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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It's alright, Aziraphale says, and Crowley doesn't know why but that does something. Stirs his unsteadiness higher like someone shoving an already rocking boat, sending it further off balance and deeper out into chaotic waves. Maybe it's the open acknowledgement of this own instability, or maybe it's just the realisation of how much he wants this comfort.

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.

For as much as Aziraphale appreciates their newfound closeness and the ability to relish in it, he also finds it to be terrible in ways that he had never expected. He's not sure if it's a byproduct of his painfully human body or if it's just Crowley himself, but the gentle press of Crowley's face against his neck and his erratic breath ghosting against his skin had made him forget that he was supposed to do something as obviously natural as breathe. It had made him forget that he was supposed to do much of anything, actually.

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.

He huffs out a breath, amused, and flickers a smile.

"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.

Aziraphale is rapidly approaching what must be his limit for how much he can tolerate within the span of a day; which may or may not have been already frayed to excess from the stress of having to see his oldest friend (now something else, not quite just a friend) get ripped straight out of time and space. There were so many vibrant and loud emotions tangled within that, none of which actually left him so much as settled within the pit of his stomach like dull embers that were just waiting to get stoked back to life. This too, this moment right now, also encourages strong feelings within him because every little thing that Crowley does seems to provoke some sort of reaction out of him.

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.

Crowley doesn't want to let go, not if he can help it, but unfortunately he has to for a moment. He kicks his shoes under the bed and clambers up onto it, moves further up instead of sitting on the edge and props himself against the headboard.

"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.

Understanding snaps into place as soon as Crowley pushes himself up against the headboard of Aziraphale's bed. Ah, yes. Alright. That's fine. That's an easy request to answer, although he does wish that Crowley could have a little more decorum about it. He'd say something about it, but he chooses to ignore it today. Good reason and all that.

"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.

Crowley waits until Aziraphale has settled himself, watching the angel carefully before slinking himself lower on the bed and tucking himself into Aziraphale's side. The angel is warm, comfortable, and Crowley loves him endlessly. Loves the clean, familiar scent of him -- a little different here without his cologne. He loves the soft, steady feel of his body. Loves the feel of his clothing, latching one hand into his knitwear and holding on.

"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.

This is nice, much nicer than Aziraphale had been expecting. It makes a part of him—somewhere deep inside of him—wish that they had done something like this before much, much sooner. Crowley fits perfectly against his side. Like he's supposed to be there.

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.

Crowley has his eyes lifted to Aziraphale, listening to his answer. A book about a Norse Viking King, hand written. He's about to ask a question about this when Aziraphale's hand moves, rests in his hair. Crowley immediately loses the thought, eyes half-lidding as his weight leans more heavily into Aziraphale.

"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.

That's an obvious enough reaction to tug Aziraphale's attention away from his original intention of following along with Crowley's request to read while they laid together. He can do that at any point during the day or even lateri in the evening, since he has nothing but an abundance of time here, and he already knows what must be written within the pages. The legends of Ragnar were nothing new to him.

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."

This is very soothing. Crowley closes his eyes at first, enjoying the soft stroke of fingers through his hair. Then the words giant serpent penetrate and he opens them again slowly with a frown.

"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.

That bodes ill. It's the way that Crowley phrases that, the implication that he remembered him and not necessarily just his story, that causes Aziraphale to raise an eyebrow. It's not an outlandish idea, but it is certainly the first he's hearing of it.

"You've heard the story before?" he questions.

He hopes this isn't going to lead into the confession that Crowley had been the serpent or otherwise helped contribute to this aspect of the story.

"No," Crowley says, sounding distracted. "I mean I remember him. Weird guy, covered his clothes all in something thick and goopy because he thought that'd stop the snake venom getting to him or something. As if I just wouldn't go for the uncovered bits of him. I mean really, think it through."

He might have been a snake, but he wasn't stupid. Give him some credit. Big snakes don't survive that long menacing people without having some sense of strategy.

Of course.

Aziraphale lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, just slightly annoyed that yes, it was indeed Crowley that had been one of Ragnar's most famous opponents in battle. He supposed it was only fitting that they often had a hand in the big things, one way or another, but that didn't make it less annoying.

"He did survive," he says. The armour and all the goop must have been worth something in the end. "So did he defeat you or did you let him eventually win?"

"Wouldn't want to ruin it for you angel," says Crowley, who absolutely lost that fight and has already ruined it for everyone involved. "Thought you were gonna read a book about it?"

While, he had hoped, gently petting at his hair. A few hours of that would make for a great nap. Warmth, hair petting, Aziraphale's soothing voice. It all adds up.

Oh, yes. That's exactly what he suspected. Crowley had lost that one, possibly to an embarrassing degree. It's almost a shame that Aziraphale hadn't been able to see any of it for himself.

"I am already familiar with the story," he explains, followed by a short laugh. "I wanted to see if this handwritten account was going to differ any from the ones I'm aware of." Although, none of this is to say that he isn't going to still read to Crowley who clearly wants to listen.

"Would you like for me to pick a different book? Or hear this story again?"

"You read anything you want," he says, because the content of the book isn't important to Crowley. It's the act of being read to, the act of being curled up with Aziraphale and listening to the warm tones of his voice. He presses his face against the soft knit of Aziraphale's top, determined not to be moved any time soon.

"Maybe I can fill in some blanks, yeah?"

Or, at least, exaggerate his involvement a little. Which is, in fact, what may have happened already.

How easy to read. There's a quiet laugh from Aziraphale as he cards his fingers through Crowley's hair, still petting him but with a new sort of ease. This is obviously not unwelcome, which is about all the permission that Aziraphale needs to continue on.

"Well then, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish this then." It was really for the best. He had already gotten as far as he had with it, he might as well go on and finish it out. Reaching over to his side, he picks the book off the mattress with his free hand.

"I'd just gotten to the part where he had remarried and had five sons. All of them warriors," he remarks. Then, he pauses as he considers that particular piece of information again. "Quite lucky of him to have so many sons in a row."

"Suppose so," Crowley murmurs, going still and pliant under the gentle touch. One arm drapes absently over Aziraphale's waist, anchoring himself there comfortably. "Really into the whole warrior thing, they were. You said this was hand written?"

He wonders, absently, who wrote it. If it was someone who was just fond of the story. Had to have a pretty good memory, though, to rewrite it. Or else have to have read it a lot of times, more than anything else. Humans like stories, like retelling them and giving them new spins. What about the story of Ragnar meant so much to this one, he wonders? Assuming, he supposes, it was a human. Doesn't strictly have to be, just feels more likely.

There's a lot that could be said about the place warriors used to hold in society during the days of old, most of which Crowley likely already knew from having lived through it for years upon years. How many times had the two of them worn the face of a warrior back then?

"I did," he confirms, idly rolling strands of hair between his fingertips. "It was written by one of his sons. Seems one of them happens to be here as well." That's what he says, but he isn't sure how true it is. Humans had a terrible habit of believing themselves to be someone they're not, but Aziraphale has been inclined to give merit to the idea that many of them who were here in Asgard as well had been plucked from whatever point in time the so-called gods saw fit.

More so now that Odin had given more weight to the idea.

He glances down at the way Crowley has strewn himself across his chest, looking far more comfortable than anyone should have any right to. It's really charming. He smiles down at him. "You know, this is quite nice. Having you here like this," he says, feeling like it deserved a mention.

One of his sons? Huh. Crowley is dwelling on what he remembers about said sons when Aziraphale follows up the thought, and he squirms to look up at him. Is met full force by his smile.

"Uh," he manages, suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious about his position. "Yeah. Nice being here."

He settles his head back down, and tries to quickly bury the awkward feeling. Doesn't matter, because Aziraphale is enjoying it. That's the important thing. He likes this too. He likes Crowley, in fact, and likes being with him this way. So it's fine.

"You make a good pillow," he adds, because when in doubt try to be funny. Is that even funny? Unsure, but he's trying.

There's nothing funny about that. Thankfully, it doesn't need to be because Aziraphale finds it to be a little charming nonetheless. Not by much, mind you, but enough. That's a bit how the entire moment feels, really.

Not much, but enough.

Aziraphale elects to say nothing about it, instead offering Crowley a gentle pat against the top of his head. "I'm going to read now," he says, finally and opens up his book to glance over the words and find where he had left off at.

When he finds it, he begins to read the pages out loud for Crowley's benefit and consideration.

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

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