from god that is our father, blessed angels came

[demonicmiracle]

Who: Crowley & various
When: December 15 onwards
Where: Around town
What: Event prompts & catch-all. Closed prompts atm but hit me up if you'd like a starter
Warnings: Violence, dead bodies, possible talk of drowning, will update as necessary

Comments

[demonicmiracle]

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.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[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.]

[demonicmiracle]

[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.

[bibliophilicbells]

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.]

[demonicmiracle]

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!

[bibliophilicbells]

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

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

[demonicmiracle]

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

Can you just make the damn eggs already?

[bibliophilicbells]

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.]

[demonicmiracle]

[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.

[bibliophilicbells]

[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.]

[demonicmiracle]

[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.]

[bibliophilicbells]

[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.]