faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

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From:

confoundthemighty

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.

From:

duckshaveears

It's a bright and sunny day in Camelot.

At least, it looks as Camelot did. It looks like Wessex, the castle is right, the trees are the correct sorts of trees. The clothes are the same, the flags and banners, the crowds gathered to watch the jousting knights. There are some details lacking, however. It's not as damp or muddy, and the smell of horse dung isn't nearly as prevalent or pungent. Arthur and Guinevere sit up high with an assortment of nobles beside them, and all the knights of the round are gathered to do battle, or at least mock-battle in the name of entertainment.

There is one quite noticeable difference from Aziraphale's own memories of the place (aside from the lack of horseshit). Sitting beside Guinevere is a very familiar figure. Aziraphale's own face smiles bemusedly on the tournament grounds. His doppleganger looks exactly as he does save that he's wearing a cream colored dress with brown and gold trim, under the same fur-lined cloak Aziraphale may remember from his own days as a knight.

From:

confoundthemighty

For a moment Aziraphale wobbles, adjusting to the steady ground of someone else’s dreamscape—and then he twigs to where he is, when he is. A somewhat idealized version of the past, perhaps, but this is all ground he recognizes.

He recognizes that cloak, too—and then his own face above it, not especially feminine but wearing a strange sort of coy smile. If it wasn’t on his own face he’d almost call it a Mona Lisa smile, layered and unknowable. As it is the sight is just mildly unsettling.

(Of course he probably shows up in Crowley’s dreams. They’re friends. That’s normal. It would be rude to make assumptions based on the very first contextless image he’s seen here.)

“Right,” Aziraphale says to himself, hoping the sound of his own voice will be a bit more steadying. “Well. Here I am.” Reflexively he adjusts his waistcoat—it is still a waistcoat, thank goodness, none of the plate or mail he and the knights endured—and fiddles with the lapels of his coat before moving forward to get a closer view.

From:

duckshaveears

No one seems to notice Aziraphale. In fact the people are by and large rather blank, not featureless but more a suggestion of people, the crowd noises omnipresent rather than with specific sources. The idea of an audience made manifest. Or not manifest, as it's a dream. The most important figures are identifiable, the ones Crowley might have known or at least seen, and if Aziraphale looks directly at someone's face there's a face to be seen. But most of them are rather samey and their eyes shallow.

There's one exception.

The other Aziraphale, benignly observing, suddenly catches sight of the stranger in the midst, and his eyes widen. He leans over and whispers a word to King Arthur, who waves a permissory hand, and arises, disappears through the back of the box.

In no time at all he's appeared (somehow--did he walk or teleport, or was he just suddenly there? It's unclear, it's just happened) next to Aziraphale, who he looks over with an observant eye. "Well," he says, and the voice is the same one Aziraphale used to steady himself just moments ago. "I suppose this was bound to happen eventually. I'm you, I take it? Or the other way around? I do apologize for the confusion, this hasn't happened before. At least, I don't believe it has."

Edited Date: 2022-08-03 10:20 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s more than a little unsettling to be face to face with himself, particularly considering where he was in the waking world a moment ago and where he is now. Before he can stop himself he’s blurted out, “Oh Lord. A psychopomp.”

Then the reflexive desire to be polite kicks in, and he winces. “Ah. So sorry. Yes. You’re quite right, it is the first time. I’m—well, you, but from the outside. Hello.”

For the space of a breath he considers his doppelgänger’s outfit. Apparently here in Crowley’s psyche he’s still well-dressed: the gown he wears is fine wool, in soft earthen shades, cut to flatter. Strange that his hair hasn’t changed, though. Possibly it’s because Crowley’s never seen him with exceptionally long hair.

“I wouldn’t normally impose,” he confesses, hoping that his double will understand or at least empathize. “Only it’s been the better part of a year. I don’t suppose you could help me get his attention?”

From:

duckshaveears

The other Aziraphale looks startled, then laughs a little. "Oh dear me, no, nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. Merely a figment. A small part of his imagination, I suppose. A bit more intelligent than--" He waves his hand at the interchangeable others, who are still busy cheering even though nothing is present happening. He looks faintly embarrassed about it all. "Well. Obviously I'd have to be, to resemble you properly."

He smiles abruptly. "Do you know, this is really quite exciting? I hope I'll remember it later. Some guidance on how best to imitate you really would be most helpful." He looks rather hopeful. "I do my best but of course I'm only a poor imitation. He has an excellent imagination but even the most creative mind can't match reality. He'll be along any minute, I'm sure. You of all people know how he likes to make an entrance." He frowns. "A year, you say? Goodness. That is rather a long while. It's ages since he spent that much time here. Not that time really matters here, as such. It's all a bit wibbly-wobbly."

Edited Date: 2022-08-05 11:30 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Well, between you and me it’s been rather a wretched year, so I don’t especially blame him.”

Aziraphale fidgets, his gaze darting over the long skirts and the embroidered fabric showing beneath the cloak. The patterns shift and change a bit even as he watches them—a function of being imagined rather than remembered, he supposes, since the cloak doesn’t change at all.

“Erm…” He casts another glance at the jousting field, the cheering crowd. It all seems so bright and benign; he’d been expecting something rather more Gothic in nature. “Should I be—taking your place back there, or…? I’m sure you’re aware, most dreams I enter don’t generally come with a guide.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Has it? What a pity." The mock Aziraphale seems unaware of the events outside of Crowley's dreams, which only makes sense, really. The question about whether or not the real Aziraphale should be taking his place in the royal box earns a more startled reaction. "Oh dear. Do you know, I'm really not sure? This hasn't exactly happened before. You being here, I mean; things often don't go as he plans them, even here. Especially here. And we're already in more than once place, at least symbolically..."

He gestures back towards the field, where a horse and rider have appeared. The knight's helmet is down, so no visible features present themselves, but his armour is recognizable enough. He shines in silver and white--the same white fur cloak that the dream-Aziraphale wears, Crowley's mind is definitely copying details--as he sits astride a magnificent white horse, the very picture of chivalry and virtue and all the qualities knights of Camelot are supposed to embody. His shield bears a pair of wings and a halo as its heraldic insignia, all in silver. Aziraphale's companion sighs with a little envy. "He doesn't let me--us--dress up too much, you understand," he says quietly. "I think he feels a bit guilty about having us here. And I can't say I'd really be keen to wear all that armour again, and this dress is perfectly lovely. But it's quite the romantic picture, don't you think?"

"Sir Aziraphale of the Round, peerless knight, wishes to know if any others have the courage and wit to face him!" someone announces. "If there be any who so dare, let them stand forth and--"

"I so dare!"

The voice crashes over the proceedings like the crack of doom, and a shadow covers all, as though a cloud has passed over the sun. A tremendous roar bellows from a forest to the east.

Dream Crowley brightens and smiles. "Ah," he says happily. "Here he comes now."

From:

confoundthemighty

The sight of yet another double on the field is even more unsettling than the first—not least because it’s more confusing. This is right historically, but… well, some part of Aziraphale likes the damsel (if that’s what the first one is) a bit better. Just as a role. He knows he’s a creature initially intended to fight, but it’s never given him the same thrill as any of the innumerable smaller pleasures of the world.

Then he hears an unmistakable voice, and his fluttering heart stops in its tracks. Almost wildly he turns to look, completely unconcerned with whatever the figment might have to say.

From:

duckshaveears

The sky continues to darken. The wind picks up, swirling leaves ominously. 'Ominous' pretty much covers the change of ambiance, along with 'dramatic', 'foreboding', and especially 'sinister'.

All heads are turned towards the forest, so all see when a large black fog appears, and then when a pair of large golden eyes open within it. The eyes rise high into the air. There's another ferocious roar, accompanied by an evil (and very familiar) laugh.

The Black Knight approaches, riding on a dragon.

It's a fairly textbook dragon. The black scales and scarlet underbelly are recognizable, and the eyes are remarkably similar, but underneath all that there's a blankness about the dragon that echoes most of the other beings present. Though the dream people do an excellent job of panicking, complete with screaming, fainting, and running for their lives. Dream-Aziraphale sighs fondly. "He does so enjoy making an entrance," he murmurs.

Crowley, visor up to show his face, cackles with evil delight as his steed breathes fire into the air.

Across the field, the silver knight's horse rears up. The knight lowers his Lance and charges, and Crowley and his dragon race forward to meet him.

It's a proper pass, surprisingly. Both break their lances on each other's shields and finish the run, turning at the end. Like magic (well, obviously) new lances appear, and they charge again, to a similar result.

"This can go on for a while," dream-Aziraphale confesses, not looking away from Crowley even for an instant. "They'll move on to swords soon. It usually comes out as a draw, or the narrowest of victories for one or the other of them. Depends on his mood. Sometimes he likes to give a threatening speech and depart as dramatically as he came, sometimes he loses but is graciously shown mercy and leaves vowing horrible revenge. It varies. Our counterpart over there doesn't say much, he's just here for the metaphor, but I usually get to exchange a few barbs and witticisms. Once he tossed me a black rose. Oh!" He suddenly recalls himself and smooths his dress. "Oh, I really should return to my place before he notices, please excuse me--"

And he's gone, only to reappear at once in the box beside Arthur and Guinevere, sitting with a profoundly disapproving expression belied by the wistfulness and yearning in his eyes.

From:

confoundthemighty

Well.

This is a bit of a pickle.

He’s not really shocked that Crowley’s dreams contain this sort of high drama. (Nor does he disapprove, since, well, they do share certain tastes for the theatrical.) But he’s… a touch uneasy, for reasons he can’t yet articulate. The details he’s been given so far haven’t cohered yet enough for him to realize why, so he’s merely left with a strange fidgety feeling he doesn’t like much.

(Aziraphale knows he’s felt the things he sees on his double’s face. He knows now, after months of reflection in isolation, he’s probably let it show more often than he meant to. But that was when it was dangerous, and this is a new world.)

In any case, it doesn’t seem as if he’s got much of a chance of getting Crowley’s attention right now. It’s loud here, and he’s not at all sure what would happen if he tried to flag down a dragon being controlled by Crowley’s subconscious.

Instead he glances around the field, nervous, trying not to wring his hands. There are tents scattered about, of course, all of them rather samey… except one in black and red. Encouraged—Aziraphale knows symbolism when he sees it—he makes a beeline for that tent, passing easily through the flap and into momentary darkness.

From:

duckshaveears

He finds himself walking through thick, plush curtains, falling from some unknown ceiling all the way to the floor. At first black and then gradually changing to a deep red velveteen. After several minutes of pushing them out of the way, he passes through them to find himself on a well-known stage.

The Globe burned down centuries ago, but here looks the same as it ever did, a delight of Elizabethan architecture. It's brighter than it was, middling-crowded, and the woman selling nuts and fruit to the audience also hawks ice cream, sausage-onna-bun and, for some reason, Twiglets. [footnote: While not responsible for the great love it or hate it Marmite debate, Crowley does get a certain kick out of it, as he does from anything in which humans get incredibly passionate about things which are completely petty and unimportant. The Jaffa Cake Lawsuit is another favorite of his and he and Aziraphale spent a very entertaining and very drunk weekend at the time arguing the case.]

The crowd, similar in their samey-ness to the tournament audience, maintain a low murmur of conversation such as one expects in a theatre before the show begins. They don't react to Aziraphale's sudden presence, but someone appears next to him and takes him by the elbow.

"I pray you, Master Fell, remove yourself to the wings. The show's not yet begun, and if you remain where you are I fear you'll be called upon to read a prologue."

From:

confoundthemighty

For a wild moment passing through that dark space full of curtains, Aziraphale imagines himself a lost mortal stumbling into the Pevensies’ wardrobe, feeling his way towards something unknown. [footnote: During quarantine Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to read CS Lewis’ Narnia books for the first time. While he thoroughly enjoys them and in fact rather prefers the fictional Aslan to any of the real angels he’s met, after finishing The Last Battle he’d spent four weeks writing his own ending for Susan Pevensie.] But as details begin to solidify and the world around him gains color, his confidence grows.

Then all at once he’s on the Globe’s stage, with someone pulling gently at his arm to guide him away. Aziraphale is more than happy to follow the movement, allowing himself to be ushered off.

“Right, sorry—oh! Will!”

Because of course it’s William Shakespeare, looking concerned and fretful as only a playwright on opening night can, guiding him backstage. Just a memory, Aziraphale has to remind himself quickly. Though he’s absolutely positive Crowley’s imagination has done some embellishing, as the angel has no recollection of the real Shakespeare wearing a doublet like the one he’s got on now, embroidered all over with the text of Hamlet in very tiny lettering.

“Er—sorry about that. Didn’t mean to interrupt. What is it today, one of the funny ones?” He knows he’s probably running his mouth, but he still feels a touch unbalanced, and grasping at things he knows always bring some comfort. “Merry Wives? Comedy of Errors?”

From:

duckshaveears

Will smiles, though his attention is still half on the stage and audience. "A comedy indeed, my friend: The Auriferous Ladies, a great favourite. Burbage is put down for Madam Blanche, but was sulking because he had not the part of Dorothy, so I confess to some unease."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, you know that old drama queen, he’ll start eating scenery left and right once he knows someone’s paying attention to him.” It’s what he would have told the real Shakespeare, after all. “Listen, have you seen Crowley? I need to talk to him.”

“We had him down for the role of Signior Reynaldo, with a grand entrance at the very end of the play, but alas, he’s chosen to take the matinee off. You’re like to find him in one of the galleries nearest the stage.”

Aziraphale pats him on the arm in thanks, and heads back towards the curtains to scan the audience.

It takes him several seconds of scanning the crowd to spot Crowley. He’s sitting with another Aziraphale-double, both of them dressed for the theatre as they would have been in Shakespeare’s day, laughing and chatting. The sight tightens his heart—he’s missed Crowley’s laugh these past few months, more than he ever thought possible.

His double glances over at the stage; they make eye contact briefly. Aziraphale waves.

The double turns away, right back to his conversation with Crowley.

It doesn’t seem a malicious move—Aziraphale likes to think he’d recognize the onset of anything like real evil in his own face—but it’s certainly a deliberate one.

All right. Two can play at that game. [footnote: Or possibly one and a half, depending on how you look at it.]

A few minutes later, one of the nondescript women hawking snacks makes her way over to the demon’s box, offering out a Flake and a strawberry popsicle to the two inhabitants.

“Here you are, loves. Compliments of one of the gents backstage.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley looks briefly surprised, but takes the treats, offering the Flake to Aziraphale's double with a small flourish. "Probably from that tart Burbage," he says in a low voice. "Always thought he fancied you."

"I hardly think so, my dear," murmurs Aziraphale, looking oddly at the ice cream in his hands. "It was you he always gazed at." He takes a breath before adding, sub voce, "And who could blame him?"

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Aren't we flirty today? That's unusual." He leans in closer. "Feeling jealousss, my angel?"

Aziraphale closes his eyes briefly, his breath quickening, then abruptly stands. "Pardon me, but I really must go thank the sender. No, no, I insist, I'm sure Master Will will understand. Just wait here, I won't be half a moment--"

He's making his way through the crowd before Crowley has a chance to protest. The demon looks extremely confused for a moment, then shrugs, calls over someone selling popcorn. By the time Aziraphale's double has made his way to the stage (no one stops him, or even appears to notice) Crowley is busy strategically lobbing popcorn at people's heads. Anyone wearing a fancy hat gets extra attention.

The dream steps into the wings, clearly looking around for the real Aziraphale. Onstage one of the players, dressed in a doublet on his upper half and Bermuda shorts on his lower, begins to declaim the prologue. [footnote: "The dawn breaks! And its halcyon rays/shine forth on glorious Miami/where dwell the ladies, four in number/of whom I sing. Four in number/but one in household, shared to support/where a modest income else would fail. These gentles/golden in years and golden in heart--"]

From:

confoundthemighty

Much to Aziraphale’s relief, everything on his person seems susceptible to the same easy malleability as the dreamscapes of humans usually are. Which is to say, he can produce coins from his pockets and change the clothes that contain those pockets, for reasons he opts not to question at the moment.

When his double reaches them, they’re dressed in identical outfits, the greatest difference between them the expressions on their faces. The real Aziraphale’s is mostly one of confusion, with an edge of something behind it that hasn’t yet curdled into truly negative intentions.

“I see you got my message,” he says mildly. “Is there a problem?”

There’s more concern than anything else in the words.

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh no, no. Not at all." The dream forces a smile to his face. It's not very convincing. "I just thought...well. It seemed you wanted my attention. Possibly in order to effect a switch? It's what I would do, if I were you. I think." He looks openly wistful. "Most of my time is spent trying to be you, you see, but I don't know how accurate I am, having never had a basis for comparison."

He shrugs and straightens, squaring his shoulders. "...Nevermind, that's not important. Would you like to take my seat? He'd be delighted to have your company, I can assure you."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Wait—wait a moment.”

Something about the double’s obvious unhappiness only makes the unease brewing in Aziraphale worse. Not to mention he knows elusive phrasing when he hears it (and especially when he hears it in his own voice), and—well, he did come here because he wants things to be different, after all.

“Basis for comparison?” he repeats, perplexed. “Does he—that is—look, if you’re me then you know why I want him to wake up. Is he… is it the same way for you, here, or are you just…?”

Already he feels a fool, trying to ask so much without asking outright, but surely if anyone could understand what he means it’s a version of himself conjured by the person who knows him best. He hopes.

From:

duckshaveears

The doppleganger smiles a bit sadly. "I'm not you, though, is the thing. I'm a good imitation, I've no doubt--he has such a clever imagination!--but I'm an echo at most and no substitute for the real thing. A reflection of a reflection. He's put in a lot of thought to make me true to life, and been so very determined not to..." His voice trails off, and he shakes off the rest of the thought. "Well, that's unimportant, and I'm sure it will all sort itself out for the best sooner or later. At any rate, you should go. Quick now, before the play really gets going."

The doppleganger takes Aziraphale by the shoulders and gently but firmly turns him and pushes him forward, back towards the stage. By the time Aziraphale looks back, if he does, there will only be curtains and props and the usual backstage paraphenalia to see.

From:

confoundthemighty

“But—oh!”

His double doesn’t give him time to react—which is, Aziraphale realizes ruefully a moment later, very much in character. Much as he frets and fusses, once he’s made up his mind about something, he has to leap in without giving himself the opportunity to overthink things.

Well. Best to get to it, then, he supposes.

When he reaches Crowley’s box, a wave of fondness goes through him that has an oddly weightless quality to it. Aziraphale isn’t exactly in his body right now: his heartbeat and breathing in the real world aren’t speeding up in response to the things his soul sees. But even still, some part of him reacts to Crowley with excitement and pleasure and anticipation, so strongly he feels a bit breathless despite not needing to use his lungs.

“Hello again, my dear.”

Even without muscles (or any solid mass, for that matter) he knows he’s smiling at Crowley.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley has, during this interim, given up on throwing popcorn at other audience members' hats and returned to the less diverting but time-honored tradition of eating it. As Aziraphale returns he looks up and smiles broadly. It's not a smile he's often worn in the real world. This is Crowley at his most open and unafraid, delighted to see his best friend and with no reason whatsoever to hold back about it.

"Took you long enough. I'm surprised Will didn't hijack you and get you in costume. Here." He offers up the popcorn. "Extra butter on it, the way you like."

From:

confoundthemighty

The look on Crowley’s face does something peculiar to Aziraphale’s soul. He’s missed that look terribly, not just during this wretched situation but during all the intervals between the time it’s appeared. It boosts his courage, with a bloom of softening warmth.

Oddly enough, though he can’t truly smell the popcorn, Aziraphale finds himself very aware of the relevant details as he takes it. He knows, somehow, that it would taste like all the best aspects of the popcorn from fairs and cinemas and tourist traps they’ve visited together. He knows the butter would smell and feel like the real thing. This is meant to be a sensory delight, something for him to enjoy.

Perhaps that’s a good place to start, then.

He’s nearly beaming as he takes his place beside Crowley. When he reaches for the popcorn, he very purposely brushes his fingers across the back of Crowley’s hand—though neither of them is anchored to physical sensation right now, a distinct ripple of affection accompanies the contact nonetheless.

“Oh—that’s exactly what I was in the mood for, thank you.”

Edited (who has two thumbs and a wiffle brain? this guy b^.^d) Date: 2022-09-20 12:43 am (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley starts a little at that slight touch, or perhaps at the feeling of warmth that accompanies it. He shoots a quick, faintly confused look at Aziraphale...then apparently gives a mental shrug and lets the moment pass. "Yeah, I know," he says, leaving the popcorn box in Aziraphale's hands. "So what was all that about then? Armin causing trouble again? Think he's 'sposed to be playing Rose this time around. He should make a better job of it than Kempe did, can't say I was ever a fan of his--"

Someone nearby lets out a loud, annoyed shhhh! Crowley cackles and tosses another popcorn kernel in that direction, grinning. "Did'y'know someone once said there was a special hell set aside for people who talk in theatres? Humans. Gotta love them, they've no idea..."

Edited Date: 2022-11-26 10:19 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

Though that confused look does raise a touch of concern, it’s hard not to be comforted and charmed by his best friend’s laughter. Crowley has always had this effect on him—when he’s laughing and easy, no matter how irritated Aziraphale might be with him, it’s always terribly difficult to muster up a proper degree of disapproval.

“Well, that is rather the point,” he says, more out of reflex than anything else. Also out of reflex, he has a handful of the popcorn; it’s not quite right in his mouth, not entirely there, but not substanceless either. (Oh God, he hopes he isn’t chewing on Crowley’s hair. Please let this just be his imagination.) The flavor is a memory, sharp and distinct but not physical; it tastes exactly as he suspected.

“Oh—“ Even though he knows it’s not strictly real, Aziraphale can’t ever quite help himself, making noises when he eats. It’s a good thing Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. “Oh, that is good.”

Another little ripple of affection breaks free of him, like a laugh. But only a little one.