aj_crawley | (no subject)

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."

For a moment he just looks at him coldly - though there's a hint of remorse there as well.

"I'm not a mind reader, as I believe I've mentioned; I thought you had stopped, not paused, and you never corrected me. I'm sorry I interrupted."

This last comes out more clipped than he'd intended, and a little louder; Crowley is farther away than normal conversation allows.

"And it's not as though I always just assume that you're receptive, and anyhow you were acting oddly this morning. It seems to be a pattern," he adds to himself.

"You thought I'd stopped?"

The words snake across the room between them, swift and sharp with the satisfaction - twisted though it is - of catching out a lie.

Sickly-sweetly:

"I thought you said you were just trying to fill the gap."

"The gap, the silence, yes, I thought you had stopped," he nearly yells, exasperated.

"It was half a sentence, I didn't think you were going to continue. Honestly, the suspicion, I thought--"

But he bites off whatever it is and wraps his arms around himself. It's cold again.

"You thought what?" Crowley shoots back, fingers digging into the back of the couch. "That maybe I didn't - find you attractive, or something? Well, let's clear that right up, get Crowley to reassure me, and then straight on to the shagging! Problem fucking solved, call Oprah Winfrey and release a couples' counselling book!"

His fingers tighten on the sleeves of his dressing gown.

"It's none of those things, actually," he says.

"And I'm not going to finish that sentence," he adds in a mockery of Crowley's sickly-sweet tone. "I thought I should let you know, since you're not a mind reader."

"Well here's a little life lesson you can take away from this anyway," Crowley fires back, pale leather creaking under pale fingers. "I - fucking - asked."

"Oh yes, you asked," he repeats, eyes blazing.

"And then you finished it yourself anyway, before I could say a word. I can't imagine where I picked up this nasty habit of running over people's thoughts."

"Right, because the middle of a rant is completely comparable to right before a shag. When, by the way, I also asked, and didn't change the fucking subject on you when my attention span ran out. But you know what?"

He throws up his hands, the motion absurdly jovial and jarringly out of place.

(In the creamy leather of the back of the couch, there are ten deep grooves.)

"Never mind. No big deal. Because, I mean, you're right. Why bother with the little flourishes that - that make things fun at the beginning? Why not just get straight down to business? Why waste time pursuing Crowley's personal deep thoughts on the proceedings before dropping trou? It's not like he's got any shame."

"What does - what on - what?" His arms fall to his sides, then creep back up around him like a shield.

"I said you hadn't any shame because I thought you were making personal attacks, not anything to do with before. And since we're on the subject, if you recall, I also asked. You said it sounded ridiculous to doubt you were receptive. That was obviously what I wanted to hear, Crowley, but implying that I skipped over everything meaningful in order to 'get down to business' is just not what happened."

"Meaningful," Crowley grits out, "to. You. Your issues; reassuring you; whether I was receptive to you. I - "

He throws up his hands again; takes another step back, away from the couch.

"You know, we've been fighting over this for twenty minutes? And you can make all the excuses you like, but we've been fighting over this for twenty minutes, and it still hasn't even occurred to you to ask me what it was I was trying to say."

Another step back, silhouetted against the wintry light from outside the window.

He's so thin, these days.

"That pretty much tells me everything I need to know."

He's always been thin, but it gives Aziraphael pause to see him like that.

The implication that he doesn't care, though, that Crowley can think that, things forgotten and things ignored - well, that gives him even more.

"Now?" he asks, taking refuge in incredulity. "Is there even the slightest chance that you can tell me now? I - you apparently couldn't string the right words together when we were sitting in the bed with coffee and tea, so no, it hadn't occurred to me to ask in the past twenty minutes of arguing what you were trying to say."

"Really?"

For the first time, Crowley crosses his arms in front of him, shoulders hunched just enough to cut dark furrows out of the cold, streaming light.

"You're going to look me in the eye and pretend there was really that much reasoning behind it? That there was anything - "

There's certainly no point in staring. That's not even helpful when they're getting along.

"No," he says, flat, and takes a step forward without noticing that he's doing so. "Nothing was behind it, because it never occurred to me that you might do it. It hasn't occurred to me to ask a hundred other things, either, but it doesn't mean I'm not interested. It's simply not the time."

"No," Crowley says, stiff as a column.

"I meant - "

He waits, but nothing else seems to be forthcoming. He tries again, mouth tightened to the point that the words themselves sound tight and unhappy.

"No. I suppose there wasn't."

There's a small noise, hard and distressed, that as far as Crowley can make out, seems to have come from somewhere low in his own throat.

"You are sso full of shit," he manages.

He doesn't step forward again, though he wants to.

"That's lovely," he grinds out, caustic once again. His fingers dig painfully into his ribs. "I'm trying to be honest with you."