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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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?"

He frowns. He thinks he might recognise it if he saw it; he could take a fair guess at the colour of the cover.

"Something I loaned you from the shop, no doubt," he says at last.

When he looks up, Crowley's smirk is cold and humourless. Answer enough.

"How much milk is in the fridge?"

He levels a long look at Crowley before shaking his head.

"I don't know."

He laughs again, little more than a huff of breath this time - dry as snakescales; dry as bookdust.

"Where did we eat, last time we went out?"

It is, in fact, as bad as he'd feared.

"It's been a while since we did," he says quietly.

"It was probably that place near the shop that's so quick. But I really couldn't say for certain."

He feels like he's going to be sick.
(why will the whole of love come on me suddenly)
He tilts his head to the side, which almost makes his smile level, and says:
(when I am sad and feel you are far away?)
"When did you last see me laugh? I mean - really laugh; crack up."
(the book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet)

That crooked, humourless smile is what gets to him the most. There's an invisible band circling his ribs now, making it difficult to breathe; strangely enough, he wants to do so. He's afraid to unwind the arms around his middle, though. Something might fall out.

"I don't know, Crowley. It's been a long time."

"You don't - "

The smile is gone - unpleasantly quickly, leaving something much more difficult to look at in its place.

"You don't get to do this."

A catch of breath; almost a laugh.

(Not a laugh.)

"Whatever's been," his hand jerks through the air, brief and brittle, "going on, that's one thing. I get it. I'm trying. But this is, this is just - "

For a moment, the very tips of his fingers brush against his chest, colourless against the shabby blue wool.

If he watches Crowley's fingers, he doesn't have to look at his face. There's a series of shocks running through him, something like dominoes falling against each other but each bigger than the last. The first one had felt like a punch to the stomach, and tightening his arms didn't help.

"Whatever's been going on - ?" he says, mouth dry and voice approaching a squeak. "You - you think something's going on?"

He watches as Crowley's fingers (supposedly safe) brush against his chest, near the heart he isn't technically supposed to have that Aziraphael can hear and feel when they're close enough. Quiet enough. He wants to insist that it's all in Crowley's mind, smooth it over and excuse himself from culpability. But of course, they've gone far beyond that.

"I can't-- that is, I don't--" he stammers.

"Don't. Don't you dare."
(you occupy everything)
Crowley's voice has dropped back into a hiss, the harsh whip and crack of sibilants and consonants ruthlessly slicing any other sort of unevenness from his voice.
(the book fell that always closed at twilight)
"I think I've been doing pretty well at Not Minding. And I'm going to keep doing well, because. I mean, I would literally - "
(so I love you because I know no other way)
The demon's hands come up again, white and sort of - cupped, almost, in front of the lumpish yellow 'A' on his chest. It's horrible.
(and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet)
Then it's gone.
(in this part of the story I am the one who - )
"But you have some fucking nerve, angel. You don't get to do this."