Happy Holidays, chaoticlivi!
Dec. 5th, 2023 04:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Delirium
Recipient Name: chaoticlivi
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: Pre-kilt Scotland, sorry. Although fear not, Aziraphale wears hose.
Summary: TV Omens. In the fifteenth century Highlands, some unfortunate horse issues lead to adversaries taking shelter in a remote bothy. The snow is distinctly horizontal, it’s cold outside, and Aziraphale’s human methods of keeping warm are more than a poor besotted demon can resist.
Dear chaoticlivi, things may not start off cozy in this bothy, but I hope you are happy with just how cozy they end up being. Happy Holidays!
Thank you to Holrose for beta-ing, cheerleading, and getting me to the finish point in time.
Delirium
Crowley trudged over the mud and snow and sleet of the Highland path, cursing his luck. He had planned to be in the next fairly large town by night, getting nicely sozzled on heather ale and warming his toes by a roaring fire.
He had reckoned without his horse, a finely tempered steed with flaming eyes and gnashing teeth, which had deposited him into a thornbush and taken on to devour peasants, or whatever horses did in their time off. Miracling himself over the distance was out of the question; Dagon was returning paperwork with terse demands for more detail on what happened to the hellish horses Requisitions kept sending for his use, and he didn’t dare raise questions about what had happened to Dagger hoof. Not with his posterior regions both bruised and pricked.
His directions at the last inn had mentioned a bothy where he could shelter if delayed on his journey, and Crowley was feeling a prickle of anxiety that he wouldn’t make it. The wind was biting at the small bits of skin he left uncovered, and he’d turned off his breathing long ago to escape the way the cold air cut into his lungs like knives. Worse, he could feel sleepiness creeping over him. There were disadvantages to being a vaguely serpentine demon; he was conveniently fireproof, but cold was unpleasant at best and left him sluggish and vulnerable at worst.
“…and what of your poor dear mother?” The voice, sweet and peevish and determinedly English, even while speaking flawless Gaelic in these remote parts, was as familiar to Crowley’s as his own, even though years had passed since he last heard it. He increased his pace, pretending to himself that there was no eagerness to it. “What would she think, knowing her sweet little boy, who used to bounce on her knee, had grown up to being a common criminal, accosting innocent travellers on their way?”
Whatever unfortunate human Aziraphale was haranguing made some sounds that seemed to be apologetic, but too wracked with tears and snot to be made out.
“I should think so. Oh dear, here, have my hanky and give a good blow. Let’s have a nice think about how you can make up for your naughty ways, shall we? Theft and terror and murdering people as well, I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”
The human stopped honking into the hanky and wailed with remorse instead.
“There, there. At least you know it’s wrong now.”
Crowley stepped around a bush and took in the scene with a glance. He would have liked the glance to be far more lingering, if he was honest with himself; Aziraphale in Highland splendour was something to be seen. He was not up to date enough to be wearing trews, his fluff of hair was far too short, and he pinned his cloak at the breast instead of fashionably belted at his loins like Crowley’s. But his hose clung to his satisfyingly sturdy calves, and the general impression he gave was of a round patch of sunlight in the dismal grey of the day.
Still, there was no time to lurk around staring at an angel’s ankles, however well-turned.
“Hate to interrupt, but t’other lad’s taking off with your horse, angel.”
“What? Oh—oh— “ Aziraphale stared helplessly after the young man absconding with his horse. “Botheration,” he said, deftly not swearing.
“Well, this is nice.” Aziraphale’s voice was as sweet and shining and brittle as a sugar sculpture, if only they had been invented yet. He beamed at the tiny, damp, bare room, too cold even for the snow on their clothes to drip onto the dirt floor.
Crowley, thinking that with better luck and more loyal horses they might have ended up at a cozy inn getting sloshed together, shot him a gloomy look, but didn’t even have the energy to summon sarcasm. The coldness and wetness seemed to have seeped through his stylish clothing to his very bones, and the only source of warmth was Aziraphale. Crowley supposed it would be too obvious to sidle closer to him and soak up his heat, like a shadow soaking up the sun. Or, at least, that was what he supposed shadows did. Aziraphale had told him once that he’d read they were something else entirely, but they’d both been well into their cups by then. Besides, Aziraphale said he’d read a lot of things and Crowley didn’t believe most of them. He instinctively mistrusted books.
Still, Aziraphale was amusing when he got going. And warm. There were little frozen snowflakes sparkling on his eyelashes. Only Aziraphale could struggle through frozen snow and end up with delicate little snowflakes on his lashes.
“There’s a lovely fire,” Aziraphale continued determinedly, “or at least there will be as soon as we light the kindling someone has so kindly left for us.”
“Damp. Sopping wet.”
Aziraphale ignored the interruption. “Nothing like a cheerful fire, and the company and conversation of a fr—adversary, staying up and trading war stories, although nothing compromising the cause of Heaven, of course.”
Crowley, who had caught what Aziraphale had almost said, softened still further. Aziraphale liked his human pleasures too. Some niggling voice inside Crowley said this was entirely the wrong setting for an angel who deserved comfort and luxury and coddling, but it had been a long few years apart.
Not that he missed Aziraphale, of course. Demons didn’t miss anyone. It would be ludicrous to miss an angel, even if he felt like the only being in the universe who understood him, his counterpart, his other — Crowley bit down firmly on that train of thought before it led to dangerous places.
Or he tried to bite down firmly. He lacked aggression in his thoughts, as if pleasantly drunk without the trouble of imbibing. His thoughts didn’t seem quite all his own. Aziraphale was so soft and warm, and the snow had been dazzling.
“And there’s a nice wooden platform in case you feel like a nap, and a charming spade—” Aziraphale realised what the spade was for. The angel gave a delicate shudder and made a complicated gesture, banishing the offending object to places unknown. With any luck, Aziraphale would forget to replace it when they left, and do his bit to spread dismay, anger and malice for whatever poor humans made their way through the snow to this place next. Doing his part of the Arrangement without even meaning to. If Crowley was at all fair, which he wasn’t, he would count that as something he would have to make up later.
“There’s a lovely view,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley idly wondered how long he could keep this up. He was feeling strange, hot and cold and lulled all at once, and all he could focus on was Aziraphale. It was fortunate that Aziraphale was so amusing. And pretty, Crowley thought, dazedly. “You can see the whole of… the whole of… the whole of that very pretty snowfall…” He trailed off, and he looked sad. That was bad, wasn’t it? Aziraphale was supposed to be prissy and laughing and shocked and enthusiastic and sparkling-eyed, not sad.
“Angel, I’m sorry about your horse.” No, that was weird. It was too caring and guilty. He was a demon. He wasn’t supposed to be sorry about sin, no matter how sad the angel looked. “One for Hell, I’m afraid. They were both hardcore murderers.” He’d been curious enough to peep into their brains.
“Oh, well. The other man was a success for our—for my side.” Aziraphale beamed expansively. “I am so glad he decided to take his vows and join the monastery. All he needed was a kind little talk to see the error of his ways.”
“Going to come as a shock to his wife and kids.”
“Oh, dear.” The beam lost its expansiveness.
“Not having a horse is dreadfully inconvenient, though. Walking through that snow was not at all nice. I suppose I shall have to get a new one. Not that I enjoy bouncing up and down on a saddle.”
Crowley had a sudden, vivid image of Aziraphale bouncing up and down on a saddle, and hoped the angel hadn’t noticed the sudden flush of heat to his cheeks. Probably something to do with the snow.
“It might help if I could try wearing trews like you. Always so fashionable,” he said, a little wistfully. “But my hose are very fine wool.” He plucked at the fabric, which was indeed fine and well-made, and Crowley tried not to notice the way the fabric hugged Aziraphale’s thighs. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but I do wish they’d make them warmer. And more waterproof.” Aziraphale shivered, and Crowley looked at him with concern. He was beginning to look bedraggled, and that simply wouldn’t do. Not at all. “Anyway, you’re looking a bit peaky yourself. Are you feeling all right?” Aziraphale peered at him with concern. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were coming down with a cold.”
“I’m fine,” Crowley lied, trying to ignore the tightness in his throat and the ache in his bones and the drifting feeling. He was pretty sure they had more to do with Aziraphale than the cold, anyway. The angel was doing… something. Something unfairly Heavenly. But not using miracles, which suggested he’d got another black mark on his annual report. Poor angel, Crowley thought dimly. So good, so hard working. Even if Aziraphale liked Earthly pleasures and sometimes did a favour or two that was technically working on behalf of Satan, surely any reasonable archangel would forgive Aziraphale when he had such endearing wrinkles around his eyes.
“Nonsense. You’re clearly not. Come here, let me take a look at you.”
Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale had crossed the room and was tugging him closer, prodding at him with a gentle hand. Crowley leaned into the touch without thinking. The angel smelled of damp wool and sunshine, and Crowley breathed it in, letting it warm him from the inside out.
“You have a temperature, dear boy.”
Dear boy. It was shameful, and it was even more shameful that Crowley’s cheeks burned hotter at the words. “S’nothing.” It wasn’t like he could say he was blushing at thoughts of Aziraphale.
He sagged, and was dimly aware of powerful arms coming around him, and the darkness tugging him down was almost as alluring as the smell of sunshine on snow that enveloped him.
When he woke, he was dry and toasty, deliciously so. There was something thick draped over him, and solid supporting comfort beneath his head, although his hip jutted into a hard rough surface beneath him. He was on his side, legs gently bent, the wonderful pressure of another knee in the hollow of his, a calf draped between his, an arm heavy on his waist, skin against skin warming his back.
Holy fucking Heaven. Crowley’s dreamy state snapped off as quickly as if Beezlebub zershelf had slapped him out of it.
Okay. So he was, evidently, naked. And being cuddled, for the first time in his thousands of years on Earth, and the long stretch of timeless time before that; Heaven hadn’t been into cuddling, and certainly Hell hadn’t. There was no reasonable doubt about who was holding him, or that Aziraphale was naked too.
All right. Nothing to read into this. Humans did this, he remembered, in desperate situations. Shared body heat. he had been cold, and feverish, and… snow delirium, that was it, right? His brain hadn’t been working properly. And Aziraphale, kind, clever, Aziraphale, evidently on miracle rations, had taken the quite extraordinary risk of trying to save his corporation the human way.
Maybe Aziraphale had been a little delirious too. Those were wings spread over them, trapping in their body heat.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other naked before. Humans had started changing their minds about public nakedness on and off right from the Garden, although Crowley was still a bit fuzzy on why eating an apple made Eve want to try out leaf couture.
Crowley wriggled a little, trying to work out how best to extract himself from the situation without waking Aziraphale. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to the angel what was happening, and why he was… well, he wasn’t going to admit to being anything but perfectly comfortable, because he was a demon and demons didn’t get embarrassed. But it was a bit much, really, the angel had to understand that, and he would certainly not want to do anything they couldn’t put down to snow delirium if an imp or cherub turned up with a message, although honestly the situation they were already in was damning enough already. Damning for Aziraphale, which was unthinkable, and likely to get Crowley a good period of service in Dagon’s department while they tried out new ideas to use on damned souls on him.
Wriggling made him hypersensitive of the little hairs on Aziraphale’s thighs and just how pleasantly tickly they felt. And that was definitely the curve of Aziraphale’s belly against his buttocks. It was a nice belly, he remembered registering. Full and round, with a completely fictional but deep and shadowed navel, and a distinct crease between its base and the beginning of his crotch, which was clustered with platinum curls and…
Satan. Sex had never really been anything to do with Crowley. Humans went mad over it, and some demons fixated on humans and caused all types of trouble, but there was music and wine and it all seemed a bit pointless, after all Aziraphale…
… Why did it have to be wings?
He could remember Aziraphale… back Then. He didn’t think of back Then much, it was pointless and felt like awarding Her a victory somehow. But that memory stayed clear, the funny, golden little angel who had been so willing to be impressed, and just how much Crowley had wanted to impress him. He perhaps had exaggerated his importance in the nebula project, just a little. That would have been seen as unheavenly behaviour back in those non-days, even if it seemed like jostling for status was all the rage in Heaven now. But he’d wanted the funny angel to be impressed. Like him. Share in this amazing thing he was making, because even then the angel that became Crowley had been…
… lonely.
Covering Aziraphale with his wing to protect him had been instinct. Bad things shouldn’t happen to an angel with a smile like that.
And then. Dark, damned, confused, guilty, entirely lonely, knowing Aziraphale should not so much as speak to him, needing to feel like he had a companion by his side. He had stepped closer to Aziraphale, instinctively, as the new thing called rain had begun, and Aziraphale had sheltered him with his wing. Was sheltering him now.
Wings were bad to think about. Loneliness was bad to think about, both in itself and because it led to the inevitable thought that the only times he wasn’t lonely was with a funny, golden little angel who had stayed funny and golden but who Crowley had stopped thinking of as little long ago, because Aziraphale was, under his fussy ways and peculiarities, something incredibly strong and trustworthy and powerful. Curled against his back, intimate and perfect, and Crowley could drown in the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest and the expelled air against the back of his neck if he let himself.
Aziraphale shifted slightly, and Crowley felt thighs moving against his own bony ones. Nice thighs. Lovely thighs. It wasn’t as if Crowley had ever gawked openly at them when naked, but apparently, his mind had collected memories to torment him with now. The soft bulge of flesh over the hollow of the knee, dimpled velvety buttocks, a cushioned chest with wide pale nipples for a male-presenting corporation, peeking through more silvery gold hair, the heavy hang of his balls and between them a very nice, smallish cock and…
He’d never seen the point of sex, because he had never let himself want. Enjoy life, yes. All the pleasures of it. This desperate driving longing was new, or rather not new, just buried and unacknowledged because it was entirely impossible. Now it was drawn to the surface by a body that registered being held and cuddled as being wanted in return, and he had to stop before he ruined everything, lost his only friend.
Stupid in his panic, he struggled upwards, came in contact with the blanket of feathers, and ended up suspended on his hands above Aziraphale, who was looking up at him, wide-eyed and taking in his nakedness and arousal and, Satan damn it all, the raw love in his eyes.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, in a small voice. “You, too?”
And kissed him.
Crowley knew nothing else then, only that Aziraphale was kissing him, and he was kissing back as if he was starving, as if he could drag everything he was missing in his existence from Aziraphale’s lips and tongue and breath.
“I love you,” he managed to choke out between kisses, because what did it matter now? If they were caught, it wouldn’t matter one way or another if he said the words or not, and he needed to hear them, needed them on the air and heard by Aziraphale and both know they were real, even if they had to deny them to Heaven and Hell later.
“My dear, my darling, my beloved,” Aziraphale sobbed out between kisses, and that was real, too. Aziraphale loved him and they’d both heard that. “I was so afraid when you passed out. If you discorporate and were never assigned back… oh, Crowley, your hair is such a pretty red,” he added inconsequently.
The wind was screaming outside the bothy, and no one would come, no one would know, no one would care. They were wrapped in their own little world, it was just them, and Crowley couldn’t stop for anything less than Aziraphale telling him to stop. But the word never came, not as his lips moved hungrily over Aziraphale’s jaw, pressed into his neck and felt him jerk in response to lips and tongue there, giving him an answering jolt of possessive pleasure.
His hips were moving in a way he couldn’t control. Aziraphale’s hand was on his own flat buttocks, pulling him closer, urging him on. His own hand was on Aziraphale’s belly, which was so soft and round and lovely. When their erections touched, it was like liquid and fire and velvet all at once, and his hand moved from Aziraphale’s belly to curve around them, keep them together, keep this feeling as long as possible. Aziraphale was twitching as they thrust together, because of him, moaning, and his own voice saying Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale seemed to come from a long way away.
He was leaking and it was messy and they were becoming slippery with sweat and fluid. Crowley hated mess. The mess was the most wonderful thing in the world. Aziraphale was making little gasping noises, for him, jerking desperately against him and spilling between their bodies.
He never wanted to stop. He wanted to smother Aziraphale’s face with kisses forever, be together and alone under this spread of wings. His own climax was almost inconsequential, a sharp, long pulsation of pleasure and more mess, compared to the desperate need to be together, to be alone, with nothing coming between them.
Then he was kissing Aziraphale again and again, and Aziraphale was clinging to him and returning kiss for kiss as if he didn’t want to stop either.
This was all he wanted. To be left alone, be together, just them. Forever. The two of them.
He woke up again, and the first thing he saw was Aziraphale, fully dressed, putting the last touches to a fire. Apparently, he had decided that after what had just happened, drying out wet firewood was an inconsequential problem. There were cloaks piled over Crowley, and he knew without looking that one of them was the missing plaid cloak that should have covered Aziraphale’s saffron shirt and short wool jacket.
“So you’re awake, my—so you’re awake, demon.” Aziraphale gave him a smile, brave and watery, and Crowley felt his heart fall apart into dark, crumbling pieces. “I’m afraid you were quite feverish last night. Had a touch of snow delirium.” Aziraphale swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in the neck Crowley had kissed over and over. “I’m afraid I was somewhat delirious too.”
Finding a reason, a way through. Putting things back into place, so they were both safe. Crowley wanted to hate him, but he could only love him, love him for protecting them. He could see the pleading behind Aziraphale’s eyes, see the love, and he hoped Aziraphale could see the love behind his own snarl.
“Did you have to strip me naked, angel? Hardly dignified.”
“Safer than wet clothes,” Aziraphale said, primly. “I was carrying some bread and cheese and dried berries. The bread is somewhat worse for wear, I fear, but toasting it should help. We need to get up our strength to get to the next town.”
Crowley grunted. “Alcohol. Belt pouch.”
“Oh, thank you, Crowley. That will make things quite cheerful.” Aziraphale smiled broadly at Crowley, with eyes that shifted colours as a thousand emotions went through them.
But chiefly love. Maybe they wouldn’t acknowledge it, but they both knew now, didn’t they? Even if the pain in Crowley’s soul was almost physical, he had knowledge of that love. When the pain eased, it would still be there, treasured away.
It was the two of them. Perhaps he’d known it even before the Fall. Perhaps he had kept being drawn back to Aziraphale over and over when they were technically enemies, because he’d known it. Aziraphale and him. And now they had said it.
Some things could never be forgotten.
“Maybe someday,” Aziraphale said, à propos of nothing, and went back to looking for bread. “Maybe someday. If things… well. We don’t know what’s planned, do we? Ineffable.”
Crowley couldn’t even bring himself to hate the word.
“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” he found himself saying. “We always do.”
Aziraphale was smiling at him as if he was the most precious thing in the world, and it was not enough, and it was everything.
“It’s snowing,” Aziraphale announced, shaking himself as he came in from his tromp to the village, and dropping his groceries on the table.
Crowley glanced out the window. He supposed it was snowing, if you called the pathetic wet snow you got in the South Downs in the twenty-first century snow. Nothing like a good Scottish fifteenth-century horizontal blizzard.
Then he glanced back. Aziraphale had managed to get delicate snowflakes on his lashes, anyway. Crowley unfolded himself from the sofa and kissed the snowflakes off his husband’s eyelashes, because that was the kind of thing he could do now. Aziraphale shivered a little as Crowley’s lips brushed the sensitive skin of his eyelids. Then Crowley kissed each rosy cheek, for good measure.
“You’re looking a little flushed,” Crowley told him sternly. “Are you sure you don’t have a temperature?”
The lashes quivered, and Aziraphale looked as innocent as a fluffy golden cat. “I may be experiencing some delirium.”
“We should keep you warm.” Crowley felt snow-damp, mittened hands on his waist, and dried them with a miracle before they could affect his cozy alpaca sweater, in finest black, of course. He banished the mittens for good measure, and Aziraphale obligingly slid his hands under the jumper and the shirt below. “Get you out of those wet clothes. Exchange some body heat.”
Aziraphale hummed agreement and kissed him.
Much later, holding hands under the eiderdown, Aziraphale said out of nowhere, “I wonder what happened to the lad who took my horse?”
“Hanged and went to Hell.”
“Oh dear.”
“Got him one of the cushier positions for lost souls. Making coffee for Maintenance. Better than a nasty murdering thing like him deserved, but… well. Felt I owed him something.”
They had never really talked about that night, and they didn’t directly talk about it now. They were still dreadful at talking about things, Crowley supposed. Talked back and forth and all around. He hadn’t been able to say he loved Aziraphale since their first desperate coming together, either. The words had become so big that he couldn’t get his tongue around them without the immensity of it all choking his tongue, without the excuse of snow delirium. But they both knew. And the important things…
“I do love you so, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I always did. Even when I couldn’t say.”
Crowley looked at the plain platinum rings on their fingers. They weren’t needed. Human laws didn’t matter. But they were a visual sign it was the two of them, together, and he tried not to look at them, oh, more than ten thousand times a day.
Somehow, with the snow outside, the words came again at last, as if they were in the tiny shelter, apart from all the world but with no fear of separation.
“I love you too, my angel.”
Delightful
Date: 2023-12-05 11:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-05 09:17 pm (UTC)I have a thing for Crowley being cold and Aziraphale helping him to get warm :D And you did it so well.
The delirium part was just brilliant, you can absolutely feel Crowley balancing between his fever and his love - and neither he nor the reader can tell where the former ends and the latter starts.
I especially loved the snowflakes on Aziraphale's eyelashes detail. <3 Beautiful!
And thank you for finishing with them being together in the cottage! I think we're all so traumatized by S2 finale (well, I am at least) that open endings now make us particularly sad. :'D
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-06 04:41 am (UTC)Aziraphale bringing one of the thieves to repentance—while still losing his horse to the other one—spot on XD
“Only Aziraphale could struggle through frozen snow and end up with delicate little snowflakes on his lashes.” <3
‘leaf couture’ XD
“Even if the pain in Crowley’s soul was almost physical, he had knowledge of that love. When the pain eased, it would still be there, treasured away.” <3<3<3
Your descriptions are all so good!
And the happy ending :’) This is healing me from season 2, thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-07 04:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-07 09:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-08 06:46 pm (UTC)"the general impression he gave was of a round patch of sunlight in the dismal grey of the day" ahah<3
Such a sweet and cozy story!
Thank you for my gift!
Date: 2023-12-09 06:22 am (UTC)I totally agree with the comments about Daggerhoof. Your writing about Crowley's perception of horses, as well as Aziraphale's use of "botheration" in place of a swear, is very funny.
More to the point, I adore your description of the cuddles. It's all beautifully soft and warm, especially the inclusion of the wings. That timeskip at the end pulls everything together so sweetly, especially with this as the first time Crowley found himself able to return to the words he'd first said centuries ago.
Thank you. I will keep this in my heart.
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-14 05:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-14 10:21 pm (UTC)