Happy Holidays, vulgarweed!
Dec. 9th, 2023 05:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goe_mod posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangeTitle: turn me up (when you feel low)
Summary: A conversation that could have changed everything.
Rating: G
Recipient Name: vulgarweed
It was the first day of the rest of their lives, or it was supposed to be, really. It didn't seem like it, with the way the adrenaline was coursing through Crowley's body, even though they were technically not capable of having a surge of adrenaline, angels/demons in human bodies or not. Crowley couldn't help the way he smiled over at Aziraphale, exulting over a job well done, and he knew Aziraphale felt the same. They had both escaped by the skin of their teeth, and Crowley shuddered to think what would have happened if both their sides hadn't been so predictable. He was glad that they were free, for the moment at least. That they could breathe in peace, that they could hear the nightingale singing over the Berkeley Square with startling clarity.
"To the world," he said, echoing Azirphale's toast, and drained his glass. Their bodies were usually incapable of getting drunk, but miracles worked both ways. This time, both he and Aziraphale felt the urge to drink, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through them. There had been so many instances where their plan for the Apocalypse could have gone wrong—and to be honest, most of it had, and the only reason the world hadn't ended with death and fiery brimstone was because of Adam's love for his parents—and they could finally breathe. It had been a long time since Crowley had felt like he could breathe without the weight of his mistakes hanging over his shoulders—though what mistakes, he still didn't understand—but this time, he finally felt like he could grasp out words without feeling like they were being dragged through coals, without feeling as if he was committing some blasphemy that he didn't even know he was committing. And he was a demon—blasphemy should be good, going against rules were what demons were supposed to do, but Crowley had never felt like a proper demon, really. He had always felt untethered, and the only times he had ever felt truly happy were the time he had spent with Aziraphale, when he felt as if there was someone who understood. Who understood there was more to the earth than humans made in Her creation, who understood there was joy and laughter and sadness and regret underpinning good and evil. That good and evil co-existed in most humans.
Aziraphale had always said humans were mostly made of good. Crowley wouldn't go so far—the politicians he didn't even have to manipulate for them to be as corrupt as possible, came to his mind instantly—but he wouldn't say they were made entirely of bad, either. Humans were shades of grey, and in a twisted way, he was glad that he'd been turned into a demon so he could experience the distinction for himself.
It was that thought that finally caused him to break the comfortable silence that had fallen over them. He looked over at Aziraphale, and said, "A few years ago—oh fuck, it wasn't really a few years ago, was it—you told me you'd never give me Holy water as insurance. Never would have imagined it going this way, would you?"
Aziraphale hummed, and took another sip of his drink, looking as if he was choosing his words carefully. Crowley followed the movement with his eyes, the world swimming around him. The nightingale, if possible, only got louder. He wondered if any of the humans around them could hear it as acutely as the two of them did, as if they themselves could feel the tension hanging over the two of them, both of them treading a very thin tightrope and hoping the other would catch them when they fell. And they had caught each other, hadn't they? They were both on each other's side, and it wasn't even a question of when or what anymore. Neither of their sides were going to accept the other as they were—as much as Heaven preached about forgiveness and letting bygones be bygones, they could hold a very big grudge, which Crowley knew personally—so they were really allowed to roam free, at least for a little while. In an ideal scenario, they would simply forget about them until both sides thought of another apocalypse—and from what Crowley knew, that definitely wasn't going to be their only time preparing for the Apocalypse. It wouldn't be anytime soon, but both Heaven and Hell hated the socially acceptable thing called letting something go, and definitely hated the option of forgiving their enemy. Perish the thought.
Aziraphale had been quiet for too long, lost in his own thoughts. Crowley didn't like the look on his face, as if he was pained and wasn't sure what could be done about it. The expression usually evoked an emotion in him that he couldn't help but be terrified by, an emotion entirely too human. Still—
"Angel? Are you okay?"
Instead of answering, Aziraphale said: "Do you remember that day when you planned a heist to get holy water?" He didn't have to specify the year. Aziraphale still looked like he was still deep in thought, a rueful grin brightening the edges of his features. Crowley nodded, a lump rising to his throat even to this day with the reminder of the words he had heard before, you go too fast for me, Crowley, burning the edges of his mind whenever he thought about it too much, his heart clenching with a grief he couldn't name. Seeing Aziraphale fade away through the windshield was the worst he had ever felt, a mixture of rage and sadness clashing within him and unable to do anything about it. He had been glad he had his sunglasses on, that day. Glad that no one would notice the pain in his eyes.
"My dear, I…" Aziraphale said, looking lost for words for once. My dear. Aziraphale had called Crowley that so often that he wondered if there were times he had actually meant it. How many humans had he called that word, too? How many humans did he say those words to? The thought evoked a possessive rush that surprised him. "I couldn't say the words to you then. I don't—I'm not certain if I can say them now."
And Crowley—he understood. How could he not? But the recent euphoria of their victory still lingered in his mind, so much so that he found himself doing something he hadn't done before—he set down his glass, and took his glasses off for the first time in a long time. He met Aziraphale's startled eyes with his, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Aziraphale always made him feel as if he was looking straight at his soul, and this was no different; the gaze intensified tenfold with the tenderness warming the edge of Aziraphale's eyes.
"You know you can do this, Angel," he said, and he'd never meant the words so much as he did now. The unspoken words hung in the air, drawing through them like a livewire.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, and exhaled. He set down his glass, a determined expression on his face that Crowley couldn't help but be charmed by. He had always been charmed by Aziraphale, and distinctly, Crowley wondered when he had let himself enjoy it. Let himself acknowledge the fact that he loved the angel in front of him. That he would change the world for him. That he literally had.
(The power he'd wielded at Tadfield still sent a rush through him, the power of a thousand suns concentrated into his hands. He didn't like to think about his life before—his life before he became a demon, but when he'd stopped time, he could swear he'd heard the choir of a thousand angels, and the cry of a thousand damned that had fallen along with him, the intense pain that came with falling and betrayal and rage.)
"I—I love you, Crowley," Aziraphale said, and the words sounded simple, but they were anything but. Crowley felt himself stop in his tracks, almost unable to believe what he was hearing, though a part of him had known that was what Aziraphale had been meaning to say.
"You—you what?" he spluttered, feeling his face heat up. He hated the human body and its reactions.
"I love you," Aziraphale said, more confidently this time, meeting Crowley's gaze head-on. "And I think you love me too. At least—I hope."
Crowley looked away, unable to bear the intensity in Aziraphale's gaze. "Of course I do," he muttered, feeling the warmth rush from the tip of his ears to below his neck.
"What's that? I don't think I quite caught that, my dear," Aziraphale said, and there was definitely a note of amusement in his voice now. Crowley huffed, and was surprised when he felt Aziraphale's hand reach out and take his, the contact sending a rush of electricity through his spine. Crowley had never understood human reactions to something so commonplace, but he found himself liking it. Maybe it was because it was Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had always been the exception to everything. Ever since he had met Aziraphale for the first time when he was making a galaxy. Ever since he had met Aziraphale for the first time afterwards in the garden of Eden and had been endlessly amused at the way he had nonchalantly given away his flaming sword to Adam to protect them from the wild when he should have been preventing them from returning to the garden of Eden. Aziraphale had always managed to surprise him, no matter how inconsequential the cause, and had surprised him now.
"I do—I do love you," he mustered up, finally, feeling the contact between them burning, the hand warm in his. "I never really imagined we would manage to say this so early into the game, though."
"You call a millenia—" Aziraphale started, then stopped himself, his cheeks growing pink. Crowley didn't resist the rush of affection that rose to his chest, at that. "From the way we've been going, I guess it would have taken us a few more years, at least."
"I'd confess, of course," Crowley said, flippant, unable to help his laugh. "At the most inopportune moment, then you would panic—"
"Oh, stop it," Aziraphale said, laughing with him. "I think you give yourself too much credit."
Suddenly, the emotions in his chest didn't feel as unbearable as they had been before. He drew closer towards Aziraphale, and took his hands in his. He didn't know what Aziraphale was seeing in his face, but he was willing to bet it was more emotion than he had been willing to let himself show for—for quite a while, actually, if he thought about it.
The years afterwards, when Heaven and Hell tried to have the Second Coming, Crowley would always remember this moment at the edge of his mind. The years after, when Aziraphale had looked at Metatron, looked back at Crowley, and said, No—I don't think so. I already have everything I need here. But for now, he didn't have to wonder. For that, he was grateful.
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-10 04:49 am (UTC)The paragraph in parentheses—he did wield that power, didn’t he? Amazing!
‘Aziraphale had always been the exception to everything’ <3
‘then you would panic’ oh my gosh, a sly reference to season 2 XD I mean, season who? Nevermind, this is all we need ^_^ Lovely!
Lovely!
Date: 2023-12-10 05:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-10 08:59 pm (UTC)This is such a powerful, intense moment and it's very much them, wrapped in their usual dance of avoidance and hemming and hawwing around the point. To some extent they speak each other's language by now, but then relying on that certainty too much is a trap and it's so important that they can just break through and say the words they've been avoiding so long.
And this is when it needs to happen too, when they've won themselves some peace and freedom at least for the moment - it might be now or never and this is the perfect time.
"I do—I do love you," he mustered up, finally, feeling the contact between them burning, the hand warm in his. "I never really imagined we would manage to say this so early into the game, though."
"You call a millenia—" Aziraphale started, then stopped himself, his cheeks growing pink. Crowley didn't resist the rush of affection that rose to his chest, at that. "From the way we've been going, I guess it would have taken us a few more years, at least."
"I'd confess, of course," Crowley said, flippant, unable to help his laugh. "At the most inopportune moment, then you would panic—"
"Oh, stop it," Aziraphale said, laughing with him. "I think you give yourself too much credit."
Ha ha ha ha of course they're like this (remembers the ending of s2) Oh. OH VERY NO, dear writer, you hurt me. In a good way of course.
Thank you thank you thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-14 10:52 pm (UTC)10/10, no notes. You absolutely nailed that ending <3