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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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."

He could make a good guess.

"All right then, I'll add it to my list of missteps," he says bitterly. "It's getting quite long."

"Please," he says, lip curling back into a disdainful sneer.

"If you're going to - feel free to even out the scales all you like, but if you're going to spend your time mourning the loss of your high ground instead, you can just leave."

He only raises a contemptuous eyebrow.

"No need to worry, my dear; I won't waste my time on it."

Crowley - just stands there, arms still crossed protectively across his chest.

To his credit, though, his shoulders aren't quite as hunched; he's managing to stand a little straighter.

(The height advantage helps.)

It isn't terribly useful at the moment; Aziraphael is staring stubbornly at his feet and at the warm, familiar wood spreading out from them in all directions.

"Well. This is a fine place for us to be this morning," he mumbles at last.

Crowley looks away again.

Figures, he thinks.

"I'm. I wasn't making fun of the way you look," he mutters, low and indistinct. There's a mulish jut to his jaw, the shape of his bones clear beneath the skin. Quickly: "I was talking about something else. I'm ssorry."

At that he does look up, blinking at Crowley in shock. He runs a dry tongue across his lips but it doesn't help to relieve the suddenly parched feeling in his mouth.

"Oh," he says finally. "It's, er. It's all right."

After another few moments, Crowley turns away, finally winching his arms from around his ribs so as to scoop up the long-forgotten, lonely mugs on the coffee table.

They're gone cold.

Carefully stepping over a discarded blanket, Crowley starts towards the kitchen.

An empty feeling settles over him when Crowley moves away. The tension might be lessened now, but nothing has rushed in to take its place and the vacuum is almost as bad.

He brings his hands together, squeezes, and looks down again. Breathe in, breathe out.

The mugs chatter loudly against the draining board, when Crowley empties their contents into the sink and sets them down.

Silence.

Then the tinny thunder of running water.

The little domestic noises echoing in the silence somehow make things worse. Feeling useless and drained, he wanders quietly in the direction of the kitchen, where Crowley had disappeared.

Crowley's movements are quick and sharp, the sort of focused, abbreviated twitchiness that's a clear tell of frustration directed elsewhere. Aziraphael's mug doesn't need much more than a quick rinse, but there's a rime of coffee on the inside of his own, thin strata on the black enamel marking out the progress of the morning; the last and lowest when they'd stopped to talk, and the first, the highest, when they'd stopped to -
     (He looks like a colour study, half-done)
Well.
     (pale skin, white sheets, and the two black inkstains seeping from his back)
To not talk.
     (where Aziraphael keeps dipping and sifting and stroking his fingers)
The squidgy yellow washcloth squeaks against the enamel, comes away stained, squeaks against the mug again.
     (which he leans down to kiss, again and again, and comes away clean every time)

Familiar scene:

Crowley leans slowly forward, and rests his forehead against the cupboard above the sink.

His -

Aziraphael hasn't ever thought he was very good at lying to himself. Still, he managed to believe - to the exclusion of observed facts - that Crowley was perfectly all right. Most likely, Aziraphael had reasoned, he hadn't even noticed that anything was different, and all the leavetaking and the long absences that Aziraphael explains away, the short nights and the endless shallow concerns that he faced, affected only himself.

He looks into the kitchen and realises that he's much better at believing his own lies than he'd thought. There's still chipped china in Crowley's motionless, soapy hands, forgotten under the weight of this misery that bows him over like a bent sapling. He looks broken, and the angel can see that it's by his own fault. He stares, stricken, and a silent inhale takes him with sudden force.

Crowley's nose wrinkles, and so do the corners of his eyes.

Aziraphael's lips move for a few seconds before he can manage a sound.

Let your conversation be without covetousness," he finally mutters to himself, "and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."