faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

confoundthemighty

It’s all charmingly easy to picture: Crowley sneaking around with a gleeful secret grin to aid the royal lovers, watching over a Princess like a fond uncle. Like the benevolent force in one of the stories humans like to tell each other, stories that don’t attempt to explain how the world works but seem to exist for their own sake. It’s a thought that makes Aziraphale smile, despite the gravity of the subject.

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.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's answering some is soft and genuine, as is the kiss which this time lands on the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says. I know.

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--"

Edited Date: 2020-06-11 01:47 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

The blue of Aziraphale’s eyes expands, filling the sclera with color, his slitted pupils also widening. The sight of that blazing golden signature makes everything click into place with the same horrifying juddering snap as a dislocated joint being forced into its socket: Crowley’s desperate plea for hellfire, his insistence on keeping the tangled mess of hair Aziraphale had cut off for him.

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.”

From:

duckshaveears

Somewhere during the last piece of Crowley's explanation is voice changed from dull and numb to something faster and more breathless. He makes a small cry of worry as Aziraphale knocks the holy writ from his hands, but his attention is wholly on Aziraphale. He doesn't spare even a glance for the sacred paper. Instead he tries to capture Aziraphale's hand, make sure the fingers haven't been burned. But before he can those fingers are gripping his arms, and his gaze is caught and held by beep blue eyes.

"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?)

From:

confoundthemighty

The question nearly pierces Aziraphale’s heart. It hits him somewhere between the ribs, the doubt and sorrow and all the implications of what Heaven’s become, and for a second he can’t breathe either. It’s too horrific for words, too big and awful to look at head-on.

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.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley stills as fingers trail gently over the lines scored on his back. The touch is so soft and careful, like the kiss of a warm breeze, like water poured out from a cup. Gentle, soft, healing, loving...

"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?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“No.”

His brain doesn’t have any say in the matter; this response comes directly from his heart. It spills out of him like a clumsy splash of magma, heavy hot truth searing his lips and tongue.

(For a second he feels the weight of sodden burnt wings on his back, the rasp of breath in a throat newly broken.)

“They wouldn’t let you come back up to earth for a long time.” Aziraphale’s voice is strained, tight with hurt. “Maybe not till Armageddon gets started. Partly to interrogate you, and partly just out of spite. You wouldn’t get to spend any time with humans, unless it was to watch them suffering. You wouldn’t be able to affect anything for the better.”

He draws a ragged breath before adding, “I don’t want that for you. I couldn’t bear it.”

Silent between them, unspoken but heavy as storm clouds, is a silent knowledge. I couldn’t bear the pain it would cause you. I can never tell you what it feels like, I can never fully explain, and I don’t want you to know firsthand.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's breath catches in his throat.

It's not the words that convince him. They're good points, ones that he's considered, but he's also considered the endless nightmare of waiting and waiting and waiting and the relief of having that question, at least, answered. The axe finally fallen. So they aren't what convinces him.

Instead it's the raw pain in Aziraphale's voice, the weight and silent knowledge of suffering...that arrests Crowley as no words could. He has an idea, and he knows it's only a small awareness of the whole, of what agony Aziraphale went through when he Fell. How could he ask such a blindingly foolish question, knowing that? How could he be so utterly thoughtless?

He makes a low noise and tilts his head, leaning in. It's not much of a kiss, hard and guilt-ridden and grieving. But it's still comforting and meant to comfort. "I'm sorry," he whispers, clutching at Aziraphale's shoulders, rich fabric under his palms. "I'm sorry, love, I shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have--" Shouldn't have hurt you by asking, shouldn't have let myself sink this low, shouldn't have-- He breathes in hard, presses another kiss to Aziraphale's mouth. "Forgive me."

From:

confoundthemighty

They’re tangled up somewhat awkwardly now, all grasping hands and desperate leaning, breath blurring together. For a moment they simply stay that way, holding on to one another like drowning sailors clinging to the last scrap of ship in a storm. Pain hangs between them, a gossamer-thin but heavy weight.

But the moment, like all of time measured on earth, is finite. Aziraphale shifts, tilting his head, claiming a gentler kiss from Crowley’s mouth. This kiss is meant to settle them both, and he breathes through it slowly, letting the surge of panic ebb.

(He knows what the main difference is between Heaven and Hell, has known for millennia. Heaven lies. Constantly, ruthlessly, more flagrantly than Hell ever has. They parrot back messages of love sung to them long ago, but add on qualifiers and provisos and conditions. Crowley is the only angel he’s ever met whose heart is as expansive as a human’s, or at least the only one he’s met who’s not afraid to show it. And the idea of Heaven condemning Crowley for his purpose the way Aziraphale had been at the beginning...

It doesn’t bear thinking about.

He can’t let it drag them both down.)

“Of course I do.” His forehead rests against Crowley’s; his palms flatten gently against the angel’s back over his shirt. “We’ll burn the commendation. The letter too, if you’ve got it. Lighten the carriage load before we cross the border into Italy.”

There’s a shade of hope in his tone now, providing a faint harmony to the determination that drives the words.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley does settle, his anxious racing heart slowing to a more sedate pace. This isn't over, not the conversation or the nightmare or the recovery. But the worst of it is done, and he doesn't have to do anything more alone. He can ask his questions for a while, and while Aziraphale may not be any sort of authoritative source, he listens. He's always listened.

For the first time in years Crowley feels heard and understood, and he could weep just from relief and gratitude.

"Yes," he says at once. "Yes, please. The letter's already gone, it was made if more ordinary stuff, but that thing..." He shudders and pointedly doesn't look at the scroll lying on the grass next to them. "I can't destroy it on my own. Tried. But you--"

Crowley pulls back to see Aziraphale's face more clearly. "Hellfire would do it, I imagine. Would you?"

There's still an apologetic note. He doesn't remember his previous, desperate request of before, not clearly, and now that he's sober he's aware of what a potential mess of pain it is even just to ask.

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s none of the dizzy reeling fear of the first request. Not with the truth out in the open between them. This time, all his apprehensions have fallen away, leaving behind only love and certainty.

He offers Crowley a flicker of a smile, the promise of a beaming grin in their future.

“My pleasure,” he says, and means it. “Just keep well back.”

His sharp blue gaze turns toward the scroll, shimmering on the grass; with a flick of his finger it skitters another few feet away from them, coming to rest on a flat stone that might have been part of a wall once (1). When he’s satisfied that it’s far enough away from Crowley, he lifts his hand slowly, snaps his fingers once.

Gabriel’s signature catches first, the brilliant golden letters turning orange and red and blue before they blacken entirely. Little tongues of flame begin to dance along the edges of the mark; a hole expands in the page like a blossom. A thin trail of white smoke curls idly up from one corner of the paper.

(1) While one might assume that even part-time residence in Hell would provide a comprehensive understanding of fire safety, most of what Aziraphale’s learned about it he’s learned from watching human cock-ups. The major takeaway from those could best be summed up as “you can never be too careful handling any kind of fire, ordinary or otherwise”.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley obediently scoots back without argument. He doubts there's any danger to him, not from this distance, but Hellfire could truly and permanently harm him, on a level far, far beyond the damage he's done to himself over the last year. He won't put the strain of that kind of worry on Aziraphale.

He holds his breath as the paper begins to burn, and doesn't let it out again until the commendation is entirely gone, leaving not even ashes behind. Then it all comes out in a whoosh. Some dreadful tension leaves him in the same moment, and the lack of it of it is dizzying. It'd weighed so much, that reward. He could vanish it to the far ends of the earth or the deepest part of the ocean, he had done, but it'd still been with him.

Not anymore. What it represents is still a burden he'll have to carry, but even so, he feels lighter. It's there in his smile already. "Thank you," he whispers, when he can finally drag his gaze from the rock to Aziraphale. His face shines with relief.

He takes another easier breath, then makes a bit of a face. Hellfire smells dreadful, sulfuric to the nth degree and laced with a sweet rotted smokiness that even a mind as expansive as an angel's struggles to define as anything other than itself. The burned paper leaves behind a smell of ozone and electricity and ice. It's hardly a pleasant combination. Pity they don't just cancel each other out...

Crowley thinks of something then, reaches down for the pouch at his waist with his shorn hair in it, and unhooks it from his belt. "Here. Should do this, too. I want to leave as much of the past year behind me as I can."

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s long since guessed that Crowley hasn’t been hanging on to the remnants of his hair as a keepsake. But the little twist of pain it evokes is still a surprise. Even though it’s no more than dead cast-off bits of his corporation, it’s still a part of Crowley in some sense.

Still, a measured breath pushes the sting away. He has a keepsake of his own, tucked away in his sleeve, and more than that he has Crowley here with him for a whole three months. And this is important to the angel, a way of pushing off some of the terrible weight Heaven has laid on his shoulders.

He manages a small smile.

“Toss it over,” he says, and when Crowley does Aziraphale waves a hand to change the trajectory of the bag’s arc through the air so that it lands on the stone as well.

This time the smell is a touch worse. There aren’t yet words to describe some of the notes in the awful perfume of hellfire—in centuries to come Aziraphale will realize that it smells like burning tires, like a chainsmoker’s dirty laundry, like a ruined microwave. It’s all of those things and more, and itself in a way no other description can quite articulate, and the smell of burnt hair on top of that does not noticeably improve the sulfurous stink.

But at some point after they’ve left this sunny green space behind them, the wind will shift. Rain will roll in from some other corner of the world and wash away whatever ash or lingering stench might be left behind. The air will forget this moment; so will the land. The memory of this smell will fade from their own minds in time, its edges blunted by time.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley realizes his mistake a moment too late, for all that Aziraphale hides his distress well. As soon as the pouch and its contents start burning he crawls back and latches his arms around the demon's waist. The stench is stronger even these few feet closer, almost enough to make him gag, but he doesn't care. Crowley squishes his nose against Aziraphale's back and watches over his shoulder, until all that remains are flecks of ash floating upwards. Only then does he sigh a little.

"M'sorry." The circle of his arms tightens. "Ordinary fire would probably have done for that, once it was cut. Just wasn't, wasn't thinking. Haven't been."

Crowley sighs again, nuzzling his nose just above the high collar of Aziraphale's shirt. It's mostly an attempt to comfort and say here, I'm here, that wasn't me, but it's also a little bit to hide from the hellfire reek lingering in the air. "M'sorry." A small kiss, just next to the ear. "Thank you."

Edited Date: 2020-07-01 12:45 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

The kiss and the words wash warm breath over the back of Aziraphale’s neck; the clasp of Crowley’s arms and the press of his thin body against Aziraphale’s back are solid and real. They keep him grounded while the wave of grief and rage and hurt breaks over him, and when its tide goes out, Crowley remains.

(Bruised and scarred and thinner than he ought to be, his soul starved for kindness and healing, but he remains. Some spark of the joy that has lit Aziraphale’s world for millennia still flickers in him. And for a little eternity they can be here together on earth; Aziraphale’s softness can be a shelter for Crowley.)

Aziraphale exhales slowly. His eyes flutter shut; his hands rise to curl around Crowley’s forearms.

“I love you,” he breathes—you’re welcome, I forgive you, I’m glad you’re here.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's breath hitches, and he clings even more tightly. "I love you." Thank you for finding me, for helping me, for loving me. Please never stop loving me. I'm so sorry I hurt and frightened you. He'll find better ways to say and show it. They have time. Too short a time for their wanting, but a space of it. "Aziraphale, I love you."

They stay there for a time, entwined as closely as ivy around a tree. Even when they finally stand to walk back they keep arms around shoulders and waists, and their embrace lasts long past the point where their carriage crosses the border between countries.

From:

confoundthemighty

The journey through the south of France is short but pleasant; under any other circumstances Aziraphale might linger, or perhaps insist at stopping more frequently for tastes of the local cuisine. But these are special circumstances, and Aziraphale finds himself a little more excited with each passing day. It’s an almost childish sort of excitement, a bright anticipation of joys to come, a hope that feels like it could perfume the whole world.

Less than a week (record time, as the coachman will brag for the rest of his life) and they’re in northern Italy. The hills of Tuscany unfurl before them, long rumpled folds in the fabric of the earth, green on every side.

He and Crowley talk more often now, with the worst of the hangover behind them. They sit close more often than not, holding hands or leaning into one another’s sides. Sometimes they kiss, but when they do it’s with the warmth of comfort or reassurance or tenderness, not the heat of desire.

(Which is not to say that Aziraphale doesn’t feel its pull. Sometimes, watching Crowley sleep when they’ve stopped the carriage to wait out an overcast night or stopped at an inn, he lets his hungry gaze linger on the parts of his angel he longs to kiss: shoulder, neck, wrists. The waiting only makes each pang keener, makes the anticipation sweeter.)

The night before they’re due to come within sight of Florence, Aziraphale waits till the carriage driver and Crowley (and everyone else at the inn where they’ve stopped, just to be safe) are asleep. Then he closes his own eyes, and though his human corporation remains breathing and functioning, Aziraphale slips out of it a while to survey the countryside. It’s a touch disorienting, to be a consciousness without the sensory input of a body, but also sort of refreshing.

Unseen, formless, he moves like a gust of wind across the drowsing countryside. Little flashes of sin illuminate his way in the night as he passes by human habitation, lanterns in the dark. But after some searching he finds a place human hands have built and human souls have vacated. It’s a small, cozy stone villa nestled up against the side of a hill, with a crumbling mossy wall marking out the borders of the estate.

In the light of day they’ll be able to see the farms and homes outside of the city; the walls of Florence are probably a half day’s carriage ride away. The furniture inside is half rotted, and the place has endured a century’s worth of weather without human maintenance; from the after-echoes of death Aziraphale can sense, the inhabitants mostly fell to the plague. Whoever survived left in a hurry, and their descendants haven’t returned.

It’s perfect. Granted, there will be some fixing-up to do, but Hell is far more liberal about the ways its agents bend reality than Heaven’s ever been.

Aziraphale inhales deeply as he returns to his body, the path ahead of them clear as a melody in his mind. He gives the driver an extra purse of coins and clear directions over breakfast, and spends that day’s ride in a state of happy anticipation, his heart jolting slightly every time they pass a landmark he recognizes.

From:

duckshaveears

The journey is a haze of exhaustion and relief for Crowley. He pays little attention to where they're going, though he expresses interest whenever Aziraphale points something out for him to see or asks what he hopes to find or do when they get to Italy. Crowley finds it difficult to think of specifics beyond an idea of gardens. Truthfully he doesn't yet care much. Aziraphale and away are his priorities, and just now he has both. He doesn't need to find a new purpose or reconcile his recent experiences with his faith yet, not while they're traveling. He can leave mundane details to his demon and sleep, and resting easily in Aziraphale's embrace the way he can't in Heaven's.

In all honesty he wouldn't mind if the journey were longer, boring roads and limited coach space or not. When the journey ends he'll have to wake up, in more than one sense, and part of him cringes from the idea. So much easier for now to the motion of travel lull him, to feel Aziraphale's affection covering him like the warmest of blankets. So much easier to not think.

He rests more easily now with the weight of Heaven's approval burned, and smiles or sighs in his sleep whenever Aziraphale strokes his new-shorn hair or caresses his face.

But miles pass and the journey draws towards its destination, and if Crowley is reluctant to drag himself back to greater awareness it doesn't show overmuch. He knows when it's the last day; Aziraphale's pleasure is obvious, his excitement contagious, and Crowley lets himself be swept up in it, rouses himself to ask questions and notice things.

(So strange, for noticing and questioning to now take effort, when they've been integral to his being for as long as he's existed. But that's too close to other more painful thoughts, so he doesn't think about it. Not yet. Not while they're still travelling)

"Half a day from Florence," he muses, looking out at the rolling hills beyond the tall thin trees that line the road they travel. He glances at Aziraphale and smiles, small and teasing. "Just far enough to not be convienent. Something tells me we'll have to cheat if we want that bed with a soft coverlet on our first night there." He squeezes Aziraphale's fingers with his own. A week has done nothing to reduce his amazed gratitude that Aziraphale's fingers are there to be squeezed. "Do you want to make our own furnishings, or shall we stay a night or two and then visit the city for a few days to buy things the human way?"

Edited (I like to edit yadda yadds) Date: 2020-07-13 12:24 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

Every time Crowley’s smile takes on a spark of playfulness, every time there’s a note of curiosity in his voice, Aziraphale’s heart lifts. Each of these moments is a step away from the wild, filthy madman he met on the streets of Seville, back towards an angel who found joy in the first rainfall. For all that he’s meant to be a creature of despair and misery, there’s a secret shine to Aziraphale now—the luster of kindling hope.

The clasp of Crowley’s fingers around his own, however, has always been cause for something dangerously close to giddiness. This moment in particular is no exception.

“I think I can handle a bed and an appropriately soft coverlet,” Aziraphale smiles. “We’ll make a project of it, along with the gardens. Florence can wait a while.”

(Even if all they do in this new bed is hold one another, it means being close to Crowley, helping him with the weight Heaven has tried to shift onto his thin shoulders. That by itself is more than Aziraphale’s ever thought he would have of love. It’s a feast for his eternally hungry soul.)

From:

duckshaveears

Every time Aziraphale wriggles happily in his seat, every time he speaks of something they can do together over the coming days, Crowley almost aches with devotion. It's such a relief to look at the future--the present--with eagerness and pleasure, after his months of numbed despair. Crowley spent a lot of time in Greece arguing with philosophers. Socrates had waxed eloquent on a particular type of pleasure that comes from a pain having been removed. At the time Crowley hadn't been convinced, but now, centuries later, he silently concedes the man had a point.

Even so, the relief, great as it is, pales next to the joy of seeing Aziraphale smile at any given moment, feeling the warmth of his skin and breath, feeling the love that all but radiates from him. He can feel himself uncurling like a leaf in the sun, the roots of him drinking in all that love like water.

Crowley's smile grows and softens. "I like the idea of it, you know. Making it together. Arguing about the colour of the bedclothes or where to put the rosebushes or how many cushions to have. I've never gotten to do that before."

They lived together before, yes, for decades in Aziraphale's palace by the lake. But it was Aziraphale's. Crowley was been granted space in it, had loved it and been loved there, but it wasn't the same as a home they both make together from the start. Crowley can't imagine wanting anything more.

From:

confoundthemighty

Sometimes when Aziraphale keenly misses Crowley and has nothing to do between assignments, he goes back to that castle—specifically to the rooms they’d spent the most time in together. Over nearly thirty years there had been corners Crowley had made his own: spots where he would sit and listen to Aziraphale read or play, a window they’d widened to give him a better view of the greenery in the courtyard. Though the place is shrouded in eerie quiet now, it’s always a reminder of a time when neither of them had to be alone.

Now they’ll have another place, one that will belong to them equally. Even if only for three months.

“I won’t argue with you on the rosebushes, unless you want them in the middle of the sitting room,” he teases. But with the press of his fingers and the softness of his smile he adds, I’m glad to be doing this with you.

The carriage begins to make its way up the slightly overgrown road that leads to their villa, the wheels jostling a little over grass and stones. In the afternoon sunlight the mossy patches on the wall around their new home nearly glow, Eden-green.

From:

duckshaveears

"You don't approve of indoor gardens?" Crowley teases back. "Fine, I'll concede that one."

He abandons the debate to look up as the villa comes into view. It's a largeish place; smaller than Aziraphale's palace by the lake, but still a few stories tall. But to call it run down is understating things. Some of the roof has fallen in, for one, and much of the border wall. Most of the windows are broken or open, which means weather damage and animal infestations and Lord knows what else. There will be a lot to do.

(Good, his traitorous mind thinks. Something to keep busy with, to get distracted by. So he won't have to think about other things...)

The sun's light is kind on the old stones, and the moss and ivy are welcoming. The house might not be in the best shape, but it still has hope to offer. Crowley lets himself be comforted by the metaphor, obvious as it is. "It's beautiful," he says quietly, leaning his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Thank you."

From:

confoundthemighty

It looks smaller in the light of day—particularly the bits where the roof is mostly on the floor—and far more humble than its original owners probably intended. Perhaps this place was the project of an ambitious merchant, or a lesser noble hoping to move up in the world; now it merely looks shabby in a friendly way.

Aziraphale slips his arm around Crowley’s waist, basks in his nearness and the no-longer-tense set of his shoulders.

“I hoped you’d enjoy it,” he murmurs, squeezing gently. “Though I think our first order of business will have to be finding a spot with adequate roofing for the bed to go under.”

(The driver, meanwhile, finds his initial suspicions about his passengers’ ownership of the house sliding out of his thoughts entirely as they approach. Certainly it’s very run-down for a family home, as the gentleman in white claims, but the place gives off such a sense of peace that he merely finds himself approving of the decision to spend a summer here.)

From:

duckshaveears

As soon as Aziraphale's arm is around his waist Crowley is relaxing back into the hold. He chuckles at the caveat even as he reaches down and covers Aziraphale's hand with his, pressing their fingers together. "We've slept in worse," he points out, then turns his head and grins. "Or I have, lazy angel that I am. You've watched me sleep in worse places, more accurately."

He does not think of the past year, of dirt for bedding and his own elbow as a cushion and the open air as a blanket. He does lean in and kiss Aziraphale's cheek. "At worst we'll have the stars for our ceiling and each other as a coverlet. I'll be content with that, I promise." He grins, his expression turning a bit sly. "Well...mostly content. Wouldn't say no to a mattress. Or pillows."

Edited (Was rereading and the editing bug bit sorry please ignore me) Date: 2021-01-15 02:07 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Well, I certainly won’t let you sleep on the ground now. I have standards.”

*

With the coachman paid and on his way back to Florence, they spend an hour or so wandering through the remains of the house, assessing the state of the place. They walk the length of the border wall, piecing together what the layout of the original garden might have looked like from the ruins. The plants here are all running riot; there’s a patch of wall near one of the bedrooms on the ground floor where honeysuckle spills through the window and over the remains of a stone bench nearby.

It takes them a while to pick their bedroom—several of the rooms with enough roof to qualify on the first night are occupied by sparrows, and Aziraphale hasn’t the heart to evict them today. But eventually they find a room that’s mostly intact and has a view onto the garden [footnote: And, by extension, a view onto the nearby road. Aziraphale may be confident, but he’s not naive.]. There’s a half-rotted bed frame in another room that can be easily convinced that it remembers what it was like in its glory days, so that’s where Aziraphale starts.

The mattress is a bit trickier. Anything that humans might have brought here is long since rotted or repurposed as nests. But there’s an abundance of moss in the garden, which is easy enough to miracle into the proper shape and cover with a sheet. And, just for the added comfort, he summons a coverlet from one of the rooms at the Lake—one that lay across their shared bed, once upon a time.

As the sun sets, he sits on the edge of this new bed with Crowley, plays his vihuela for a while. Just improvising little themes, occasionally mixing in a snatch of the millennia-old song he’s played for Crowley on a dozen other instruments by now. When the angel’s recovering stamina wears down, Aziraphale slips into bed beside him, gathers Crowley into his arms.

He doesn’t let go until Crowley’s awake again.