lunchbreaks | rp with me!

Crowley has no real reason to dance around it, now. He's told Aziraphale he loves him while they were making love---and dammit if that wasn't actually making love for all that the term makes Crowley cringe inside---and he certainly won't take it back now. No reason to.

He reaches up to touch Aziraphale's face. His soft cheeks, cherubic and angelic. None of the hard angles that Crowley has. No, Aziraphale is soft. Exactly the way that Crowley wants him.

"Oh, angel," he murmurs. "I love you, too."

What is he going to do if they decide to take him down to Hell? He certainly can't give up Aziraphale now, not that he was exactly willing before.

[ He holds Aziraphale breathlessly close in his arms, unwilling to loosen his grasp or let go of the desperate need to have him there; he thinks please, please don’t leave, please don’t tell me to go, the fiercest and most earnest prayer he’s ever offered. To lose this would be beyond bearing. Aziraphale in his arms, his hand beginning to stroke over his back, gentling him, soothing his fears—the kindness and goodness of him, all the qualities that Crowley loves so fiercely about him and has done from the moment they met. Something in his chest eases just the littlest bit when Aziraphale breathes out that prayer for forgiveness. Trembling, Crowley holds onto him, swallowing when he speaks again. The rush of relief is dizzying. They may have some way to go to reach an understanding, but it isn’t a refusal.

It’s a moment or two before he trusts himself to speak. ]

That’s what the insurance is for.

[ The holy water—they’ll need it now more than ever. ]

I...I can possibly get something for your side as well.

[ Crowley’s reluctant to say it, but it’s only pragmatic. The more they’re together, the more likely it is that they’ll eventually be found out. ]

Maybe they won’t notice. And if they do we could—we could find someplace safe to go.

He just luxuriates in their shared afterglow, all his softness curving to fit inside Crowley's angles, a perfect complement. They fit together like the swirls of milk as it mixes into coffee, and Aziraphale wouldn't have it any other way.

"I don't want this to end," he confesses, despite all his worries to the contrary that it will. He has never known happiness like this - it must come at a price.

Crowley.

[ He sounds offended, as he often does when someone makes an outlandish implication. ]

I won't kill an angel.

[ Even the ones he has no love for, which, in all honesty, is most of them. He has particular distaste for the likes of Gabriel and Sandalphon, the angels who truly believe they're above the others, as if Heaven's hierarchy were about something so humane as that. Still, he does not want to destroy anyone's soul; he never has before, never even killed a human. It was an odd thing to think about, a contingency plan. It left a bad taste in his mouth to have to discuss something so horrible.

But then, there was Crowley. And Aziraphale would not let any harm befall him, not if he could help it. He knows that much, having procured the holy water for him, having so carefully and tightly screwed the lid and toweled the rest. Here now, unable to resist giving him all the love he can and patching up all the wounds his love might cure. As if he could hear Crowley's prayer and as if he had the power to answer it, he clings onto him and vows to himself never to let Crowley feel abandoned ever again. Aziraphale wouldn't want to so much as insinuate such a betrayal.

Still, he has questions. The plan is very important, he would need to think about it. ]

And where would we go? We aren't that difficult to track.

[ At least, Aziraphale wasn't. But Aziraphale was not meant for espionage, for stowing away or turning from the light. He would, as punishment, possibly accept his end were it not for Crowley. No, he vowed it unto himself; and so, if it came down to it, he would leave everything and run with Crowley as fast as he could, as far away where no one would think to look for them. Living, as he had, these past few years -- pushing Crowley out of his shop, holding back his kisses-- that wasn't living at all. ]

You won’t have to.

[ An edge of anxiety in his voice, his hands tightening a little where he clutches Aziraphale, unwilling and afraid to let him go. Oh, please don’t let him say the wrong thing, please don’t turn Aziraphale from this now. ]

Look—I can take care of the details. Whatever happens. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I would never—

[ He won’t let harm befall Aziraphale either. Including that which he could do with his own hands; whatever happens, if harm becomes necessary, it would be better for Crowley to do it. All he has to lose is Aziraphale.

He feels the angel holding onto him just as tightly, as if to communicate that they are indeed in this together, and it eases him a little, or at least stops him from fearing that he’s stepped over a line. Crowley shifts around carefully, until he’s leaning back against a leg of the armchair and can guide Aziraphale into the curve of his arm, to rest against his shoulder if he wants. ]

I hear Alpha Centauri’s nice this time of year.

[ It’s a joke, but a weak one. Maybe not entirely a joke, either. He’d flee to the stars with Aziraphale, if they had to—he’d go anywhere Heaven or Hell wouldn’t find them, at least not for a while. Crowley sighs. ]

I...I haven’t figured it all out yet, angel. It might take me a little time, but I will.

"It doesn't have to," Crowley says. There are lots of ways to keep this. They could flee----always an option. Flee together, stay in each others' arms in the stars, never look back. Crowley doesn't need anyone else, and he certainly doesn't need to put Aziraphale in danger. That thought of running away comes back, and it comes back fiercely.

But then there is what Aziraphale needs. He needs his hope. What is an angel who can't help people?

"Protectors of the word, remember?" he adds, giving the angel a smile. "We'll make it right. Besides, I'm fairly certain they can't smell which of us is which now."

I don't want you to have to kill angels either.

[ But he says it with a pout, knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn't stop Crowley. In fact, he would, on instinct, kill any angel that came for him, because they could easily destroy him. No, now calm, he moves away from his resting spot on Crowley's arm, only far enough to bring his chin down and kiss his lips, sweet like spring and leaving him bubbly as champagne. To think about a future where they are each other's main component, even if it's to run away to the stars, it makes Aziraphale dizzy with vertigo to consider.

He imagines a little cottage house someday, out in the country, with stone walls that Aziraphale loves but the big windows that Crowley does, waking up with him after trying sleep again, making coffee and getting distracted from the news as Crowley places a hand on the paper and climbs into his lap. There's a brief glimpse of them, walking hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way up a mountain and having to stop for lack of regular exercise, finally making it to the top and overlooking the gorgeous expanse below, a perfect spot for a light picnic of fruits and cheeses. And, perhaps, there's a night drive in the Bentley, windows rolled down and music low so they can hear the forest around them, the hoot of an owl, all alone with just stretches of road before them.

He blinks away a wetness in his eyes from imagining a life so beautiful: coming out of a movie with a half-eaten popcorn bag animatedly debating the characters. Going to a nursery with an industrial-sized cart and filling it up with all sorts of plants to stick in the back garden. A ring, that he places in a little velvet box and procures from his pocket, one day, and officially offers to Crowley his everything. These are the snippets of a life impossible, which is now pulling up just out of view ahead.

The road ahead is scary, but it's worth paving.

Lingering by Crowley, Aziraphale looks all around his face as if he could discern an answer, but finally comes out and says: ]

We'll figure it out.

He wrinkles his nose at that. "Oh, don't say that, I think that's even worse." But he laughs, imagining Gabriel taking a whiff and finding something demonic about the way he smells. But, dark as he is, he doesn't quite smell demonic. No, he smells of warm spices and dark woods and a tendril of mystery, but nothing sulfuric or off-putting.

And his kisses taste like splendor, like being wrapped in the most sumptuous velvet-- Okay, yes. Best not to get too carried away.

"Should I try again? To reach Her?"

[ Perhaps it's best, he thinks, that they don't go into what Crowley would do for Aziraphale, if he had to kill angels or demons, if he had to abandon this world or see the stars he hung in the sky burned to ash. He doesn't say any of it, only watches Aziraphale with a devotion that he's no longer capable of hiding, and when he comes near enough to kiss him Crowley thinks this might nearly shatter him with relief and wanting. There's a sweetness in it, reminiscent of the first night they came together, love confessed and returned--no more doubting, no more caution. He gives himself headlong to it, as he did that night.

And perhaps Aziraphale's imaginings cast a glow around them, for he feels--nothing so concrete as the hope of a future in which they spend their days wandering together and their nights in the lovely cottage in Aziraphale's mind's eye, but a sense of warmth and comfort and familiarity, a feeling of being at home and at peace. It's the exact opposite of what Crowley was contemplating a moment ago, but he lets it sink into him, embracing it wholeheartedly--so much better than envisioning the agents of Heaven and Hell against them, or desperate efforts for survival. He holds Aziraphale as desperately as he did all those years ago, eager to drink in and give as much love as he can, a being of raw longing and joy.

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale with his unguarded eyes, unable to speak for a moment, though he nods in answer. They have one another. The details can wait to be sorted out--surely they can wait one night, at least. Or maybe a week. ]

Aziraphale.

[ The angel's name comes out as a sigh. Crowley brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his palm devoutly. ]

I've missed you. I've missed--everything about you.

"Do you think that would work?" Crowley asks, relaxing his head, resting it against the angel's shoulder. "Do you think She'd listen? We basically royally ruined Her Plan."

Crowley thinks of all the times he tried to talk to Her all alone. Speaking up to the Heavens on his own, asking for guidance or answers or even just some sort of forgiveness. Nothing. She never gave him the time of day. But then again, he's one of the Fallen-with-a-capital-F. Maybe Aziraphale will get better reception.

"Isn't there a lot of red tape to go through to get to God Herself?"

[ Aziraphale pushes hope and love and warmth into his kiss; his lips were made for praise and joy and lightness. His hands were made to hold, to raise, to comfort. He can't be cruel because he doesn't understand it, can't bring himself to do it. But love, he has endlessly, all his stores of it earmarked with Crowley's name. He looks at Crowley taking his hand and kissing his palm, and his breath hitches. They'd been so close together all these years, yet with artificial distance between them that it felt as if they might be on different solar systems. That was Aziraphale's fault. ]

I missed you too.

[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]

Every day.

[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]

"Yes," he replies. "I'd probably have to talk to the Metatron instead, so you couldn't be around when I do it." But he had to talk to her, it was urgent. It was about his judgment, and why wouldn't she be there to do it? Why would she leave it to some other angels, who were not privy to her plan?

"And I keep telling you, the plan is ineffable. This could have been part of the plan. But so could we be two sacrificial pawn pieces in it." Just a six-thousand year story that comes to an end tomorrow. One, not two, because it's not Aziraphale's story without Crowley in it.

"But I'll have to try it. She must have mercy." He was always the idealist, the optimist. Despite it all, he still loved Her, how could he not? She made him, she made this Earth, she made Crowley. And if they were a disappointment then Aziraphale would take responsibility, would offer to make them better instead of wiping the slate clean. And they could do it, together, they could remake the world and be allowed to keep it. Why wouldn't she want that?

Crowley leans back a little, looking at Aziraphale. "You really believe that? That She'll be merciful of us? Of someone you, maybe. But me?" There's no judgement in Crowley's voice. He's more charmed by the fact that Aziraphale still believes this. Crowley has tried to talk to Her so long he can't possibly believe She cares about him at all. He thinks the only being in the whole universe who does is holding him right now, and that's enough for him.

But if Aziraphale thinks it's worth it...

"Isn't the Metatron just another angel?" Crowley asks. "Speaking for God?"

"Yes, and I don't want to speak to him, I don't really care for him," he says, in the Aziraphale kind of way where he would like to add an insult to the end of his statement but won't.

"I really think it's worth a try. After all, we are to be tried already, why not appeal to the judge?" He runs his hands up Crowley's arms, making little circles. "And if her response is unkind, we don't have to stay."

[ How can it be possible, he wonders, to have spent days and nights away from Aziraphale after Crowley had known the light of his love, the shivering joy of feeling all of that love centered on him? He, too, has wandered the world seeing Aziraphale everywhere he went, turning at an imagined rustle of feathers to look for him. Throwing himself into long sleeps and waking longing for the taste of his kisses, the sensation of his fine hands on his skin, that he felt in his dreams. It felt like a madness, an illness, or perhaps the best thing that ever happened to him, to have his soul so awakened, and even now, even sitting before Aziraphale on the floor of his bookshop, Crowley feels as though he misses him. Aches for him, every touch between them a balm for pain and an echo of his desire for more, more.

He presses his face down briefly to Aziraphale's hands. The sadness in his voice is something that he never wants to be the cause of. His kisses to the angel's fingers offer absolution, in whatever form a demon could possibly give; they offer his love, his devotion in its entirety. Looking up again, Crowley feels his breath halt, because Aziraphale is so lovely, so wanted. ]

Come here, angel?

[ Please come to him, please kiss him again, take him into his arms. He needs to feel Aziraphale over him, his bare skin, his beautiful wings, the intimacy he longs for and can't bear to be without since he first tasted it. ]

[ Aziraphale too, feels a sort of madness swell in him, for he is a renegade angel with a demon for a lover who encompasses the very fiber of his being. It is so that he wonders if he hasn't slipped into a dream just now, that Crowley's soft requests are just imaginings of an overactive, obsessed imagination. But Crowley's gaze is a questioning one, as if he is still not sure if Aziraphale might just call this whole thing off, as if he might too be dreaming the ending he wants to this story.

He hasn't exactly given Crowley any reason to place a confidence in him that he will not change his mind in the morning, and so he drops down to his knees to the ancient rugs of his bookshop. He is afraid of what he might find in Crowley when he looks at him: a being left out too long in the snow that even standing next to a fire there's still a chill deep-set in his bones; a pain so stark and so wretched, wrought by Aziraphale's own hand. ]

I'm sorry.

[ He arches up into Crowley and kisses him artlessly, ashamed of having hurt him so, of healing his own wounds with this love that is too good for him. Because for all Crowley thinks he deserves and thinks he himself is not, Aziraphale knows better. He would like for Crowley to see his worth the way that Aziraphale does: a boundless font of cunning and imagination and humor. A sharp mind and sharper wit, a carefree spirit and innovator, dangerous and thrilling. And then there's the side that only Aziraphale sees: the way he still craves for love, the good he is capable of doing, the horrors he won't associate with his name or his kind. ]

I don't want you to change, Crowley.

[ He never wants Crowley to think that, to think that there's something in him that is wrong, that is unloveable, that is imperfect to Aziraphale. ]

It's Heaven and Hell I want to change, I need you to understand.

[ Even as Aziraphale comes close, dropping to his knees on the rugs with him, Crowley reaches out as if to a necessary, vital part of his being. With an urge to wrap himself fully around him he drags Aziraphale into his arms, fingers clutching tightly in his clothes when the angel presses up into him and kisses him again, every part of him reaching out for the love in Aziraphale's touch. ] Stop that. [ he mutters between kisses, meaning the apology, he doesn't need apologies, he just needs Aziraphale, the boundless warmth and acceptance in him. ] Just stay, angel, just...

[ He could drown like this; it would be lovely to, losing himself in the light in Aziraphale and the feeling within himself that when he is with him, he's worthy of it, somehow made more in his angel's eyes.

Crowley looks at him questioningly when he says he doesn't want him to change. ]

I can't. You know I can't.

[ There's no going back for a demon. And, he thinks, nothing forward either--Hell is no place for creatures to evolve, only to stay mired in their meanness or despair. But humans change all the time, they reshape themselves, their world, over and over again...if either of them has changed over the last six thousand years, Crowley or Aziraphale, it's because they've been here, on earth. And because they've been with one another. ]

I do feel different, with you. But--still me. Like you see me, only me. [ Crowley looks at him, trying to explain. ] That's--no one's ever done that, Aziraphale, except you.

[ He runs his fingers through Crowley's hair ever-changing, long or short or tied up or down. Every time he sees him, it's like seeing him anew for the first time and falling in love all over again. Even in this, to be frank, quite dreadful hairstyle he's picked out for the moment. But past all the bells and whistles is the same Crowley, the one who was ashamed at finding nothing to tempt about Caligula, the one who offered to show Jesus the many wonders of the world simply because it was hard-pressed he'd ever otherwise see them; the one who wondered if it was right for God to be the one killing everyone around them. ]

I think everyone should. But if they did, I imagine I'd have to fight off quite a few more suitors.

[ He imagines that Crowley's broken a few hearts in his lifetime, though perhaps not on Aziraphale's behalf. But he has always been very physically attractive for sure, stylish, clouded in mystery, enticing. And beyond that, once someone really got to know him, there was just a depth, a wealth of everything else he had to offer. And Aziraphale basks in it, revels in all that he is and can do; he smiles with their noses practically still touching and eyes still trained on Crowley's mouth, proudly as if Crowley is a prize to be won and Aziraphale his lucky champion.

Wine forgotten, Aziraphale brings Crowley's lips to his and finds a more appetizing drink in his breath and his kiss, notes and accords indescribable but enchanting nonetheless. He climbs into Crowley's lap just to make them a more comfortable distance, and though Aziraphale means nothing lewd by the gesture, the angle of Crowley's knees does cause him to have to reach out for the back of his neck as he nearly topples them fully to the ground. ]

[ The truth of it is, he's only ever wanted to be looked at that way in Aziraphale's eyes. It's one of those things about him that Crowley loves, along with all the other habits and quirks that make him so fond: the way Aziraphale looks at him as though he is so worthy of love, no matter that he's fallen, no matter what he's done. The changing facade he wears (including the latest one, with this very cool, not at all regretted hair style, thank you) doesn't matter when they're together: it's only ever been what's on the surface. Aziraphale knows him, sees through him. It's not always comfortable, but he couldn't really bear it any other way. ]

You're ridiculous, angel.

[ He tries to scoff, but it comes out like Crowley absolutely adores him. There's no hiding it anymore, especially not with Aziraphale gazing at him like that, with so much pride and affection that it brings a twist of pleasure into his stomach, and Aziraphale's eyes on his mouth are making him ache to be kissed again, making him ache other places, too--

Crowley kisses him back hungrily, drags at Aziraphale when he clambers determinedly into his lap, and lets himself be toppled backwards, sinking all the way to the floor and pulling the angel over him. It makes his breath catch, his hips arch up instinctively. ]

What about you--

[ He seeks Aziraphale's mouth again, in between the words. ]

--I see how the humans look at you. Like you're delicious.

[ He laughs as they fall to the ground, careful that there isn't anything present that might cause injury, but bites back a low moan when Crowley's hips come up to meet his, suddenly feeling hot and that they are both wearing far too many clothes. Yet he raises an eyebrow at the posed question, because while it's true that he hasn't remained chaste and pure all these years, he has to wonder how many people Crowley might think would elicit this sort of response from him. The answer, of course, is just the one, the one underneath of him who would possibly make him reconsider his entire life, just take it all apart and restructure it, for Aziraphale is conservative: he doesn't like change, takes them little pieces at a time. He's a slow soul, prefers to pore over old texts and linger endlessly over thoughts of the author; Crowley has him feeling like he might enjoy a little adventure outside of his comforts. Homer, perhaps, or Wilde, might have had a chance if they'd only had six thousand years' of time to make an attempt. ]

Are you really asking after old paramours at a time like this?

[ His surprise is mocked, as he nips more kisses at Crowley's lips and moves to do so under the juncture of his neck to his jaw. Honestly, he thinks Crowley might be exaggerating a bit as Aziraphale has never noticed any untoward lust in his direction. There was, of course, interest, both real and feigned, as his standards had never allowed him to appear any less than a perfect gentleman, but nothing so openly desiring. Not at first, anyway. He does recall lovers looking to devour him, if only after an established connection was made. ]

If you must know, I have had several dalliances over the years, most of whom I loved.

None of them touch you. They don't even come close.

[ Certainly, there were none that Aziraphale still mourns, none that he'd visit now that they've passed, even if they were to happen to get to Heaven. And, of course, none of them had known he was an angel; they just thought him slightly ageless, that he'd gotten to this point and plateaued. Crowley is the only one who knows, the only one who looks at him as if he's the one thing they couldn't bear to be without, the only one who really ever mattered. ]

"What to do if God's response is less than kind?" Crowley muses. Aziraphale is right, of course. There's no point in not trying. In making the appeal to the judge, in trying for some sort of forgiveness, or asking for some part of Her plan.

Aziraphale's touch is comforting. If judgement does come to them, then at least they have each other. At least they've had this, this night together. At least they saved the world. Or, at least, the humans saved the world, with them helping. Crowley's imagination and Aziraphale's leadership. Who knew they could do it?

"Then we're already done for, Crowley. We pack up and we leave and we try to outrun her." But he doesn't see how that would be any use at all, and then they'd spend their last moments alive trying to escape the inevitable. Scared, tortured, but with each other til the bitter end, at least.

"But I'll know we tried our best to do the right thing. And we saved this Earth, and they'll be prepared for when Heaven and Hell return. And that's all we could hope for." He smiles weakly, and buries his face into Crowley's chest.

Crowley doesn't want to imagine a God who isn't more forgiving. It's why he's asked for all sorts of guidance, even 6000 years after falling. Even after all of the silence. Even after turning his back on Heaven. He doesn't think She's like that, not really. And, most importantly, Aziraphale doesn't think she's like that.

And the angel needs his faith.

"We've still got the chance that she's better than, well, I think," he says. "More like how you think."

He looks at Crowley with sad eyes, and holds onto him. "If there's anything I've disagreed with Her on, the biggest one is that she won't forgive you. And if things don't work out for the best, then... You'll still have me."

He laces his fingers into Crowley's and smiles into his neck, but even though he can't see it, Crowley can probably tell it's not a happy sort of smile.

[ Crowley's head arches back as Aziraphale's mouth comes to his jaw, his throat. He's in agreement--they're both wearing far too many clothes, and his trousers especially are beginning to feel rather too tight, but rather than do something about it his hands come up to Aziraphale--one caressing with rough affection along his collar, his throat for a moment--and tug that tartan necktie undone, letting it slip away as he undoes his waistcoat and begins on the buttons of his shirt. It would be easier, certainly, to miracle the whole lot away, but there's something about taking the time to undress Aziraphale that Crowley finds charming. All those buttons. ]

I mean I've taken notice, that's all. Seen them look at you--

[ Perhaps there's some bias, perhaps Crowley sees so much to adore in Aziraphale that he can't imagine anyone else wouldn't, certainly not hapless humans, anyway, but there's been at least interest if not untoward lust. Not that Crowley is jealous. Not enough to make a fuss about it. It's--well, Aziraphale can do what he likes, and it's not as if Crowley hasn't had his dalliances over the years either. It doesn't really surprise him to hear that Aziraphale had some that he loved, either. Aziraphale is...he is made to love.

Crowley looks at him, surprised by the reassurance, his fingers lingering to stroke Aziraphale's hip for a moment. ]

I know that.

[ Spoken softly, it's a reassurance of his own: not since they confessed to one another years ago has Crowley doubted how much Aziraphale loves him, how there is no one else he has ever loved as much as him. ]

rp with me!

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