aj_crawley | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's Christmas morning, and the darkness provided by the blinds isn't quite complete. It's dark outside, too, but the faint orange glow of streetlights bounces off the thin rime of not-quite-snow crusting over London and filters in around the edges of Crowley's bedroom window. It's not completely quiet, either - every so often a brighter flare of light outside heralds the low swish of car tyres as one poor unfortunate or another makes their way to wherever it is they have to be. There aren't many though; it's still very early.

And after all, it's Christmas morning.

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"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."

"No you're not," Crowley explodes, suddenly savage.

"You're trying to ladle one spoon of bullshit justifications after another - how you were trying to fill in a conversational gap to make me more comfortable, or how you never even stopped now to ask what I'd been up- what, what I'd been going to say because you didn't think I would answer! As, as if you don't think I can tell you're just lying out your arse. I know you. I see you."

He's advanced - almost without knowing it, he's advanced, and with the couch in between them again, he jabs a vicious finger in Aziraphael's direction.

"You're not trying to be honest with me, you self-righteous, hypocritical, windbag bastard - all you're interested in is finding the excuses that'll give you the moral fucking high ground, and doing it until I drag anything else out of you with pliers. You're not trying to be honest - but I see you. I sssee you very well."

He's shrunk down a little in the past couple of exchanges, but at this he bristles defensively again.

"If you're only going to accuse me of lying to you, is it really any wonder that every answer includes the reasoning behind it? There's a difference between justifications and reasons, but perhaps I should leave the reasons out of it; you don't seem to make the distinction."

He's moving forward as well, in anger rather than sympathy this time, and now only the couch separates them.

"Every action I've taken sounds to you like a personal assault, and I'm tired of defending myself for attacks that I didn't make."

"And I'm tired of the fact that you can't - you literally can't apologise to me without following it up with a 'but'. I'm tired of the fact that you'd still rather go on about how wonderful and thoughtful you are with your reasons," he sneers, the disbelief still thick in his voice, "than stop for two fucking seconds and ask me what the matter was in the first place. I knew when I was signing on that I was going to be playing second fiddle here, but that does not include your ego. You don't get to have your fucking cake and eat it."

There are so many responses - retorts, really - that spring to mind that he can't choose between them. He stops, literally, wide-eyed.

After a pause:

"Will you tell me what was the matter in the first place?"

"If you'd asked when there was even the sliver of a chance that I'd've believed you really cared to know."

He feels like he's going to be sick. He's going to throw up, right here; he's going to leave a coffee-coloured pool of bile on the pale cream carpet beneath the pale cream couch, and he'll will it away with a snap of his fingers, but (as Aziraphael would say), he'll always know it was there.

"Now that you've only figured out it's The Right Thing To Do, the appeal's worn off a little. I'm sure you understand."

Deep within Aziraphael, there's a flicker of something other than pained fury. It probably shows on his face.

"That isn't why I'm asking."

Crowley doesn't look very well.

"And yet, somehow you didn't before. Oh - wait, that's right. Because I never stopped and reminded you to, and because you didn't think I'd answer, so why bother asking at all? Have I got that right?"

It's petty, Crowley knows, to feel a kick of satisfaction at the flicker in Aziraphael's expression. It's petty, and small, and craven of him, and right at this very moment, Crowley couldn't care less.

His face reddens further at Crowley's biting sarcasm, but there's no movement otherwise.

"Yes, that's entirely right," he says with a hint of impatience, "except that you did remind me and I still didn't think you'd answer. So I'm asking now."

(why will the whole of love come on me suddenly)

"I," Crowley says.
(when I am sad and feel you are far away?)
His fingers fit back into the dents (shallower, now) in the back of the couch, and he shrugs.

"I just thought, because you used to - "
(why will the whole of love come on me suddenly)
He purses his lips together, looking away towards the flat, black screen of the television.

His arms are still wrapped around him, and albeit for a different reason, he's glad for it.

He waits.

He can do this.

It's stupid, but he can do this.

"When we could spend all day just - " his fingers tighten a little, and (after his mouth crooks into a half-there, faraway smile) he gives a low exhale, " - anticipating...."

It's so stupid.

"Yes?" he prompts, but the question there is faint and the word itself is half-breathed. He's remembering, too.

"And you used to - "

This time, Crowley just gestures helplessly.

Aziraphael used to love it.

And then he didn't.

He can't do this.

They don't have a whole day to spend in anticipation, lately. The faint alarm from earlier is a little louder now.

"I used to -" he repeats.

Crowley doesn't look like he's going to finish it, given the way he's gesturing from behind his couch.

"Prefer that. Is that right?"

"No. I don't mean," he says, and looks back at the television; down at his hands.

A day trading grins and swift glances; a dinner watching hands on cutlery and lips on wineglasses; ten minutes over tea and coffee, just thinking, and knowing, and - relishing.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He drags a hand over his face, and for a moment, rims of deep red show beneath his eyes.

"Forget it."

"It's obviously important to you," he says, "so I don't think that I could just forget it, even if I wanted to."

He looks down. He wants Crowley to continue, but he can no longer deny that there's a small, worried part of him that doesn't want that at all.

Crowley stutters a laugh, deep and ridiculous-sounding.

"Listen to yourself."

He looks at him warily.

"What? You thought I couldn't care less?"

"I think you want to have it both ways."

He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales until his shoulders relax down to a more or less normal position.

"How?"

Crowley hangs his head for a moment, breathing out again. There's a loose end of wool snarling up from the neck of his (Aziraphael's) jumper, just touching the ends of his hair.

"What book am I reading?"