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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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."

He flinches back, almost a full step, as though he's been slapped when Crowley brings up his hands. He finally drops his own, which twitch at his sides. The invisible band tightens, heavy, and it's gone beyond not breathing into the feeling that all his insides are made of squashed lead.

"I - I can explain," he stammers, soft and so very inadequate.

"I don't want you to," he spits, leaning foward over the couch. "For fuck's sake, Aziraphael, I don't - I have no intention of making this a choice. I said I knew what I signed on for, and I do. And I said, I said I'd keep on doing well, and I will - but that'ss my choice. You don't get to come home and fuck up and then make out like it's my fault that you haven't any idea, anymore."

He looks - he looks ridiculous, rumpled and tired and still pyjama-clad, voice rising in volume, and almost incandescent with rage.

"You don't get to give me Christmas day like some kind of - some kind of holiday bonus. You don't get to go on about how you'd love to have me along on some fucking mockery of a holiday where we jet off for a week and where you still get to coo about how lovely everything is, and feel great about how fulfilling our relationship is, and I have to pretend I really do have you to myself for a few days, and then fly back to this, this - "

The words drive him backward, one step after another. They're nasty enough, but the shock is most bitter at the realisation that Crowley has misunderstood his intention so completely. It's easy to see how it happened; far too easy and much more cruel than he'd thought the worst could be. Aziraphael wonders fleetingly where it was that he lost control.

"It's not a bonus, it's-- I wanted-- I thought--" Everything he starts to say begins with 'I' and he'd rather just - not. He tries again.

"I know very well that it isn't your fault," he says, quickly before his treacherous tongue can tangle the words in his mouth. "I've been--"

"Not around? I know. Not holding it against you." Crowley advances after Aziraphael - and this time he's the one with his arms wrapped around himself, a tight tourniquet binding up his ribs.

"Somewhere else, even when you have been here? I know. And that one - yeah, that one I am holding against you."

"Away, I was going to say, and in more ways than one."

He stops backing and, ridiculous as it is to make a stand in a dressing gown, he does his best.

"One depends on the other, I think," he adds, "so you may as well hold it all against me."

"Sstop," Crowley says - and if he doesn't flinch in turn, it's a near thing. His fingers twist in the wool at his sides, digging through the warp and the weft to his skin. "Stop. Don't even think about accusing me of that."

"It's not an accusation," he insists, though his voice is hard, "just an opinion. I couldn't say for certain what makes me seem 'away' when I'm here."

Now that Crowley's mentioned it, of course, the disconnect is obvious.

Another of those horrible laughs, this time harsh and abrupt, jerking his shoulders on its way out.

"Just goes to show."

He isn't going to wrap his arms around his ribs again, he tells himself firmly, though hearing that laugh, he wants to. And of course it would be incredibly stupid to ask Crowley to clarify.

"Goes to show what?"

"If you can't tell."

He's stopped several paces from Aziraphael, but there's - there isn't anything between them, now. Distantly, Crowley wonders whether he regrets that.

"I'd take it as a symptom."