aj_crawley | (no subject)

(before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy)
"Really? I wouldn't know."
(and they are more used to my sadness than you are)

"I don't know why not; your timing isn't usually so far off."

He bites back a comment about early morning coffee, and makes a visible (if futile) effort to calm down.

"There's no reason to get into this today."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Crowley says, a mean, simpering concern in his voice. "I'm sorry - am I putting a damper on your Christmas celebrations? I am, aren't I? Well, not to worry, sssweetheart; message received, loud and clear."

He shifts his weight, then, and his free hand skims up over Aziraphael's knee, pressing against his thigh.

"Next time you decide there's a good reason for me to open my mouth, you just let me know."

He flinches away, hard, and nearly falls off the couch in his haste to scramble to his feet. For a moment all he can manage is to gape like a fish.

"Crowley," he says. "Don't--"

He looks away, and that seems to be all unless one is watching closely enough to see the furious tremor running through him.

"What on earth has gotten into you?"

"What?" Crowley replies, pushing himself up into a sitting position. There's still a vicious levity in his voice, awful and cold. "Besides having inconvenient timing?"

"Yes, besides that," he says, flat, but he can't quite match the coldness of Crowley's tone. Wounded anger flows through him so very easily, numbing a tiny, nascent thought that he refuses to even consider.

"Perhaps I shouldn't question it," he throws back instead. "You did say you were doing your best."

"Why?" he sneers, crossing one leg neatly over the other. "You're on a real roll this morning; no need to stop now. Not on my account."

"I don't even know what you're talking about," he says, jaw set in a stubborn tilt and frozen in place like the rest of him.

"You've hardly made any sense for the last five minutes, and the little I do understand bears more resemblance to your worst than to your best."

He looks ridiculous, sitting in the limp ruins of their small blanket empire: mostly just knees and elbows and ill-fitting wrists, draped about with a lumpy blue jumper that wasn't even made for him in the first place.

"Thank you," he says, smoothing down the front of his (Aziraphael's) jumper, "for putting it like that. That clears up a couple of things, actually."

"Wonderful," he spits at a space approximately three feet to Crowley's left.

"At least the light of understanding has dawned for one of us. I don't suppose you'd enlighten me as well?"

"I just don't want to go on a fucking holiday," he snaps, looking down at his hands (still smoothing; then just still). "I am allowed that much, aren't I? Angel?"

"Allowed," he repeats tightly, still not quite looking at Crowley.

"Of course. Allowed. You're allowed to do whatever you want. I would be interested to know why, though."

"Right," he says, dragging the word out into a drawl. "Because now you want to hear all about my problems, so's you might still get your holiday. Fat fucking chance - no pun intended."

Fortunately for Aziraphael, he's already tensed to the point that he's almost entirely rigid. If not, it would be painfully obvious that the jab had struck a nerve.

"You really have no shame, do you?" he demands, breathless with anger. "I noticed that never seemed to bother you before."

Crowley's head snaps up.

"Excuse me?" he says, low and dangerous. "I have - "

(Breath.)

"I have no shame?"

"None that's showing itself this morning," he grinds out. "That remark was beneath you."

"Rich," he says, a tremor of something that sounds like laughter in his voice. "That'ss just - rich. Don't like hearing about it out in the light of day, eh?"

He stands, rigidly and by angles, leaving the blankets crumpled behind him.

"Ssorry, but I'm not the one who just couldn't wait to get started, this morning. Couldn't get the games over with fast enough, could we, master strategist?"

I thought you'd be more...

This morning...

Oh. That's not really any better.

"I didn't think that enthusiasm would be judged quite so harshly," he says, facing Crowley again at last. "If I'd known it was frowned upon I'd have been much more reserved than I was in asking first."

"Yeah? And what did I say? Go on - what was my answer?"

"You said that there and then, what you wanted was what I wanted." He looks away again; as usual, he'd rather not repeat the details, especially when maid outfits warrant a mention.

"Among other things."

"Well." Crowley's gesture is quick and sharp; a rattlesnake strike. "There, there you go, shows how much you - "
(in this part of the story I am the one who)
His teeth click together.
(dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you)
"Shows the value you place on conversation. To a tee, really; couldn't have asked for a better example. Well done, that."

"You're saying you didn't mean that?" he asks, taking pains to keep the worry from his voice. "I was trying to be concise, but I could recite the whole conversation, if you like."

He has a nagging suspicion that it would still be the wrong answer.

"Oh, I meant it," Crowley says. "I meant it, but that'ss not the fucking point."

He's stepping back now, putting the couch between them and measuring out his words in slow, barefoot paces.

"If you can recite the whole conversation, let's just go from the point where you asked. I know - I know it's a big chore for you to tune in these days, and I don't want to impose, but if you can strain yourself, try to remember: when you asked if it was alright, what, precisssely, did I actually say between that and the point where we started talking about your problems?"

His expression has grown darker again by the time Crowley gets to his question, but he complies without further comment aside from a certain tightness around his mouth.

"You said 'I think I meant to ask you the same thing.' And I said it was all right and asked what you meant. And you said 'I thought you'd be more--' and just stopped. I tried to fill the gap because it seemed to be uncomfortable for you, if that's what you mean by my problems."

He'd been trying to help. In his mind, there's a faint sense of alarm, as though something far away is ringing.

"I - that is what mean by your problems. I was just trying to - I don't know where the fuck you get off suddenly spouting off on how you're worried I'm not receptive, especially since it didn't seem to bother you much until I had something I was trying to say that I was just trying to find the fucking words for."