Another Year, Another Open RP Post

[duckshaveears]

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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[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.”

he's still somewhere in his own dreams, of course

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.)

[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."

[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.)

[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."

[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.”

[duckshaveears]

"Ah," Aziraphale breathes out upon learning about his accuracy, however petualantly expressed. "I'd wondered."

They stand in silence for a moment, looking out at the ocean. The sunset seems caught in its moment of dying perfection, with all the colours at their brightest; it doesn't seem to be sinking further. Everything is gold and scarlet and beautiful.

"You have options I don't have, you know," the doppleganger says. "I can't approach him now, for example; he's asked all of us not to. All us dream figments, I mean. Well, not asked, it's debateable how much autonomy any of us possess..." He stops and shakes his head. "That's unimportant. What I mean is, you can approach him, I assume. You're not part of his dream and have free will, you're not limited to his assumptions." His smile turns distinctly pained. "That's where I've always been...lacking, you see. I only really do what he expects I'll do. Or what he wishes I'd do."

wanted to make a positive self-talk joke, couldn’t think of one

[confoundthemighty]

He considers all this for a moment; it takes him a moment to notice he and his double are both fiddling with their pinky rings in an identical way. The fact that Crowley has registered even his little unconscious habits, so many bits of him that he himself isn’t aware of half the time, sets off a surprised and helpless wave of affection in Aziraphale’s heart that cuts through the irritation.

Crowley’s an optimist about so many things—often to the point of recklessness—and yet he can’t seem to consider the possibility that he might be wanted.

Aziraphale gentles at once, letting go of a tension he’s only now aware he was holding.

“I hope, for both our sakes, that I can help him change you,” he admits. “I don’t intend to keep it from him any longer. He’ll learn to expect more of you—as he should. Or at least he will if I can get him to really listen.”

He glances out and down the beach, looking for a familiar slithering walk or a narrow silhouette somewhere against the brilliant colors of the sunset.

take it as given <3

[duckshaveears]

"You don't mind?" Not-Aziraphale looks surprised. "That I--that I want to, that I hope--" He blushes furiously and leaves what he wants unsaid. "I rather thought that if you, ah, made your appearance on the scene, he'd be even less willing to...entertain fantasies, than he currently. And less able, as well."

[confoundthemighty]

“Well, less able, perhaps, since he’ll be awake more often,” the angel concedes. “But you already know I can’t be with him all the time. You can, by virtue of being…” Aziraphale gestures vaguely, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “…well, an invention. And when I’m not readily available, someone will have to remind him of how I feel.”

Besides—which he feels a bit less able to explain, or possibly less inclined—it’s actually something of a relief to him to imagine Crowley fantasizing about him. He would feel awfully guilty if he was the only one allowing himself the liberty of dreaming about what could be between the two of them.

[duckshaveears]

"Oh...!" Not-Aziraphale goes pink again, but this time rather more pleasingly so. A small hopeful smile curves his mouth. "Oh, I should very much like to do that, yes." He shifts his weight happily. "He's down this way, if you'd like to find him and discuss the matter? I believe he's on a beach chair watching the sunset. And drinking, which doesn't work here the way it would on the outside, but he does enjoy making the attempt."

[confoundthemighty]

He offers his double what he hopes is a kind smile—as strange as it is to be encouraging a version of himself under these circumstances, it still feels important to be kind—before adjusting his appearance slightly. He’s back to how he looked that night in 1941, the night he realized it was love and it always would be. Granted, it’s not an enormous change from his usual appearance, but the difference is just noticeable.

“I’ll do my best.” A thought occurs to him, and he adds, “Feel free to repeat anything you might hear me saying to him, if you think it’ll help. Unless it’s about Restoration-era poetry, I’m fairly sure he tunes that out when I talk about it.”

Another glance down the beach, and at last he can pick out a figure sprawled in a chair, a distant leggy silhouette.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley does indeed have a beach chair. It's black with one single red stripe, of course. There's a matching umbrella, apparently for the look of the thing as it's certainly not needed at this time of day. Night. Endless twilight. Whatever.

He also has a number of bottles. They're slightly buried at intervals in the sand so he can reach out in a any given direction and be fairly confident of grabbing one. There's only one currently opened though, held loosely by the neck in one hand. He's staring at the sunset, unblinking.

[confoundthemighty]

A thought, and Aziraphale is a few feet away—not quite within arm’s length, but close enough for conversation, though standing as opposed to conjuring a beach chair of his own. He’s never been able to sit gracefully in those things, and even in someone else’s dreamscape he doesn’t want to be seen making the attempt.

He does clear his throat, which in practical terms manifests as just the slightest ripple of projecting his presence: So you know, I’m here.

“I wasn’t actually finished, Crowley.”

[duckshaveears]

Crowley is so startled the bottle actually goes flying, landing several feet away and leaking purple liquid into the sand. Crowley stares up at Aziraphale in something like mixed dismay and astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he blurts out.

Then he shakes his head. "No, nevermind, I must've gotten distracted. Sorry angel, but you should leave me be for now, yeah?"

He waves a hand, clearly expecting Aziraphale to vanish one way or another.

[confoundthemighty]

“I’d rather not.”

The hand-wave prompts a fondly disapproving look. Even in his dreams, Crowley can’t resist a theatrical flourish. It’s one of the many things Aziraphale finds both exasperating and wonderful about him.

His attention strays to the bottles buried in the sand, and he bends to retrieve the nearest one. The label is as vague as the books in the background of Aziraphale’s shop were; a moment’s consideration, a flex of his willpower, and it changes to the Châteauneuf-du-Pape they’d shared that night.

“Can I top you up?” he asks, offering it back.

1am phone tag shhhhhh I'm asleep really honest

[duckshaveears]

Crowley looks extremely confused behind his sunglasses. He waves his hand again. Nothing happens (aside from a dramatic hand gesture). One more time; nothing.

"You've picked up a new trick," he says, somewhere between bemused and faintly irked. "I'm really pretty sure that shouldn't be possible. Some worrying philosophical implications to that at the very least. How're you doing it?"

GO2BED BOOMERANG

[confoundthemighty]

“How do you think?”

He’s perfectly aware it’s a maddening response; there is some part of him that really never can resist winding up Crowley a little when he gets the chance. Right now, particularly, he feels as if he’s entitled. Not that he means it in a genuinely spiteful way, he simply enjoys the response it provokes.

SHAN'T BOOMERANG

[duckshaveears]

"Well..." Crowley draws out the word, slowly reaching out a hand to take the bottle Aziraphale is offering. "Most likely is that I'm sabotaging crap again and you're here because deep down of course I really want you to be and I'm failing to resist...myself, actually, rather than you. Ugh, psychoanalysts would have a field day with this."

He leans back on his chair, still meditating on Aziraphale. "Or possibly my own imagination has gone rogue on me, which Downstairs would say is only my just desserts. Or I've stopped lucid dreaming and slipped into the ordinary random stuff humans do, in which case this bottle will turn into a squid or a cock or somethibf any minute now. Which psychoanalysts could also have a field day with. What are you doing here?"

YOU NEED SLEEP also Crowley you poor nerd

[confoundthemighty]

Aziraphale knows he could continue to be infuriating with a simple response like I followed you, but the sharp edge of irritation has worn off now. He’s here, he’s got Crowley’s attention. He’s changed the narrative, even if only a little.

“Has it occurred to you that it’s not sabotage? That I might want to be here as much as you want me here?” That I’d like to be here with you, wherever ‘here’ may be, for as long as possible?

nighttime is clearly tag time

[duckshaveears]

Crowley sighs and rubs his forehead with his hands. "You know I have," he says quietly. "I dream about that possibility all the time. Which is how I keep ending up in this sodding mess, with figments that echo everything I want and don't have."

He takes a deep shuddering breath, shrugs. "And then I get myself under control and it goes back to normal for a while until the next time I want too much. Don't think it's not tempting, angel. It's so fucking tempting." He closes his eyes. "And it wouldn't be fair. Not to you or the real one. Not to me either, most likely. It just makes things harder. So if I put any kindness into you when I dreamt you up, leave me alone for a bit, all right?"

He opens his eyes again, and looks at Aziraphale with open, obvious longing as he tries and doesn't really manage to smile. "It won't be long, I never can stay away for long. Bad penny, me."

augh Crowley ;_;

[confoundthemighty]

That longing look stirs something answering in Aziraphale’s soul. Knowing Crowley wants what he wants, just as intensely, and yet believes it to be impossible even in the sanctity of his imagination… he’s flooded with a desire to show his wonderful idiot fiend exactly how wrong he is, even if he’s not yet sure how.

“If I may be so bold,” he points out, some of that fondness warming his voice, “I can’t see how it’s fair to you to rule out the possibility altogether. Or to me, for that matter. We are both retired now, and very much free to do as we please.”