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

[This is something Aziraphale's thought about, something he's prayed over, a question that's had him begging for answers for centuries.

He leans against the counter and grabs the spatula for something to fidget with — mirroring Crowley's anxiety, in his own way.]

I know you think it's rubbish, but I do believe She does everything for a reason. Every single thing, Crowley. Which... would include putting a snake in Eden while I was on apple tree duty.

I don't think it's rubbish.

[There's a weight in the pause after those words, the clear indication that he's got more to say, it's written all over his face, too. It's just difficult to put it into words without sounding bitter and hurt, which are things he tries to avoid, when it comes to God. He prefers to be angry, or play at nonchalance, lest anyone realise how deeply She wounded him.]

But I can't — it opens up too many questions, if I believe that. Did I only Fall so I could end up in the garden? Is that all I am?

[Aziraphale has to understand how much that would hurt, to know that he went through all that suffering to be a pawn in God's games.]

[Aziraphale would never imply that he thinks they're all really just pawns in God's games, would never even allow himself to entertain the thought for a second, but —

But.

He shrugs a shoulder.]

I don't think any other demons would be so keen to interrupt the apocalypse. Not that — not that we can know one way or the other, what with... I won't say the word. And I'm not — I'm not doubting. It's just been — well, easier, I suppose, to think these things when I can't feel Her here.

[None of what he's saying is necessarily wrong, but it's still complicated and frustrating and confusing. Just once, Crowley would like things to be simple.]

You think kissing me is part of God's plan?

[It's sort of a joke, sort of not.

Mostly, he's just tired. His hands hurt, his legs hurt, he's worn out in a way that he's never quite experienced before, and now he's somewhat at the end of his emotional rope, too.

He was promised food and a bath, instead he's gotten an argument, more confessions, and the threat of an existential crisis. It's not quite what he was prepared for.]

[Exasperated and nervous thanks to this line of conversation, Aziraphale throws his hands in the air.

The spatula sails halfway across the kitchen, and he ignores it.

Shut up. It's fine.]

I don't know! Maybe!

[It's utterly ridiculous, all of it. Aziraphale accidentally throws a spatula, and Crowley bursts into laughter, dropping his head into his hands as his shoulders shake.

It's only a little manic sounding.

When it peters out, he lowers his head the rest of the way to thunk gently on the tabletop, hands in his hair. He thinks about saying something, but none of it quite seems right, anymore.

He just needs a second.]

[SAME THOUGH.

While Crowley has his admittedly deserved breakdown, Aziraphale rubs the bridge of his nose and swallows around a blasphemous lump in his throat. If God is here after all, he's fucked.

But then, he was kind of fucked anyway, considering the omniscience thing.

The only thing he can think to say, as if it will help anything, is:] I lied to Her, once. Right to her... not Her face, but She asked me a question and — you get the idea. She asked me where my sword was, and I told Her I misplaced it.

Of course you did.

[Comes a mumble from the table, just loud enough to be heard.

Aziraphale lies to God, gives away his holy weapons, spends centuries helping a demon tempt souls and letting a demon occasionally save others. He's kissed people, and very likely committed the sin of gluttony, what with all the lunches at the Ritz, and hoarded his books for decades and decades.

All Crowley did was ask questions. It doesn't seem fair, really.]

Suppose if that doesn't get you kicked out of Heaven, fucking a demon's probably fine.

[Reader, he did not mean to say fucking.]

Edited 2020-12-21 00:16 (UTC)

[And yet!

Aziraphale sputters. Not embarrassed, but offended.]

I do not intend to fuck you! Must you be so vulgar? I told you how I felt! This is not meant to be some — some casual thing! And anyway —

[In the frying pan on the stove there sits two eggs, half-cooked, the yolks an unattractive mix of hard and runny.

If they could crawl out of the pan and leave to spare themselves this conversation, they would.]

— angels do not fuck!

[He punctuates that with a haughty sniff.]

[There he goes again, laughing a bit hysterically.]

Sorry, sorry —

[Is he, though?

What he is, is someone who wants to take a nap so badly. Who wants to eat something. Who wants Aziraphale to reach out and touch him and tell him that they'll figure this out.]

I reckon I might've actually drowned and this is a real weird post-death hallucination.

I am no hallucination. Shut up. You need to eat, and have that bath, and I need to stop talking before one of the neighbors hears me shouting obscenities.

[But first, he needs to get that stupid spatula.]

Don't tell me to shut up!

[At least that makes him look up, even if it's to scowl at Aziraphale, petulant and angry.]

That had been the plan, until someone got his knickers in a twist because I tried to have a normal fucking conversation!

[That earns Crowley the flattest of looks Aziraphale can muster.]

Name one time we've had a "normal" [airquotes] conversation.

[Crowley rolls his eyes, barely resisting the urge to throw something at Aziraphale.]

Can you just make the damn eggs already?

I would love to.

[He's just going to have to start fresh.

So he does, going quiet and focusing on the task at hand: Making Crowley sunny-side-up eggs just the way he likes them, seasoned with salt and pepper and paired with toast and orange juice even though it's whatever time it is.

He's been in a frozen lake. Vitamin C is important, right?

Aziraphale makes himself a slice of toast, too, for good measure — his slice loaded with butter and jam.]

[In the interest of not turning this into another fight, Crowley does, in fact, choose to shut up. Instead, he pillows his head on his folded arms, watching Aziraphale... take care of him.

Because that's what it is, really. Despite the petty arguments, Aziraphale took care of him, when he turned up cold and hurt. Bandaged up his wounds, warmed him up.

There's so much of this that he doesn't quite understand, whether it was God's plan or not, whether he can touch Aziraphale without ruining him, whether it's the right decision, to openly love him.]

Thank you.

[It's a quiet murmur as the plate is set down in front of him, his expression soft and complicated, but he says nothing more at first, choosing to eat first. He does his best not to inhale the food, but actually listening to his body for once, he can tell how much it needs the sustenance, and it's easy to polish off the eggs, toast, and juice.

Staring at his mostly empty glass, swirling the dregs of the juice around, he finally finds his voice again.]

I want things to change. I want — I want you. Whatever you're ready to give, whenever you're ready to give it.

[Aziraphale sits, and waits, and quietly eats his toast.

When Crowley speaks again, he'll find he's met with another open-handed offer — palm exposed, knuckles down, fingers half-curled and waiting.]

Then things will change.

[It's such a relief to say it, to have it be true.

Finally.]

[There's a brief moment of hesitation, before Crowley reaches out, laying his bandaged hand in Aziraphale's. It would be so easy, for him to tighten his grip and hurt Crowley, but that thought only flitters past. He trusts him, he always has.]

Suppose we'll muddle through, hm?

[The same they've always done.]

[Aziraphale's grip is soft and gentle only, holding Crowley's hurt hand like one might hold a baby bird.]

Suppose we will. Now — about that bath, mm?

[He'll make it with bubbles and everything.]

from god that is our father, blessed angels came

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