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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself. It’s more a reflex than anything else—the dance of their interactions is extremely familiar by now. But the scones materialize just as he actually registers the next change in location.

Well. At least there are no faux onlookers. And there have been so many visits like this where it’s been just the two of them. So many missed opportunities.

“That’s… not quite what I meant, though.”

He plucks up his courage, lets the handle of the fan ghost briefly across his own lips before reaching out with his free hand for one of Crowley’s.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley, sprawled on the sofa, sits up properly as Aziraphale reaches for him. The motion of the fan stirs a faint memory but he can't quite catch it, and any chance of remembering is lost as his hand is taken and gently clasped in soft fingers. His breath catches. "Aziraphale," he says quietly, staring at their hands. "What are you doing?"

The words are low and hesitant, but his thumb caresses Aziraphale's skin.

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s not a physical touch, but there’s an unmistakable warmth to it that fills Aziraphale with sudden rushing excitement. This could be it. This could be his moment.

“Something I ought to have done a long time ago.”

He squeezes Crowley’s hand a little, leans forward a few inches.

From:

duckshaveears

"Fuck."

Crowley swears under his breath, immediately pulls back and gets to his feet. "Again, I did it again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuckity arse."

It's an odd thing, but he completely ignores Aziraphale, instead pacing in a circle near the bookshop door before finally stopping and resting his head against a bookshelf. "Fuck," he says one more time, with emphasis.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Wait, what?”

Startled, feeling much the same sort of indignant shock that accompanies having an awning full of cold water dumped on one’s head in the middle of a romantic rainstorm, Aziraphale gets to his feet.

“What did you do? I thought I was the one doing something.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley sighs, stands upright, runs a hand through his hair. It ends up rather spiky. "It's all right," he says quietly. His eyes flicker up to Aziraphale, and there's undeniable wistfulness in them. "It's all right, angel. You didn't do anything wrong." Slowly, as though he can't quite help himself, he raises a hand to Aziraphale's face, strokes his jaw. "Nothing at all. This was all me, you can't help it. Don't worry about it."

Quickly he darts in, kisses Aziraphale's cheek.

And then vanishes, leaving Aziraphale in the bookshop.

From:

confoundthemighty

For a moment all Aziraphale can do is stammer, caught up in the swirl of his own feelings.

“Crowley, come back here!” Even if the demon isn’t actually wherever here is in relation to Aziraphale, he can’t help shouting after him. Frustrated, wishing very much his double were less like him and more straightforward, he follows out into the street beyond.

Only it’s not Whickber Street that he emerges onto, but what seems to be the grounds of one of those tacky tropical resorts grafted onto a naturally beautiful place. He stalks past bland-faced people milling aimlessly around in clothing of all eras, alert for anything red or black, for a familiar slinking figure.

From:

duckshaveears

There's a boardwalk behind him, with lights and gambling and ridiculous fairground rides and tacky tourist shops galore, the sort of place Crowley gets a kick out of visiting now and then. Overpriced fried food and cheap cocktails.

But the beach is lovely, the sunset exquisite. The people mostly stay near the boardwalk, providing a background noise of harmless activity that fades somewhat the closer one walks towards the timeline.

The people are in a cacophony of styles and colours as overly bright as the atmosphere, but one person stands out, more real and solid than the rest. Not a black angular demon, no, but a sturdier softer figure in tan and cream, who's staring at a point far down the beach.

From:

confoundthemighty

Fortunately, here Aziraphale doesn’t have to run to catch up. He can just see a spot in the distance and move himself there, a bit like a chess piece. Which is exactly what he does, so he can stand shoulder to shoulder with his double.

“I don’t understand,” he says bluntly, because—well, this is him, he bloody well ought to know what he’s talking about. “I thought he—I thought I was being—but then he said it wasn’t my fault. Which is ridiculous, because I was trying to instigate, and he just got up and left.”

(Well. Not just. Aziraphale still feels that strangely gentle touch, the shy and wistful warmth of it. The ghost of a kiss to his cheek. If he were fully in his corporation right now the thing would probably be running riot with all sorts of undignified reactions.)

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh." The other Aziraphale looks briefly surprised, then wistful. "Oh, I do apologise, I should have warned you, I suppose. It's just...well." He worries at the ring on his pinky finger, "I'm afraid he thinks you're me, and we don't...I don't..."

He stops and takes a deep breath. "He doesn't want that, with us. The not-yous, I mean. Or rather be does, but considers it...taking advantage." The doppleganger sighs. "He can become quite guilt-ridden about it, so no doubt he left once he felt he was, ah, forcing you to do his will. He knows this is a dream, you see."

From:

confoundthemighty

It takes Aziraphale a moment to process all this information, to take in the whole shape of what it means. He’s mostly avoided dreams himself, over the years, by virtue of avoiding sleep—but that’s largely because in dreams, temptation catches up with him in a way he can’t fight. But because the inside of his mind is the only place he knows Heaven absolutely can’t see what he’s doing… well, after it’s happened it’s embarrassing, but that’s no reason not to let it happen every now and again. Besides, it takes the edge off the tension between them. Sometimes. [footnote: And if you believe this, we have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.]

“Not even 1941?” he asks at last, incredulous. That night was the closest he’d ever come to actually throwing himself at Crowley; if not for the business with the other demon and the zombies he’d likely have been a little bolder. (And oh, the dreams he’s had about the ways that night could have gone.)

From:

duckshaveears

The doppleganger goes quite pink. "There have been a few exceptions," he admits. "After particularly, ah, emotional events. 1941 was...memorable." He sighs with something like mixed satisfaction and regret. "I feel quite willing, understand, even enthusiastic! But I don't know if that's because I'm a copy of you and your desires, or if I'm a reflection of what he hopes they might be. And he doesn't know either. I'm afraid we just muddle on as best we can, and I've learned not to attempt to tempt him overmuch. It hurts him so."

From:

confoundthemighty

Something about those last four words, it hurts him so, sinks into Aziraphale like a barb. A pang of jealousy only drives it deeper—which is ridiculous, this other version of him is basically just a piece of Crowley, and yet how can he not envy a version of him who has what he wants so desperately? It passes in a moment, and he adds it to the list of things he’ll have to learn to forgive himself for eventually.

“If you’re willing and enthusiastic, then you’re an accurate reflection.”

There is a faint peevishness in his tone, half of it irritation at his own reaction to what he’s learned and half of it simple exasperation with Crowley. The indignance helps him deal with the fact that he’s not really admitted to this aloud before, for certain values of “aloud” that include “communicating to an imaginary version of himself”. The exasperation just comes in waves: you idiot, you could have said, and instead you won’t even let yourself dream about it? I ought to give your Bentley a permanent travel sweet tray for that.

“And of course the problem now is that he doesn’t seem to believe either of us.”