lunchbreaks | rp with me!

"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.

"Fine," he says, "no more Queen." And no, he hardly thinks that he would've given in anytime soon if they were still beholden to their masters who had, very clearly, disapproved of their relationship. But as Judgement is coming for the both of them, what have they got left to lose?

He takes a deep breath and thinks about eternity.

And then he thinks about an eternity of shouldering this.

And so Aziraphale leans in again, pausing less than a centimeter away from Crowley's face for a moment, just checking his eyes to see if he hasn't changed his mind. Finding he hasn't, he kisses him again. There's nothing about this one that's short or rushed or desperate, just the sweet slide and pull and catch of lips, slow and savoring. He brushes Crowley's hair back and tilts his head a little to help with the angle.

Aziraphale kisses him again, and Crowley leans up, meeting him as he leans in. He's wanted this for so long, it's sort of impossible to think it's happening now. To think that Aziraphale wants it----no, no, that isn't what's impossible. It's always been an unspoken feeling between them, a knowledge of how they felt that they just didn't act on. No, it's impossible that they've finally acted on it. Six thousand years later, finally here, in Crowley's mostly empty flat, kissing at the end of the world.

He shifts his body closer to the angel's, deepening the kiss. And, because Crowley is, at heart, a totally shameless demon, moaning just a tiny bit against the angel's mouth.

In only a short time, he has to go back to being an advocate for all of the humans on Earth. For this moment, he's just going to be himself with the only person on the planet he cares about.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Crowley moans, and it prompts Aziraphale to kiss him deeper. Though, angelic as he is, that just means that he licks at the seam of Crowley's lips, barely delving into his mouth.

He hooks a hand around the back of Crowley's neck and cards it into his hair, shifts a little bit closer to him so that they're almost just up against each other.

Aziraphale finds that Crowley tastes sweet like wine with just the darkest undercurrent of spice, and he could easily drink from his lips the rest of the night.

Crowley lifts his hands up to cradle Aziraphale's face, to lead him into the kiss. Aziraphale is an angel, and his innocence is part of what Crowley finds so endearing about him. No reason for the demon to just leave him floundering about. He leads the kiss, deepening it slowly, parting his lips so that Aziraphale's licks can be met with his own tongue.

After all, lust is a pretty fantastic sin. Not Crowley's favorite sin---that is now and always will be sloth, which is the best sin of all time. But it's a good one, nonetheless. Even better in this exact moment, holding onto the person Crowley has loved for thousands of years.

Aziraphale is feeling like he might fly, so light is his heart. He smiles into their kiss, breaths pleasantly heaving outward, happy to finally make this known, to make it real.

He has both his hands on Crowley's face when he pulls away, and he lingers there, so close to him, meets his eyes with such profound earnestness and simple, uncomplicated joy. "I love you," he says, almost a breath, almost a whisper.

There's something profound about it finally being said. About it being said by Aziraphale, to Crowley. He loves him. Oh, they knew. They both knew. But it's different now, because they're here, actively loving each other. Being loved by each other. And Heaven and Hell can go stuff it for all Crowley cares. This is what he wants.

He brushes his fingertips across Aziraphale's face.

"I'm not supposed to love anything at all," he replies. "Not part of the demon gig. Don't need anything, don't care about anything. Certainly not angels." He smiles, a little crooked smile. "But I was never a very good demon."

"No," he agrees. "You are a lousy demon." He grins in a lopsided way and just sort of basks a little in the glow between the two of them. "That's something I love about you."

It's different, now that it's all laid out on the table. Six thousand years of mutual pining (well, not six thousand years' worth) had brought them to this moment, and it brings Aziraphale strength. Nothing can take this away from them, not anyone.

He throws his arms around Crowley, and embraces him with an angelic grace.

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