Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2
Nov. 11th, 2018 03:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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faemused
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.
Sounds good. It'll give Crowley something to focus on..and they can do it together.
Date: 2020-05-23 05:19 pm (UTC)"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?"
Exactly! A shared project. <3
Date: 2020-05-23 11:44 pm (UTC)“Sundown tomorrow,” he purrs, relishing the gentle press of Crowley’s hand on his back. “When the sun’s gone down, we’ll hire a carriage. Ride through the night till we get to Florence.”
(Granted, there will likely be a touch of demonic magic involved so the journey doesn’t take them days on end. It’ll attract less attention and take less energy out of Crowley than if he were to suggest the two of them fly.)
“And then we’ll find a house, and a harp, and a bed with a soft coverlet. First order of business.”
That will be fun.
Date: 2020-05-24 12:43 am (UTC)Crowley has made it clear on any number of occasions that Aziraphale is welcome to tempt him. Also that he will very willingly give in. It does help that Aziraphale never tempts him with anything Crowley truly doesn't want or would be conflicted about, granted.
Already have some ideas. And relishing googling Tuscan countryside.
Date: 2020-05-24 05:44 am (UTC)“I’d hardly offer anything less. I do have standards when it comes to temptations.”
One of Aziraphale’s hands wanders to Crowley’s hair again. It feels so strange, this short, tickling between his fingers in an entirely new way. Not unpleasant at all, just different.
“But we can pretend you put up a valiant fight.” He noses a touch closer to brush a kiss against the ridge of Crowley’s eyebrow. “Loads of virtuous resistance. Terribly noble of you.”
Auughhh yes. So beautiful.
Date: 2020-05-24 11:41 pm (UTC)Aziraphale's mouth is right there, and it's so very easy to just take a kiss, soft and sweet. "So, nope. 'm not valiant or virtuous--not by angelic standards, anyway--and I'm certainly not noble. Just a winged idiot in love." He nuzzles against Aziraphale's cheek, chuckling a little. "Albeit now with a haircut and slightly better breath."
He yawns a little at the end of this. More sleep would probably be smart, and more water (and a new head and probably a new liver, but those still aren't on offer). But not just yet. His arm tightens around Aziraphale's waist instead.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-25 05:46 pm (UTC)“I love you too,” he murmurs. The words always feel like an exquisite blasphemy in his mouth: demons aren’t supposed to love, aren’t supposed to be capable, but he’s always been terrible at being a demon in the ways that really count. Loving Crowley feels like getting away with something, in the best possible way.
Another kiss—gentle, slow, as if he’s using it to tell a secret—and then he finally lets a question fall into the warm little space between them.
“How long have you been in Seville?”
I keep changing my mind about the year aaaaiiighh. Maybe 1495ish.
Date: 2020-05-25 11:25 pm (UTC)He'd been able to...not to forget, for a little while, but to push it aside. The world outside of this spare, this safe little room. As though he was able to leave...certain things...at the door.
He hasn't. It's still with him. He feels it. Even barrels of wine could only dull his awareness, even twelve bleeding lashes on his back only amounted to a distraction, and while a hangover and Aziraphale's words and arms do an impressive job of catching his focus he can still feel it, even if he tries to ignore it. Like a glaring light seen from the corner of the eye. Well done thou good and faithful servant...
No, no, no, no, no, no. No. He won't. Just the thought of it makes him ache for the oblivion he could find at the bottom of enough bottles of alcohol, but...
But Aziraphale is here, holding him on this cot in this quiet room, and Crowley can't...can't. Can't do that to him. Won't.
He takes a deep breath, releases it. Does it again. Tries to make muscles now rock-hard with tension relax, even a little. "...don't know," Crowley says finally. It's only barely audible and buried against Aziraphale's shoulder to boot, but a demon's hearing will catch it. "Not sure...what month it is." He laughs without humor. "Not sure what year it is, I don't--"
He shudders all over, buries his face in Aziraphale's chest. "I'll--I will tell you about it. I will. But not yet. Before...before we leave Iberia, I will. But please--"
Please not now. Please let this room stay a sanctuary for a bit longer, please. He's so tired.
If we want historical accuracy to a degree, Leo was away from Florence till 1500
Date: 2020-05-26 04:37 am (UTC)His arms tighten around Crowley, folding him in close. Slowly, avoiding the half-healed lash marks beneath the shirt he’s conjured, Aziraphale strokes a long path up and down the length of the angel’s trembling back. His hands have had a thousand years of stolen moments to learn his lover’s body; now he brings that knowledge to bear as he tempts the taut cords of muscle in Crowley’s back to relax a little.
“Shh...” His touch coaxes tenderly up from the small of Crowley’s back to the bases of his sharp shoulderblades, petting. “Of course, darling.”
I’m sorry, he adds wordlessly as he presses a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.
Torquemada dies 1498 though. Let's aim earlier, C can stay in Italy a few years after C leaves.
Date: 2020-05-26 11:33 am (UTC)When he wakes again, hours later, there's daylight shining through the small windows, and Aziraphale is gone. Crowley lays there in silence for a while, listening to the noises of Seville outside, the chatter of the barber and his customers downstairs. His head is still aching and his body is still sore and tired, he feels parched and stretched too thin. But his heart is a bit lighter than it was.
He drinks as much water as he can stand and falls asleep again to wait for his demon's return, curled up under blankets that still smell like Aziraphale, and dreams of grass-covered hills and a ivy growing up the wall of a villa.
Ahh gotcha! Yeah 1495ish sounds about right then.
Date: 2020-05-27 03:14 am (UTC)From the moment he steps out onto the streets of Seville again, Aziraphale moves with purpose in every step. He has a lot to do, to ensure that his thwarting projects here can continue in his absence.
Some of the work is easy, spur-of-the-moment stuff. It takes only a moment for a white cat to dash out in a horse’s path, so that its rider—a notario del secreto, on his way to record testimony against heretics—is thrown from his saddle and breaks his arm. Likewise it’s very simple for errant gusts of wind to snatch papers from couriers’ hands and tumble them into muck or a nearby fire. There are lots of tiny ways to stall the work of any organization with any degree of bureaucracy, and Aziraphale has had thousands of years to practice.
Some of his work that day is more mundane: a breakfast meeting with the owner of a private printing press, a lunch meeting with a forger (1). He makes it clear to his contacts that he’s simply passing through, but will be back to check in on things; he conjures generous payments for their time and trouble.
Then, as the afternoon starts to mellow, he finishes his other errands with a quickened heartbeat and a spring in his step. It’s quick work to hire a carriage to take them to Florence, no questions asked. But he lingers over his last task. He’s already acquainted with the best luthier in Seville; the fellow is glad to see his friend Señor Fell after an absence of several years, and equally glad to show him around the workshop. Aziraphale does end up buying a vihuela—a brand new design, shaped a bit like a pear with a very long neck. The instrument feels satisfying to hold; the sound it makes when he strums a chord is warm and rich.
The sun is just beginning to set when he gets back to Fernand’s.
Crowley’s still asleep. He still looks weary and worn, but not nearly as desperate as he had the day before; the sight only firms Aziraphale’s resolve to coax as much of his joy back to life as he possibly can.
Quiet as a cat, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leans over to press his lips to the ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone.
(1) Aziraphale has always been impressed by how certain humans have learned to manipulate paperwork to their advantage. At this particular point in history he’s especially impressed at how easy it is to buy letters declaring trials suspended for lack of evidence.
Can't wait for Crowley to tell his story. It got longer than I intended.
Date: 2020-05-28 12:16 am (UTC)But there's a comforting smell nearby, and a soft touch to his face. They wrap warmth around him.
Crowley rouses with a sigh, turning his face towards that touch, mouth upturned for a kiss even before his eyes are open. "Mi demonio más querido," he murmurs sleepily, reaching up a hand and wrapping it around Aziraphale's neck.
I’m excited to suffer!
Date: 2020-05-28 02:36 pm (UTC)Somehow it always feels like coming home.
Aziraphale’s smile curves wide against Crowley’s lips.
“Caro mio,” he replies, softly. “How’s your head?”
Not suffering so much, just details. He's been there a while.
Date: 2020-05-28 10:48 pm (UTC)But this part...this was never an illusion. Not the tender way Aziraphale calls him my dear, not the sweetness of the kiss.
"Like it might forgive me in time," he says. "Though it definitely wants me to suffer first. Can't blame it, I've abused it pretty badly."
And the rest of himself too, to be honest. Crowley is uncomfortably aware that he's done himself no favors lately. There's a little bitterness mixed in with his sardonic amusement. It's a hell of a thing, when an angel can't trust his own judgement.
He sighs and takes another kiss, then sits up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, wincing at the sharp burst of pain in his temple as he moved. "Ugh. Riding in a carriage for days with this head should count as penance, even with your company. Did you finish all your errands?"
Excited all the same. ;D also apologies for short tag, shall we assume it’s a 2-day journey?
Date: 2020-05-29 12:29 am (UTC)“I did.” His new purchase is already in the carriage; they’ll find a harp in Florence, perhaps pick one out together. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”
Compulsive research says more like two weeks plus. But I have ideas.
Date: 2020-05-29 01:41 am (UTC)Fortunately Aziraphale had provided Crowley with shoes as well as new clothes, so that's what they do, though not so literally. Crowley does first take time to try and bestow a proper, sober blessing on Fernand: safety and prosperity and friendship. All things the clever barber can provide for himself, perhaps, but Crowley feels a debt is owed.
In his exhausted state he's not entirely sure that vague beneficence works, however, so he adds a lesser blessing as well just in case. It's a funny thing, but Fernand finds he never has to sharpen any of his blades or scissors again, and despite their sharpness they almost never nick his customers by mistake.
* * *
Crowley doesn't remember much of the first few days of the carriage journey. He spends most of it asleep, then waking long enough to hydrate, exchange a few words and embraces with Aziraphale, to ground himself as much as can be done in this liminal traveling space, then sleeps again. For the first day or so it's less sleep and more a full exhausted collapse, like that first night. And it helps; his color stops being so pale and greenish, and he stops wincing at loud sounds and bumps in the road (though the road does seem to be unnaturally smooth, all things considered).
He spends more time awake after that, still tired and quiet but able to sit and talk, or look at the scenery, or listen and smile as Aziraphale practices whatever instruments may be practiced in a moving carriage. His sleep becomes more restless, and there's no question that his dreams are fraught. But a soft word or melody or the gentle stroke of a hand chases them away. The restless, haunted look isn't fully gone, but it diminishes.
Their coachmen idly notices now and then that they're making truly excellent time, and don't run into the usual sorts of obstacles that tend to plague even the most well-known roads. No breakdowns or unexpected animals or horses throwing shoes. Only smooth, quick travel.
There are many more things he doesn't notice.
They appproach the border between the countries in a few days, and Crowley calls a halt, his first. He's been almost entirely and uncharacteristically passive so far, letting Aziraphale make all the decisions about when or if to rest, obediently eating or drinking whatever is given him. His miracles have been sparse and small.
But he's adamant that they halt at the rest stop before the border. The coachman says it isn't necessary and the horses will be fine for another few hours yet--or means to, but somehow he finds himself pulling off the road all the same. There's a small inn here, and despite having not been hungry at all a moment ago he suddenly decides a bit of late lunch wouldn't go amiss. The horses, of course, are only too happy to be allowed to graze and lie in the sun for a time.
"Walk with me?" Crowley says, holding out a hand to Aziraphale. "Not too far. Just a little ways off." His jaw twitches a bit with nervousness, but his eyes are determined.
I suspect they’re much like my ideas on the matter. ;D
Date: 2020-05-30 03:56 pm (UTC)All the while he gives Crowley quiet, sometimes punctuated by music or a little conversation. In return Crowley allows Aziraphale to take care of him, as he never has before. For a few precious days before they reach the border of Iberian lands, the angel lets himself be fed, held, comforted. Sometimes he falls asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tucked into the seat beside him; sometimes he simply curls up on his side on the seat opposite. Each day that passes sees Crowley looking a little healthier, a little more himself, even if his dreams grow more troublesome.
(Leave him be, Aziraphale thinks, in the moments when he notices his angel’s face contorting with remembered or imagined grief. You’ve had hold of him long enough. He’s mine now. Then he reaches out to take Crowley’s hand, or begins a song on the flute or vihuela, and watches the shadows withdraw.)
He doesn’t ask about Seville. The memory of Crowley shuddering in his arms, trying to hide from the world, is still far too sharp. Now and again Aziraphale will catch a glimpse of the small cloth bag attached to Crowley’s belt—he’d insisted on bringing his hacked-off hair along, though he still won’t tell Aziraphale what he means to do with it.
(Light-fingered and silent, Aziraphale dips into the bag while Crowley sleeps. He finds a lock of hair not hopelessly matted, folds it up in a handkerchief and hides it in one of his sleeves.)
When at last Crowley himself insists they stop for a while, Aziraphale’s heart takes notice. Suddenly, and not for the first time, he feels the presence of his own spectacles like a shield: he’s always felt as if Crowley could see all his secrets, and is glad not to have them exposed now.
Aziraphale waits for their coachman to disappear inside the inn, then takes Crowley’s hand. Their fingers knot together easily.
“Of course,” he says, gentle but not smiling.
Very likely. =) Dunno if they've been stopping at night or changing drivers?
Date: 2020-05-30 04:53 pm (UTC)There's a small hill behind the inn, and Crowley guides them around it. It's not a far walk, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, enough to give some privacy and enough distance from the road for quiet. On the other side of the hill is a small river, barely more than a creek, and a pleasant copse of trees, near the remnants of a ruin. Impossible to tell what it was from the stones alone, only half a wall and a few odds and ends. There's a faint tinge of holiness to it, but it's so old it only barely registers.
"Thought I remembered this being here," Crowley says. He sits down by the river with a small sigh of relief, pulling Aziraphale down with him to sit between his legs and in his arms, so Aziraphale can lean back against him while Crowley leans against a tree trunk. The river--not really a full river, but more than a mere creek--trickles its way along.
It's a soothing place, and for a while they just sit there in silence, holding each other and enjoying the feeling of not being in a small moving carriage.
"1455," Crowley says finally, apropos of nothing. No, not apropos of nothing; it's the conversation that's been waiting in the wings all these days, it hardly needs a cue. "Maybe 1456? Near then. That's when I came out here." He shifts a little, lowers his face and kisses Aziraphale's neck lightly, not with any ulterior motive but just for his own comfort and because it's there and it's welcome. Because he can. "To Castile, really, not here specifically. Had a list of things to do in the whole area, spent a few decades running around here and there arranging things. Castile, Seville, Aragon..." He stops and shrugs a little, rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder and looks over at the river. "Around. Not a long term assignment, not the sort where you stay in one place for decades on end, but I've kept having to come back here to line up ducks in rows. That type."
At night when it’s overcast, probably changing drivers at the border.
Date: 2020-05-31 09:01 pm (UTC)If he had the power, he would fold this place and this moment away, tucking it into his sleeve alongside the stolen lock of Crowley’s hair. A little fragment of peace, to take out and look at when he’s alone.
Then Crowley begins to speak.
Aziraphale stays relaxed in his embrace, quiet, listening. His heart contracts a little, hearing the date—even though time shouldn’t mean much to an immortal being, forty years is a long, long time. Though at the angel’s last statement, his mouth twitches slightly. If anyone in Heaven had half the sense Crowley does, they’d realize the thing about ducks is that they wander off if you try to keep them in a row too long...
They’re close enough that he can turn and kiss Crowley’s cheek, a wordless prompt to keep going. He’s not quite ready to break his silence yet.
Ehhhh /handwave
Date: 2020-05-31 11:15 pm (UTC)Three months. They'll have to make the most of it. It's more than they've had for a while, and more than he'd hoped for a week ago. Not that he'd hoped for much, a week ago...
Right. Context, he's trying to give context. A bit of it, anyway. He sighs and keeps going. No way out but through. "So, yeah...came to Castile. Needed to get to know the royals, you know that drill. Arrange a betrothal for the little princess Isabella. She was only five or six at the time." He smiles with sudden sharp wistfulness. "Liked her. She was smart and passionate about justice, even when she was that young. And as royal betrothals went it didn't seem a bad one. The other kid was a second cousin about her age, the two kings were friends and wanting to solidify ties between their nations, joyous intentions all around, etc, etc."
He groaned slightly and rested his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, heedless of how pointy it might be. "You know how royals are, though, always playing the politics game. Next time I checked in a few years later it'd been broken off and she'd been re-engaged to someone else. A few times over, actually, it was amazing how the suitors were lined up and then un-lined up. Would've expected influence from one of our sides but as far as I could tell I was the only one around. One of her suitors was actually en route to the wedding with three thousand men marching behind him when he suddenly took ill and died. Isabella thought God had struck him down personally in answer to her prayers."
He's skipping bits. Well, so be it, Aziraphale is used to how his brain hops around sometimes. "By that time she was eighteen and every bit as determined as she'd been at six. Lucky for me, we had the same goal. Heaven still wanted her to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, the boy she'd been engaged to at the first, and she was going to have him or no one. God only knows what I'd done if she'd had someone else in mind, I think she would have stood up to Gabriel himself if she thought it was right and necessary..."
Crowley sighed. "Anyway. That part was fun, actually. Theatrical, even. Secret meetings and letters to the Pope, eloping from her half-brother's castle, Ferdinand disguising himself as a servant to come meet her..." He chuckled. "You'd have loved it. I was running my feet off between Castile and Aragon, but it was worth it. They loved each other, you know? It wasn't just political for them, they loved each other. Five years later that half-brother kicked the bucket, Isabella was crowned Queen, and they formalized an agreement to rule their countries jointly and had all sorts of reforms planned. Seemed like they'd be a formidable pair. I gave them my blessing--just my personal goodwill, not an official one--and went on to the next. Didn't come back for a few decades."
He goes silent for a moment, listening to the sound of Aziraphale's breath near his ear, the breeze around them. One leg drapes itself over one of Aziraphale's. He has new clothes, bought somewhere by Aziraphale, black and white and dark grey shades, with a scarlet belt. He likes the belt. He doesn't wear colors often, but it's a shade Aziraphale usually has on his person somewhere, and it's nice to be carrying a bit of Aziraphale with him. Even though the real thing is so wonderfully near to hand.
On impulse he turns his head and kisses Aziraphale's cheek. "You're being really patient with this. With me. Thank you."
I LIIIIIIIIIIVE
Date: 2020-06-08 02:02 am (UTC)Then Crowley stops a moment, shifts slightly to kiss him, and Aziraphale finds himself moved by an affectionate impulse of his own.
He reaches up with one hand and takes off the silver spectacles he’s wearing. Just so he knows Crowley knows they’re making eye contact when Aziraphale twists to look at him.
“Don’t go telling everyone,” he murmurs, low and fond, but with his eyes he says there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.
YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOO
Date: 2020-06-11 01:46 am (UTC)He breathes out again, rests his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder. It's such a warm, gentle day. He's lived on Earth for almost five and a half thousand years, and it still astonishes him how much evil can be done on warm, gentle days. Seems like that shouldn't be allowed, somehow. Though Crowley knows better than most how few rules there truly are.
But he's telling a story. Or exorcising a ghost. One of those. He sighs again and steels himself. "So...mission accomplished. Went off and did other things in other places for a while, then...heard rumors. Thought I should check in." He bites his lip and looks up again, at the running water. "You don't..." Breathe. Try again. "You know...what's been happening, here. If you're thwarting it all, then you know."
So he won't have to go into detail, talk about how the mass murders of innocents in the name of God was turned into ghastly spectacle. Torture and paranoia and the most poisonous sorts of righteousness combined with a kind of ecstatic bloodlust. It's not the first time such things have happened even on this scale, and likely won't be the last, and they both know it.
Crowley holds Aziraphale a little harder for a moment.
"So...that." Breathing, dammit, he might not need to but it's helpful. Think about breathing. "Came back to...have a look. I'd put them on the throne, after all, so I'd had a bit of a hand in it. Tried to, to help some people, where I could. And then a few weeks after I got here, or maybe months, it, there was, I got..."
No. This isn't working. He'll have to just show it. He'd been trying to work up to it, but he can't.
Crowley looses his arms and pushes Aziraphale gently to indicate he should move. Once they've untangled and there's a little space between them he takes a deep breath and makes a gesture, pulling at the air and then twisting his hand.
The scroll that appears in it reeks of holiness as only the purest divine writ can. "Don't touch it," Crowley says. His voice shakes a little; his fingers shake much more as they untie the ribbon and unfurl the parchment. "Don't want--it might burn you. Probably. Sting, at least." Not destructively, not the sort of damage holy water would cause, but every part of Crowley revolts at the idea of causing Aziraphale even the smallest iota of pain, particularly pain of this sort. So instead he holds it up to be read.
Not that there's much need to read the exact words, Aziraphale will recognize the sort of thing it is. A commendation. With a glowing ethereal seal at the bottom and Gabriel's name signed in letters of burning gold. Congratulating Crowley for his outstanding work on the Iberian Peninsula, and for the Inquisition in particular.
"There was a letter too," Crowley adds dully. "Went on at length about how ingenious my methods were, how subtle. Since all the ones who've left or converted still believe too, some more than ever. And Heaven doesn't care what name you use for Her or if you repent at the last minute or die a martyr so long as the numbers add up, you know that. All these people dying horribly, and it's just, just numbers, and I got a reward for it, and--"
Gabriel might get sucker punched after Armageddoesn’t
Date: 2020-06-21 05:39 pm (UTC)Twelve pink lines on an angel’s back from a human whip, the same sort any penitent might receive for crimes against his fellow man.
Aziraphale doesn’t bother with caution as he knocks the commendation aside. It flutters to the grass like the unwanted scrap of detritus it is.
“This wasn’t you.” Aziraphale’s voice is low and insistent. His hands frame Crowley’s face—he needs to look his angel in the eye for this, even if his own eyes smart with sympathy and horror.
(For a moment he remembers the lake, a night that was somehow darker and longer than others. He remembers Crowley holding him while he poured his guilt out in messy sobbing bursts. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it. I only said he’d bring down a king so they’d let me keep him. I didn’t know what would happen.)
“Crowley, it’s not your fault.”
Watch Crowley and I not object also HELLO I MISSED YOU
Date: 2020-06-21 07:31 pm (UTC)"Isn't it?" he blurts out, his own eyes wide and stricken. He closes them and shakes his head, still breathing too fast. He raises his hands and closes them around Aziraphale's wrists, as though to hold them in place. To give himself some sort of framework. "No, it's not that." He laughs, and it's more a sob. "Not just that. It's Heaven approving of it. Praising it. Again. All those deaths and all that pain to serve some, some, some Great Plan we never see and can't even ask about, what is it for, how--"
He's shaking more violently now, and his head bows, rests against Aziraphale's chest. "How can they sanction this and call it good?" He can't catch his breath. Technically Crowley doesn't need to breathe, but it feels like he does, and he can't. His next words are almost inaudible.
"How can I call myself good while I do their work?"
(Why haven't I Fallen yet, just for asking all this?
Do I want to?)
I HAVE MISSED YOU TOO <3
Date: 2020-06-23 11:26 pm (UTC)Both of them are intimately acquainted with human suffering and death, with the ripples grief leaves in its wake and the wounds that survivors pass on to those who survive them in turn. But Heaven, for all their posturing, don’t see it as real enough to merit concern. (To be fair, Hell don’t really care about the specifics of suffering inflicted on human souls either—they’ve got quotas to meet, not consequences to consider.)
Then five thousand years’ worth of love and familiarity rise up in him, from that well of strength that Crowley’s filled in him where his faith used to be. Like a star, constant in its brightness, this is a knowledge that stands firm against the wave of oncoming dark.
“Because you know it matters,” he whispers, the words raking through Crowley’s cropped hair as surely as fingers. “Because you know it’s not just numbers. Because you do good things that aren’t their work—you have been for as long as I’ve known you. Right back to the beginning.”
His hands find Crowley’s back and stroke, soothing, the firm touch turning to a feather-light glide when it finds his scars.
I know I need to get back to Camelot but no brain
Date: 2020-06-25 12:51 am (UTC)"So do you." He raises his head, cups Aziraphale's face in his hands. "You always have, too. Since the start. And not just for me." He rests their foreheads together again, feels warm breath caress his face. "You're Fallen, even though there's more love and compassion in you than in the whole of Heaven. And I'm not, despite doubting everything, questioning Her will even back when She was around to tell us directly what it was, and none of it makes sense." He laughs a little, not happily. "They seem the same to me, you know? Heaven and Hell. Just opposite sides of the same coin, not much difference between them. Have for centuries. Shouldn't I Fall just for that?"
He breathes in, inhales the scent of grass, of soap and oiled strings, of Aziraphale, and asks. "Would it be better if I did?"
We’ll get to it! Meanwhile, a holiday and tender smut?
From:Nghhh yes please.
From:He’ll be very thoroughly taken care of. And spoiled more than a bit.
From:GOOD also vice versa.
From:Hee. Winged idiots in love. <3
From:Summary of the show tbh! Also thx for A being careful with fire.
From:He’s been a mom, he gets fire safety. ;)
From:If only more people did! Also, bog of eternal stench? ;)
From:Little bit. ;) On to Italy?
From:On to Italy!
From:Sorry this took a while but HERE WE GO
From:I did leave all the scene-setting to you! But you had clearer ideas about what A wanted =)
From:Hello from cat ownership! Benedict slept on my pillow all night <3
From:Yaaaaaay hello Benedict!! Congrats on gaining a nifty person!
From:<3 <3 My mental & physical health are already improving.
From:YAY. also A whole week late ack what is time accck
From:It’s quarantine! Time is meaningless! Have a taco!
From:Time suddenly has meaning again this week and it's WEIRD mmm tacos though
From:OKAY SO I assume we fast forward a couple weeks after this?
From:Yep that's a plan!
From:Loved this too much to let it go so how about some rainy healing
From:bring on the vavoom!
From:INITIATING VAVOOMING
From:BRING IT ON and I'll edit for Gardening Implements whatever later
From:same, idk how much metal is actually in a vihuela but WHO CARE
From:btw it's not my fault your tags are irresistible and I have to pounce on them like desserts
From:awww shucks. have some wings!
From:What I said last time, and yay wings!!
From: