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[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.]

[Somehow, Aziraphale had forgotten that Crowley is currently without clothing.

He... does not immediately move. Instead, he screws his eyes shut and says a prayer in his head and thinks of England.]

— right.

[He's up and on his feet and looking only slightly unsteady, which could easily be blamed on the sleepiness. His gaze drifts to the nightstand, where nearly a full pot of tea sits, now cold, and then back to Crowley.]

I'll fix you something warm. Maybe draw you a bath after, if you like. Meet me in the kitchen?

[As soon as Crowley has the bed to himself, he rolls onto his back with a groan, starting to stretch before the movement is quickly halted with a sharp inhale of breath, pain shooting through his calf.

Fuck, that hurts, but it's a distraction from the strange situation he's found himself in.]

Warm'd be good, so'd a bath. [He exhales shakily, scrubbing the back of his wrist over his eyes.] Meet you there in a bit.

[The space would likely do them both good.]

[Space. Yes. There’s certainly space between their bedroom and the kitchen, and once Aziraphale has made it that far, he puts one hand on his forehead and stares off into the middle distance like he’s just witnessed something explode.

Or –

Or like he just woke up in bed, next to Crowley, who nearly died, and who now knows Aziraphale loves him. Oh, and he loves Aziraphale too. Always has!

Aziraphale continues staring. His guts feel like they’ve been thrown into a blender and poured back into him. Sloppily, mind.

Really, the biggest surprise – to Aziraphale, anyway – is that he finally admitted it to himself. Six thousand years of repressing it, and it all came tumbling out in a matter of... what, minutes? He blinks, replays the events leading up to this, and his memory launches him back to the day they woke up together here. How he felt, seeing those fake photos the first time. How, in the midst of his disoriented panic, he was stung by envy – envy for this other version of himself, for humanity as a whole.

He decides to make eggs.]

Right.

[Crowley mutters the word to the ceiling above him as soon as he's alone in the room, staring up at nothing. This is — a thing. A thing that's happened.

A selfish part of him is tempted to simply go back to sleep, close his eyes and drift and maybe when he wakes up again this will somehow make sense. Or he'll be back at the Dowling's Estate, this whole experience having been some ridiculous dream brought on by too much whiskey. Aziraphale would likely forgive him, assume it was exhaustion, considering what happened.

But it's too cruel, even for a demon.

So he gets up, dresses slowly in sweatpants and a jumper, since he'd rather not deal with buttons or zips while his hands are in a state. After debating a moment, he adds socks to the ensemble, not wanting to get cold right now, then braces himself to head into the kitchen.

He's careful to make sound as he approaches, not wanting to startle Aziraphale, knowing he's likely a million miles away, lost in thought.]

Looks as if the snow's picked up again, might have to wait for tomorrow to go get the car.

[A perfectly normal conversation, between two people who didn't just admit loving each other for an unmeasurable amount of time.]

[He doesn’t know what he was expecting.

Aziraphale’s halfway through cracking a set of eggs to scramble when Crowley arrives in the kitchen, talking about his car. A piece of shell drops into the mix; he leaves it, and stays quiet for a moment, and keeps his eyes on his work.

He’s hurt. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really, given their... situation. That they’re them. Innate enemies, or whatever. Fundamental opposites.]

If you want to reject me, you can just say it. I’d understand, it’s... it’d be perfectly understandable.

[Crowley blinks at him, taken aback by that response and utterly unsure what to do with it.]

Sorry, I — what were you expecting? [He doesn't mean to sound frustrated, but it happens despite best intentions, because he is, a little bit. He doesn't know what Aziraphale wants from him. There's no script for a half-given confession, one that can't be acted on.

It's why he never thought Aziraphale would have stayed, while he slept.] A good morning kiss?

[It's not even morning, they didn't sleep that long.]

Edited 2020-12-20 04:20 (UTC)

Wh– I– no! It’s – [He gestures at the clock, looking stupid.]

I’m not saying there ought to be, I don’t know, speeches, but – at least act like –

[Like what? Like he cares? Aziraphale knows he cares. Aziraphale knows Crowley, of course he’s going to talk about the car or the weather or literally anything else, but it seems that in this moment... Aziraphale has forgotten some key characteristics.]

– I have no idea what we’re supposed to do now, Crowley!

[There's a poorly hidden groan of frustration, but at least he stops himself from saying something nasty about the fact Aziraphale is the one who started all this.

He should've thought this part through, the aftermath. That's why they've never said it before, because it was always going to hurt like this.]

No, no, tell me how I should act now, angel. [It's so hard not to be frustrated and angry, not to listen to the awful, twisted thing inside him.] 'Cause I don't have a — a frame of reference for this. I'm not even supposed to be able to love, I thought She ripped it out of me, until you and your bloody I gave it away — [Somehow it still sounds unbearably fond, even while he's mocking him.] — and your wing over me.

[Because that's what did it, two small acts of kindness, one that wasn't even for him, but Crowley hadn't.... it had been a very long time, since anyone had been kind to him.]

If it's a speech you're after, you're going to be waiting a long time, 'cause I can't — fuck — [He stops, laughs humorlessly.] If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. Right?

[He scrubs a hand over his face, banishing any tears before they can fall.]

So just... tell me what you want from me, and it's yours. Tell me how to act, and I'll do it. You have to know that, surely.

[The rescues and the chocolates and the little miracles as favours.

Anywhere you want to go.

Aziraphale has to know that Crowley would do anything for him.]

Edited 2020-12-20 16:11 (UTC)

[Softly:] Crowley.

[Aziraphale's been knocked down several notches, his voice gone soft and quiet as he (somehow) has the sense to turn the burner off with the eggs half-done.

He reaches out, not taking Crowley's hand but making it very clear that he'd like to.]

I apologize. We're... equally clueless, I'm afraid, so we'll just have to figure it out together.

[Crowley opens and closes his mouth a few times, breath a bit shaky, not sure what to do with the tumult of emotions when Aziraphale has backed down from the argument.

What he wants to do is just sit down on the floor for a bit and have a cry, like he's seen Warlock do when the poor kid gets upset and overwhelmed. But he's an endlessly old demon, not a seven year old boy, so he can't get away with that sort of behavior, unfortunately.

He makes do with crossing his arms over his chest, a protective sort of gesture.]

Do you want things to change?

[His tone is more gentle, at least, the question genuine. If Azirapahle wants this to change, then they have to work out the how, but this is the first step.]

[He doesn't mean to, but he laughs. It's a helpless, baffled sound.]

Well, I certainly can't go on with things how they are.

[And then he swallows, a little color coming into his cheeks as he glances elsewhere.]

I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Actually, far longer than that, but — now that we're in the business of admitting things, I started... actively thinking about it a few weeks ago. Seriously considering it. If things don't change, then I can't do that, now can I?

[Something softens in his expression, briefly, before Aziraphale starts talking kissing and Crowley just looks helplessly fond and a tiny bit baffled.

How can they go from fighting to talking about kissing within the span of a couple minutes? Is this how things are going to be now? How's he supposed to cope with that?]

Right. Well. [He has no idea where he's going with this sentence, he just started speaking so Aziraphale doesn't have a chance to take it back.] Suppose I'd be fine with kissing.

[Just a little teasing, because he's a bastard, and because he's hoping he might get a proper laugh out of Aziraphale.

Also because he needs a second to think. This is buying himself time.]

[It works: Aziraphale laughs, feeling... maybe this is how human teenagers feel. He's heard an awful lot about them and their silly reactions to love.

For lack of a better word.]

I'd hope so.

[He absently brushes at his nose, still looking not-directly-at-Crowley.]

Not to brag, but I am rather good at it. You'd be missing out, if you'd said no.

[Wait.

What.]

Who have you been kissing?

[The question spills out before it registers that he has absolutely no right to be at all jealous of anyone Aziraphale has been kissing in the past.]

[Oh.

Oh, no.

Aziraphale's expression goes blank.]

Er — no one in the last... [It's time for him to make a mistake.

He starts counting on his fingers.]

[With a groan, Crowley covers his face with both hands, silently beseeching God to grant him the strength to deal with whatever this has turned into.]

Look, that's — it's fine. Don't answer that. S'none of my damn business.

[Has there been more than kissing? It might actually be for the best that he's entirely human right now, since it stops him from getting all hissy and dramatic the way he wants to.

He can't go and bite off the hands of anyone who's ever touched Aziraphale. It isn't realistic.]

I think we've gotten a bit off track.

[Oh, thank Heavens. Aziraphale immediately drops his hands to his side, equal parts grateful and mortified.]

We have. Look — I... know I've hurt you before, Crowley. I cannot promise that won't happen again, especially if — or when — the opportunity to return home presents itself. To phrase it as an understatement, that would be complicated. So.

[So.]

Do you want things to change?

[This is... a lot to process. On autopilot, Crowley moves over to the dining table, trying not to limp too noticeably, and lowers himself onto one of the chairs.

He needs a second, both to deal with everything that's happened recently, and to actually give that question the thought it deserves. Because Aziraphale is right. One way or another, they're going to end up back home. Would it hurt more, to have something and have to return to the way things were, or to know he passed up the chance for more?

But that's not the only thing to consider, in all this.

He picks absently at one of the plasters on his fingers, working the edge loose.]

I want — I don't want to ruin you.

[What if this is a test? A temptation? What if Falling is contagious, if he puts his hands on Aziraphale and stains him? He could never live with himself, if he had to suffer the same fate Crowley has.

Heaven is awful, but being a demon is worse.]

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