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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"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."

"Putting it on you?" He laughs, sort of, a sound that carries no humour whatsoever.

"You've no idea just how true that is."

And yet, not at all. The room seems less than steady now, but he's hardly surprised. The perspective is all wrong; it feels as though he's shrunk another inch.

Crowley stops.

Just stops, like he's been slapped in the face.

He hadn't thought Aziraphael would say it out loud.

He hadn't thought Aziraphael would say it quite like that.

(Though, when all is said and done, it's not as if he isn't right.)

He just thought -

He looks away, looks down. The ridiculous bundle is still clutched to his chest like it's the only thing tying him to the here and now.

"It's not what you think," he says in a tiny voice.

That had come out wrong. Like so many other things today.

"Out," Crowley says.

His whole face feels numb.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He backs toward the door even as he protests.

"Crowley. I didn't mean--"

"Get out of my flat. Get out," he shrieks, "of my flat."

"All right," he says, and suddenly he's shaking so hard that something in the bundle of clothes clutched to his chest is rattling faintly.

He backs further and fumbles for the doorknob, manages somehow to pull it open, backs into the hallway.

"It's not what you think," he says again, barely audible. That burning sensation that he felt behind his eyes is on the verge of spilling over.

"When was the last time you knew what I thought."

He's at the door now, though he doesn't remember covering the space in between. A breath shudders in through his teeth, and his fingers close whitely around the doorknob.

"You're reading Austen, because you went on a genre kick after watching Cranford. I buy the milk, because you're a liar, and sometimes you do take it in your tea. Last time we ate out, we went to Scott's - it was after the baseball game, and we shared a platter of oysters. You cracked up this morning, in the kitchen; Barber of Seville. Merry fucking Christmas, angel. Enjoy your book."

The door slams shut hard enough that the floor vibrates.
(so I love you because I know no other way)

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