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

[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.

I know.

[It hardly matters in the end, whether it was Aziraphale protecting himself or fruitlessly trying to protect Crowley, the result is the same. There's no saying it, not really. It's the reason that Crowley has never pushed, even though he knows he could.

He's always — waited. Let Aziraphale know in little ways. A rescue from the Bastille. Chocolates on the opening day of the bookshop. Hamlet.]

It's alright, really. You don't... you don't have to be ready. Not ever.

[It hurts to say, but he knows the truth in the words as soon as he speaks them. He'd wait for eternity, if he had to. Like the little bird flying to the end of the universe to sharpen it's beak.

His grip tightens on Aziraphale's hands, though it hurts.]

This is enough. Always has been.

[Wanting more and needing it are two different things.]

Edited 2020-12-18 02:34 (UTC)

[That's the other thing.

Aziraphale's fingers flex around each other, wanting to untwist and reach out — but not being able to, not yet.

The other thing is:] I want to be ready. I want — [His sentence is cut off by a breathless laugh, and he shakes his head.] I was just thinking about this. Just before you came home, I was... trying to figure out how to tell you, and there you were, and now here we are, and I don't know that I can go on thinking She's not really here —

[Oh. Those pesky tears are back.]

— or that She didn't plan this somehow, when this absolutely never should have happened. Any of it.

[I want —

There's so much that could go after those words, but the horrible, desperate part of Crowley hopes that it was you. It's one thing for Aziraphale to hint he loves him, another entirely to say he's wanted.

He's old enough to know those two don't always go together.]

I can't — I can't tell you what you want to hear. I don't know if She's here, it's been a long time since She's answered me.

[The cold is still there, wrapped around his bones, but he shoves the outer layers of blankets away and sets his tea down so he can shuffle closer, until he can kneel by Aziraphale, forehead resting on his shoulder. He hates seeing him cry, but doesn't know what's acceptable, right now.]

I'm sorry.

Oh, stop that, you – foolish thing. Don’t worry about me, you’re the one who...

[Nearly died. That brings a fresh wave of tears and pulls at Aziraphale’s heart.

He sniffles, feeling stupid and pathetic and terribly small.]

Let me hold you. Can I? It’ll – it’ll warm you up quicker, for starters. And I want to. I want you close for a little while, if that’s... alright.

[A proper demon would sneer at him, laugh at the suggestion of being held, never mind by an angel. But Crowley's never been a particularly good demon, no matter how good he is at temptations.

Aziraphale is better at those, though. He's managed to land on the one thing that Crowley truly wants in this moment, offered it up to him on a platter. It's not as damning, as Crowley's temptations, not in the same sense.

But it'll hurt, when it's taken away, when they have to go back to pretending and lying to each other.]

Anything you'd like, angel.

[There's another truth that's gone unspoken until now.

Crowley draws back, but only so he can lie down properly, the blanket still wrapped around him as he gets as close to the far edge as he can, leaving room for Aziraphale in this stupid bed.

He didn't ask how Aziraphale wanted to hold him, but he thinks — like this will be better. If Aziraphale's tucked up against his back, he can hide his tears. It's what he'd want.]

This isn’t about me.

[In another time, in another place, Aziraphale might have been similarly terrified and said there is no us.

That’s not what he’s saying now, here.

He wriggles his way into the space Crowley’s left and there’s no hesitation, this time, in how he pulls Crowley into his embrace.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is close to a whisper.]

Soon. I can meet you where you are soon, if you don’t mind waiting a little longer.

[It's always about you are words that he's smart enough not to say, not if Aziraphale isn't ready for everything else. That's heavier than an admission of love.

Something in his chest shatters as he Aziraphale presses up against him, and while he manages to bite down on the sob, his chest shudders once before he forces himself to stillness, not wanting to scare him off.

This is the other advantage, of being held like this. His own emotions are hidden, between him and God, if She's watching.]

It isn't waiting, not really. You need to know that.

[Waiting implies expectation. He's never expected Aziraphale to openly love him, not when it's so dangerous for them both.

Just this, an arm around him and warm body pressed against him, is more than he ever thought he'd have. Whatever Aziraphale can give him is enough, as long as he doesn't leave.]

[The scared voice that lives in the back of Aziraphale’s mind is screaming at him right now, cursing and calling him unkind names for being so stupid, so reckless. Flirting was one thing – all the teasing over the centuries, the dancing around each other, that was fine. This, argues the voice, is not.

Imagine if either side found out. Imagine what they would do.

...to Crowley.

Aziraphale’s chest feels tight. He wants to press a kiss to Crowley’s hair, wants to apologize for every time they ever fought, wants to promise protection and safety – but he can’t promise that. And an apology like that seems empty, like it’d just be speaking for the sake of keeping any silence away. And he dare not touch any part of Crowley with his lips for fear that he won’t be able to stop.

He closes his eyes instead.]

Try to get some sleep. I’ve got you.

[Crowley knows, with a certainty that he loathes, that in a few hours he'll wake and Aziraphale will be gone. He'll find him in the living room, or in the kitchen, puttering over dinner. They won't talk about this again, likely not ever.

It was a one off, brought about by fear, by Aziraphale being reminded that Crowley can die here. It should make him angry, he could feel betrayed, or used, but it's a different kind of hurt than that. He can't blame Aziraphale for his fear, he's borne witness to exactly what happens when angels step out of line.

But Aziraphale could be gone, too. Stepped through a doorway into the pond, as he did. Or found some worse fate this town has cooked up. The thought terrifies him, but it makes him brave, too. Even knowing it will hurt them both.

The words sit on his tongue as he allows the warmth at his back to lull him towards sleep, letting them slip out just before he's dragged under.]

I love you.

[In response, whether Crowley notices or not, Aziraphale hugs him a fraction closer.

He meant it, when he said he wasn't ready — he even tries to form the words on his lips once Crowley's asleep, and they won't step out from where they've been hiding. It's true, though. That he does, too.

Maybe Crowley will understand that when he wakes to find Aziraphale is still there, still holding him, not quite awake but not quite asleep.

He knows what Crowley thought.

He's made a point of staying, this time.]

[It's an unsettled sleep that he falls into; in another life, these revelations may have come with relief or happiness, to be certain that Aziraphale loves him even if the words themselves remained unspoken. But he's exhausted and cold and scared, and sleep does little to alleviate those except the chill. Aziraphale is warm, chasing away the lingering cold.

When he wakes, it's to confusion, something of his dreams following him into consciousness, and the tangle of limbs both his own and others is surprising. It takes him a moment to realize that Aziraphale stayed with him, that he didn't slip out of the bed as soon as he fell asleep, as soon as it would've been safe to retreat.

He wants to turn to face him, but both uncertainty and the impracticality of it stop him from following the impulse.]

Angel?

[It's a quiet question, not wanting to disturb him if he's still asleep.

Maybe it was just an accident that he stayed, maybe he fell asleep before he could retreat.]

[Aziraphale makes a muffled sound of acknowledgement where his face is pressed against Crowley's shoulder.

Give him a second.]

'm here.

[He stirs slightly, half-worried one wrong move will send him over the side of this stupidly small bed, and sighs a quiet, I'm-awake-I-guess sigh.]

How're you feeling?

[His heart twists unpleasantly with fondness and something wistful. They have a fake life here, where Aziraphale could make grumbly sleep sounds at him every day for the rest of their lives. If only it were real.

He'd never really been jealous of humans, until now.]

Uh — [He isn't quite sure what to say, stumbling over his own stupid fantasies and his confusion over whether or not they're going to address the fact they're in bed together.] My hands hurt, but I'm warm.

[The cold was the more worrying thing.]

[Aziraphale's not thinking about that. He can't. This has to be real — even if it's temporary, it has to be real, or he's going to find an excuse to run again.]

Good. We'll give them a nice soak later and you'll be —

[He swallows a yawn. He's never been keen on sleep, but since his arrival here... he has to admit, there's something to be said for it.]

— good as new.

[This is worse than falling asleep earlier. It feels as if there's a live wire under his skin, everything too bright and sharp, his attention on every single spot that they're touching. Which is a lot of places, with how small the bloody bed is.]

Hope so, or I'll have to give up my dreams of being a pianist.

[He's proud of himself for sounding mostly normal, having fought past the strain in his voice.]

[It is rather different, Aziraphale also notices, now that they're just... here. Now that Crowley's mostly okay and doesn't need specific — er, tending to. Medically speaking.

He should get up. Not leave, just move.]

— surely you must be hungry?

Dunno, probably?

[Still muzzy from sleep and with his thoughts distracted by every other anxiety he's ever had, it doesn't quite register that Aziraphale might be looking for an excuse for them to move.]

Can never bloody tell, what hungry feels like.

[These bodies are strange, almost unfamiliar. He's spent so much of his time not bothering with hunger that it can be difficult to identify it, now.]

It's...

[It's a simple thing Crowley's asking, really. He means the physical sensation of hunger. The grumbling, empty stomach, the on-edge-ness of what humans call "hanger", the shakiness and lightheadedness in extreme cases. Hunger is simple to explain.

But Aziraphale's understanding of hunger is deeper and more philosophical than that. It's poetic. It's about want and need and satisfaction, and he finds himself blushing at the thought of putting any of that into words. He finds himself thinking of a collection of published letters he'd read once, exchanges between lovers, and one passage that has stuck with him through time:

My days are consumed by this impotent longing for you, and my nights are riddled with insufferable dreams... I want you. I want you hungrily, frenziedly, passionately. I am starving for you, if you must know it.

He needs to get out of this bed.

He shifts some, quietly clears his throat.]

What, hasn't your stomach growled yet?

[There's a stumble over words, movement behind him, and he worries that he's said the wrong thing, or perhaps it's just that Aziraphale is finally awake enough to realise how wrong it was, to climb into bed with a demon.

To admit to loving one.

He closes his eyes, grateful that the weary, hurt expression on his face is hidden, taking the time to gather himself so he can keep his voice light, unaffected.]

Is that what that's about? I thought I'd just upset it.

[If there's anything he's good at, it's pretending. With a sigh, he moves slightly, starting to loosen the blankets.]

You want to get up first? Spare a bit of my dignity?

[He hasn't forgotten that he's naked beneath the blankets, and while it was fine when he was half frozen and exhausted, now it just seems... awkward.]

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