass on his neck and back, dripping. "'m sure you could get it all, all fixed up. But I'd rather cut it. Please."

Edited Date: 2020-05-03 01:41 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

As Crowley’s spine straightens, Aziraphale’s lungs expand, his chest filling with the light and heat of relief. He’s glad he’s sitting, because the force of it would cut his knees out from under him.

Crowley is going to be all right. Still ruinously drunk and partly filthy, but those things can change in a matter of hours. What remains unchanged, beneath the rest of the weight Crowley’s been carrying, is the glimmer of hope—however distant, however hard to reach.

Aziraphale gathers up the dripping mat of hair, begins to shape it into the closest thing to a queue he can manage.

“How short?”

From:

duckshaveears

"Short."

The word is as clipped as the subject, and his hands are firm where they rest on his folded arms. He's not shaking anymore. Still drunk--and fuck, dealing with that will be a headache of truly epic proportions however he goes about it. But not shaking. Not trying to hide, from Aziraphale's gaze or his own thoughts or anything else.

"And don't...miracle it off, after," he adds, more quietly. "Got a, there's. Something I want to do. With it." He snorts. "To it, I mean. Symbolic."

You can't live on Earth without picking up a few things about the value of symbols.

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale allows himself a single moment to be overwhelmed by gratitude, to be silently and desperately glad that he’s not too late. That he’s done what he needed to do. It shivers down his arms, bending his back so he curves down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head.

The angel smells terrible. That’ll go away too, in time.

“I won’t shave you bald,” he says at last, his voice gaining a lightness that’s only partly forced. “But I think I can manage short without resorting to that. And Fernand can neaten you up if I make a mess of it.”

Unspoken between them is the understanding that Aziraphale won’t simply get rid of the hair before Crowley can do whatever he has in mind. Aziraphale may put it aside to avoid getting tiny itchy bits of cut hair everywhere in the tub, but only as far as a nearby table, not the Mediterranean.

From:

duckshaveears

"Can't be more've a mess 'n now." Crowley tried to stay still. It was tricky; he was still dizzy. He focused on a knot on the edge of the wooden tub and stared at it, trying to make his reeling mind concentrate only on not moving. Not that a few nicks from a barber's scissors would be anything to worry about, even in this state he could probably heal those. But he knows, deep down, that he's already given Aziraphale enough to carry today.

He closes his eyes briefly, remembers why that's a bad idea at present, swallows his guilt, and looks back at the knot of wood. "Do it."

From:

confoundthemighty

The scissors come easily to Aziraphale’s hand; he stays bent for just a moment longer, his lips still pressed to Crowley’s wet hair, before straightening up again.

“All right,” he murmurs, and gets to work.

The initial bit—hacking off all the matting—is the easiest. While he does it Aziraphale talks quietly to distract Crowley, telling him about the books he’s added to his small collection this century. On a swing back through England he’s acquired a copy of some rather delightful poetry by a fellow named Geoff Chaucer; a recent trip to China netted him a fascinating fictional account of historical events, the Romance of Three Kingdoms. The scissors tug gently at Crowley’s scalp as they disentangle him bit by bit from the weight on his neck.

Once most of the worst tangles are gone, though, Aziraphale finds himself falling quiet to concentrate. Thankfully he hasn’t had to cut close enough to the scalp to have any bald spots that need covering, but the overall effect is still pretty ragged. Admittedly it gives Aziraphale a perfect excuse to run his fingers through what’s left, and gives them both a small bubble of time to be touching in a quiet room.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley lets the words flow over him like the water does on his skin, just as cleansing. He listens, makes a comment or three, but the subjects don't really matter. It's all soothing, Aziraphale working to bind Crowley in the here and now, instead of beimg trapped inside his own head. Making him think about the larger world, and not just what he's seen during the past year. Reminding him there's more. More than this.

Then Aziraphale quiets, runs fingers through the now-short hairs. The gentle tugging feels wonderful. Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "'ve given you a pretty shit reunion here, love," he says softly. "M'sorry."

He sighs and opens his eyes, turns to look up at Aziraphale with a small, apologetic smile. "'ll make it up to you. Might need sleep first, 'n a few gallons of one hangover cure or 'nother. But I will."

He reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers on Aziraphale's face, heedless of the water dripping from them. "Missed you." It's a whisper this time. "So much."

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley’s fingers paint a gentle wet line along the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, and though the angel’s smile is small it’s free of manic urgency or limp despair. It’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale’s seen in at least fifty years.

He tips his head, kisses the base of Crowley’s palm.

“I missed you too.” When he inhales, Crowley smells more like himself, that underlying scent of skin and growing plants beneath the still-present fog of alcohol. It’s a start, at least. “And you don’t have to make it up to me—but,” he adds, interrupting Crowley’s protest before it can get started, “if you insist on it, you’ll have a whole three months. Maybe more if I can get in some long-term undermining.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Three months..."

He breathes the words like a prayer, his eyes widening. It's rare for them to manage so long. Camelot and the years after was the longest period they had, and even it had been punctuated with one or the other or both of them being pulled away. Three months would be a blessing.

...no, not a blessing, he won't use that word, not now. A luxury, then. A gift.

(A miracle.)

Aziraphale is leaning low, close enough that Crowley can stretch up and press their foreheads together, brush his nose alongside the other's. "Yes. Oh, yes, please. That, that'd be--"

Crowley stops and swallows. His eyes are closed, and he smells soap and faint sulphur instead of dirt and stale wine. Aziraphale smells like home. He always has. "Can we go somewhere?" Crowley asks softly. "Not here. Not...not Seville. Just, stay somewhere. For three months. Could get away w'that, f'r once." He laughs a little, and there's a hint of a sob in it again, though only a hint. "Done good work lately, so they're all, all pleased with me."

He reaches up his other hand so both frame Aziraphale's face, and concentrates on that. Warm breath on his mouth, warm skin under his hands, fluffy curls teasing his fingertips. "'ziraphale." Oh Lord, he's still so fucking smashed and he needs not to be if only so he can get this foul taste out of his mouth and kiss his demon. "Jus', let me be with you somewhere. For three months."

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s whole body responds to the tug of long fingers in his curls; his heart thrills and echoes with each pleading word that tumbles from Crowley’s lips. Crowley’s wet hands frame his face, and his breath still stinks of wine but it’s warm against his skin.

Somewhere besides Seville... as much fun as Aziraphale’s been having thwarting Heaven’s agents, Crowley probably shouldn’t be too close to the ugliness of the Inquisition. He’ll have to stay close enough that he can pop over for an occasional check-in—or maybe, he realizes with a start, he can simply transfer his thwarting projects across borders. If Heaven is so pleased with the expulsion of the undesirables, then following and protecting them would fall under the purview of undermining Torquemada’s work.

He could get away with a lot, under those circumstances.

“I need twenty-four hours to finish my errands here,” he says, “and then we’ll go anywhere you like. Anywhere at all.”

From:

duckshaveears

Another shaky breath. "Anywhere," Crowley repeats. "Don't care, so long as you're there and it's not...not here." Not in these streets he's haunted, not near the events that have haunted him.

No. He won't think about those things. Aziraphale is here, fantastically real and solid under his fingers, and Crowley concentrates on that. "Wherever you need to be to, to do what you need." To keep Hell happy enough to not look closely. Heaven won't look for him for a while, not while they're so pleased with him, not unless something particular comes up.

Even so it's a risk, being with Aziraphale. For both of them. It's always a risk. One Crowley, at least, is always happy to take.

He lets out a lower, calmer breath and lets go of his beloved's face, sinking back into the bath a bit. "Can I stay here til tomorrow?" He looks around at the room, taking it in a bit closer.

Edited Date: 2020-05-18 08:07 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale leans over to kiss the top of Crowley’s head again, his smile turning a touch rueful at how the ragged hair tickles his lips. “Fernand can tidy you up a bit. I think you’ll like him—fascinating fellow, natural storyteller, always listening for the juiciest gossip.”

Already he’s thinking ahead to where they might go. A few options stand out—places without the weight of their shared and individual histories; places with sensory delights to offer in abundance; places with quiet nights and peaceful days. Places to hide, if only for a little while.

“You realize I’ll have to tell him not to let you have wine,” Aziraphale adds, and though he tries for a wry tone the actual words come out softer than he intended.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley winces a little and looks away, but there's no question he's earned that. He knows Aziraphale means only to take care of him, but shame roils in his gut all the same. Or maybe it's just all the rancid wine he's put in there.

"...yeah," he says quietly, tacit agreement. No more alcohol for Crowley, not for a good long while, at least. "Yeah, I know."

From:

confoundthemighty

With the tip of his forefinger, Aziraphale brushes a clipped lock of hair back from Crowley’s forehead. Deliberate but light, he lets his fingers trail down to cup the angel’s cheek. If they weren’t in a city right now he’d draw his wings around Crowley, the way he’d wanted to millennia ago on a smoky mountainside.

But they’ll have at least three months. He’ll make sure they both get away with it, somehow. Crowley needs time away from Seville and the hurt he’s endured here. He needs the world—not just the bits Heaven approves of, not the company of the righteous, but the whole exquisite messy sprawl of what humans have done with Creation.

And Aziraphale’s always been willing to give Crowley the world, whether or not he ever asks for it.

“I’ll stay here with you tonight,” he murmurs, some tension in his throat easing. “Unfortunately I’ll have to start my errands near daybreak, but I can be here all night.”

Whether Crowley needs to be held and comforted through the next few stages of the hangover or simply needs a purring weight vibrating gently on his chest, he’s not leaving the angel’s side. Not until he absolutely has to.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley closes his eyes at the touch of a fingertip, tilts his face as it traces from forehead down to jaw. It eases the churning of guilt and humiliation, more than a little. It's not the first time Aziraphale's seen him at his lowest, even if this is a lower low than he's fallen to before.

(was he trying to Fall, this time? He might have been. It would have proven something if he'd Fallen now, now of all times. Might have been worth it, even...

No. No, he won't go near that thought. Not yet. Later, when this is real, when he's sobered up somewhat and Aziraphale is holding him in the dark and the quiet, when he knows bone-deep he's not alone. Maybe then.

One step at a time. Aziraphale can't carry him for all of them, Crowley will have to do some of it)

He catches Aziraphale's fingers again and kisses them, rests his lips against them for a moment. "Don't think 've got any miracles in me, just now," he says. "Wouldn't trust 'em, anyway. Think you can do clothes? 'n something to get this taste out of m'mouth so I can kiss you?"

His heart skips a beat in sudden uncertainty. He can't help it, Aziraphale has been nothing but loving, nothing but kind, but...Crowley looks up, bites his lip. "If that's, if you want..." His voice trails off. It's a long time since the last time they've seen each other. It's longer since Camelot, when they were able to share a bed for years on end, those wonderful, strange years of discovery and grief. He wouldn't blame Aziraphale for not wanting someone in the state Crowley's in, at least not right now.

From:

confoundthemighty

Without a word, Aziraphale leans forward and down, closes the distance between them.

(It makes such a change, leaning down to meet him like this. Crowley’s always been a little taller than Aziraphale—not by much, just a couple of inches. Just enough to fit comfortably together, his softness slinking in beside all Crowley’s sharp angles. It’s strange to be the one whose embrace is a sanctuary, when for so long he’s thought of things the other way around.)

He breathes out slowly against the angel’s lips, a breath that carries the faint sweet taste of apple. It won’t erase the taste already in Crowley’s mouth, not entirely, but it’s a start. As soon as his lungs are ready to fill themselves again, Aziraphale pulls back, just enough that their foreheads rest together and their noses touch.

“You idiot,” he whispers fondly, fingers stirring against Crowley’s cheek. “Of course I do.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley draws in a sharp breath as their lips meet, returns the kiss carefully, as though it's something that might shatter if he isn't careful with it.

But Aziraphale breathes sweetness into his mouth, the crisp taste of apples, sharp enough with memory to pierce through any doubt. The affectionate assurance afterwards couldn't be any more convincing than the kiss itself.

Crowley gasps in a sob of a breath and grabs Aziraphale's face in his hands, pulling their mouths together again. Tears sting behind his eyelids but he doesn't care. All that matters is this, that they're together again, neither of them lost or alone or judged. Never judgement, not between them. "'ziraphale." It's a helpless whisper between suddenly desperate kisses, not with desire but with a need that goes far, far deeper. "Missed you so much, I love you, I--" Another shuddering breath and another kiss, and he's shaking all over again, his fingers clutching at whatever of Aziraphale he can grasp, utterly heedless of how he must be splashing water on the demon's clothes and Fernand's floor. "Aziraphale."

From:

confoundthemighty

Just as Crowley did for him fifteen hundred years ago, Aziraphale gathers the angel into his arms, makes soothing shushing noises into his cropped hair and against his skin. It’s all right. I love you, I will always love you, let me help you the way you’ve helped me.

I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone.

(And if Aziraphale is shaking himself, if the relief and sorrow and joy of the moment are so hard to hold that they make his human body shiver, if his own eyes smart with a heat he can’t yet let spill over—it’s a quiet room, and no one is here to watch.)

When Fernand returns from a fruitless several-hour-long search for the gentleman in the silver spectacles and the madman (who seemed to have vanished on the way back to the shop), he finds them, impossibly, in his spare room. The madman, barely recognizable now that he’s clean and dressed in a soft black shirt and trousers, lies asleep on his side on the little cot Fernand keeps in the room; the gentleman in the spectacles sits on the edge of the bed, with the air of a watchful cat.

Fernand mutely accepts the little leather purse that slides from the gentleman’s well-manicured hand into his own and goes back downstairs. He’s sharp enough to know he’s being paid not to ask questions, and kind enough to know that his own curiosity doesn’t mean as much as letting an unfortunate beggar have a little peace and quiet.

(That night, in cantinas throughout the city, proprietors and bartenders will reach into their pockets or coats or into their cashboxes and discover gold coins that weren’t there before. A rumor roils through Seville over the next week, as people notice the conspicuous absence of a certain madman. Long, long after Torquemada and his Inquisitors are all dust, there will still be souls who pass on a folk song about the night the Angel of Seville paid his bar tab.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley wakes up after a few hours and regrets it immediately, because his head very much wants to kill him and trade him in for a new owner. He groans and buries his face in his pillow. That registers as something odd, but his head is pounding too furiously for him to put his fingers on why just yet.

It's a nice pillow, though. Cushiony. Soft. Smells nice. Everything smells nice at the moment, clean linen and soap, paper, and...

Crowley breathes out slowly. "Aziraphale." He feels the weight on the end of the bed now, recognizes the whiff of cologne and oil and wood smoke. The name is as much a croak as a word, but it still sounds like a prayer. To Crowley's mind it is one.

From:

confoundthemighty

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

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

From:

duckshaveears

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

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

Edited Date: 2020-05-21 08:42 pm (UTC)