Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkofgoodness) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
asgardchrysalis2020-01-06 06:49 pm
sparkofgoodness) wrote in asgardchrysalis2020-01-06 06:49 pm
Entry tags:
[Active/Closed] I've made a huge, tiny mistake
Who: Crowley, Aziraphale, possibly Odin
What: Crowley doing something he was told not to do
When: 4th/5th loosely
Where: Aziraphale's room and beyond.
Warnings: In which Crowley nearly dies, briefly.
Like many days before it, it's a slow day.
Crowley has, so far, gotten absolutely nowhere interesting with his research. He's draped backwards over Aziraphale's bed, reading the screen of his fancy not-quite-phone thing that works through the bracelet.
All he has achieved in the short time he's been here is:
- One, ironically align himself with a supposed god of secrecy
- Two, briefly get Odin's attention and a hefty supply of Aziraphale's wine
- Three, work out he can now use an annoyingly limited amount of magic.
He can still say, with extreme confidence, that he hates this. At the very least he might admit he's getting used to it, and having the wine around helps. Thing is, that'll run out. It'll run out and Crowley is running out of ways to distract himself from Aziraphale's reluctance to talk about... things. Things that he's trying to avoid thinking about, since he isn't allowed to talk about them.
The one thing he has going right now is a continued campaign to wear down Odin. Up until now it's been rather one-sided, since after the initial replies he'd largely told him no and ignored him. There's no real harm in trying, though, so for the four weeks or so since he'd first managed to get an answer Crowley has been trying.
Trying in several senses of the word, it might be said.
The rooms are small, Crowley is restless, and his entertainment in short illusions where he restyles himself has already begun to fade. What else is a demon to do?
What he hadn't expected, admittedly, is an actual reply.
He blinks at it -- no benefit? Whatever -- then glances down at his bracelets. He wiggles frantically to sit up and swing his legs off the bed as they start to glow.
"Aziraphale!" he exclaims, clearly excited. "I've done it! Loo-"
Then, in a flash of light, Crowley is gone.
Five minutes pass, and he's still gone. Ten minutes pass. In the arrival room Crowley is, admittedly, more focused on questioning Odin as much as possible than considering returning to Aziraphale. He's a little shaken, but also very indignant.
It did all seem like a good idea at the time.
What: Crowley doing something he was told not to do
When: 4th/5th loosely
Where: Aziraphale's room and beyond.
Warnings: In which Crowley nearly dies, briefly.
Like many days before it, it's a slow day.
Crowley has, so far, gotten absolutely nowhere interesting with his research. He's draped backwards over Aziraphale's bed, reading the screen of his fancy not-quite-phone thing that works through the bracelet.
All he has achieved in the short time he's been here is:
- One, ironically align himself with a supposed god of secrecy
- Two, briefly get Odin's attention and a hefty supply of Aziraphale's wine
- Three, work out he can now use an annoyingly limited amount of magic.
He can still say, with extreme confidence, that he hates this. At the very least he might admit he's getting used to it, and having the wine around helps. Thing is, that'll run out. It'll run out and Crowley is running out of ways to distract himself from Aziraphale's reluctance to talk about... things. Things that he's trying to avoid thinking about, since he isn't allowed to talk about them.
The one thing he has going right now is a continued campaign to wear down Odin. Up until now it's been rather one-sided, since after the initial replies he'd largely told him no and ignored him. There's no real harm in trying, though, so for the four weeks or so since he'd first managed to get an answer Crowley has been trying.
Trying in several senses of the word, it might be said.
The rooms are small, Crowley is restless, and his entertainment in short illusions where he restyles himself has already begun to fade. What else is a demon to do?
What he hadn't expected, admittedly, is an actual reply.
He blinks at it -- no benefit? Whatever -- then glances down at his bracelets. He wiggles frantically to sit up and swing his legs off the bed as they start to glow.
"Aziraphale!" he exclaims, clearly excited. "I've done it! Loo-"
Then, in a flash of light, Crowley is gone.
Five minutes pass, and he's still gone. Ten minutes pass. In the arrival room Crowley is, admittedly, more focused on questioning Odin as much as possible than considering returning to Aziraphale. He's a little shaken, but also very indignant.
It did all seem like a good idea at the time.
no subject
Especially not now.
“Thank you,” he says. The glasses reappear on the table near his elbow, pushed there by Crowley, and he stops fiddling with the top of the wine bottle. There was never any issue there anyway.
He’s overly aware of Crowley standing behind him, far too close, and he feels anxiety sparking underneath his skin. It’s fine, he tells himself and pours the wine into the glasses. “I had a similar conversation with him. I believe he meant your memories from the last time you were here. Not, well, Earth,” Aziraphale continues on. He overfills the wine glasses, almost to the point of spilling and he doesn’t think about that either.
It’s fine.
“Said something about how I was the only iteration of any being that currently exists with those memories.”
The bottle clinks against the table as he sets it back down. Curling his fingers around the stems of the glasses, he lifts them off the table.
“It’s, ah. Er-” He forgets what he had meant to say. When he turns around, Crowley is right there. Not that it’s a surprise. He’s already known he was standing that close, of course. Of course, but he hadn’t realised just how close.
no subject
Carefully he takes one of the glasses of wine, sips from it enough to reduce the level to something safer.
"Aziraphale," he prompts softly, and leans in to place his glass back on the table. "If you're waiting for me, you should know I've been waiting for you a long time. I never stopped waiting. I never will. All you have to do is tell me, yeah?"
Tell him what you want, since Crowley isn't about to rush something on his own. He's nervous, tiptoeing along a line in the sand that has been blurred by wind and rain. Waiting, any minute, for a harsh rebuke. For too fast to be the response, despite all the obvious signs.
"Just, tell me when you're ready. Tell me what you want. Don't make me guess, I'm not good at guessing."
He doesn't want to guess, it's something too important to hang on interpretation. On reading between the lines, on the power of suggestion.
oh good, this is the 50th comment
Aziraphale doesn’t have any more to give. They’ve all slipped through his fingers like a sieve, lost to him as soon as there stopped being any further division between their respective sides. That barrier didn’t exist between them anymore and so neither did the crux of the reason why Aziraphale couldn’t accept Crowley. There was no one that he needed to concern himself with appeasing or trying to be obedient towards any longer.
So, what was left? Just them, wasn’t it?
It’s exactly what they both wanted.
Too bad that it doesn’t make this any less overwhelming. With Crowley this close and being this direct, Aziraphale feels like he can’t breathe. All of the air seems to be caught in his throat and his hands suddenly unsteady.
“Ah, right,” he says. His voice sounds shaky even despite his best efforts. He feels a little cornered and definitely anxious. He clears his throat in an attempt to compose himself a little better or at the very least to sound that way. “Well, yes. I mean, yes,” he continues, speaking quickly.
It’s a bit too fast.
“I am,” he repeats, confirming. I am ready.
He knows that much to be true; he might as well be able to say it clearly. At least that much should be done. There’s no reason to be nervous or unsure. Crowley is asking him because he, himself, is interested and Aziraphale had just expressed his mutual interest. They’re both interested, both willing, and all that needs to be done is for Aziraphale to say so and he has.
This is it. This is him saying so.
It’s ridiculous to feel as hesitant as he does. He reminds himself that much, but it does nothing to squash the dizzying feeling inside of his stomach and head. His hand tightens a little further around the stem of the wine glass, knuckles white, and he can’t seem to stop talking. “But do you think the timing is right? What with-You know, everything else? And being here?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing as he flicks his gaze from Crowley’s eyes to the line of his jaw.
“I don’t mind waiting. Until later. A better time, that is.”
no subject
He doesn't know what a better time would look like. When they're back home? After the apocalypse? What if they don't go back together? He doesn't even remember the apocalypse not happening, after all, and they still don't really understand why. The thought makes him anxious again, makes him drop his eyes away. What if he gets erased from the timeline back on earth regardless? None of these are reassuring thoughts.
None of these are things he can tell Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who after coaxing him into responding is now rapidly backpedalling when confronted. He should have seen that coming, really. He feels a flash of frustration at that, and the way Aziraphale is so willing to slam on the breaks for eternity, but --
He shouldn't be angry about that. He can't by. He knows why, after all, it's just... frustrating.
"We can," he tells the floor, "if you want to."
He would, if Aziraphale really wanted to. He'd wait for millennia if he had to. He just doesn't know if they have that time any more.
Crowley drags his eyes back up, frowns at Aziraphale.
"But I don't want to. We don't have to --" He cuts off, takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. Winces as he tries to re-arrange his words. "I just want to stop pretending, angel. That's all. We can go as slow as you want, I promise."
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He could lose Crowley. He could lose him and now he knows that. It could be permanently or it could be temporarily with more pieces of himself missing. Who knows what else they might take from him? What other parts they might carve off as they see fit?
It would be nothing but a lie for Aziraphale to say that doesn't scare him. He’s always considered Crowley’s presence to be a constant.
“It’s just—” he starts and stops again. How does he say that? That he’s struggling to easily accept what is being offered because he isn’t sure how fleeting it might be? How fleeting Crowley, himself, might be? He takes a steadying breath and moves to place his glass of wine behind him before he spills it on either of them. Or both of them.
Then he glances upward, meeting Crowley’s eyes.
“What if something happens to you again? What if you don’t come back next time?” he asks, finally offering some explanation for the concerns intertwined with his hesitation. He wants to extend his hand to Crowley, he wants to do this—He does. It’s just that. . .
“I am not sure if-Well.”
Aziraphale is not sure if he could stand it. To have it happen again.
no subject
What if something happens to you again? What if you don't come back next time?
So -- what? What if it does? Is it better to have never taken a chance? In Crowley's book, no. In Crowley's mind that's worse. To know they wasted time waiting for the perfect moment and never got it. To know he lost the chance to be... well, to be whatever they could be.
To know that maybe Aziraphale is so scared of that, which is his own fault, that he has decided it isn't worth the risk. That Crowley isn't worth the risk. That maybe he's gone and blown up his own chances -- once again, there he is, seeds of his own destruction. Ruining everything. This fear doesn't necessarily go away, after all. It changes. Right now, it's the tree. It's Odin, it's this place. If they get back, it'll be something else.
He drops his eyes again, flits them away and draws back a step to give Aziraphale space again. He said he could wait, if he had to. He said he'd wait as long as he needed. Can't backtrack that now.
"Right," he says dully. For a moment, Crowley is torn. His expression twitches, tired but with hints of frustration pulling at it. He doesn't want to fight about this. Not really. At the same time, though --
"Thing is," he says, rallying enough to look back up. "Thing is, angel, it's not just me is it? And it's not just here. Even if we make it back, there's no guarantee we're safe forever. There never is."
no subject
Or, rather, not at current.
“No. We have no assurance that either of us will be granted peace. I don’t imagine we stayed their hand forever, but—” he says, ultimately agreeing with Crowley’s assessment. He’s not wrong about this. There is always some threat lurking the background for them. Whether it was here with the whole pantheon of questionable “gods” and the World Tree or the forces of Heaven and Hell back on Earth. Safety was a fleeting concept, but that wasn’t entirely the issue.
It was about the nature of it.
Asgard is infinitely more dangerous when he has been locked away from the abilities and the existence that he has always known. He is so, so painfully mortal here. Both of them are. He nor Crowley can challenge Odin or Yggdrasil or anyone else as he knows they ought to be able to. Everything happens in a flash and there’s no rhythm, no control, and—
Aziraphale hates it.
“I suppose it’s different. From a battle I might participate in to one that I cannot,” he explains. He just wants Crowley to understand this point. That he doesn’t want to tell him that they cannot do this or imply that he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t know what this is or could even be when the lines have become so blurred, but Aziraphale does want it.
He does want Crowley.
He’s wanted Crowley for quite some time.
Aziraphale lets out a tired sigh and pulls at the collar of his sweater. He doesn’t know what the right decision to make here would be. Should he make a promise to pick up where they left off when they get back to Earth? How long would that even be? Would they ever? Would the Crowley he reunites with on Earth be different from the one he has here, in front of him, now? He doesn’t know. There is no way to know.
Nothing is certain.
“I’m sorry,” he begins. He glances over Crowley’s face again, searching. “But if you don’t mind me saying so, it isn’t that I don’t want to. I would like to. Very much so. I simply just do not want to be forced to let go of you after the fact,” he says. For this much, he sounds resolute.
He just doesn’t know what he ought to do about it.
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Crowley swipes up his glass of wine and paces further away, trying to put more distance between them. He feels like he can't breathe for the bubbling, clawing sense of frustration and --
Anger. He's angry.
"It is, though," he says, and he can feel it. He can feel it all preparing to froth right up, come boiling over. "It is that you don't want this, because it's safer to keep things the way they are. It's safer to keep pretending nothing's changed, and you are far too smart for me to believe you don't know exactly what you're doing. You're just leading me along, with enough to keep me paying attention then shoving me right back when it gets too difficult. I don't want to play that game. I don't want to regret not saying things to you just because you were too scared to risk it. I don't want to end up here, on my own, with idiot humans telling me they're sorry my work colleague has left because that's all you ever told them. I have already done this, Aziraphale. I have sat and mourned you thinking we'd messed it up, that I'd never see you again, and it didn't hurt less because --"
He cuts off, trying to take a breath to get control of himself again. It's not going to work. He isn't going to convince Aziraphale, just like he couldn't convince him properly to work together when things went wrong. He doesn't know how they end up stopping the Apocalypse. Maybe Aziraphale works it out and thinks of something without him. Maybe he never needed him. Maybe the great sodding plan just needed them all to play along.
"Doesn't matter," Crowley says tiredly, and takes a sip of his wine. It does matter, to him.
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And why not?
Aziraphale is still saying “no”. He’s also saying “yes”, but he’s still saying “no”. He knows this, he does, but he doesn’t believe that he is wrong either. He’s right about this. Why couldn’t Crowley see that? He feels guilty and frustrated all at once because he knows what Crowley is asking for is foolish, reckless, and bound to burn the both of them. Isn’t he aware of that? Or is he just not concerned? And, the worst part is that he tries to say that it doesn’t matter after all but calling Aziraphale a coward for what should be common sense. How could it possibly not matter? That’s the part that’s too far, that pushes his frustration past the line, tumbling into anger.
“It does matter!” he snaps, immediately rebuking him. Pushing himself away from the edge of the desk, he starts to stalk across the room to reclose the distance put between them. He just needs Crowley to understand him, to understand what he’s trying to tell him. “Listen to me, you’re wrong. I am telling you that I do. That I want this,” he insists, voice rising in volume as if that might get it through to him more successfully.
It isn’t his intention to pull him in and push him back out again. That’s not what Aziraphale wants to do. It’s not what he’s trying to do. Nor is he trying to pretend that nothing had changed between them. It had, it has, and there is already no real way of going back from even this much. He knows it and it scares him. It scares him so much that he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s already thought himself sick over it and it’s unreal to him that Crowley doesn’t seem to have the same experience.
How could he be so sure about it? Bitterness wells up in his throat and he feels a little overwrought. He speaks without meaning to, the words all but falling out of his mouth. “Is it just so easy for you?” he demands.
He swings an arm out, flicking his hand upward in frustration. “To-to make these decisions! Throw caution to the wind! Say whatever you want!”
Aziraphale just doesn’t understand.
“Is . . . Is just anywhere, anytime fine for you?”
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He takes a controlling breath, tries to collect himself.
"I can't pretend. I can't -- can't know that the only reason we aren't together is fear of some unknown and walk around listening to you act like we're nothing."
That hurts more, that really hurts. He shifts past Aziraphale enough to sit on the one uncomfortable chair, to set his wine glass back down on the long table. He doesn't want to sit on the bed again, doesn't want to give Aziraphale the chance to sit next to him and touch at him.
He's too tired for this. Too tired and jittery. Crowley leans forward and presses his hands to his face, tries to rub some sort of strength into himself. To calm down before he just completely loses control.
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He grimaces as he listens to Crowley, growing more offended with each passing second. “Nothing!” he repeats, incredulous. Is that what Crowley thought? What he expected? For Aziraphale to pretend they were strangers? His eyes narrow, eyebrows tightly pulling inward. “You’re not nothing! We’re not nothing!” he finds himself all but yelling. He doesn’t know what the two of them are, but it definitely isn’t nothing. He can’t agree to it.
“I—” he starts, then snaps his mouth shut.
He stops himself from arguing the point a little further. If they're not going to get anywhere with this then Aziraphale will be the one to bend. He would rather do something as ridiculous and as stupid as this than let Crowley walk around thinking that this was some lightly made decision or Aziraphale could easily discard him like old rubbish at any time.
He can’t. He just can’t have that.
Aziraphale takes a breath and makes a vague, irritated gesture with his hand. Then, finally, he says, “Alright, fine. If anywhere is fine for you then fine.”
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It takes Crowley a moment to process those words. They're so dismissive, so underwhelming that it feels more like rejection than acceptance at first.
It isn't, though.
In a wave of confused panic, he almost wants to demur. Wants to say we don't have to, if you really hate it, if you're angry.
His hands drop from his face and Crowley looks up, eyes hot and expression uncertain.
He wants to close the distance, to reach out and touch Aziraphale but he's afraid any minute he'll change his mind and draw back. Close off. Decide he can't, that it's too dangerous, that he wants to wait anyway.
"Fine?" he echoes weakly, because he wants to be certain. Wants to be sure he is reading this situation correctly before he lets himself have too much hope.
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It would have been nice.
This, obviously, was not nice, but the alternative felt so much worse. So here they are.
“Yes! Fine,” he repeats, still angry and voice a bit too loud. Aziraphale rolls his shoulders back, trying to force his posture into something less like a bristling cat, less defensive and puffed up. It doesn’t really work and he’s sure that it doesn’t when he knows how he still feels (he still feels defensive and puffed up), so he turns on his heel after a moment to step back towards where he had abandoned his glass of wine.
There’s a brief pause where he doesn’t say anything further, mulling over his words as he picks the glass up to take a sizeable sip from it. Then, still faced away from Crowley, he continues, “If it doesn’t make any difference to you where we are or-or the circumstances or if the moment’s right, then yes. This moment is fine.”
It is, it is, it is. It has to be.
Well, unless, Crowley has changed his mind and decided this isn’t what he wants after all.
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Which means Crowley has to convince him it's worth it.
He presses his lips together, presses his hands together to try and stop himself fidgeting as he slides forward a little in the chair.
"It doesn't," he confirms. "Because if we wait and never get that chance, Aziraphale, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't live with -- with knowing I lost the chance to... to tell you how much I love you. To show you. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted, for us."
Maybe that's not enough to be worth the risk, but it feels like it should be. It feels like it should be enough. Like it could be, if they let it.
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Aziraphale stills, one hand pressed against the edge of the table as he repeats Crowley’s words back to himself. Once more, once more, once more until he’s sure that he knows them. Knows them well enough to commit them to memory and to heart. It’s both something that he wants to hear (always if such a thing were possible) and also something he definitely isn’t ready to hear.
In comparison to everything else, it feels too fast and too sudden. He’s always known that Crowley felt that way, known and felt in a way that offers no secrets, but it’s very different to actually hear him speak it out into the world.
He doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, he feels the same way, but Aziraphale cannot say it so boldly and immediately. Not like Crowley just had.
“Well,” he tries. He forgets he’s supposed to be angry, forgets he should be frustrated, or really feel anything at all that isn’t just bewilderment. He’s searching for the words he might say, for anything that might even be halfway appropriate for such a sincere expression of affection and honesty.
Turning back towards Crowley, he catches his gaze.
“Then no more waiting.”
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Crowley's eyes are still hot, but the furrowed uncertainty is starting to soften in his expression.
"Yeah," he says softly, a vague agreement. Yes, no more waiting. Yes, they've come to an agreement. Yes, they can be together now. No more pretending no more opposite sides.
The uncertainty he felt over his admission fades, but in its place he feels an anxious sort of desperation. There's still distance between them, and Crowley doesn't know how to cross it. If he should. When you coax nervous, stray animals you always let them approach you first. Build up trust. Is that how it should go? Or does Aziraphale want him to take charge of this? To approach, to reassure?
He doesn't know. He feels nervous that this is somehow just an indulgence, something to keep Crowley from fussing. Oh, fine, I'll agree if you'll just be quiet. That maybe Aziraphale will not enjoy the experience.
"I mean it," he says, as if earnestness might please. I mean it, I love you, I hope that's enough. I hope I'm enough.
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“I know. I have no doubt,” Aziraphale tells him, tone and words softening. He thinks that he ought to do or say something else, something to reassure Crowley or perhaps just try to dispel the awkward air lingering between them. Something, anything. He just isn’t sure how to proceed with this either. He’s never been together with anyone before. What would be too forward? Too presumptuous?
Better yet, considering their previous spat, would Crowley even be welcome to any attempts? Or would it be best to let him have some time to wind down?
He decides on something like a halfway point.
“Would you like for me to pour you some more wine?” he offers, tentatively trying to encourage Crowley out of his chair.
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In fact, Aziraphale poured him so much wine earlier in a fit of nerves that he had to drunk some right away to make the glass safe to pick up. He hasn't done much to lower the internal volume since then. He gestures at the glass, offering a self-effacing wince.
"Probably not. Should be careful, or you'll be cleaning up after me again."
After another hangover that he can't miracle away. His hands wring together again, eyes flitting around the room, then Crowley stands up suddenly -- does another quick scan before beginning to carefully tidy up the bed back to how it was before the chaos. Speaking of cleaning up, the room still is a bit of a mess after all.
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He had already given Crowley more than enough, hadn’t he? His eyeline moves along from the motion of the demon’s hand to the still overfull wine glass, expression starting to pinch. He supposes that it was worth a mention. Something to ward away from an uncomfortable silence at the very least.
Or an attempt at it anyway.
Tapping his nails along the surface of the table behind him, he watches as Crowley starts to pull himself out of the chair. “Oh, yes. Right,” he murmurs, vaguely acknowledging. He doesn’t know what else to say. He knows what he would like to say, which was to go back to questioning him about what happened with Odin, but that seems as if it might come across as too dismissive. A sort of “back to business” attitude and all that.
Except that’s usually Aziraphale’s attitude.
He makes a quick, waving movement with his hand as he notices Crowley looking over the state of his room again. He hadn’t explained it when Crowley had initially asked about it and he didn’t feel like explaining it now either. Actually, he’s not sure if he wants to give it any sort of attention at all.
“You didn’t concern yourself with the mess. Suppose I needed to rearrange my things anyway,” he tells him.
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No tidying up. Right then. Crowley lofts an eyebrow tiredly at the angel, paces back over to pick up his wine glass.
"Not much space to rearrange in," he points out, and slides a little closer to Aziraphale -- props himself up against the table a safe distance away from him. Close enough that he can reach out, if he wants to. Far enough away no to crowd, in case he doesn't want that. "Must be somewhere else you could move out to. Somewhere with more storage, at least. Some shelves."
Space for a new book collection. Space for him, maybe, to stay properly. Stay for more than a few hours at a time.
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It’s a little less unfortunate like this. Enough so that he can try to pretend that all of his nerves aren’t completely shot from earlier.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he admits readily. His current living situation has been a source of constant irritation for him since he arrived between the issues with the building itself, the other occupants, and most especially the unnecessarily restrictions. What was the point behind enforcing some magical curfew? Was this truly to anyone’s benefit? He just couldn’t understand it.
He lets out a sharp sigh from his nose, pointing a finger towards Crowley. “I am not used to having to live in such a cramped space nor with complete strangers that I do not have any say over,” he explains. He knows he has said as much before, but he is more than willing to continue to voice these frustrations. Ad infinitum, actually.
“And,” he starts again, letting his hand fall back to his side. He extends it out across the table and towards Crowley, palm facing upward in a quiet invitation for him retake it. If he would like to. “I don’t agree with some outside force dictating how long I might have company stay over.”
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"I'd stay over," he confirms, "if I could. I'd never leave if I didn't have to. Well. Probably would have to leave to eat and all that. Other than the necessary, you know."
Other than that, he'd never leave Aziraphale's side if he could help it. Would happily camp out here, in this terribly small room, forever. He takes a sip of the wine again, awkwardly trying to cover from his verbal stumble. Not the smoothest, he has to admit, but surely he gets points for trying?
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“If you could?” he asks in jest, tone light. His fingers curl around Crowley’s palm, locking them together. This time feels a little warmer, a little better. Less unsteady.
Glancing back over at Crowley, he wonders if there was any point at all to not taking him with him. If he were to move out of the Odinhaus, it wouldn’t be entirely wise to live somewhere alone. Everything in Asgard was famously unstable and unpredictable. Not to mention, there could be some sort of practical use for the forced curfew that no one is aware of. Supposedly.
“Wouldn’t it be more beneficial for you to simply live there with me instead?”
It’s only reasonable. What was Crowley’s room even being used for beyond a place to rest his head?
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Not that anything else has ever been important, in truth. Only Aziraphale. Only Aziraphale has ever mattered.
"Yeah," he says, trying to sound casual. "If you'd want that. Could get a little place together, just the two of us."
He doesn't know who else they'd even consider inviting, but it feels important to say. Important to clarify that: just them, the two of them, sharing a place. Together.
The thought makes a smile tug at his lips finally, hesitant but there.
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Well, as much as he is able.
“I think it would be a splendid idea. Just the two of us,” he confirms easily enough, smiling over at him. This part, he’s not even a little shy about. He knows exactly what he wants and that’s peace, space, and the knowledge he doesn’t have to say farewell to Crowley at around 9pm every evening. That sort of thing has really put a damper on how he’d like to spend his nights.
“I suppose I should start looking into it then. I’m afraid I don’t know of anyone who has moved out, but I am sure someone must have,” he remarks. He’s kept closer tabs on the natives and their history than he has any one of the other Wanderers here, only vaguely aware as to what they’ve been getting up to.
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