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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The wet washcloth slaps into the doorjamb by Aziraphael's head.

"You have five sseconds to explain why you're quoting the Bible at me."

Crowley's voice is a poisonous rasp, and for the first time since they started to snipe at each other, there's a dull red heat in his face.

The mug in his other hand is shaking, dripping suds on the kitchen floor, and on Crowley's bare feet.

"Now. Now, of all times."

When all along, it's been -

He trips backward, stunned by the force of Crowley's reaction.

"I - I was quoting it at myself, not at you," he stutters. "There are things I need to explain--"

"You know where you can shove your explanations," he hisses. "I understand the lines. I will not be condescended to, I will not be condescended to by you, and I will not be condescended to in my own flat - in my flat, Aziraphael. You just swan in here, and you - "

Crowley slams the mug down on the counter-top so hard that it's a miracle (or something like) that it doesn't shatter, and storms back out past Aziraphael.

(Miraculously, or something like, he manages to do it without knocking into him, or shoving him out of the way - or indeed, touching him at all.)

By the time he's recovered enough to get out of the way, Crowley's already past him.

"No - Crowley, wait," he says to the demon's back, and trails behind him, tugging nervously at the already-tight knot on his dressing gown.

"It isn't like that, I didn't mean--"

"You didn't mean, you didn't mean - you don't mean a lot of things."

He whirls, sharp elbows and rigid back, hair wild around his face, and jabs a thin finger at Aziraphael's chest.

"You know, if you keep having these little verbal sslip-ups, maybe you might want to just pay a bit more attention to what you're saying. 'Course, you could apply that principle to anything, really. Transferable fucking skill, paying attention."

He's brought up short by that, as though Crowley has found the right string inside him to pull and yanked on it. But the silhouette from the kitchen is burned into his mind now, underlying every little cruelty, and he doesn't even think to retaliate.

"Yes," he says rather grimly, "there are a lot of them. Crowley, honestly-- you'll want to hear what I have to say."

Crowley's in no mood to be stopped, urgent points or no. His voice, at least, has dropped back to normal levels again - lower, even; almost a murmur.

"You know what one of the greatest things you ever said to me was?"

Not one of the most romantic, but one of the greatest - the hugest, the most important.

He sputters a little, a confession on the tip of his tongue, so to speak, and he hesitates.

"No - what?"

"It was in Vienna. You said."

His voice is quieter still, now - not pointedly so, and not for the sake of any dramatic effect, but simply... smaller.

Lessened.

His finger is leaving a damp patch on the front of Aziraphael's dressing gown. Somehow, Crowley isn't quite meeting his eyes anymore.

"You said to me, Blast it all but I've missed you so dreadfully, Crowley."

Aziraphael -

He doesn't even know how to respond, because that, that is exactly--

"I meant it," he says at last, unhappiness weighing him down so that he feels a good three inches shorter than when he woke up this morning.

"I did. I do."

"I don't doubt it," Crowley replies, hand falling as he steps back; steps away.

And for a moment, with nothing else between them - for just a moment, it looks as though he might -

"But then again," (and then again, there's something hardening in his face once more, hurt and mean and vengeful), "maybe I should've paid more attention to the fact that you said it right after I gave you the blowjob of a lifetime."

The bedroom door is heavy, its slam, when Crowley fires it shut behind him, satisfyingly loud.

He doesn't wince when it does (though Crowley can't see that, of course) only because he's frozen, numb, to the spot.

He doesn't hear Crowley moving around inside the room, though he isn't being quiet about it.

He doesn't realise his mouth is still slightly open.

"That wasn't why I said it," he calls shakily; it's all he can manage at the moment.

When Crowley opens the door, it's with a load balanced on his other hand: Aziraphael's clothes, still folded from last night. Atop them, a sensible pair of brown leather shoes. Atop them, lopsided, a largish box: navy blue, unadorned save for a small logo in one corner, and the sort of discreetness that only comes from holding something offensively dear.

(On the other corner, slightly darker, there are still wet smudges where Crowley picked it up.)

"No?" he says, yellow eyes very bright. At last, there's a matching tremor in his voice. "And I suppose you're not going to do what we did this morning and then tell me my specialty is 'yes' again, either, are you? Go on." He steps forward, pressing the bundle into Aziraphael's hands. Whisper-close: "I dare you."

He stares at him blankly, fingers closing around the bundle out of habit.

"...What? This morning, I." He tries to think back, but it's making his ridiculous blush reflex creep up again. Judging by his comment about Vienna, there's very little that Aziraphael could say now that Crowley would believe, anyhow.

"I wouldn't have said something like that. Not - not like that."

"Perfect recall disappeared, has it?"

Crowley knows every shade that Aziraphael's face can turn; has caused most of them, one way or another. And now he's standing there. It makes Crowley feel like his ribs are being crushed, bone grinding inwards against all the messy bits he doesn't even need, anyway. And now he's standing there, all hurt blue eyes and hair that Crowley can always smell on his pillows, and turning that stupid, delicate pink that Crowley loves to feel the heat of against his mouth.

He always wants Aziraphael.

But Aziraphael turned it into -

(The memory is sudden and strong, prickling over him like a sensory after-image: the heat of Aziraphael's thighs against his sides, the shaky inhale as he'd looked down at Crowley's grin, the plump, too-careful hand buried in his hair - )

And now he's standing there, blushing.

It feels like his ribs are

"No, it's just."

He can't think, not with Crowley looking at him like that, furious and with waves of hurt crashing over him. Over both of them. He fights through what feels like a whole ocean of it and sifts through their conversation, drowning.

"No," he says, a horrified light dawning in his eyes. "Oh. No."

He looks up at Crowley pleadingly - it is up, now, as though he really has shrunk. His stomach must have dropped away hours ago, he imagines, and already he feels that he's about to lose it again.

"I do remember that, but not in the way you think; they were just words, jumbled together. I was making fun of myself. It came out sounding wrong."

That doesn't make sense.

There's a flicker in Crowley's expression, the first glimmerings of a piercing, hungry sort of relief - the idea that this one thing might make things alright again, that everything else might sort itself out (they could start the day again, clean slate; get a suite at the Ritz, get room service, watch The Wrong Trousers in warm lamplight from a couch they haven't fought on, dress for dinner at the Palm Court, take a bath and get bubbles everywhere - absolutely everywhere) if only Aziraphael is telling the truth; if only Aziraphael doesn't think he's -

But it doesn't make sense.

(And it's not as though Aziraphael isn't right, sort of.)

"Yeah," Crowley snaps, looking away again - though his gaze, after a moment, flicks back. "No fucking kidding."

It doesn't take an expert to see that Crowley doesn't believe him, and Aziraphael knows those expressions very, very well.

"I'm not lying to you," he nearly yells, so violently that he almost upsets the pile in his hands. He looks at it but clearly doesn't focus on it; it's unlikely that he's even processed what it is.

"And you could have said something before now," he adds bitterly.

There's a moment, just the barest flash of a moment, where Crowley's hands twitch upwards, ready to catch the pile - but it steadies itself (or Aziraphael steadies it) before he needs to.

"Right," he snarls, "because that went sso well the first time I tried it."

"The time when you stopped talking, you mean? Just now, I noticed, it went very smoothly; those insults just rolled off the tongue," he spits.

"And you dared me to say that again, but there's a problem there: I didn't insult you with that the first time."

"No?" he fires back, eyes blazing. "You can hardly blame me for thinking so, since that'ss exactly what it sounded like. And let's be fair, you had a bit of a theme going."

His hands are nearly claws by his sides, bones ridging between wrist and fingers and casting prison-bar shadows across the smooth, translucent skin.

"What do you want me to say? That I was - embarrassed? Because that's just me all over, isn't it, sitting down for a long talk about my feelings. I didn't make a big deal about it, because I didn't want to bugger today up for you. In case it hasn't hammered its way through your thick fucking skull, that's ssort of been my thing this year."

"This year."

Behind his eyes, burning; deep in his chest, compression; under the fury, anguish. Anger doesn't do much to keep it all at bay.

"There was no theme. I don't care what it sounded like; I'm telling you now, that wasn't what I meant. As for today - I think we can mark this Christmas off as a lost cause, no big deal, as you say. There's always next year."

Anger doesn't do much to keep it all at bay. But it's better than nothing.

"Yeah, that'll be a riot. What d'you reckon, a little light name-calling before breakfast, and then target-practice with the cutlery until dinner? Good thing you've got a year to practice your aim."

For a split second, he can almost hear himself prattle on defensively about the way his aim is fine, thank you very much. And just as quickly - it's gone.

"Oh, I can hardly wait. It's been a real success, the way you didn't want to destroy this day for me."

"Don't you dare put this on me," Crowley shouts. And he is shouting now, properly shouting, loud enough for his downstairs neighbour to hear, and any guests she has - loud enough for everyone to hear and to give each other knowing little looks; someone's having a traditional English Christmas. "Don't you dare blame me for having limits, after everything I've - how dare you."