lunchbreaks | rp with me!

"We're on the humans side," Crowley says. "They can't keep thinking this is only about them forever."

Aziraphale fusses, and Crowley lounges back in the tub, letting him have at it. It's a fairly large tub, actually, though he can't remember the last time he used it as an actual tub. Showers, mostly. Just to clean himself off, make sure he was prepared and perfect for the day. But he had it. There was a lot on this flat he had that he never used. That kitchen, his bed, his nice couch. Never really thought about it until now.

"We could confront them," he suggests. "Together. Swap faces, like you said. And go in, demand the humans have rights for the truce."

"We could, but if we're together, they'll what, try to haul us off separately?" He asks as he dresses the wound. He has a soft touch, a nice bedside manner, and hopefully doesn't hurt Crowley any more than he is already hurt.

"I just don't know if we have enough to barter with them. You know how arrogant Gabriel and Beezlebub are, and ever since they've become the mouthpieces for God and Satan..." he starts.

He worries his hands together. "You know, this means you're going to have to do the bulk of the healing when we leave here."

"Maybe," Crowley says. "But we will be stronger together. It's better than being alone."

Maybe they won't know what to do with them. Maybe Aziraphale and Crowley can work together to keep them down. He doesn't know. All he knows is that he can't stand the idea of sending the angel into Hell alone. Not after watching him fight, not after holding him here in this flat. If they had avoided the War entirely, he might have been able to handle some secret mission off to Heaven alone, but not now.

He sits up, reaching out to take the angel's hands.

"We've beaten them once. We had nothing then, and we beat them, remember? This time, we've got tricks they don't know about."

"Alright," he says. "Alright, we'll ask them to write Earth into the truce." He doesn't sound so convinced, but if he knows one thing, it's that Crowley can talk himself into anything and he can string together enough to pieces go together.

"Will you give me five more minutes?" he asks. "And then I think I'll be ready to go out again. If you are." He does need the practice. He's rehearsing all of Crowley's mannerisms in his head, not sure if he just has no hip bones or if he's going to look like an awkward duckling when he attempts it.

"We'll go tomorrow," Crowley says. "We just survived a War, today, angel, I think we deserve a few minutes rest."

By 'we', he means Aziraphale. He can't just throw him back into the clutches of the angels that fast. They only just got out of there. He's also not so keen to see Beezelbub having just destroyed one of their Dukes. And there is always the possibility---however unlikely---that Hastur survived the raincloud. Crowley would avoid that for a lifetime if he could. He can't, but he would if he could.

He shifts himself, trying to stand out of the tub. "Come on, time I actually see what that bed is like."

"Yes, a few minutes'. I thought five should be sufficient," he says. "The wounded are dying," he tries, but instead of trying to usher Crowley out anywhere, he instead goes to take him gently and guide him towards his bedroom.

Fine.

"We'll stay until you heal up a little bit, it won't work if I have to pretend to be injured in the leg." The one thing he will acquiesce to.

He opens the door and lets go of Crowley to go move the blankets and the sheets, which look like they haven't been touched since they were bought.

Of course Aziraphale cares about the wounded and the dying. Crowley cares----really, he does---but right now he really, truly cares about the angel in front of him. His number one, top most important priority.

He concentrates. Miracles aren't something that demons are good at, but Crowley has been able to perform more than a few since meeting the angel. He thinks about the people in the battlefield around them, the ones that Aziraphale was going to help, he thinks about all of the injured. And he focuses.

"They'll make it through the night," he says, and there's a level of certainty to his voice. He can't have Aziraphale sacrificing any of himself today. Not one shred more.

Crowley shuffles the blankets out of the way and drops, gingerly, onto the bed.

"Oh, did you--" He beams at Crowley, who must be totally exhausted from the effort. And, really, he should absolutely let him rest, but he has just done one too many sweet things today and that was really the straw that broke the camel's back.

Aziraphale leans over the bed, takes Crowley's face in his hand, and plants a kiss to his forehead. "Thank you," he says, softly like prayer. "Thank you, Crowley."

He kneels down by the side of the bed, and takes one of his hands in both of his own. After a moment, he asks: "Would you like me to stay with you?"

"Only if you rest, too," Crowley says. He slips off his sunglasses and tosses them carelessly on the side table.

He looks over at Aziraphale, and he gives his hand a squeeze with his own. He's tired. More than tired. War, then a curse, then a miracle? Crowley doesn't sleep, not really, but right now he could. He could really sleep, properly sleep.

"And I don't mean the kind of rest where you're just worrying about everything rest," he says. "I mean rest."

"I'll find something to read," he says, smiling over at him. And also, he'll have to get up and find a chair to sit in instead because this concrete is really hell on his knees. Aziraphale tried the sleeping thing once, but didn't really like it, and he's never tried again. He could, if Crowley suggested it now, urged him to do it.

For the moment, he instead takes the opportunity to look Crowley directly in his eyes. It's so rare he gets to do so, usually only ever seeing the glasses. He never thought he'd miss seeing them, back in the year 30.

"Will you need anything?" he asks.

"Yeah, come on though, the bed's big enough for two, you can sit here," Crowley says, gesturing to the spot next to him. The bed is actually ridiculously large, because Crowley bought the most expensive one at the time, simply due to price. "Can't speak on the comfort, though, it's my first time on this mattress. Sales said it was comfortable. Seems all right."

He, personally, thinks Aziraphale should try sleeping. But, perhaps the angel simply doesn't sleep. Many occult---or whatever it was Aziraphale said angels were---being simply don't. But Crowley would, if he were Aziraphale. And Crowley will, being Crowley in this exact moment.

Aziraphale thinks about it and tries to get into the bed, and though obviously he understands the concept of laying down and closing his eyes, somehow he lies there as if he is in a coffin, and his eyes do not close.

This is dreadfully boring, and he has so many other things that he could be doing, except that he can't leave Crowley's flat and he's already read the newspaper. Hardly anything could be more interesting today anyway than "The Armageddon happened."

So he tries, sliding his eyes closed, relaxing a bit. And maybe, just maybe, he falls asleep, and has a sweet dream, and shifts and gravitates towards Crowley once he's out warm.

Aziraphale is positively adorable. Crowley lounges back as he lays there, watching the angel sit, all but cross-armed in the bed next to him. The very picture of someone who never rests, never relaxes. Crowley wouldn't want him to change, not for the whole universe.

He wants to watch him forever, but he can't. He can't even really keep his eyes open for very long. He leans into his pillow and his eyes slowly close. He lets himself sleep, eventually throwing an arm around the angel as he dreams.

It's not snuggling, because Crowley Does. Not. Snuggle. It's more like...leaning on aggressively while sleeping.

Aziraphale wakes up and finds himself in the driver's seat of the Bentley. No, he's in the passenger's seat, but it's on the wrong side. No, he hasn't woken up at all. This must be a dream. Confused, he looks outside the window and sees a blur of cliffs and a gorgeous coastline. It's so hot here, and when he looks down, he's wearing one of those tee-shirts and an awful looking pair of shorts. He lifts the shirt to read the design. "Crowley, are we in California?" he asks, looking over at the dash and seeing little trinkets, souvenirs of a trip all across the States. There are maps, menus, and even a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses.

He looks over and smiles at his friend, who takes his eyes off the road and slams on the pedal. "Crowley," he starts, eyes widening. "Crowley, slow down--" he tries, as Freddie Mercury's dulcet tones fill the interior singing about how he's traveling at the speed of light. And then they are, too, taking off from the highway, flying through the clouds.

"Crowley--!"

--Aziraphale's eyes open wide to find that it's pitch dark, that somehow in his sleep he's rolled over onto his side and is holding Crowley into his chest. He involuntarily spits out a mouthful of red hair, moving his jaw to try and get the one or two strands that managed to stay in his mouth. Oh, dear, Crowley is not going to like his new hair product.

He runs his hand through it to try and get out all the spittle, while also trying so hard not to wake him.

He rouses slightly, finding his face buried in Aziraphale's chest with Aziraphale petting (?) his hair. Well, that's----not how he expected to wake up, but he's certainly not going to complain. Of the places in the universe he'd like to be, in the arms of his best friend is definitely up there.

He tilts his head back to look up at the angel. He offers him a lazy, tired smile in the darkness.

"I don't snuggle," he says, pointedly. "So this isn't snuggling, in case anyone asks."

"Of course not, Crowley. And no one would even ask, I don't know why you think they would." He seems a bit distracted as he continues brushing through Crowley's hair, and he thinks he's possibly gotten it all. Of course, now Crowley's going to look like he's had someone go around mussing up his hair, though from here it looks fine.

"--Wait," he says, context catching up. "You don't? At all?" He looks a bit put-out by this, not that Aziraphale has snuggled or cuddled or honestly even remotely physically touched anyone except for Crowley for the last several hundred years, at least.

Crowley gives Aziraphale a very put-upon look. "I'm a demon, angel, I'm not exactly the cuddling kind."

Though, honestly, this is actually pretty, well, nice. Maybe it's the exhaustion or the fear of losing Aziraphale, or whatever else is upon him, but he likes this level of intimacy at this exact moment. He briefly considers his promise to kiss Aziraphale quite a bit more after they both survived the War, and wonders if a moment like this is really the right time to bring that up. Could be the right time. Is it the right time?

"You don't look like you've even seen anyone sleep in a long while yourself," he says. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes, I did," he responds, and settles back into a comfortable position. "I had a lovely dream we were driving up the coast of California. And you had gotten me a tee-shirt," he says, with the emphasis placed soundly on the shirt instead of the tee.

"But then you drove so fast that we started flying, and I looked around me and there America was, shrinking in the distance. A very scary thing, to be so high up in a metal machine." Not so much when it's just them and their wings though.

"Did you dream?" he asks then, curiously, now just absentmindedly playing with Crowley's hair.

"Can't imagine you in a tee-shirt," Crowley says, as if he could easily imagine the Bentley flying in the air and that wasn't at all disconcerting. He wonders what has happened to America, what has happened to California throughout this. All those beautiful beaches, probably boiled away through the first wave. He supposes they'll find out, as they're rebuilding.

"I usually don't," he says. "Probably for the best. Can't imagine what a demon would dream about." He remembers a handful of dreams in his entire lifetime, now that he thinks about it. Maybe he'll have more.

He likes this, the feel of Aziraphale's hand in his hair. It's a kind of intimacy they could never have had before. They only even really shook hands in the confidence of Aziraphale's bookshop, much less anything else. He relaxes his head into the crook of the angel's neck, allowing himself to just...enjoy it, for as long as they have it.

He does hope Crowley has another dream. He hasn't had any except the one, but it was very pleasant for the most part, and he sees why humans like them so much.

"I don't think my dream was particularly angelic," he replies. "So it might not be so bad." There's something relaxed about Crowley after a sleep, calm like a fresh snow. Hair all mussed up and radiating a cozy warmth, Aziraphale finds him nothing short of adorable.

If he were to guess how long they had to enjoy this, he wouldn't have one. But he'd like to say forever, because this is an eternity he can live with. Here, on Earth, with this demon who's slithered his way into his heart.

Ah, he should probably tell Crowley before it all goes to shit again.

Mm, it's not a good time.

It's still dark outside. Crowley's miracle would last until morning, he tells himself, so he doesn't have to move yet. Doesn't have to leave the comfort of this place, of not being part of the War and what it means. It's just him and Aziraphale. How it might have been, really, if they'd left together. If they'd run off, away from the War, without any regard for the world they left behind. They might have been in a place like this, lying together. But Aziraphale would not have been the same. He'd have given up too much for it. No, staying, fighting for what is right, that was the right thing for Aziraphale. Maybe the right thing for them both.

"You made my car fly in your dream," he says. "That's fairly angelic, and a bit miraculous. If you could do that in real life, I think we'd already have the War well past won. The demons would be terrified. They barely know how to handle the fact that I have a car, let alone what to do with it."

"No, you did that in my dream," he retorts. "You, or the man who sings that song. You know the one, two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit," he sings softly, off-tempo and sleep-addled but at least carrying the tune.

He can't possibly have taken that many rides in the Bentley without some of Queen's discography getting hopelessly stuck in his head from time to time.

It's still late, and Aziraphale isn't worried until dawn. He pulls away just a little, only so that he can talk while looking Crowley in the eyes. He does love to see the yellow irises, like little gold coins.

"Freddie Mercury," Crowley says. "That's Queen. It's a classic band, and it's not bebop, so don't---don't even try that."

He can't imagine being the one to make something fly. Without his wings, Crowley can't even making himself fly most days. Seems a bit too heavenly. He's the one who fell---even though he didn't mean to---and before that he was only sort of good at flying. Now, well, now he's got Aziraphale if flying is utterly necessary.

Aziraphale pulls back a little, and Crowley looks up at him. Oh, but he does love Aziraphale. It's impossible not to, and mostly really annoying, especially when he can't do simple things like run away from a fight because of him.

Aziraphale knows. Of course he knows, it's such a terrible open secret between them, has been for years. And before, heaven and hell would've intervened. And now... now, is there any reason he's holding back from just saying so? Aside from playing this endless six thousand year old game of chicken.

He caresses Crowley's cheek in the dim light, looking on at him with utmost affection.

"Alright," he says. "I won't sing anymore." But he hardly is paying attention to the words he's saying, instead focusing on this long, lingering look he gives Crowley.

Finally, he leans forward, and presses a curt kiss to his lips.

Oh, but that's too brief. When Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley will lean up, letting his lips linger against the angel's. Would this ever have happened, if the War didn't? If they didn't suddenly have no time at all and their lives were possibly ending any moment? Crowley doesn't know. He likes to think that they wouldn't have lived in this game forever, but for all he knows, they might've.

"You can sing," he murmurs in a teasing way. "But only if you don't destroy any more of Queen."

It's odd, being looked at with the kind of open affection that Aziraphale gives him. He's always looked at Crowley like he's something wonderful. No matter where they were, he was always excited to see him, always pleased. And, as a demon, harbringer of trouble and overall badness and all that, it wasn't often that anyone was pleased to see him. And never with the kind of openness and honesty of Aziraphale.

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