Stuck with him, as if that weren't the whole point. He'd already been resigned to this for the last four thousand of their six thousand years, and wishing he hadn't for the last... who even knows how long, pining, writing thousands upon thousands of lines of poetry and song and love letters all tucked neatly into his head where Heaven nor Hell nor, God forbid it, Crowley could ever find them.
He may have, in a particularly romanticized period of Crowley's absence in the nineteenth century, drunk and lonely despite finding himself in the company of some talented authors who only wrote of great loves, penned and published a very obscure and totally embarrassing novella. He is half sure that didn't actually happen, and he can't remember it very clearly, but sometimes he recalls snippets of a story he read once that he can't place, though he remembers that it featured a handsome and flame-haired demon who constantly shielded his eyes under the shade of a hat.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he replies, smiling into the kiss but eyebrows for a second knitted in recognition as he recalls the elusive story he hasn't thought of for a good sixty years.
Hm.
"This is the only place I truly belong," he whispers, confessing his truth into the crook of Crowley's jaw as he presses kisses into it. Too human to be an angel, too angelic to be a human; the only person who's ever really understood him, who's ever really accepted all he is, is right here in his arms promising himself to Aziraphale. This kind of gift he doesn't take lightly.
It's good of Aziraphale to keep reassuring him, so that any question or doubt that whispers itself into the back of Crowley's mind is chased away before it can really take hold. He can't help it: beneath the exterior he presents to the world is a foundation of unacknowledged anxieties and a great deal of nerve, which perhaps only Aziraphale is aware of--he's certainly the only being in all of Creation that has seen Crowley so raw and vulnerable as when they are intimately joined. It's enough that at the moment he knows hardly a care in the world, with Aziraphale smiling against his mouth and saying that there's nowhere else he'd rather be, his mouth moving on to kiss his jaw as his voice turns soft and confessional, and Crowley's eyes close, his fingers slip into Aziraphale's hair to hold him insistently. The words are like a gift offered to him, his entire being hungry for them.
"Yeah, it is," he agrees unsteadily, tipping his head to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. "Right here, angel." He'll always have a place with Crowley, whatever happens. Crowley would go with him anywhere, run away to the stars if need be or journey to the farthest corners of the earth: it wouldn't matter to him, anywhere they went would be good enough if they went together.
He knows nothing about Aziraphale's secret writing, though it would be a pure delight if he ever found out; and perhaps when they've gotten used to sharing their days and nights together Aziraphale will feel comfortable enough to tell him. Crowley looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, letting himself dwell just a little on the thought of sharing a flat--perhaps there's room for his plants here somewhere amidst all the clutter. "D'you mind if I sleep?" he asks, bringing one of Aziraphale's hands to his lips to kiss, in his gaze the real meaning of his question: will you be with me when I wake?
The night has stilled all around them in the lateness of the hour, no one and nothing awake outside save for some bugs zipping around by a street light. It's like this that Aziraphale feels that they are truly alone and not under someone's watchful gaze that might be lurking about. No, there is a safety here, a calming sensation. And truthfully his body is too boneless and sated to do anything else at the moment but rest, even if what he really wants is to stay up and stretch this night out as long as possible by any means. Should they run out of conversation, Aziraphale would be more than happy to just lie there in silence listening to the rhythm of their breathing fall in and out of sync.
Sleep, however, sounds like both a reasonable and desirable suggestion, now that Aziraphale is warm and clean and smelling of fresh linens left out to dry in sunlight. He nods his assurance into Crowley's chest and crawls in close, nuzzling his neck and generally invading his space. It will be hard to be there in the morning when sense starts to return to him and the dread creeps in with the daylight, but it will get better the next morning. Oh, how he hopes that Crowley will be here the next morning and the one after that.
This is what he last thinks before he drifts off to sleep again, and this time his dreams, intangible and amorphous as they are, only leave him with positive half-memories upon waking.
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He may have, in a particularly romanticized period of Crowley's absence in the nineteenth century, drunk and lonely despite finding himself in the company of some talented authors who only wrote of great loves, penned and published a very obscure and totally embarrassing novella. He is half sure that didn't actually happen, and he can't remember it very clearly, but sometimes he recalls snippets of a story he read once that he can't place, though he remembers that it featured a handsome and flame-haired demon who constantly shielded his eyes under the shade of a hat.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he replies, smiling into the kiss but eyebrows for a second knitted in recognition as he recalls the elusive story he hasn't thought of for a good sixty years.
Hm.
"This is the only place I truly belong," he whispers, confessing his truth into the crook of Crowley's jaw as he presses kisses into it. Too human to be an angel, too angelic to be a human; the only person who's ever really understood him, who's ever really accepted all he is, is right here in his arms promising himself to Aziraphale. This kind of gift he doesn't take lightly.
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"Yeah, it is," he agrees unsteadily, tipping his head to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. "Right here, angel." He'll always have a place with Crowley, whatever happens. Crowley would go with him anywhere, run away to the stars if need be or journey to the farthest corners of the earth: it wouldn't matter to him, anywhere they went would be good enough if they went together.
He knows nothing about Aziraphale's secret writing, though it would be a pure delight if he ever found out; and perhaps when they've gotten used to sharing their days and nights together Aziraphale will feel comfortable enough to tell him. Crowley looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, letting himself dwell just a little on the thought of sharing a flat--perhaps there's room for his plants here somewhere amidst all the clutter. "D'you mind if I sleep?" he asks, bringing one of Aziraphale's hands to his lips to kiss, in his gaze the real meaning of his question: will you be with me when I wake?
no subject
Sleep, however, sounds like both a reasonable and desirable suggestion, now that Aziraphale is warm and clean and smelling of fresh linens left out to dry in sunlight. He nods his assurance into Crowley's chest and crawls in close, nuzzling his neck and generally invading his space. It will be hard to be there in the morning when sense starts to return to him and the dread creeps in with the daylight, but it will get better the next morning. Oh, how he hopes that Crowley will be here the next morning and the one after that.
This is what he last thinks before he drifts off to sleep again, and this time his dreams, intangible and amorphous as they are, only leave him with positive half-memories upon waking.