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:

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.

From:

duckshaveears

Another brief look of perplexity flashes across Crowley's face, but it's gone almost at once, replaced by something openly fond. Not just amused and pleased but affectionate. "Good," he says. "It should be." He leans back in his seat, stretching, his body unusually relaxed. The way it is in the bookshop after a bottle of wine, and nowhere else, because nowhere else is ever safe enough. "Always have liked watching you enjoy things."

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s rather absurd that the way Aziraphale’s bodiless soul reacts to the compliment feels like his heart has begun fluttering. The feeling is dizzy and light and rather distractingly lovely, kindling hope even though it does knock him for a loop for just a moment.

(Relaxation looks so good on Crowley. No watchful snake-stillness, just the kind of loose and casual happiness he wears now and again when they’re at the shop together.)

“Wily old thing,” he says, fondly, and has another ‘bite’ of popcorn. “I ought to have suspected some ulterior motives.” There’s no accusation in the words, only a shade of something approaching delight. Because if he’s honest, this—this feels a bit like an encouragingly romantic situation from a novel. Aziraphale has read more than enough of those to have an idea of how things go. Probably.

[ooc: Probably should have been clearer, Aziraphale is trying to project a little at times! He may come on stronger with it later when he decides to Change The Narrative.]

From:

duckshaveears

"Course you should have." Crowley's eyes rest warm and easy on Aziraphale. No sunglasses, no armor of any sort. "'m a demon. Chock full of ulterior motives, me. Pure selfishness and wickedness and all that."

Onstage, Auriferous Lady Rose panics about being incarcerated; when she attempts to shake the faux-prison-wall while shouting "Take me not before my time!", it collapses, leaving the bars in her hand, interrupting the scene. Crowley chortles, steals a handful of Aziraphale's popcorn, and leans back to watch the chaos.

From:

confoundthemighty

Even here inside Crowley’s imagination the Globe is a delight. Aziraphale can’t help giggling at the sudden brave burst of improvisation that follows from the actors onstage—one of the more ambitious young members of the company grabs a lute and starts singing “Bosom Buddies” from Mame, pulling Jailer Number One into the duet. They’ve definitely witnessed their share of humans having to scramble to make it look as if everything is working properly, and they’ve certainly been in enough similar scrapes that it’s a familiar joke. If it were real it would be a wonderful day at the theatre.

Aziraphale isn’t entirely aware of it, but his face reflects the softness in his thoughts. His smile is even more openly warm than the one his double’s been wearing.

“A master of subterfuge,” he adds, the words a happy murmur. I knew you would come through for me. You always do. “I always tell you, if you want popcorn, I will get you your own popcorn, fiend.”

From:

duckshaveears

"That is my popcorn, I'm just letting you hold it," Crowley fires back, as though he doesn't always steal Aziraphale's popcorn, or cake, or whatever. Something stolen tastes better, and it isn't as though he ever takes much. Just enough to get a taste, to be annoying, and to get the angel's attention. Just enough for the fun of it.

Which is why he swipes another few kernals almost at once, his attention still on the stage as he laughs at Burbage trying desperately to steal the scene and failing entirely, not least because the other Auciferous Ladies have joined forces with the lutist and Jailer Number One and started doing a kick line.

From:

confoundthemighty

One of the good things about this being a dream is that while the audience is laughing uproariously and the chaos onstage escalates, he can hear every word Crowley says perfectly, and knows Crowley can hear him. And, of course, that no one else can possibly overhear them.

“Oh yes, and that’s your extra butter on it. Naturally.” He shoots Crowley a slyly pleased look. It’s not terribly often that there’s an open acknowledgment of these little gestures, but Aziraphale has noticed them and treasured them throughout his long life.

From:

duckshaveears

"Course it is," Crowley agrees, as though he actually likes butter on his popcorn.

(He doesn't. He likes it salty as anything, butter makes it greasy and slimy. Fortunately the antipathy is mutual and whenever he reaches for a handful the buttered pieces disgustedly move away so he only takes salty ones)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Which you’re choosing to share out of the wickedness of your black heart. Solely for temptation purposes, and no other reason.”

It’s half flirtatious and half goading, and Aziraphale pops an especially buttery piece of popcorn into his mouth as he finishes. Some people know when to bat their eyelashes; Aziraphale has learned exactly when a well-timed bite will win him an argument.

From:

duckshaveears

"Obviously." Something about Aziraphale's tone grabs Crowley's attention (never very far away), and he turns back to the angel. "You're being awfully cheeky all at once. Something on your mind?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Possibly,” he says, in a tone that means definitely, and smiles directly into those brilliant yellow eyes. This feels like progress. “Are you going to play at twenty questions, or ask me what it is?”

It’s bold for him, and he’s starting to feel a little excited by it. Like the way he so often is reading a romantic novel just before a moment of sublime romance, but better.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley raises an eyebrow and turns in his seat to look at him more closely. "Welllll..." he drawls. "If we're going to actually have a conversation, we should have a better venue..."

He raises his hand and snaps--surely not necessary here, in his own subconscious, but habits are strong.

...and they're suddenly sitting at a rather pretty little cafe, which Aziraphale may remember as being a place they visited once in the 1800s in Devon. The cafe looks the same as it did then, complete with a full cream tea laid out on the small table between them, white tablecloth and napkins, loose-leaf tea and scones with both jam and clotted cream. Like so many others they'd had an argument at the time about whether the jam or the clotted cream went on first (solely for the fun of it, since Crowley had refrained from the cream and used only jam). Many of the other cafegoers are dressed in the proper fashions of the day, corsets and petticoats and full suits; another snap and so are they.

Crowley's ensemble is, as ever, rather unconventional, mostly masculine but with touches that suggest something else. He places his top hat on the table next to him and leans back in his chair. "Lay it on me, angel," he says, smiling indulgently.

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s just barely registered the change in location when it occurs to him that the costuming has also changed: he’s in what he wore that day, a suit of white and tan and cream (he really should find the waistcoat that went with this, he thinks, he liked that it made him look more solid than soft). Except that this time around there’s a lacy white folding fan attached to a silken cord around his wrist. Just a little touch of something feminine to contrast the rest of him… or perhaps it’s an extra dash of fussiness and propriety, separate from gender. Either way, he’s got a fan now, and it seems like the natural thing to do to fiddle with it. Shame only the women ever got to do this, anyway.

(He remembers this day, of course, as he remembers all their meetings. The tastes, the laughter, the morning rolling into afternoon and at last the beginning of evening. They’ve had a handful of near-perfect days; this was certainly one of those in Aziraphale’s estimation.)

“Well.” He snaps the fan open with a more elegant flick of his wrist than any he’s managed doing sleight of hand in years, almost wiggling with his own boldness and the sheer thrill of the situation. “I thought we might do something tonight. Out there. Together.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley had been leaning back in his chair, but at this the front legs slap back down onto the ground. "Out there?" he repeats, nonplussed. "Out...where, exactly?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“You know. At your flat. Or the bookshop.” Though he was well versed in the signals of fan language when they were current, there isn’t much those gestures can communicate that he wants to say to Crowley. So instead Aziraphale merely opts for what he hopes is a coyly fetching flutter.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley gives him a long, level look, then shrugs. "Can do," he says, waving a hand again.

The cafe around them melts, and they're back in Aziraphale's bookshop. It's perfect in almost every detail, and there are a lot more details to be seen than there were at any of the previous locations. The book titles get a little muzzy upon closer inspection, but the general shape and colour and location are all about right. And all Aziraphale's knickknacks are there, every statue and fancy pen.

Crowley, back in his modern clothes, stretches out on the sofa as he so often does. "Suppose it has been a while since we spent any time in here," he muses. "Bit of quiet might be nice for a while. Want me to bring those scones along as well?"