Months and months of wretched lockdown, and at last a breath of hope perfumes the air. Finally (and without any Heavenly interference other than Aziraphale’s own general vague well-wishes, as far as he can tell) the humans have made a vaccine and are distributing it as quickly as they possibly can. There’s optimism ranging from cautious to jubilant in most of the souls he feels pass by the shop, when he bothers to extend his senses.
And still there’s not a word from Crowley.
Strange things happen to a hedonist in isolation. With so many pleasures great and small out of reach and no idea when they might be available again, a kind of weird alchemy takes place over time that rearranges one’s priorities and creates miserable agitation in the soul. Along with the hunger for experience and sensation, a sort of manic determination grows: If I make it out of this I’ll never pass up a chance to indulge again.
Combine this determination with a love that’s only grown keener in the sustained absence of the beloved, and you have an absolutely untenable state of being of the exact kind that grips Aziraphale now.
On New Year’s Eve he decides he’s had quite enough of wallowing (a decision assisted by a glass of champagne that really would be better shared). He digs a picnic basket out of a dusty corner, jams a few bottles of wine into it along with a strawberry almond Budapest roll he’s baked but hasn’t had the heart to eat alone, and heads to Mayfair. For the first time he doesn’t give a damn whether anyone might see him and disapprove—he has things to do. (Though he does, naturally, make certain he has a face mask on. He has standards.)
Crowley’s door knows him well enough to open itself when he arrives after he’s given a courtesy knock; the flat is full of a thick silence. The plants have clearly been too terrified of a sudden inspection to misbehave, though some of them are looking a touch thirsty.
Crowley himself is, to Aziraphale’s dismay, still asleep.
The black sheets on his bed seem to cushion him like the velvet in a jewelry box, setting off a diamond. His hair’s been growing on his pillow, a soft red tangle that’s somewhere between waves and ringlets. His eyelashes rest unmoving against his cheeks.
For a moment Aziraphale wants to simply shake him awake, demand that Crowley sit up and pay attention to him. Then the thought gentles: really, Crowley is quite beautiful when he sleeps, all his angles and edges at rest. A harsh awakening would probably jangle him into a state of exasperation, and that’s not what Aziraphale wants. After all, he’s here to tell Crowley that he wants to ring in the new year together, and hopefully more than that if his courage doesn’t fail him.
That thought sparks another that gives Aziraphale pause. He could make his intentions known and wake Crowley with the same gesture. It would be terribly, terribly romantic, to wake his serpent with a kiss.
Although.
There is, Aziraphale reflects, a bit of a problem with the awakening kiss. In fiction it’s perfectly fine: the author can assure the audience that the handsome prince’s motives and desires are all born of innocent love, and that the princess in her bower pines for the kiss she cannot ask for or say yes to. Negotiation isn’t a necessary part of the equation when an author can show you what’s inside someone’s mind. But outside of a story things get considerably stickier, even for immortal beings. Or perhaps especially for immortal beings, depending on how you look at it.
The other ideal thing about fiction is that no real soul is hurt by a possibly dubious action. If he misjudges this, he might end up hurting the soul he loves most in the world, and Aziraphale would rather pack up and leave for Alpha Centauri than hurt Crowley again if he can avoid it.
Although.
Both he and Crowley have long been slipping into human dreams to examine and shape them, for work (and occasionally for their own curiosity). He could ask. Or at least let Crowley know he’s here.
With the gentleness only an anxious angel can manage, Aziraphale seats himself on the edge of the mattress. His fingers just barely brush the high slope of Crowley’s cheekbone, a touch lighter than a breath of air.
Easily, as quiet and certain as opening a door, he lets himself sink into the demon’s dreams.
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timeasmymeasure
DING DING SOMEONE ORDER EQUAL PARTS SILLINESS AND PINING
Date: 2022-07-30 06:22 pm (UTC)And still there’s not a word from Crowley.
Strange things happen to a hedonist in isolation. With so many pleasures great and small out of reach and no idea when they might be available again, a kind of weird alchemy takes place over time that rearranges one’s priorities and creates miserable agitation in the soul. Along with the hunger for experience and sensation, a sort of manic determination grows: If I make it out of this I’ll never pass up a chance to indulge again.
Combine this determination with a love that’s only grown keener in the sustained absence of the beloved, and you have an absolutely untenable state of being of the exact kind that grips Aziraphale now.
On New Year’s Eve he decides he’s had quite enough of wallowing (a decision assisted by a glass of champagne that really would be better shared). He digs a picnic basket out of a dusty corner, jams a few bottles of wine into it along with a strawberry almond Budapest roll he’s baked but hasn’t had the heart to eat alone, and heads to Mayfair. For the first time he doesn’t give a damn whether anyone might see him and disapprove—he has things to do. (Though he does, naturally, make certain he has a face mask on. He has standards.)
Crowley’s door knows him well enough to open itself when he arrives after he’s given a courtesy knock; the flat is full of a thick silence. The plants have clearly been too terrified of a sudden inspection to misbehave, though some of them are looking a touch thirsty.
Crowley himself is, to Aziraphale’s dismay, still asleep.
The black sheets on his bed seem to cushion him like the velvet in a jewelry box, setting off a diamond. His hair’s been growing on his pillow, a soft red tangle that’s somewhere between waves and ringlets. His eyelashes rest unmoving against his cheeks.
For a moment Aziraphale wants to simply shake him awake, demand that Crowley sit up and pay attention to him. Then the thought gentles: really, Crowley is quite beautiful when he sleeps, all his angles and edges at rest. A harsh awakening would probably jangle him into a state of exasperation, and that’s not what Aziraphale wants. After all, he’s here to tell Crowley that he wants to ring in the new year together, and hopefully more than that if his courage doesn’t fail him.
That thought sparks another that gives Aziraphale pause. He could make his intentions known and wake Crowley with the same gesture. It would be terribly, terribly romantic, to wake his serpent with a kiss.
Although.
There is, Aziraphale reflects, a bit of a problem with the awakening kiss. In fiction it’s perfectly fine: the author can assure the audience that the handsome prince’s motives and desires are all born of innocent love, and that the princess in her bower pines for the kiss she cannot ask for or say yes to. Negotiation isn’t a necessary part of the equation when an author can show you what’s inside someone’s mind. But outside of a story things get considerably stickier, even for immortal beings. Or perhaps especially for immortal beings, depending on how you look at it.
The other ideal thing about fiction is that no real soul is hurt by a possibly dubious action. If he misjudges this, he might end up hurting the soul he loves most in the world, and Aziraphale would rather pack up and leave for Alpha Centauri than hurt Crowley again if he can avoid it.
Although.
Both he and Crowley have long been slipping into human dreams to examine and shape them, for work (and occasionally for their own curiosity). He could ask. Or at least let Crowley know he’s here.
With the gentleness only an anxious angel can manage, Aziraphale seats himself on the edge of the mattress. His fingers just barely brush the high slope of Crowley’s cheekbone, a touch lighter than a breath of air.
Easily, as quiet and certain as opening a door, he lets himself sink into the demon’s dreams.