Happy Holidays, Amanda!

[goe_mod]

title: falling upwards

rating: pg-13

recipient: Amanda (prompt set #64)

word count: ~6300

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

warnings: none

summary: It’s 10 years until Armageddon, but Aziraphale is still focused on making sure all his blessings and miracles are taken care of. When he asks Crowley to go to Tadfield for a few quick blessings, Crowley reluctantly agrees (Tadfield isn’t exactly the most exciting place to hang out). But when, by chance, he flubs a minor miracle, he has an uncomfortable interaction with a woman named Anathema who seems to see a lot more than she’s supposed to. When Crowley returns to London, he’s faced with a choice: lie to Aziraphale and tell him everything went fine, or come clean with his little screw up and deal with the aftermath of being honest. Neither option sounds very appealing.

notes 1: so I played with timeline a bit for this one. Armageddon is still happening, but is 10 years away. Anathema already lives in Tadfield at that point and is doing some work there to prepare for the end of days.

note 2: basically I wanted Crowley to have a run in with Anathema so that something she tells him can get things rolling between him and Aziraphale. I had a lot of fun with this piece, so I hope you enjoy it! happy holidays!

::

One thing that Crowley rather enjoys about his and Aziraphale’s Arrangement is the freedom it allows them. With the agreement in place, rather than simply following company orders, Crowley is free - more or less - to do as he pleases. If he wants to knock out a couple temptations and treat Aziraphale to a blessing or two, he can. If he feels like being lazy, he can pawn off a duty of his to his angelic companion without question.

Sure, perhaps the whole thing is in poor taste, at least as far as their superiors are concerned. A demon really shouldn’t be using his free time to do blessings, or to make people smile. And an angel most certainly shouldn’t go around town spreading mischief. But, in poor taste or not, they continue on with it. An angel does bad, and a demon does good, and it works alright for them.

It’s comfortable.

Crowley likes it.

And, with Armageddon steadily approaching, The Arrangement is practically the only sense of comfort and ritualistic constancy that he has going for him.

He’s rather fond of the whole thing.

One thing that he isn’t particularly fond of, however, is the constant travel their Arrangement requires. That’s not to say his job doesn’t already require him to bounce about the globe like a child on a Hippity-Hop, but with the Arrangement in place, Crowley more and more frequently finds himself often staying in places he might not have gone before, or staying longer than he’d originally intended to.

Now, don’t misunderstand: it’s important to note that Crowley loves to travel. (When it’s on his terms, at least.) The world, with all its little intricacies and idiosyncrasies, is worth seeing. He’s quite a big fan of all the different coastal cities, specifically. But there’s quite a difference between going somewhere to enjoy the location, and going somewhere to toss a few blessings or curses around. One is a holiday, the other is work. And while Crowley is good at what he does (good at everything he does, really, blessings and curses alike), it’s a lot more fun Not To Work than it is To Work.

That’s why, when Aziraphale comes to him a mere year after the birth of the antichrist - his pleading eyes already wide and soft to ply Crowley’s favor - and tells him he needs him to go to Tadfield for a few quick blessings, Crowley is more than a little put-off. There’s nothing particularly wrong with Tadfield, but it’s not exactly the most exciting village in the English countryside. Oh sure, perhaps it’s a lovely spot to holiday to - a good place for a quick weekend away to relax and calm the mind.

But just to work?

Boring. Dull. Teeth-grindingly dull.

Crowley doesn’t like to be bored.

And not to belabour the whole Armageddon thing but… Armageddon is more or less around the corner. There’s only ten years left and it seems like he and Aziraphale should at least be focusing on honing their skills as counterproductive godfathers. Blessings and wiles, one would think, would take a back seat for a little while.

But he doesn’t tell Aziraphale that.

Instead, when he meets Aziraphale’s big, open eyes. He’s giving Crowley that look again - something stirs deep within Crowley’s gut as he meets his companion’s pleading gaze. And so, with a sigh, Crowley relents.

“What exactly do you want me to do, Angel?”

Aziraphale beams.

“Oh, it’s nothing major. Just a few little blessings around the town as you see fit.”

“As I see fit?” Crowley asks, distaste lingering on his tongue.

“Well, yes. It’s nothing specific. The town has just been… lacking in love, lately.”

Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

“Lacking love?”

“Yes. It just needs a gentle touch.”

“Why can’t you go, exactly?”

Aziraphale hand-waves him, his wrist dismissive and full of excuse.

“I have an appointment next week - trying to get my hands on a first edition Book of Mormon.”

“Well, at least that’ll be good for a laugh.”

With a soft sigh - not an exasperated one, though, Crowley notes - Aziraphale takes a step closer to him and lifts one gentle hand to his cheek. He cups the sharp angle of Crowley’s jaw with a tender palm. The touch is too much, far too much. He and Aziraphale don’t touch like this, they never have. It’s too close, too risky, and yet Crowley can’t bring himself to pull away from it. Aziraphale gives his cheek a soft pat with the pads of his fingers and smiles up at Crowley.

“You’ll go to Tadfield for me, then, dear boy?”

Wordless, Crowley nods his head in frantic agreement.

One would think a demon might have better willpower than that, but that’s neither here nor there.

::

Tadfield is, just as Crowley expected, rather boring.

There’s nothing particularly wrong with the place, though Crowley can certainly see why Aziraphale thinks the town needs a touch of love. It’s not an evil place or anything (though something about it does feel a little strange and Crowley can’t exactly put his finger on it). The town isn’t evil, and the people aren’t atrocious. It’s just a boring little village full of boring little people trying to live their lives while slowly growing more and more into joyless bastards as the days go by. Crowley’s sure his lot has had a little hand in some of that bastardization, but never underestimate humanity’s ability to be nasty on their own.

The economy of this small, rural village has begun to dwindle as the cities around it have begun to grow. The people are stressed - the jobs are moving, the money is being spread more thinly, and many of the young people are beginning to leave. That leaves mostly the older folks who’re too stubborn to leave and the burdened families who can’t afford to move to wander the town, bitter and stationary.

Crowley sits on a park bench in the middle of the village and takes it in. He imagines this place was once very vibrant, full of friendly people who loved to smile at each other and say good morning and do good deeds for each other. It was probably a place that Aziraphale had once bestowed a lot of love and care unto. But now… now, it just seems dreary.

A mother and her young daughter rush by his bench. The woman looks a bit disheveled, like she woke up late and had to hurry to get herself and her daughter ready for their day. With a quick snap of his fingers, Crowley manifests her wallet - that she had accidentally left on the kitchen counter - into her purse. He makes sure there’s a few extra pounds tucked away in the billfold as well. Can’t hurt. Crowley bites his lip and with another small wave of his hands, a nice, warm scone and a crisp apple appear in the young girl’s school bag, a little treat for later.

Hopefully it’ll put a smile on one of their faces.

An old man with a cane shambles past his bench, and Crowley makes sure to fix the divot in the sidewalk before the old geezer’s cane gets stuck in it and he goes toppling down.

Crowley, despite his reputation of Getting Things Done, has never been gifted with bestowing niceties. Always unsure about every miracle he performs, whether or not it will be appreciated, whether or not it will even be noticed. Does a blessing really count as a blessing if the recipient doesn’t realize they’ve been blessed? Does it really make a difference to the man’s outlook on life if he doesn’t trip and fall when he never realized he was going to fall in the first place?

Crowley doesn’t know the answer.

But he does the miracles anyway. He does them because Aziraphale asks. He does them because Aziraphale looks at him with those great, big eyes and that pleading wrinkle of his brow, and asks so very sweetly. Oh, please, my dear, for me? And hey, maybe Crowley’s just a sucker for an angel with blue eyes, but he’ll say yes every single time, even if he has to bumble through it.

He tells himself this is just part of The Arrangement. After all, Aziraphale does plenty of demonic leg-work for him whenever he asks.

But Crowley knows, deep down, that even if the angel didn’t partake in their little Tit For Tat, he would still be doing what he’s doing just so he could make Aziraphale smile. And isn’t that just the most awful thing you’ve ever heard?

::

Crowley people-watches for another few hours, flinging minor miracles here and there. Just enough that he might earn a couple of smiles from the select few people who’ve passed him, and he hopes that it’ll be good enough for Aziraphale.

After a while, the sound of an approaching cyclist catches his attention. He turns his head and watches her make her way along the sidewalk.

It’s a young girl in a dark teal-ish green dress; she has long black hair that she must have attempted to pin up neatly but that has come dislodged at some point during her hurried ride. Crowley furrows his brow. She’s peddling like mad, a little line of sweat on her brow, but her antiquated bicycle just isn’t keeping up with her. She seems to be in a bit of a hurry to get wherever she’s going, and so with a subtle wave of his hand as she passes, Crowley ushers a breath of speed behind her.

That - it would seem - was the wrong thing to do.

At the sudden burst of swiftness, the young lady’s control over her forward trajectory wobbles, and, rather than sail smoothly down the path, she instead careens off it and slams into the solid trunk of a tree.

Well, shit.

Crowley stands and trots over to her.

She seems mostly unscathed, save for a few leaves and blades of grass that have tangled in her hair. Before she can notice them, Crowley waves them away and straightens her ponytail. He wills the bike’s front wheel to straighten out, as well.

“Are you alright?” he asks, offering a guilty hand to her.

The young lady stares at him like he has a second head. He can’t say he’s surprised by that: it happens more often than he cares to admit. But she’s looking at him almost as if… almost as if she sees something about him.

Crowley chooses not to question it, and keeps his hand extended out to her. With hesitancy, she reaches up and accepts the offer of help. He pulls her to her feet.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Crowley tells her as she begins to brush off her skirt.

“What are you sorry for?” she asks, and Crowley immediately notes her distinct American accent, “You didn’t do anything.”

He shrugs.

“Ah, yeah, I think there was… a hole in the path there. Saw it earlier, yeah,” Crowley pauses so he can quickly divert his attention to the sidewalk. A pothole in the cement manifests before the young lady can even notice the change. “I should have given you a shout or something - warned you about it - when I saw you coming in hot.”

She eyes him with heavy skepticism.

“That’s… alright,” She mutters, staring around him at the sidewalk. She could have sworn she hadn’t hit any sort of pothole, but lo and behold, there one was, right in the middle of the cement she had ridden over.

She turns her attention back to Crowley.

“What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Crowley shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck with one uncomfortable hand.

“Ah, yeah… Anthony. I’m just visiting.”

“Alone?”

Crowley looks away from her - this isn’t quite going to plan. He’d only meant to help the lady along - small talk was never part of the plan.

“That’s how I usually travel, yeah.”

“Well, I’m Anathema,” she tells him. She doesn’t extend her hand for a formal handshake, and Crowley is immensely grateful for that. She has not, however, stopped staring at him with skepticism since the moment she first looked at him. He’s a bit less grateful for that.

There is something about the way she is staring - furrowed brow, large brown eyes laser-focused and attuned to him - that leaves an itching feeling beneath his skin. Crowley averts his eyes again.

“Any reason in particular you’ve come to Tadfield? It’s not really a… tourist destination.”

Crowley dares a glance back at her - a subtle, quick thing, hidden behind his sunglasses. Her gaze is intent, and he knows she is seeing more of him than she lets on. He just hopes it isn’t his eyes. Humans don’t tend to take kindly to them.

“I uh, I’m actually here on a bit of business. Doing a favor for a friend, that’s all.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell the whole world about it.”

Anathema takes a half step back, her inspecting, analytical, and curious gaze never straying from him. Crowley furrows his brow, watching as she seems to look him up and down, head to toe. There is a moment when her focus seems to shift, briefly, to the space around Crowley, and she looks above him and to either side of him with vigor.

Crowley’s stomach drops; it’s a very human response, he knows, but one that he can’t seem to stop. Spend enough time if a human body and you begin to develop some interesting physiological traits. It seems the body just likes to do what it wants sometimes - and that includes the dropping and twisting of the gut when in an uncomfortable or anxious situation.

Crowley isn’t one to be anxious, but the way Anathema is looking at him makes him consider anxiety as a potential part of his future.

She sees something, and she’s not letting on about it. She sees something she’s not supposed to see. Humans are a clever lot, they really are, but not exactly the most perceptive bunch. It’s fairly easy, all things considered, for a demon (and an angel) to mull about the Earth without a single human being any the wiser of their celestial or occult origins.

There are, however, exceptions to the rule.

And, going by the very intense and very knowing looks Anathema is giving him, she’s probably one of those exceptions.

She knows what I am, Crowley thinks and mentally prepares a miracle to extricate himself from the situation should it become any tenser than it already is.

But finally, after another agonizing couple of beats, Anathema speaks.

“You must… care a lot about your friend.”

Wait, what?, Crowley thinks.

“Ngk?” is what he sputters out instead.

“This friend, they must be very important to you. You’ve got... love just coming off you in waves.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Love, it’s-it’s all over you. You really just… glowed when you mentioned your friend.”

An uneasy, unconvincing scoff ekes out of Crowley’s throat.

“That’s,” he pauses and waves his hand noncommittally, an ineloquent grunt on his lips, “That’s ridiculous.”

What the hell does she know, anyway?

She lets out a low hum, and nods, but doesn’t disagree with him. For the first time since she’d first laid eyes on him, she smiles. Anathema leans down and picks up her bike, inspecting it for any damage (there’s none, Crowley ensured that), then straddles it. She turns her attention back to Crowley.

“Well, Anthony, I hope you’re more honest with your friend than you are with yourself.”

Crowley, for what feels like the tenth time now, finds himself at a loss for words. Before he can even think to let out a confused grunt, Anathema gives him a brief nod, a smug smirk, and begins to pedal away from him.

The only thing Crowley can think as he watches her leave is: what the fuck was that about?

::

Upon his return to London, Crowley is thankful that Aziraphale asks very little about the details of his trip to Tadfield. Naturally, the angel wants to know how it went, and Crowley tells him it went fine. It’s not technically a lie. It did go mostly fine. Crowley tells Aziraphale that he doled out a few miracles and a few good deeds, and that he might’ve even made a few people’s day. That seems to satisfy the angel.

He omits any and all mention of his flubbing of the bicycle miracle and his strange encounter with the young Anathema. He’s not ready to rehash whatever the fuck that conversation had been about. He supposes that omission is, in and of itself, a type of lie, but that seems like a problem he can easily ignore. He’s a demon, after all. Demons are supposed to lie.

Not to Aziraphale, he thinks to himself, and grimaces.

But, omission or not, Aziraphale seems to accept his answers and doesn’t pry for more.

It’s a good thing. They have Armageddon to plan for (a less good thing), and they have extraordinary amounts of alcohol to imbibe (a better thing).

And Crowley hopes, as he stares at the bottom of his wine glass, guzzling down the last drop, that perhaps the alcohol will help him forget the way Anathema had emphasized that it was love, and not some demonic energy, that had been radiating off of him. And love in relation to Aziraphale, nonetheless!

Embarrassing.

Absolutely ludicrous.

Where’s the wine? He needs more wine.

Aziraphale hands the bottle over, but only after making sure to refill his own glass almost to the top.

::

They have had far too much to drink, if the way the room is spinning is anything to go by. The floor is a bit wobbly, too. Crowley doesn’t know if the room is spinning for Aziraphale as well, but he imagines it must be. Plus, the way Aziraphale is rambling and slurring whenever he speaks leads Crowley to believe the angel is just as, if not more, sloshed than he is.

“I fucked up a miracle,” Crowley slurs, out of nowhere in the silence.

“Whas-at?” Aziraphale hums back, eyelids heavy and drooping. He clearly hasn’t been listening.

“M-miracle,” Crowley says back. He points idly in a random direction, a direction in which he hopes Tadfield is, “in Tadfield. Fucked it right up.”

“What’d ya do?”

“Mmmm, made a lady wreck her bike,” Crowley admits, like a child admitting to a bad grade on his homework.

He half expects Aziraphale to be a little cross, to angrily demand to know how he’d managed to screw up that badly, to demand to know if she’d been harmed. But he doesn’t. Instead, Aziraphale’s face cracks into a smile and a sputtering laugh wheezes from his chest and out through his nose.

“How-how’d ya do that?” He says through his drunken giggles.

Smirking, Crowley gestures with his wine, just barely managing not to spill it all over the rug.

“Was try-trying to make her fashter. Faster. She looked rushed,” Crowley trills out a sigh, his lips blubbering with the force of the air rushing past them, “Wanted to help get her along. She hit a tree.”

“Ooooh,” Aziraphale admonishes, shaking his head, smile still on his lips, “Oopsies. Bam.”

Crowley bobs his head back and forth in gesticulated agreement. Bam, indeed.

Thank Someone for wine. It’s very unbecoming, by sheer definition, for an angel to giggle at someone else’s misfortune. Schadenfreude is generally frowned upon in Heaven, if Crowley recalls properly. But seeing these giggles touch Aziraphale’s drunken features is enough to make Crowley’s cheeks flush; there’s a little bastard that lives somewhere inside Aziraphale. And wine always brings that bastard out.

Crowley loves it.

He…

He loves it.

Crowley freezes.

Oh, fuck.

His face falls. Crowley sits up off the back of the couch and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. With his fingers clutched around his wine glass like a vice, he lifts it to his lips and takes a long and arduous gulp. Aziraphale, drunk as can be still, doesn’t seem to notice Crowley’s abrupt change in demeanor. A few giggles are still falling from his lips.

“Did you at-” hiccup, “at least help her up?”

“Of course I bloody helped her, what kind of twat do you take me for?”

Crowley hadn’t meant to snap, he really hadn’t. But the implication that Aziraphale would even consider he wouldn’t help out someone he’d accidentally harmed stings more than Crowley would like to admit.

It’s the demon thing, right? It must be.

Crowley is a demon - he isn’t nice. He isn’t pleasant or helpful. He certainly isn’t kind (unless he’s doing Aziraphale a favor). And maybe Aziraphale has finally resigned himself to that truth.

Except, Crowley knows, it’s not the truth at all. What was it Anathema had said? Love came off him in waves?

Absolutely ludicrous.

“M’sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, genuine in his tone, “I didn’t mean to imply-”

Crowley stops him with a grunt and a hand wave.

“S’fine.”

A beat passes between them, a beat in which Crowley pointedly refuses to look at Aziraphale, and a beat in which Aziraphale pointedly ensures he is looking at Crowley.

“Y’alright?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley doesn’t give him a verbal answer, but he nods and keeps his focus downward on his glass and the floor. He stays silent now, intense in his stillness. This Aziraphale seems to notice. It’s not like Crowley to be still or silent in a fit of drunkenness such as this. A bit wobbly in his chair, Aziraphale sits forward and attempts to get a better look at Crowley.

“Y’sure? You look a bit,” Aziraphale waves his hand over his face, gesturing downwards, miming as though he were tugging his lips into a frown, “off. I really didn’t mean to offend…”

“M’not off,” Crowley scoffs, waving a dismissive hand in Aziraphale’s direction. His other hand remains clenched around his wine glass. He’s low now, but something tells him it’s time for him to stop drinking tonight.

“You are,” Aziraphale argues, pointing at Crowley as if that somehow got the point across. “Did she shay-” he pauses, takes a long breath in through his nose as if steadying himself through his intoxication, “Did she say something to you?”

Crowley hesitates and lifts his head to look at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes are still a bit droopy, heavy with drink and weariness. But his gaze is still focused on Crowley, his attention as undivided as it can be given their mutual level of intoxication.

As Crowley stares at him, he realizes that it would be very easy right now to lie. He’s drunk, so that might make it a little more difficult, but Aziraphale is also drunk, which means he probably wouldn’t be as quick to pick up on Crowley’s falsehood.

Crowley could lie. He could say Anathema didn’t say anything to him at all. He could tell Aziraphale that she was just a little rude and brushed off his offer for help and that’s why he was upset. It sounds silly - as if that sort of thing would upset him in the first place (it wouldn’t) - but he might get away with it if he tried.

But, he realizes as he stares point blank into Aziraphale’s drunk and open face that he doesn’t want to lie. Aziraphale is looking at him in that stupid way he does when he gets sloshed, goofy but caring, soft and yet a little wobbly. Crowley loves this look.

He loves it.

And he doesn’t want to lie.

So… he doesn’t.

“She uh… She started talking about love. Ya know, aura nonsense, I guess…”

“Love?” Aziraphale questions, rearing back a little in his chair, as though it were the silliest word Crowley could have said.

Crowley’s face falls at the disbelief in Aziraphale’s voice - maybe they shouldn’t talk about this. But it’s too late now. He’s started the conversation and he doubts Aziraphale will let any discussion about love go.

“Yeah, love.”

“What on Earth did she talk about love for?”

Crowley shrugs and finds something to be very interested in at the bottom of his now-empty wine glass. His grip is vice-like still around it, knuckles white, so tight that he’s sure the glass would break if he weren’t holding it together by sheer force of will.

“She just said I had heaps of it coming off me, I don’t know.”

Aziraphale snickers - and that hurts more than Crowley cares to admit. Maybe he shouldn’t be drunk for this. He could always sober up, and yet somehow the prospect of having this discussion sober seems far more intimidating. At least if he’s drunk, he could always go back and claim he didn’t know what he was saying.

Ah, I was sloshed, Angel, who the Heaven knows what I said??

“Why-why would she say something like that?”

Crowley shrugs and hesitantly sets the wine glass on the floor. If he keeps holding onto it, he knows it will shatter.

Suddenly, being drunk doesn’t seem like much fun. Crowley stands from the couch and steps away from Aziraphale, keeping his back to him. He needs the space.

“I’m gunna sober up,” He whispers over his shoulder, solemn, “You should, too.”

“Yeeahhhhh,” Aziraphale groans, “Probably right…”

With great focus, and great discomfort, Crowley wills the alcohol out of his blood stream. It always stings a little, that. Bit of a strain really, forcibly removing something from your essence, but it’s over in a flash until all that’s left in him is the awful taste of soured wine on his tongue.

Once sober, he cracks his neck a little, soothing its sudden stiffness, and turns back to face Aziraphale. Aziraphale is shrugging and shaking his shoulders a little, doing that little shimmy that he does, as though he were trying to shake off the last bits of drunkenness like a dog might shake water out of its fur. Against his better judgment, Crowley smiles a little as he watches him. Aziraphale does this until finally, his face is normal: calm and not at all wibbly-wobbly. His eyes are brighter now too, at attention, and focusing now directly on Crowley. Immediately, Crowley drops the smile from his face, hoping that the angel didn’t notice it.

“So,” Aziraphale starts again, “Go back. What’s all this business about love, then?”

Crowley shrugs - feigning innocence - and turns so his back is towards Aziraphale once again. It’s easier to do this if he doesn’t actually have to look at him.

“Dunno. She asked why I was in town. Told her I was doing a favor for a friend, and then she started babbling on about love and all that rubbish. Like an aura or something? I don’t know; she was American, who knows what the hell she was talking about.”

“Why-” Aziraphale pauses, “Why do you think she’d say that?”

Because I love you?

Crowley shakes his head and keeps his back turned towards Aziraphale. When he speaks, he tries his best to sound innocent.

“No idea.”

Even though he can’t see Aziraphale’s face, Crowley can feel the intensity of his gaze on him. It stings his back, this ray of holy focus. It’s a spotlight on his lies, on his omissions.

“What even brought it up?” Aziraphale asks next.

An exasperated sigh huffs past Crowley’s lips. He flings his hands up with an undignified, frustrated shrug.

“Satan’s sake, Angel, I don’t know, alright?”

Once again, he hadn’t meant to snap. He hadn’t meant to sound unkind or angry, but he’s never exactly been cool under pressure, and the pressure of this moment just keeps building and building all around him.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to let it go.

“You really don’t have to take that sort of tone, my dear,” Aziraphale scolds.

Aziraphale is right; Crowley knows he’s right.

He should’ve just lied earlier. He never should have brought up the love thing at all.

Crowley balls his hands into fists and presses them against his eyes. He cranes his head back and huffs with frustration.

“She said…” Crowley starts, then hesitates, “She said that I was glowing with it when I mentioned you.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Crowley drops his arms down to his sides in a quick swoop and turns around to finally look at Aziraphale.

“She said I had love coming off me in heaps right after I mentioned you.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows and he breaks his gaze with Crowley to look contemplatively around the room. He’s processing but not figuring anything out and it’s killing Crowley.

“I don’t know that I follow.”

“God,” Crowley groans, “you are dense. I fucking love you, apparently! I love you and she saw it, radiating off me in waves. You follow me? You get it now?!”

Crowley’s previously tense shoulders slump in resignation as he watches Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, eyebrows lifting with surprise. With a long groan, Crowley moves back to the couch and plops onto it. He buries his face in his hands and ferociously rubs at his eyes.

The silence that lingers between them now is all but unbearable. It is full and heavy and it goes on for far too long. Crowley trembles, the shake of his shoulders undeniable. He wants it to stop. With a groan, he tenses his shoulders and forces his body to be still.

After a few more seemingly unending moments, Aziraphale finally speaks.

“You love me?”

Crowley sighs into his hands - a long, whining sigh - but doesn’t look up.

“Apparently so,” He mumbles into his palms, “Seems… a bit obvious now that I think about it. Dunno why I never noticed it before.”

“Demons aren’t supposed to love.”

“I know that! Okay?” Crowley hisses, finally lifting his head to look at Aziraphale. He regrets the venom of his words immediately, as he watches the angel’s face fall.

“I just meant… Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice?” Aziraphale says, resigned, “You believed you couldn’t, so…” Aziraphale doesn’t finish.

The look of hurt on the angel’s face is undeniable.

“Angel, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” snapped. Crowley has certainly been thinking that a lot tonight. He’s never been good at controlling his tongue. He swallows the lump that has grown in his throat and stands from the couch. “I’ll- I’ll just go.”

He strides past Aziraphale’s chair to grab his coat off the rack. Before he can pass, Aziraphale reaches out and grabs onto Crowley’s hand to stop him.

“Crowley, wait, please.”

And Crowley does. He stops in his tracks, body tensing at the sudden flush of contact between them. Crowley angles his head away just a fraction of an inch - this moment is too much, too close, and yet he does not pull away.

His hand is trembling inside of Aziraphale’s...and yet he cannot break this touch.

“It’s frightening, isn’t it?” Aziraphale whispers in the quiet between them.

Crowley swallows; nods.

“Yes…”

“I know it is…”

Crowley shakes his head.

“You don’t.”

Fingers squeeze more tightly around Crowley’s own: a ghost of reassurance wrapped around his timid hand.

“I do know. What, did you think you’re the only one that loves when they aren’t supposed to?”

“Angels are supposed to love, Aziraphale. Kind of in your job description,” Crowley argues, his eyes still focused on the floor. Unthinking, he turns his hand over in Aziraphale’s, letting their skin press more flush against each other. An uneasy breath trembles past his lips.

“Aren’t supposed to love demons, though, are we?”

No, they certainly aren’t.

But the softness of Aziraphale’s voice - such a contrast to his own harshness - sidles its way under Crowley’s skin. It takes hold of him with its tenderness, its affection. Crowley tries not to tremble, he really does, but he cannot stop the quake that has seemingly risen through his body and to his skin, prickling like gooseflesh. Aziraphale must feel it too, because he squeeze’s Crowley’s hand more tightly and gives a gentle tug on his arm. Crowley follows the gesture, moving to stand more fully in front of Aziraphale, gazing down at him.

“You think you’re the only one between the two of us who loves?” Aziraphale asks again, his blue eyes so focused, so intense as he stares up at Crowley from his seat in the chair. He still hasn’t let go of Crowley’s hand.

“You can’t,” Crowley protests, shaking his head.

Angels don’t love demons, that’s a fact Crowley has grown more than accustomed to. Even the Almighty Herself doesn’t love Her fallen children anymore.

“Neither can you, supposedly… But here we are.”

With that, Aziraphale drops Crowley’s hand in favor and laying both of his over Crowley’s hips.

Aziraphale stares up at him with such adoration that Crowley can hardly breathe.

“What do you make of that?” The angel whispers.

Crowley shakes his head.

“Dunno…” He replies, his voice barely even audible.

Tentative, he lifts one hand and lets it cradle the soft curve of Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale’s eyes slip closed and he angles into the touch, turning just enough so that he can press a delicate kiss in the center of Crowley’s palm. Undignified, the noise that flits past Crowley’s lips is choked and needy. Aziraphale opens his eyes; he lifts his gaze again, but keeps his face cradled in Crowley’s hand.

“She was right, you know?”

Crowley’s brow furrows.

“W-What?”

“That young lady with the bicycle.”

“About what?”

“It really does come off of you in waves.”

Unable to find a word, any word, to answer Aziraphale, Crowley opts instead to lean down into him. He bends down and fits himself into Aziraphale’s space, his other hand also coming up to cup Aziraphale’s face, to hold him in place. Frightful, nervous, but desperate, Crowley presses his lips against Aziraphale’s before he can think to talk himself out of it.

And, going by the pleased little sigh that stutters from Aziraphale’s nose, and the way his lips begin to purse and move against him, Crowley has to figure that he might have done something right after all.

Maybe he didn’t mess that miracle up as terribly as he thought he did.

::

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Hey, Amanda here!

I really loved this! Crowley's grumpy miracling was excellent, so in character, and the interaction with Anathema (including his own Oh Lord Heal This Bike moment) was really great. Anathema was delightfully insightful and frank, exactly how I perceive her character, and I love her for that. <3

Oh, and the confessions, how Crowley couldn't keep it all inside no matter how much he wanted to and how much he believed his feelings weren't returned. He feels so much and so strongly despite trying to be cool and above it all and detached. And Aziraphale (with all his lovely sorta bastardly moments too) is right there, taking a terrifying step of his own because he loves Crowley too much to even think about letting him go through his confession alone.

What a wonderful piece, a joy to read, and I'm honored to have it as my gift. :) Happy Holidays and Happy New Year to you.