sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

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."

And in the quietness of that moment, true, actual quiet, as opposed to the noisy dark bar, there's no distractions. There's no airs to keep. No need to keep their heads on a swivel. No music. Just the two of them, just the concern, the fear, the love and the devotion. And, as always, the words unspoken.

"...I know." Said so quietly, earnestly - recognition, the acknowledgement of Crowley's attention, his affection. At least one time where the world isn't about to end around them, to show that he means it. That he knows.

And he learns forward, hesitating for just a moment before their lips touch. A look, his thumb stroking the demon's cheek.

May I, my dear? This is all still very new.

Aziraphale leans in, and Crowley's heart skips a few beats it doesn't really need to take. After all, he's usually the one to make the first move in these situations. To test the waters and see if it's what Aziraphale wants. To tempt him into admitting feeling or wants or desires. Aziraphale moving first means this is what he wants.

The angel hesitates, and a tiny noise comes involuntarily out of Crowley's throat. Because of course he wants to kiss Aziraphale, of course he wants this. Any moment, any time, for forever, and the angel must know that, right? But then again, this is so new to them, this showing of feeling. This intimacy. It was always beyond their reach before. He feels Aziraphale's thumb stroke his cheek so gently, so lovingly.

He leans in the rest of the way, closing the distance between their mouths.

And it's Aziraphale's heart's turn to skip, as he closes his eyes, as he forgets everything that's out there, bring existance down to this single room, this moment, the two of them.

It might not be the first kiss. It will certainly not be the last, if he has anything to say about it. But something about it feels truly special. Truly definitive. The words in it, them sitting down, the angel's metaphorical foot forward. The recognition and the promise with it.

He doesn't count the time. He refuses to. He just wants to stay - in the right here, in the right now. In the making up for all that dreadful business. The last few hours. The last few months. The centuries of admiration. The not going fast enough.

He welcomes the demon back into the love in his heart, in his soul. It's there for him, if he wants it. Love, and gratitude, and admiration. Promises. It's all there.

Crowley is a lot of things as a person. One of those things is definitely greedy. He took every second with Aziraphale he could during their time together before the Apocalypse. Long lunches, extended evenings in the bookshop. Every second he could, he stepped into it, filling up Aziraphale's free time. All because he couldn't just tell the angel he wanted to be with him. All because he didn't know how to say that he loved him.

Now, Aziraphale offers him back into the love in his heart and Crowley all but free dives back to him, wanting to swim around in the love he feels from the angel, wanting to give it back to him completely. Yeah, Crowley's a bit greedy, but he can't help it. Nature of the beast and all that. Aziraphale must have known that going in, loving a corrupt demon like him.

His hand around Aziraphale's waist pulls him just a little closer as he deepens the kiss.

Well, nature of the beast indeed. A kind beast. A good one. The best of them all, and Aziraphale learned that a long time ago, against all odds. Against all warnings. And, for all his flaws and missteps, he's still so glad he at least saw that. He wouldn't have survived otherwise.

There's a quiet faint sound in the kiss, but not a protest. He doesn't object to being pulled in, it is just, as stated, new. A little bit overwhelming. He brings a hand up to Crowley's arm, then up to his shoulder, while the other stays on his cheek. Soft, gentle hands, polite, but not hesitant.

All of existance is so vast. A concept not meant to be grasped, but a concept he's familiar with all the same. But, right now, it seems laser focused on this moment, and he's never felt so safe.

Kind and good. Kind and good are four-letter words for a demon. Crowley would do better to snap at the angel, to tell him something like Oh, tell the whole world, why don't you? and brush them off. But he is better than he has been, and that's because of his friendship with Aziraphale. He's wanted to be good because of him. He's wanted to do the right thing to do it for the angel.

Loving anything is supposed to be out of his grasp. But he feels it so completely. He feels it even when Aziraphale isn't in his arms, even when he isn't kissing the angel with everything that he has in him. He feels it when he's just looking at him. He feels it when he's teasing him, or Aziraphale is blustering and acting self-righteous and a little bit holier-than-thou. Aziraphale is what he wants, and he gives that sensation, that desire to the angel.

He wants Aziraphale to be safe. He tries to think of the things that make him feel safe, the things that make him feel good. Aziraphale's bookshop makes him feel safe. Evenings with the angel make him feel secure. The angels' hands on his face, on his shoulder, they are like anchors, holding him in place. Chaos and trouble are the things that usually make Crowley feel like he's done the right thing----a good bit of mischief done right, watching people with their shoes untied trip or two people who absolutely shouldn't be together falling madly into each other's arms. Oh, that isn't safe at all, but it's enjoyable, and it's something he imagines the angel doesn't feel----so he shares that feeling of a job-well-done to him, gives him a little of the enjoyment of sin.

It makes laugh. Not physically, mind you, but in some part of him. Maybe it's the moment, tainting all of his thoughts with comfort, with joy, with love and affection and all the feelings that make him feel energize, make him feel right. But it may also be the harmlessness in most of Crowley's sins. The lack of maliciousness. Oh, it makes the angel feel so silly for all the times he was ready to accuse Crowley of some or the biggest crimes by humanity, or even others. The angel is not a fan of discord, no, and he would very much rather everyone be happy, and comfortable, and safe, free from harm, but it's not their frustration or annoyance or embarrassment that bring him joy.

It's Crowley. It's who he is. For all his contradictions and for all his lack of malicious intent. For all his smartness and his cunning. For all his kindness and devotion. For his company. For all the lunches and all the late night drinking.

The angel leans forward slightly, reaches his arms up to wrap them around his neck and hold them there. An awkward angle, an indiscretion, but just this once, it should be fine.

Crowley isn't a harmful demon. Never has been. Always loved the little things he could do. Oh, he could steal all the wine bottle openers on the Titanic, but he'd never want to be the one to set the iceberg on it. He would tie all the generals' shoelaces together, but he'd never whisper in their ear the horrible things they could do in order to gain power.

Maybe that just made him bad at his job.

Maybe he preferred it that way.

Aziraphale's arms are around him, and Crowley pulls him just a little closer. Possibly the worst sin he ever committed was causing an angel to fall in love with him. Oh, but if that ever did get out, he'd have probably be showered with all of the commendations. It doesn't feel sinful, right now. Not even a little bit. It just feels right.

And the greatest miracle Aziraphale could have ever done was made a demon love.

But he hadn't. It was never his doing. No- the demon carried the capability of love with him. He carried with him a questioning, restless mind, and he asked questions, and he did all the things angels and demons said he shouldn't even be able to do.

And he cared. And he loved. And he understood the angel, even when the angel couldn't understand himself.

And he accepted him for how he is, when no one else, not even the angel, did.

He's so close. Too close? But they'd danced. They'd kissed. It's hard not to question thing, the wrong questions haven't suddenly vanished from his mind. But they sound a lot quieter. For that, he's thankful.

They could be closer. He thinks about the way it feels when they share their love, that feeling of being completely connected to someone, and he wants that. He wants to be completely connected to Aziraphale, to feel him inside and out. To be surrounded by him utterly. Aziraphale who will always be the better part of the two of them.

He traces the angel's lower lip with his tongue as they kiss, tasting him, asking for more. There is always the notion of 'too fast', and Crowley will never go faster than the angel would want---but he does want to kiss Aziraphale more. He wants to know him better.

He wants the chaos they live in to dissolve into the love they feel for each other.

The angel makes a quiet sound into the kiss again. His steps towards this maybe be gradual and slow, and he hopes he can still count on that patience as he goes through them. Although just that question, that wondering, is entirely unnecessary, because he trusts the demon entirely.

He brings a hand back to the back of Crowley's neck, a gentle touch, holding. He can feel his heart - or whatever it is - racing in his chest. He parts his lips slightly, something a bit too fast, but he'll say something if he feels the need to stop or slow down.

It's very difficult to not fall into it. The more the world seems to spin around them and try to toss them off, the stronger they hold onto it and each other. It's a simple enough exchange, and this is a culmination of too much, for too long.

He isn't certain what the small sound from Aziraphale is, but Crowley instantly loves it and promises himself he's somehow going to make the angel replicate it.

Crowley feels that trust from Aziraphale, and it tempers his other desires----none of them as pure and wholesome as the lovely kiss they are sharing at the moment and he's trying very hard not to think about them lest he accidentally share them with Aziraphale. He slips his tongue between Aziraphale's lips delicately, giving him the option to back out of this new development the moment he wants to.

How long has he wanted to kiss the angel like this? So very long, now. Everything that fell apart in their world shattered those lines that were stopping them before, that were keeping them from kissing like this, from holding each other like the world outside doesn't exist.

And he does love the world, you know. He loves existance, he loves the world in all its complicated details, in its contained chaos. Of course, he doesn't love their current situation, with all the running away and nearly being destroyed and getting hunted again and again and again, but... Right now, right this minute? That's rather pleasant. Good, even.

Whatever sound he made before, he makes a similar, quiet one now, all the more embarassed by it. It's unbecoming, he feels, unable to quite tell what part of that thought is him and which part is all the constructed conventions of how he should behave, what he should or shouldn't do.

He's not exactly craving for anything more. The closeness, the intimacy, the love is all he wants. The freedom to make a choice, and the chance to delve on these feelings, unafraid, and not alone. To not fear that that's what's going to end them both.

And it won't. Other things definitely might. A lot of things, actually, that aren't as far away as he'd hoped, probably. But it certainly won't be the fact that they're finally talking-- well, not talking, but beginning to face this.

Shouldn't have waited. Shouldn't have walked away. Should have been braver, clearer, oh, I do love you so.

I love you, he thinks in response. It's always been you.

From the moment Aziraphale told him he'd given away his stupid sword, it's always been the angel. Crowley has never loved, Crowley has never desired and coveted and wanted and all of his other horrible sins like he has wanted to be with the angel. And now, in this exact moment, they are together.

The whole universe doesn't matter at all. They have each other.

He takes half a step towards the bedroom, gently pulling Aziraphale with him while they embrace. Let's rest, he thinks. You need to rest.

The angel moves along with the step, another quiet, muffled sound - but an interruption this time, soft and polite, as he pulls his arms back and his hands onto Crowley's shoulders, and pulls back away from the kiss. Absolutely in no rush, however.

He looks up at the demon, finding himself slightly short of breath, somehow, lingering in his gaze. Thoughtful, distracted, facing himself and these feelings between them more and more.

He brings a hand over his own mouth, not in regret but in some level of...coyness? Thought again. Idly brushing his fingers over his lips while his eyes lowered more toward Crowley's colar.

Ah, this is a lot. This is sudden-- although not really.

But, rest, yes. They should do that. I need to check what's wrong with his physical vessel. And they could use the quiet. For as much as their physical bodies don't really tire, their minds could use the breather.

Crowley considers Aziraphale, considers the coyness in his gesture, considers how connected they are in the moment. He considers all of this, and considers how once Aziraphale had told him he moved too fast. Aziraphale would tell him again if he did, he supposes, and he decides fuck it for the second time that evening.

He leans forward, and presses his lips carefully to Aziraphale's jawline, near his ear. Just once, just to see what the angel's reaction would be to the sudden, intimate gesture. He lingers, slowly pulling back to gauge his reaction.

It catches him by surprise, certaintly. The lean, the kiss. His hand goes back onto Crowley's shoulder, but he doesn't push him away, simply seems to stop breathing in those seconds.

He doesn't know what he wants, or what to expect. But he appreciates the fact that Crowley's plan to hide in here seems to have worked. He can't begin to imagine how terrible it would be if they were interrupted.

for salutosinedelectat

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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That last line 👌👌👌👌👌👌👌

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/church icon

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