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

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)

From:

confoundthemighty

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

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

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

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

From:

duckshaveears

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

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

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

From:

confoundthemighty

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

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

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

From:

duckshaveears

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

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

From:

confoundthemighty

“I suppose you were.”

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

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

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley immediately (for a value of immediately that equals slowly because the banging in his head is distracting but nonetheless still with determination) covers Aziraphale's hand with his other one, sandwiching it between his. "Not for years." Not since the 14th century, fuck, that'd been horrible. Though at least the plague years hadn't been people doing it to each other on purpose. Mostly.

Not thinking about that. He tangles his fingers with Aziraphale, enjoying the easy intimacy of it. "'d like to go back there. See how it's doing." He trusts Aziraphale has an idea of what's going on in Italy and that it's nothing like as sickening as what's here. He smiles a little again, looking at their joined hands. "Rent a house. Florence, maybe. Or Milan. Somewhere with trees." There's beautiful countryside in Spain, of course, but he hasn't seen it for a while and now he's suddenly longing for green things. Living things, beautiful things, not made of blood and dust and ash. "Think we could find a place?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Even in the fading light, Aziraphale’s eyes glitter.

“Mmm... Florence, I think. There are some exquisite gardens in the city, and the countryside is gorgeous.” For several hundred years it’s also been steadily producing brilliant writers and artists; human curiosity and creativity flourish there. “A little villa out on a hillside, I think. Someplace with gardens.”

There may even be an abandoned place they can make their own, the way he had with his Lake nearly a thousand years ago. The thought of watching Crowley coax a garden into life does something strange and tender to his heart, something so sweet it’s perilously close to painful.

From:

duckshaveears

"That sounds..." Crowley stops and breathes in, squeezes Aziraphale's hands. "Perfect. Idyllic, even. You could have a harp, a proper full size one. I'd love to hear you play that." Every day, please. That's what he wants, wants desperately, growing things and Aziraphale making music by day and holding him by night and Heaven and Hell just leaving them alone. Even if it's only for a while.

Crowley lifts Aziraphale's hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers, then tugs at them harder. "Lie next to me?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Though in a human body it’s far less graceful than it would be in his feline form (or nearly any other form, for that matter), Aziraphale moves as he’s tugged, shifting his weight so they both fit on the cot side by side. It’s always been wickedly easy to coax his arms around the angel’s thin waist and shoulders, and that’s exactly what he does now, gathering Crowley in close.

“They’ve got a lovely stringed instrument here called a vihuela,”(1) he murmurs. “Could bring one of those too. Just for variety’s sake.”

Truthfully, if the angel wants an entire orchestra, Aziraphale will find some way to make it happen. Even if there’s still a tiny smoldering ember, somewhere deep in his patched-together heart, that wants to blast Heaven with the force of his rage on Crowley’s behalf... it’ll keep. There are things he can do here, to deprive the Lord of the suffering She seems to love so much.

(1) On the family tree of stringed instruments, a vihuela is somewhere between a guitar and a lute. With one of the main differences being that the lute holds less beer than the vihuela, which in turn holds far less beer than the average acoustic guitar.

Edited (As I meant to say: sorry not sorry for the music joke) Date: 2020-05-23 02:42 am (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is an Angel of the Lord, traditionally supposed to be fearsome warriors of the faith, inspiring awe and divine terror. The thing is he's a pretty lousy angel (literally lousy, until Aziraphale cursed them all off), and knows it. Never is he more relieved about the fact that when he snuggles up against Aziraphale, wrapping an arm around him and letting himself be bound and return. Fearsome warriors of the Lord are definitely not supposed to snuggle. Their loss.

"All of them," he murmurs. His headache is feeling better already, which might be Aziraphale's influence or might be Crowley's own divine nature healing his corporation a bit now that he's not too discombobulated to attend to it, or most likely is just the water. He should have more of that. In a minute. "One of every instrument in the world. We'll need a pretty large villa for that but it'd be worth it."

They've ended up face to face, so he can feel Aziraphale's breath every few seconds, and it's wonderful. They don't need to breathe but it definitely has its pleasures, like so many human things. Crowley strokes his fingers down the demon's spine. "When shall we go? And how?"