sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

for salutosinedelectat

Follows this.

They couldn't just teleport themselves there. Any miracles, demonic or otherwise, would attract too much attention. No, Crowley was actually going to have to sit there, plugging their information into an online search engine, and do it all manually. Fluctuating airline prices were demonic work, and right now a trip to Japan was over six thousand pounds more expensive than if he had bought it three days earlier, which was totally outrageous. Crowley didn't know a lot about money except what it made men do to each other, he'd never had to. But now, making money appear out of nothing could turn the wrong eye on them if he wasn't careful.

Luckily, he had quite a few credit cards that never needed paying or had a limit on them. They would work in a pinch for a moment like this. He didn't know if that sort of perk-of-being-a-demon could ever be taken away from him, but he hoped not.

The flight itself was a long one, and Crowley settled himself in for it by making sure they were flying at least first class. That way they could see everyone coming at them and have a few glasses of wine on the journey.

"I don't think they know about these passports," Crowley says. "They might, but I doubt it. I had them made back during the last World War, just kept them in good condition."

The second World War was something that Crowley took responsibility for, but he hated every moment of it, and what his side did to make it worse made him sick. He was more than prepared to hide away if he needed to when things went wrong back then. And, at the time, he had also created a passport for Aziraphale, in case he wanted to come along. No other reason for that, he told himself.

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Aziraphale's hand touches Crowley's cheek, and Crowley looks down at the angel desperately. He loves Aziraphale. He has always loved Aziraphale. That has to be for something. They can't be like this for nothing.

He turns his head just a little to press a kiss to the angel's palm.

He lowers his hand down to Aziraphale's waist. They're on their own side, but why would they need a side if the Almighty would just fight for what she created? She created them, she gave them the gift of love. They deserve to live with it.

If you asked the angel now, after everything they've been through, he would say that trying to make sense of ineffable things is a fool's game. And he's been that fool for eons.

He smiles fondly. Sweetly. Calmly at him, for how ironic that might be, coming from someone like him. Shyly, over such examples of affection.

He brings his other hand up, freeing it from Crowley's, just so he can touch the other side of his head as well.

"... I think, perhaps, we should revisit the idea of resting." A casual way to say he'd like the demon to get somewhat closer to peace.

"You should rest," Crowley says. "Angel, you were the one that----" Nearly died? Discorporated a Duke of Hell? "---was hurt."

With the angel's hands on both sides of his face, Crowley can't help but take in a breath, trying to get himself calmer. He wants to be angry, he wants to be stressed. He wants to yell at Heaven and Hell to bugger off and leave them alone like they were supposed to.

But right now? Right now he just wants to be alone with Aziraphale.

Oh, the indescretion in holding his face. But it feels right, like this. Right now.

But he thinks. Not to protest, no, because the demon is concerned too. And if they're anything alike, which they very much are, there needs to be a compromise.

"Well," An attempt. "Perhaps... You could keep me company."

There are many ways that Crowley can respond to this statement. Please consider the situation. The seriousness of their plight, the stress that they are under. Consider Crowley's temperament, how upset he is. Consider the things he could say.

He could tell the angel that he will protect him. Let him sleep, watch over him while he rests. He could promise to make it right, because they have each other. He could promise that he won't let Heaven or Hell come for him. He could promise to stay up all night for him.

Conversely, he could also promise to rest with him. He could promise to close his eyes, promise to take in some sleep. Promise to find peace in the darkness of everything they are going through. He could promise to try to dream, because sometimes he does dream, and try to make them good ones, because he'll be lying next to the man he loves.

Instead, he's going to go for:

"Angel, are you asking me to go to bed with you?"

In a moment of complete fond, earnest concern, Aziraphale is absolutely no prepared to hear that question. In fact, it takes him a moment or two to really process what was just said.

So he pauses, he stares, sputters quietly for just a second and then settles on a soft judgemental look.

But, you know what? It throws a blanket of normalcy onto their evening, with a handful of comfort and otherwise newfound liberties.

" Really, my dear." No real bite to it. "I was merely suggesting we both need a good rest."

Crowley raises an eyebrow, his face a look of pure devilish knowledge, as though this is one absolutely enormous game and he has just figured everything out.

"Oh, is that what you were suggesting?"

He could be concerned, he could be caring. He could be everything that he can be, deep down inside. He could take in the singed bowtie, the injury on his friend, and everything about their situation and take it all very, very seriously.

Instead, he's going to smirk.

And the angel is going to tut, gently disapproving of such inappropriate accusations. And now Crowley's lost face touching privileges - for now, anyway, as he angel retrieves his glass.

"Why? What exactly are you implying I was suggesting?"

It's worth nothing that any judgemental huffiness from the angel is just embarrassment, with no real sting to it.

Awww, Crowley definitely looks disappointed at the loss of face touching, but he's definitely enjoying the change in tone. Teasing is something they need, something they haven't had between them in far too long. Something this moment needs. And, really, something he can't exactly resist.

"You don't know?" he says, all mock surprise. "Really? Six thousand years of the human condition and I have to explain it to you?"

A pause. "I mean, I will. In extensive detail, if that's what you need, angel."

Another tut and a scoff, an arm crossed over the one holding the glass. He even turns his back to him, but just to make his way to the couch right nearby and take a seat. A full picture of an offended gentleperson.

“ Really, now.” He takes a sip, which hopefully can further mask away his gentle embarrassment.

Besides, Crowley has nothing to tell him that he doesn’t already know, probably.

Crowley drops on the couch next to him in a full slouch, leaning against the opposite side, his own glass of wine in his hand. It feels like it's been ages since they've been like this, and this feels particularly good right now, them just being themselves. Crowley being difficult and rude, and Aziraphale being huffy and perfect.

Crowley gives Aziraphale a loving gaze. He is so wonderful when he is like this.

"No? Aren't there a lot of great works of literature you could quote to me that have rather racy parts in it? De Sade? Madame Bovary? Lolita? Fifty Shades of Grey?"

Normalcy, is what it is. Normalcy from even before the Armaggedon. Familiar and comforting in times like this. Even if the angel looks rather grumpy.

He almost sputters, taking a sip along with Crowley's list. "Oh good Lord, my dear, are you really comparing such wildly different--" Until it hits him that that's not the point or the purpose of this whole thing.

He sighs and gives him a halfway moody look, but it doesn't really stick. Not tonight.

"You are impossible."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have me any other way," he says, tossing Aziraphale a smile.

He takes a sip of the wine. This is what he thought forever would be like, really. Just living out life on Earth with Aziraphale. He didn't need anything else. Freedom to just be and let them be together, in whatever way that was. Now, moments like this seem like a luxury, and one he's not going to let go any time soon.

"Did you read any of those books?" he asks. "I didn't----tempted people into it, of course, but never did."

Despite his protests right now, he'd like that. He'd like it for the future to just be this, just them, just peace, just a continuation of all those times they could halfway forget they were on opposite sides. Except they aren't, anymore, which should make it so much better.

The angel purses his lips, taking a moment before he actually answers. Which, ironically, should be enough of an answer by itself.

Crowley's eyebrows go up again.

"Oh, you have, then?" he says, leaning a bit towards the angel. "Tell me, angel. Anything of note in those ever-so-racy pages you read?"

This is when Aziraphale is at his best, he things. Just a bit prudish, ever-so-gentlemanly, and ethereally wonderful. Crowley wouldn't change him for the whole universe.

The angel rolls his eyes, although visibly getting flustered over the gentle digs at his honor. He's always been a creature of comfort and curiosity, so none of it should really be particularly surprising; but, even know, he can't help but to be defensive about such subjects.

" Really, my dear, I don't think any of this is quite-"

But he doesn't quite finish his thought. A sharp pain strikes somewhere within his chest, causing him stop and suck in an uncomfortable breath.

Right. That's right there. And it looks like it's going to be a bit hard to ignore.

Crowley sits up completely straight, all semblance of the slouched demon without a care in the universe completely gone.

"Angel?" he asks, reaching for his arm. "What is it?"

It's not as if he'd forgotten about the injury. Not as if he'd let himself become too comfortable---but he had, for just a second, thought that maybe they'd escaped it.

With his free hand to his chest, he could easily be mistaken by someone with a particularly nasty case of heartburn.

Except angels don't get heartburn, even if there was a physical heart in there in the first place, and the damage done is well beyond the physical.

He simply sits still for a few seconds, grimacing, not answering, before the pain subsides again and he can finally bring himself to exhale another breath he doesn't actually need.

"Aha, it-" It's got a Hell of a nasty sting to it, that's what it does, whatever it is. The angel sounds slightly out of breath. "It's alright, my dear."

It's not, though.

Whatever's happened to Aziraphale is more than just a burn. It's enough to continue to affect him, to continue to burn through him. How can he rest when he's in pain? How do they know that Aziraphale is safe from discorporation, or worse?

Crowley puts down the wine glass and moves across the couch, reaching out his hand to lay across Aziraphale's chest.

"I could try again?" he offers.

Aziraphale looks up at the demon, and he sees it again: he sees the genuine concern, the gentleness in his features, the softness in his voice. He sees the fear, the worry, the weariness on his face, and it serves as a reminder of their current situation. Not that they can afford to totally ignore it, for their own sake.

But it's all of Crowley's efforts. It's all of his patience, his care, all of the gentler sides of the demon that Aziraphale has the privilege to see. That's what he really notices.

So, he smiles. Rests his hand on top of Crowley's, a repeated gesture this evening, holding it there.

"I'll be fine, my dear." He thinks. He hopes. He has yet to properly examine the issue and the actual damage. "Just some good rest, and I'll be back in tip top shape in no time at all."

Pardon him his indiscretions with so much hand touching. It feels right, is all.

"I'll do anything," Crowley says. "Just tell me what to do, angel."

He would rip out part of his soul to give to Aziraphale if it would fix what has happened. As a matter of fact, that almost seems like a good idea, if Crowley had any idea how to do that. If he wouldn't just be hurting Aziraphale by pasting part of a demon onto him.

He runs his thumb along the top of Aziraphale's fingers, a now-familiar gesture between them. He could try to heal him, he thinks. He's just not good at it. He remembers being good at healing. When he was an angel, so long ago. He was good at building things, at making things happen. But he's been a demon for far longer than he was ever an angel.

He knows he will. The angel knows he’d do anything in his reach to help him. Whether it’d be over genuine care in itself, or through some sort of misplaced guilt. The angel knows, and the appreciates it a lot more than he could even begin to let on.

“ I’ll be alright, my dear.” Still keeping his hand over Crowley’s. Mutual comfort, with new gentle gestures and contact that they never had, or were allowed, before. He’s feeling the sharpness of the pain fade for something a lot more dull. Manageable.

It didn’t end him yet. And he thinks (hopes) that means it can’t. Whatever Hastur had been doing to the angel, it was interrupted just in time.

He can’t ask him not to worry. But he hopes his smile is clear enough, his appreciation. He could slip back into that place, before, not even an hour ago, when they kissed again.

“We will be fine.”

Will he? The worry bubbles up through Crowley's chest like acid. All this teasing, trying to pretend that things are normal, but Aziraphale is---was---who knows what's going on right now.

"I can't lose you, angel," he says. "You're all I've got."

He means it. He literally doesn't have anything else. But then again, he doesn't really want anything else.

The honesty of the sentiment catches him unprepared. It shows, too, by the way he stops smiling and looks almost startled.

The words they didn't say before. Well-- some of them. The ones going through their heads - at least, certainly through Aziraphale's - when the unholy flames were starting to consume the bar.

They don't have anyone else. They've never had anyone else, not in the way they have each other. There could never be anyone else.

He reaches a hand up, touches Crowley's cheek as gently as before.

He turns his head to kiss the angel's hand. So much has changed between them, he thinks. After all, now he can do something like that, he can express his affection for Aziraphale with a kiss or a touch when he couldn't before. But in the same instance, nothing has changed. He still feels the same adoration for him as he did before even the world almost ended.

He puts a hand at Aziraphale's waist, just enough to keep him close. Angels don't dance, but Aziraphale danced with him. Demons don't love, but Crowley shares love with Aziraphale.

"I'll do anything," he says again. "Anything you want, angel."

for salutosinedelectat

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Old demon yells at cloud (and hole on the floor)

This is basically the story of Crowley's life as a demon

Still laughing at this

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Heelies backwards into the pits of hell

oh no dawg what's wrong

Just sprinkling a little more anxiety into their lives

it's okay they deserve it

I lost this tag once bc smartphone tags suck

lazarus forever because i've had that happen to me too many times

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