asgardchrysalis | [Active/Closed] I've made a huge, tiny mistake

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[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.

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This could not have happened more poorly for the two of them. It was such an ugly affair, unlike anything that Aziraphale had ever considered or wanted. He has always imagined that he would have this conversation sweetly in the back of the bookstore, both of them full of wine and good humour, or perhaps in a quiet exchange after dinner and dessert in one of the more reserved restaurants.

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.

He can feel Aziraphale's disapproval, feel it like a heavy weight on his chest pressing on him. He doesn't want this, but he's accepting it anyway.

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.

To tell you how much I love you. To show you. That’s all I want.

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.”

No more waiting.

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.

There’s something curious about the fact that Crowley reasserts that sentiment. It seems a little as if he feels the need to prove it, to insist upon it being true, and none of that is necessary. It was never in question at all. He has known it to be true even long before Crowley ever spoke the words.

“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.

Crowley has plenty of wine.

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.

That’s right.

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.

He pauses in the middle of straightening out the bed, turns to study Aziraphale.

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.

Aziraphale is pretty sure that he couldn’t deal with watching Crowley clean up the sorry state of his room right now. Not when it’s clearly due to being on edge as opposed to some other and less stressful reason. It comes as an immediate relief when Crowley abandons the task at his request.

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.”

Edited (Read bad) 2020-01-25 10:39 (UTC)

Crowley switches his glass to his other hand -- reaches out and laces his fingers through Aziraphale's. His grip is firm, more confident than before, even if he still looks a little pale and unsteady around the edges.

"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?

There’s a quiet, little whuff of a laugh at that. Effort did always merit at least a few points, but Crowley really hadn’t needed to say anything about that at all. Wasn’t it already expected of him to be present wherever Aziraphale was? Especially lately! He’s certainly spent more time in Aziraphale’s living quarters than his own.

“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?

Alright, alright yes he is staying here a lot. Admittedly. Spending most of his time haunting Aziraphale's room, lurking after him. What else does he have here, though? Only Aziraphale.

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.

There was never any interest in inviting anyone else to accompany them. With the obvious exception of Crowley, he would be content not to live with another person for quite some time. It’s been a very harrowing experience. One that he could not miracle better and simply had to learn to accept.

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.

"Can't be that hard," Crowley says, with all the confidence of someone who hasn't looked into this at all. "They don't even have a currency here, so it isn't as if we'd need to save up. Must be lots of place that aren't these little dorm things. The natives don't live in them. Maybe there's a house one of those lot don't need?"

Would they have to trade for it? Crowley has no idea what counts as fair trade for a house. Labour? Not that he's good at working, either, but he could give it a shot if he needs to. Wine? Be a shame for Aziraphale to give up any of his, but it might be nice enough to give them an edge since it's better than most of the swill they have here.

In theory, this made sense. There were always unused buildings even in the most well constructed of cities, so surely there must be a vacant place that the two of them could move into. Even if they had to make a few adjustments. Or several.

Aziraphale has found that the natives are pretty easy to recruit for assistance provided they’re given proper instruction. It’s a bit of how he ended up as the librarian in Fregnahöll.

“There might be, but I would imagine there would have been more people moving out of these ‘dorms’ if it were that simple,” he says. He couldn’t imagine living in the provided housing to be anyone’s first choice. Not unless they simply had a need to live with others regardless of familiarity.

“Do you think you could ask around?” he requests. Then he gestures to Crowley’s bracelet, one finger uncurling from the stem of the wine glass to point. “On there.”

Ask around? He frowns at Aziraphale, then down at his bracelet as his indicates it.

"Oh, uh, sure. Probably."

He sets down his wine glass, moves closer to Aziraphale as he presses on the crystal and brings up the display. He's intending to let Aziraphale watch as he fiddles about, so the display is clear.

"Weird, these things. I know it's all magic, but it doesn't feel very magic. Feels like technology, and way more advanced than most of the things they have here."

Which probably makes sense if the 'gods' invented it, and if the 'gods' understand things like time and all the planets the wanderers are from -- some of which are far more advanced.

Thinking about that makes his head hurt a bit.

That’s an opinion that Aziraphale definitely shares. He wasn’t all that fond of the bracelets in the first place, much less any of its supposed functions, but they didn’t match with anything else here. Everything was so out-dated and not always in a way that Aziraphale could appreciate while the bracelets seemed like something out of a science fiction novel.

Which member of the pantheon was responsible for this? One can only wonder.

“It seems so out of place,” he comments as he shifts closer to Crowley, their shoulders just barely touching. It doesn’t actually make it easier to read the screen when he could see just fine from where he was standing, but sometimes it’s best to accept an opportunity when rightfully presented.

“You would think they would have something similar around. Like a directory or sign posts or such,” he continues. Then he gestures towards the screen. “And it’s garish.”

That’s the most important part.

Crowley isn't looking at the display anymore.

He's looking at Aziraphale, at the lines of his face this close. At the gentle way the glow of the interface highlights it, casts shadows. He's thinking about the brush of their shoulders instead of how garish this faux-technology magic is. He's thinking about the fingers of one hand still tightly wound through Aziraphale's, about alright, fine, about then no more waiting.

He's thinking about a story the humans tell. A vase, or a box, containing all the troubles of the world and also hope. Hope, coiled up at the bottom. Heavy, slithering, waiting.

The thing they rarely understand is that hope is trouble. Here Crowley is, filled with hope. Hope is insidious. Hope says it won't be that bad, and they'll forgive you, and of course they'll listen. Despair doesn't work unless you've had hope. When you think about it, hope was in the stupid container because it belonged there with all the other nasty things. Not as any sort of reprieve.

His fingers tighten around the angel's, his thumb rubs an absent pattern.

"Yeah," he says, "it is. Not that great anyway. People just talking about... strawberries and things."

Nothing worth paying attention to, not when compared to Aziraphale. Aziraphale who Crowley would much rather be focusing on, intently.

On the contrary, Aziraphale was greatly interested in topics regarding fruit or any other types of food. It is always a conversation that he would like to have and be informed about. The selection of available foodstuffs between here and Earth differed greatly, but it did seem like some of the others were already putting in the elbow grease required to start narrowing that divide.

“Strawberries?” he asks, setting his wine glass down somewhere behind him. “If that’s what they’re discussing, I’d like to know. There’s a young lady who has been trying to grow all manner of things. I wonder if that’s regarding her?” The chances of that were highly likely. There weren’t too many of them—Wanderers, that is—and he hadn’t caught wind of anyone else being as interested in plant husbandry as her. Supposedly the Brother as well was assisting, but he hadn’t crossed paths with him again to hear about it from him personally. It was her that he had spent time with to help her go through gardening books and almanacs. It was also her who had mentioned already having successfully grown some berries.

Raspberries, if he remembers correctly. He really ought to chat with her more often.

“I’d like to try them,” wistfully said. What a dream that would be. It almost makes him want a garden of his own. Almost. It seems like it would be something that Crowley might enjoy more than he would. It would certainly give him something else to do. He thinks to mention it, head turning away from the display to glance back towards him, but the weight of Crowley’s gaze pulls his thoughts elsewhere.

He feels a little anxious.

Distantly, Aziraphale wonders if he had been right and too much pushing was unwelcome at the moment. Was this too much pushing? Perhaps, he should have waited for another day? Was it too awkward right now? Forced? He doesn’t have an answer, so he holds the hand in his a little tighter and smiles in a way that he hopes might reassure him.

The thing about hope, that insidious little creature curled up waiting with all the ills of the world, is it works a certain way.

The same way sleep does, funnily. The same way love does.

It's either there or it isn't. You can't make yourself have hope, you can't make yourself sleep, and you can't make yourself love someone. The harder you try, the less it's likely to happen. Once hope, or sleep, or love has you there's no shaking it. No fighting it. It's there if you want it or not.

Crowley, deep in the clutches of love, doesn't care about strawberries.

He brings up Ariadne's video anyway, letting it play for Aziraphale. Obviously the angel does care about strawberries, obviously he wants to see it. So, see it they both will.

"Maybe you can still try one," he says, and chances pressing their arms together a little more -- as much as he feels allowed to. He'd stop if Aziraphale seemed averse to the touch, after all.

A small measure of relief starts to pool somewhere within him, bright and warm. The gentle weight of Crowley against him makes him feel like he shouldn’t have been worried about it at all. Maybe this wasn’t too much, too soon. Maybe this was the right pace. Although, maybe it also just has to do with how loud Crowley had been about anywhere and any time.

There must have been some stock to that.

He leans the rest of the way in, outright resting against Crowley as he watches the video play over the screen’s display. He cares a lot less about this than he had a moment ago, but he’s intent to pretend otherwise. He can’t let that unfortunate awkwardness befall them again.

“Oh, look at them,” he coos, fond of her obvious efforts. Although, he’s curious as to how she managed to make such a thing happen. There’s no reason as to why nearly anything should be growing in these frigid temperatures, much less something as fragile as berries. Was it her ability? One of the gods’? Another oddity of the location? “You’d think she wouldn’t be so successful in this sort of weather. I wonder if that makes them taste any different? I’ll have to convince her to share some.”

Yet, there it was on the screen. Plump and beautiful.

A bit like them, wasn’t it? Able to breathe life into something new despite everything around them.

Even if it wasn’t Aziraphale’s first choice on how to go about it.

"Mmmm," Crowley says, and closes out the screen so he can pick up his glass of wine again -- take a slow sip. Dutch courage and all that.

Then, carefully, Crowley untwines the fingers laced through Aziraphale's. A slow, cautious move so it won't be construed as rejection. Instead, he moves to slip a tentative arm around the angel's waist. To draw him just a little closer so they can press side-to-side properly. So they can soak in each other's warmth, get used to being able to hold each other. To being... this close, at least, for a start.

"Maybe we can grow some in our new place."

If it has a garden, or even just window boxes. Anything works.

This should be something simple; something casual and cozy. The way that Crowley’s arm snakes around his waist, settling around him comfortably, should feel easy. It should, but it doesn’t. It feels like a door being opened to the most perfect of perfect homes that he might also be evicted from at any moment. It feels like something he shouldn’t have and something that might be ripped from his hands by those who surely agree with that particular feeling of his.

Or maybe that was just his nerves talking?

This should be something simple, he repeats to himself. Nothing ought to happen from something as little as this.

“I’d like that,” he says as a hand settles over the one Crowley has resting against him.

“But I won’t hear any complaints about how I raise them.”

"Oh, you will," Crowley says, and tries to work out what to do next.

The being close is nice. The touching is nice. He has no idea if he's doing it properly, but it's nice. It's nice and yet terrifying, but Crowley's fear isn't the fear of losing this by force -- Crowley's fear is of doing the wrong thing. Of somehow upsetting Aziraphale and causing him to retreat. He loves him so much he feels a little nauseous, which isn't at all romantic but it's true -- the mix of nerves and adoration and fear really is overwhelming to the point of making him feel borderline ill. Don't write that one in romance novels, do they? I love you so much I might throw up?

Crowley studies the glass of wine he's still got and wonders if it's silly to have a nervous breakdown over where hands go. Over how fast is too fast, over warmth and how much he wants to press close. To bask in Aziraphale's heat like he's still in his other form, to wind around him and cling. He's so tired, suddenly. Tired from the several rushes of adrenaline he's gone through, the near death experience then the confrontation with Odin then with Aziraphale then with Aziraphale again, differently, and --

And he can't even just stay here tonight, he could have a nap but he'd have to get up again and leave before the night sets in. Which somehow hurts, when he wants to stay so much and now knows he even might be welcome.

"Can we sit?" he prompts, and he feels like a child asking permission for something. It would be nice, though, to just... sit together, pressed side by side. To relax, for just a minute.

Now, isn’t that a thought? Aziraphale has been so engrossed in the moment, on how to keep his composure and prevent all the anxiety bubbling within him from leaking outwards into something noticeable, that it had not occurred to him that he could do something a little different. Such as sitting, or—

Anything that wasn't just passively letting himself be held.

“Oh! Yes. Of course,” he says, sounding much like the idea had only just crossed his mind. It truly had, of course, but he didn’t want to sound like that. It isn’t ideal for him to look like he has no idea what to do and is already floundering right out of the gate—even if it were true. He should know what to do, what to say, and how to act. He’s read plenty of books about this sort of thing, watched thousands of humans over the years, and even provided some advice on occasion. He’s also thought about this sort of thing a lot. Regarding Crowley, that is.

He should know.

He laughs a little out of nervousness, soft and quiet.

“Well,” he starts. His fingers curl around Crowley’s palm and very slowly pulls his hand away from him. He takes extra care for it not to feel like some sort of rejection, his fingers still wrapped around Crowley’s hand even after moving it away. He holds onto him loosely as he pushes away from the table and turns to better face Crowley.

“Before that. There’s something I’d like to do. If that’s alright?”

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