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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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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Crowley sets down his glass of wine behind himself, turns into Aziraphale to give him his full attention.
"Yeah?" he prompts gently. "Anything, angel."
Doesn't matter what he wants, Crowley will agree to it. He can't really think of anything he wouldn't agree to, in truth, especially when the angel is being so careful with him. He's noticed that, after all. Noticed how he's slowed down, is keeping hold of him gently. He likes that.
no subject
“Anything is a bit broad,” he teases. It’s weak, but preferable to acknowledging that he’s worried about how Crowley might receive him. Might react. It’s probably fine, but he can’t help but wonder if it might not be.
Perhaps, he's just looking for something to be wrong?
He lets go of Crowley’s hand, briefly unwinding himself from him, before reaching out to wrap his arms around him in an undemanding embrace. There’s room for him to break away, to release himself from Aziraphale’s grip, but Aziraphale hopes that he doesn’t. Hopes that he’ll let him, that he’ll bend to accommodate their slight difference in height, and lean into it.
no subject
On top of that, it's... nice. A four letter word, that. Crowley isn't nice, doesn't do nice things. Nice things don't happen to him, either.
He relaxes, slowly, tries to acclimatise himself to it. To enjoy the warmth, the reassurance of it. The feel of Aziraphale so close. His arms slowly tighten around him, holding on. Afraid of what might happen if he let go. He doesn't want the angel to withdraw, to think he doesn't want the touch. To let go, leave.
His arms tighten further, and Crowley draws in a hitching breath -- slowly lets out a long exhale and hopes Aziraphale doesn't notice that. He feels unsteady, emotional, like the relief of finally doing this has breached a dam and everything is going to come flooding out.
"Aziraphale..." he says roughly, then doesn't know how to finish that thought. He squeezes the angel tighter instead, hopes that he understands. Don't let go.
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“It’s alright,” he reassures him in a gentle voice. His own arms tighten around Crowley, pulling him closer to better rest against him. He’s not going to let him go. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to hold him like this for a while, not just for Crowley’s sake but for his own. It’s nice to feel the weight of him against him, to know he’s real and still here, and something isn’t going to yank him away.
Actually, he feels elated in a dizzying sort of way. He realises he’s probably holding onto Crowley a bit too tight for comfort, but it’s been so long. So much time has passed and he’s only just now able to embrace this demon like this. He’d just like this much.
no subject
Honestly, being a human really is terrible. He feels so out of control, unable to bend this corporation to his will anymore. Crowley has no idea how they cope.
He turns his face into Aziraphale's neck, tries to breathe past the way it feels like there's something stuck in his chest. Then he draws back, loosening his grip enough that he can just... lean in, touch their foreheads together. So he can be close and still... see Aziraphale, absorb his comfort while watching his expression.
"Good thing I got all that wine," he murmurs, because he feels like they are definitely going to get through a lot working this out. He feels so clumsy, like a baby animal learning how limbs work. Only instead he's an ancient being learning how being human works, specifically how being human and loving someone works.
no subject
It felt like time had stopped and he was frozen in place, chest about to burst and all of his hairs on end. Was this normal? Was it supposed to be like that? Stories had always made it sound so exciting and thrilling, but in reality it was just nerve wracking. It almost made Aziraphale want to bolt, but he stomps the feeling down just as soon as it arrives. It's such an ugly and harmful feeling. That's not what he wants to do.
Everything just feels like a lot.
When Crowley pulls away—a blessing—moving to press their foreheads together in a gesture that reads so sweetly to Aziraphale, the expression on his face is a mix of nervousness, slight warmth, and a barely-there dusting of red on his cheeks. He's anxious, but he's not unhappy. He's not. Not even a little.
He's where he wants to be.
"Thought you had had enough," he comments. He knows it had been said because Aziraphale had been trying to near drown him in it, but he still makes his remark nonetheless.
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"Yeah," he admits, "probably have. You saw me drink too much before, not nice."
Still, the idea is they might need it more than once. An artificial confidence boost as they stumble their way through things, trying to find where the boundaries are now. Crowley slides his hands to rest on Aziraphale's hips, tries to swallow back the bubbling waves of nerves. It's fine. They're fine. They already both agreed to this. It's just -- he just can't stop the uncertainty anyway, not yet. Not when this is all still so new.
He lifts one hand slowly, moves it to gently stroke fingers across Aziraphale's cheek.
"Sit with me?" he prompts again. "Just... together. Like this. You can read one of your books, if you want, just... sit with me."
Crowley doesn't need much more than that, not right now. Just this closeness is already more than he expected. Sitting together, warm and comfortable, feels like absolute bliss. As full of chatter and as fidgety as he might be, a few moments of quiet feels like something they both need.
no subject
The hands placed on his hips make him feel like his heart is caught in his throat, fluttering and desperate to escape, and the hand on his face. . . Well, it's too much. That's what it is. He feels so overwhelmed and hopelessly charmed at the same time and he wasn't really expecting it. He's not prepared for it. It had happened so fast—
—And all of this in itself is so fast.
He lets out a soft exhale to help steady himself, trying with all of the strength that he still has to keep most of his feelings under wrap. He just doesn't want to look as out of sorts as he feels. He'd just like that one small mercy. His own hand raises, lifts up to curl around Crowley's to cradle it gently against his face. He lingers there for a moment, then moves to pull the hand away.
"Yes. Alright," he agrees, honestly appreciative of what Crowley seems to be suggesting. It sounds wonderful and like a relief. Just sitting together, enjoying one another's company, and maybe having a little time to unwind. A distraction. Anything to quell the mess of emotions plaguing him.
Carefully, as if not to spook, he places one more kiss to the edge of Crowley's knuckle. There's something to be said about that, something quiet and low, but Aziraphale cannot yet give voice to it so he hopes that this much will do. He releases Crowley's hand soon afterwards, separating the two of them so that he might move to sit on the edge of the bed.
no subject
"Grab yourself a book, then," he encourages softly, and pulls his legs up toward himself. It'll be more comfortable for Aziraphale to read like this, sat up properly, and Crowley doesn't have the energy to be delicate right now. He just wants to tuck up against his side and relax for a while, for as long as he's allowed to indulge. Maybe even read the book alongside Aziraphale, if it seems interesting.
no subject
"Yes, yes," he says quietly, mostly to himself as he retrieves the book he had been reading earlier this morning off the edge of the bed. He had been intending to finish it before Crowley arrived to greet him, but it just hadn't happened that way.
Not that he had minded all that much.
After pulling his own shoes off and neatly tucking them away, Aziraphale takes up the space on the bed beside Crowley.
no subject
"What're we reading then?" he mumbles, and presses his cheek absently against Aziraphale's chest. It's a 'we' situation, for now. It might not stay that way. Crowley is exhausted, so he can't be sure how long he'll stay awake.
no subject
His arm lays across Crowley, placed to ensure he could comfortably hold both his book and the demon against him. "It's about Ragnar Lothbrok. It's one of the handwritten books in the library," he explains. It was a newer addition to the collection, but he hadn't managed to track down who had written it just yet. He'd like to. They'd have much to discuss.
"He was a Norse Viking king," he continues. Except he hasn't opened the book again yet. It remains on the mattress beside him.
Aziraphale glances down at Crowley, considering.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks, moving a hand to rest it against Crowley's bright red hair.
no subject
"Yeah," he says softly, "perfectly comfortable."
Especially now, with Aziraphale's hand gently touching his hair. He feels like he's drifting, an ocean of bliss.
"Tell us about Ragnar, then," he prompts. Hopefully Aziraphale will keep up this touching while he's distracted by the book.
no subject
But perhaps it were to Crowley?
He wouldn't be too surprised if it were so.
"Well," he begins as he starts to very slowly and carefully slide his fingers through the strands of Crowley's hair. It's a cautious and casual touch, much like how one would pet a skittish cat they were trying to convince to trust them. "He won his first wife by killing a giant serpent. Although, some say it had been more than one serpent."
no subject
"Hang on," Crowley says, "I think I remember him."
At least, he thinks he does. Suppose there might be more than one giant serpent slaying Viking, in truth. They were into that sort of thing, big adventures and monster slaying and all that. Crowley was less into it, because they all lived in cold, damp places and hadn't invented central heating yet.
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