logsville | from god that is our father, blessed angels came

[Aziraphale mouths something. Whether it's oh, for God's sake or oh, for fuck's sake is undetermined.]

Right. Of course.

[Magical doors leading to the inside of a frozen lake, home to some undoubtedly wretched thing. Aziraphale knew there had to be something wrong with that village.

Crowley's pants go, his socks go. Aziraphale hesitates — ]

Sorry, um. It's not the first time, hm? So —

[They've seen each other naked before. History's just Like That, and it didn't mean anything. The human body is... whatever.

Aziraphale is very quick and clinical about the rest of his work, stripping Crowley down completely before bundling the top blanket around him.]

I'm going to get bandages. Back in a jiffy.

[Crowley makes a noise that could likely be interpreted as it's fine, do what you need to because it really doesn't matter. It isn't as if this is — anything. It's clinical, practical, something that needs doing and so it'll be done, and it's fine so long as he doesn't think too hard about it.

It isn't immediate relief, being bundled up in a blanket, but having the slightly damp clothes gone is a relief.]

'Kay.

[As soon as Aziraphale's out of the room, he stops holding back the shivers, his body desperately trying to warm itself. He wishes he'd spent more time paying attention to how the human body works, so he'd know the best way to heat back up. He wants a bath, wants to sink into warm water and pretend none of this happened, but he has no idea if that's sensible or not, and anyway, he's not sure he could make it to the bathroom himself.]

[It's not sensible, and Aziraphale will advise him of as much shortly.

For now, he simply returns with the kit he's grown far too used to needing, positions himself at the foot of the bed, and eases Crowley's leg toward himself — foot on a thigh, hand 'round an ankle.]

I know this is a lot to ask, but if you could please try to stop shivering for a moment? I promise you'll feel better soon. I promise you that, but I need you to be steady right now.

[He needs to see how deep the wound goes.]

[Almost on instinct, he flinches slightly, feeling all sorts of unbalanced by the idea of Aziraphale touching his bare ankle. It's stupidly Victorian of him, so he puts it back after the barest second. His thigh his warm under the arch of his foot, and that's nice, at least.]

Y-yup. Got it. Steady.

[He grits his teeth and tenses, trying to stop the shivers.

The wound isn't too bad, but it's clear that something grabbed him and was forced to let go, from the slight tears around a few of the deeper indents. The one good thing about the cold is that the bleeding has been slow, though that will likely change as he warms up.]

[Aziraphale makes a sympathetic, pained sound as he checks the wound. It's not as bad as it could have been; it won't require a hospital, hopefully, if he does a thorough enough job of cleaning it and it clots quickly.]

Thank you.

[There it is again. That thing he'll say-but-won't-say.

It's there, too, in the way he handles Crowley, in the way he cleans him up and bandages him. It's there in his efficiency, in his gentle touch, in the almost absent way he rubs Crowley's foot once done — trying to warm it up, starting with his toes.]

I'll get you more blankets in a moment. And some tea, that'll do you good. We need to warm you from the inside out — no baths. Can you feel that?

[The rubbing, he means.]

[Some seventy or so years ago, there had been burns on his feet, the after effects of walking across consecrated ground to save an angel from a handful of Nazis who were planning to kill him. He'd saved a bag of books, too, out of nothing but his love for Aziraphale.

He wouldn't have blamed him, if he hadn't saved them, would've seen them as a casualty of the night, but Crowley did it anyway, because he could.

This isn't quite the same, though it feels close. Aziraphale has done the necessary parts, could leave him tucked up, bring him tea, be done with it. Instead, he's rubbing warmth back into his cold toes, and Crowley's throat feels tight, his eyes stinging.]

Mm. [He manages a nod, swallowing around the lump in his throat.] Could I have the hot water bottle?

[They have one, he picked it up on a whim while shopping, thinking Aziraphale might like to take it to bed with him.]

Edited 2020-12-18 00:23 (UTC)

Sure.

[In a minute, though. He's hesitating again, worry still writ large on his brow — now that the panic has passed, he just wants to stay here. Right here, with Crowley, to keep an eye on him. To make sure no other darkness tries to swallow him up.

He gives Crowley's foot a fond sort of squeeze.]

Let's get you tucked in first.

'Kay.

[Again, just a little more than a nod, before he gently eases his foot away from Aziraphale's hold, so he can stand up on shaky legs. Rather than give up on the blanket, once the sheets are pulled back he climbs right in with it still wrapped around him, uncaring for the fact it bunches up in places.

Vaguely remembering the mention of tea, he keeps himself propped up slightly against the headboard, rather than curling up on his side the way he'd like to.]

Thanks, sweetheart.

[It's meant to be slightly playful, as much as he can muster, a joke about the fact they're married and he's here, looking after him. Like a good husband should.]

[That earns an odd smile from Aziraphale, crooked and soft and a little tired around the edges.]

Of course.

[He makes a quick exit, then, feeling off-kilter. Sideways. Like the whole of the planet has shifted, something to do with gravity maybe, and he was given no warning, no time to prepare.

Luckily, making tea is routine enough that he can do it without issue — even with everything else being so somehow wrong. He fills the hot water bottle, fills the kettle, brews a whole pot of rooibos and arranges everything on a tray so that it looks nice and that's when he realizes his cheeks are wet and his eyes are hot and he's crying.

Crowley could have died.

Aziraphale knows he shouldn't focus on that, that he should instead be thankful, but it's not a thought he can ignore: Crowley could have died, and Crowley probably knows that, and it's probably the most scared Crowley's been in millennia, and Aziraphale couldn't have done a single thing about it. Even if he were there, it's not like —

He snaps his useless fingers and laughs a bitter, exhausted laugh. Nothing happens. Why would it?

Anyway.

He doesn't want to take too long, doesn't want Crowley to think something happened, so Aziraphale composes himself and dabs his eyes dry with the corner of a napkin, and heads back upstairs with the teapot and two mugs and the hot water bottle, as requested.]

[At some point, he draws his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller, protecting the soft parts of himself and trying to keep all the heat in the center, where it should be. It helps, too, to rest his forehead on bony knees and let some of what he's feeling seep out into shaking shoulders and hidden tears.

It's funny, in an odd sort of way, how often he's observed humans in fear, in situations where they had to fight to survive. Adrenaline is a strange thing, will keep them going longer than they ought to, but if they make it, if they're safe, it all comes crashing down like a poorly built house of cards.

He's never quite experienced it himself. His body doesn't work like a humans, the chemical reactions are there in theory, simply controllable. He'd been scared, before, but mostly he'd been angry, mostly he'd been focused on keeping himself and Ellie alive.

It's a good thing he can hear Aziraphale on the stairs, it gives him a chance to quickly scrub his face with the blanket, wiping away any evidence of tears, aside from the redness to his eyes. Hopefully they can attribute that to the cold.]

Hey.

[His voice is soft, uncertain. Now that he's warming up, he can think more clearly, which leaves room for doubt and uncertainty to creep in. If there was a line in their relationship, this has catapulted them far, far past it.]

Hi.

[Aziraphale won't say anything about the redness in Crowley's eyes if Crowley doesn't say anything about the redness in his.

He sets the tray down on the nightstand, nudging the lamp back slightly, and offers Crowley the hot water bottle first.]

Here. Keep it near your chest.

You're an angel.

[Another weak attempt at a joke, as Crowley eager reaches for the water bottle with bandaged hands, groaning in relief as he presses it against his chest. It would be an obscene sound, under other circumstances.

He had plans to say more, but he needs a moment to deal with how good it feels to have something warm close to his chilled skin. It's not dissimilar to a computer short-circuiting.]

I am indeed.

[A weak smile this time as Aziraphale pours the tea, careful to give Crowley only half a cup in case he starts shivering again. Or — in case he wants to knock it all back at once.

But the cup can wait, while Crowley curls around that warmth and lets some of it settle in. Aziraphale leaves it and props himself on the edge of Crowley's bed instead.]

Do you want to tell me any more about what happened?

[For all that he's already curled up fairly tightly, he draws his legs up more, an implicit offering of space for Aziraphale, a silent request that he stay here rather than retreating to his own bed.

They could still have a conversation, were they in separate beds, but it isn't just conversation that Crowley's aching for, right now. He can't ask Aziraphale to touch him again. Having him close has to be enough.

He breathes in, breathes out, allows the warmth to sink in, some of his muscles loosening.]

I walked through the door of the grocery store, ended up under the ice skating pond instead. Managed to break through the ice. Something... grabbed me, latched on. Reminded me of a Hellhound. Or bloody Dagon when they're in a mood. [He hopes Aziraphale doesn't delve too deeply into that.] Ellie was there, thank fuck, 'cause she knows what she's doing. We got inside, got a fire going. Not a very interesting story, really.

[There's a lot to unpack there.

Aziraphale, perhaps wisely, decides against it. Instead, he grants an unvoiced wish: He lays a hand on Crowley's knee, over the blanket, and speaks softly.

He's saying it. Again.]

I'm so sorry that happened to you.

[His breath catches in his throat and he manages not to look at the hand on his knee, in case acknowledging it is what gets it taken away.

That's how it works sometimes, with them. Fights over Arrangements, over Holy Water. Talking about it too much is dangerous.]

S'okay. [He shivers again, but they're getting less violent each time, his body slowly adjusting to the warmth.] We'll have to be more careful. Regular check-ins might not be a bad idea.

[A text every half hour or so, that way they can go looking, if something goes wrong. Find each other.

He takes another breath, lets it out again slowly, and reaches for his tea as an excuse not to look at Aziraphale.]

I'm glad you were home.

A new Arrangement.

[He can't help but say it. What they had, in terms of their previous one, has fallen apart completely; there's no need for it now, there's no one to report to. There's nothing to do, nothing that needs doing — no tempting, no blessing.

They're as human as their marks were.

Aziraphale hasn't thought about it this way, but it's almost... freeing.]

Crowley —

[Almost. He's almost there, but not yet. The words, like a startled prey animal, skitter away.

Talking about it too much is dangerous.]

— so am I.

[He could dredge up a laugh for that — a new Arrangement — something wry, sardonic, but instead he finds himself nodding, gaze fixed on his tea as his thoughts start to press against him with a little more urgency.

Crowley has always known he's in danger, every since Eve took a bite of the apple. Being favoured by Satan is not the reprieve that some might think it is; all it does is draw more attention to him, make his position far more volatile. He could've been some faceless demon in the crowd, grinding out paperwork day after day. It would be safer, but he'd never have met Aziraphale, never shared millennia on Earth with him. It's always been worth the danger.

This is a different danger, an unknown. They have no clue what will happen, if they die here. It could be freeing, releasing from their human corporations to access their full power again, but depending on how thoroughly they've been yolked, it could be the end of them, too.

He doesn't know how to say any of that, or how to deal with how Aziraphale's voice sounds, right now.]

I went to church, the other day. It doesn't burn anymore.

[That's not much better. It's just the first thing that came to mind, when the memories of the Blitz were dragged up.]

Oh.

[The syllable comes out like it's been whacked out of him, an unexpected hand to the back. He's — glad? Glad for Crowley, he supposes. Maybe.

Depending.

He doesn't notice the way his thumb is tracing distracted little circles.]

Is that... a relief, or...?

[Now he laughs, although calling it that might be generous, since it's more of a humorless, bitter scoff.]

Fuck if I know.

[Surely Aziraphale knows him well enough to know that his relationship with God is complicated, as is his relationship with being a demon. Is he relieved? Is he angry? Does it matter, in the end, when She doesn't care?]

This place is — I dunno, angel. I'm bloody tired.

[He could be talking about right this second, but he's speaking more generally. He's tired of learning the steps of this strange new dance they've been forced to do, he's tired of being human, of being limited. He's tired of the blade hanging over his neck, the knowledge that this can't last forever. They have to go back, so the world can end.

Sometimes, lying awake in the dark, he wonders if he's wasting an opportunity here. If he should try to have what he'll never be able to have, back home.]

[What's Aziraphale supposed to say to that, when he feels the same way in some respects and the opposite way in others?

He misses Her. He misses feeling Her reassuring presence, he misses knowing She's watching. Was he important enough for that? Well, yes, once. Once upon a time, she'd talk to him.

And then he'd lied to her, and She stopped.

He seesaws back and forth between thinking this is Her doing and thinking it's Satan's, between thinking this is a gift and this is a curse, between feeling sure that they're still being watched and feeling free to do whatever the fuck he pleases.

Like this. Like saving a demon, and touching a demon, and allowing himself to feel love for one for the first time in forever.

Maybe it's not that they were once an angel and once a demon. Maybe it's that these bodies did belong to human men who really were once children. Maybe it's just a coincidence that they look the same as they did back home.

Aziraphale focuses his gaze on the wall in front of him and brings his hands into his lap.]

I miss you when you're not here.

[Those words hit him harder than the dip into freezing water did, knocking the breath out of him.

This is worse than asking him to be careful. That could be construed as practical, even if they both know otherwise, because it's only sensible to want an ally here, someone he knows he can rely on if not completely trust. But I miss you isn't practical, there's no excuse or explanation to cover it.

Crowley drinks his tea, unsure what else to do for a second, and because his mouth is too dry to string together a sentence. Just before the silence can get uncomfortable, he finds his voice.]

I'm sorry.

[He doesn't know what about, exactly. All of this, none of it.

Love is an awful thing, for creatures like them.]

[Aziraphale would argue that there is an explanation for it, and a perfectly reasonable one at that.

By human standards, anyway.

The thing is —

The thing is, he hasn't been able to sense love the way he used to for months. He can't sense it in other people, can't pick up on flashes of it from passing a conversation in the street, can't feel the innate depth of it in places long-cherished. But with Crowley... with Crowley, nothing changed. The way Aziraphale felt around him didn't change.

And that's how he knew.

He laces his fingers together, tight and nervous, and he stares at the way his knuckles go white.]

Do you — understand? What I'm saying? I'm not... I just think you should know. You deserve to know. But — [And here his voice gets a bit hurried, a bit harried.] — you're hurt, and I'm not exactly ready, so there's nothing to be done. Not now.

[Oh.

That sting in his eyes is back, and he has to blink rapidly to clear the threatening tears, desperately wishing for his sunglasses or the ability to pull down a miracle, to hide down this spill of emotion.

It's an ugly thing, love.

Crowley screws up his courage, ignores the aches in his body to shift and reach out, laying a hand over Aziraphale's.]

I understand, Aziraphale.

[That's the thing, isn't it? He already knew that Aziraphale loved him. He doesn't know... exactly what that love means, if it's the same as his, but he knows enough, he knows it isn't simply the love an angel feels for every living thing. He's suspected it for a long time, but it was a certainty, handed over with a tartan thermos.

I love you, don't leave me.

You go too fast for me.]

Do you — it's been — [He stares at their hands, unsure how to say this without saying it.] Always. For me. Always.

[He's loved him since the Beginning.]

[Aziraphale has to take a steadying breath. He's worried that if he opens his mouth too soon, too much will come out — and he's still not sure who's here, who's listening, so he's afraid of giving too much away to the air.

A steadying breath in the form of a sigh, as his memory carries him back to Eden.

He still hasn't looked back at Crowley. He's still staring at his hands.]

A... very long time. I'm not sure. You know I couldn't admit it.

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