for salutosinedelectat

[sauntered_downward]

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.

Comments

[salutosinedelectat]

Well, maybe he's just tired. Tired in a way that isn't quite physical, maybe emotionally, who knows, but maybe he's tired. Of running, of letting things go, of not making the right choices.

When they move to the dance floor, he's nervous. Preemptively embarrassed. Feels a bit unbecoming, but, oh, why not? Why not-- and then Crowley's hand is on his waist, and he's putting his arm on the demon's shoulder. And he's looking up at him, still unable to see his eyes, but he's looking, and this is a thing that's happening.

He lingers for a second too much, catches himself, clears his throat. "Yes. Ready."

[sauntered_downward]

"Just move with the music," he says. He gives him a smile. "Defy all the other angels. You know, again."

Making an angel dance. Just like Crowley, tempting him into some sort of nonsense or other. This time, tempting an angel to dance. He wonders if all angels really can dance, they just don't want to. Too prudish, too obnoxiously pious. Or maybe they're just too worried about doing it wrong. Demons don't worry about that. Demons don't sing, though, and Crowley can't actually remember why. It seems ridiculous, humans have so much fun singing. Not that Crowley has any intention of getting up there and singing, but still.

He starts to move to the music, leading the way. Again, he's not entirely on-beat, not the best dancer, but slow dancing like this isn't exactly difficult. It's more about enjoying the company, enjoying the music.

"Why don't angels dance?" Crowley finally asks.

[salutosinedelectat]

He's not the best dancer, but neither is Aziraphale. It took him a long time to ever try dancing, as Angels Don't Dance, and when the particular dance he learned and thoroughly enjoyed got out of style, he was very put off about it. It's been a very long time, so one could say they're at equal levels.

But it's not the dancing. Or even the music. Certainly not the location or the people around them - it's this. It's the moment. It's Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder, it's Crowley's hand on his waist. It's the drinks, it's the chatting. It's a slowing of time.

He's distracted, looking up at him, but he blinks and takes a moment to think. "You know..." Brows furrowed in thought. " I don't quite know, really."

One of those Ineffable things, you know?

[sauntered_downward]

There's a lot about angels and demons that Crowley thinks they just know but they don't know where it comes from. All part of what is designed, or considered part of the design. Part of that mold that Crowley and Aziraphale never quite fit into, the mold that they still didn't fit into, slow-dancing here, right now.

Looking down at him now, standing this close, its really impossible to remember a time without Aziraphale. There was always the time before he Fell, which Crowley thinks of often, but that's more in a philosophical sense, rather than the sense of who he is now and who he was. As long as there have been humans, there has been Crowley and Aziraphale. Aziraphale is part of him. Not an easy thing to say.

"Well, they're missing out," Crowley says. "But I think they're missing out on a lot of things."

[salutosinedelectat]

There's certainly a lot that the soldiers of Heaven and Hell don't know. The whole Great Plan deal finally made it clear to Aziraphale, as much as it took him thousands or years and the Earth nearly being destroyed to finally be forced to face it. Not to mention believing he'd finally lost his companion, the only person who he could ever relate to, over blind faith.

But that doesn't matter now. It can't matter now, on this dark karaoke bar, in his arms.

Aziraphale smiles faintly. There's still some heaviness to it, but his expression is soft. " They certainly are." So many things Earth and Humanity have to offer. That the two of them were sure to try and protect, cherish, and enjoy.

[sauntered_downward]

Demons don't love anything, and Crowley doesn't know why either. They can't even really love their jobs or what they do, they just do them. They don't have room in their hearts for anything else. And like so much with the rest of the demons, Crowley doesn't fit in there, either.

It would be so easy, right now, to just say it. To just tell Aziraphale that he loves him. To just...to just say it. And it should be said, because Aziraphale is the only angel in the universe who dances and Crowley is the only demon who loves and they should both be showing it right now.

Instead, he leans forward, gently pressing his forehead against the angel's.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale had spent most of his existence defending concepts he thought he understood. Being another cog in the Plan, being 'the good one', all the while slowly but surely falling in love with the place he'd been sent to watch over. Enjoying human delights. Participating in things not because he needed to, or even should - quite the opposite, actually, by most angel standards - but because of his exposure to them, to enjoying things, to living life.

They almost had that taken away entirely. Destroyed. And they almost payed for their indiscretions with their lives - they were supposed to be taken out of existence entirely.

And he could forget all of that. In this moment, he could forget, when the silence falls between them, when it's too dark to see his eyes, when he can't tell if the music's still playing. He could forget all of it, when the demon leans in and he almost expected something else, and didn't find himself flinching away, not running, just frozen in the moment.

He forgets to breathe. He doesn't need to, but he forgets he was doing that too.

[sauntered_downward]

They picked this hiding place well. No one is here to stop them this time. No demon about to stop the plane, no humans causing issues outside the window, no disaster about to occur. No, the only one stopping them right now is themselves. Or, well, maybe just Crowley stopping himself. Things take time. Things take six thousand years to progress. He can't move forward in the matter of minutes, that would----well, that would be too fast. Aziraphale had once told him he moved too fast.

But, no, Aziraphale isn't telling him he's moving too fast. He's just there, not flinching away, not moving away. It's only Crowley stopping this now.

"Six thousand years, angel," he says, quiet under the music. "You must already know."

This time, when he leans in, he presses his lips against the angel's.

[salutosinedelectat]

Six thousand years...

Six thousand years, a good few centuries since he first had to face how he felt. Six thousand years, and only ever one person who could relate, even though they shouldn't see each other.

Six thousand years of conversations, drinks, lunches, dinners, late night talks in the back of bookshop, arguments, silences, rescues, surviving and living.

Six thousand years and almost losing it all, almost losing each other, but making it through, together.

Six thousand years and he thinks he's ready to meet him there.


He closes his eyes, and he can't tell what music is playing. He doesn't know modern music, he can't tell how close the singer is to being accurate. His hand is still on Crowley's shoulder, the other still on his arm. There's still a nagging feeling at the back of his head, telling him he shouldn't, telling him he should go, but, frankly, he doesn't feel like listening to it now.

The whole world blacks out into silence for a few seconds that feel like delightful hours. When he does pull back, he does so just barely, gently, opening his eyes to look at him, no words to be found.

This is all they should have said. Figures it happens in the most innocuous of places.

[sauntered_downward]

He's wanted to do this for a long time. Long, so long he can't properly think of the first time he's thought of it. Maybe not as far back as Eden, but certainly somewhere back there. Maybe the first time he realized what a disobedient angel Aziraphale could be, and that fascinated him----but that would have been Eden, so maybe that far back. Hard to tell. It seemed to be back as far as Crowley could remember. And now here they were, kissing in a karaoke bar in Japan. Not an ideal place for a romantic interlude, but it could have been the Ritz for all Crowley cares right now. The song's not got much time left on it, Crowley's not about to waste this moment.

Aziraphale looks up at him, and Crowley gives him a small smile. Not a smirk, not his usual flair of a smile. Just something genuine between them. He can't think of what to say at all, though there should be something to say, right here. Right in this moment.

But surely Aziraphale must know.

He moves his hand up from the angel's waist to cup the side of his face. That stupid face he's come to associate with all things good.

[salutosinedelectat]

And he keeps looking at him, wishing, even more than before, that he could see his eyes. Crowley's hand cups the side of his face and it feels warm, gentle.

The angel smiles, faintly, but fondly. A whirlwind of words in his head, but none to be used. Not here. Not now. But they're there. They don't need to say them, but they resonate all the same.

The moment is only broken when the song ends and other people in the bar start applauding. He looks towards the stage, remembering where they are, then looks up at Crowley again, smiling sheepishly.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley glances away, at the people cheering for the person on stage. Oh, right, karaoke bar. Lots of people around. Not just Aziraphale and Crowley existing on another plane for what felt like hours. And now, his hand is on Aziraphale's face, and he could easily lean in, kiss him again, maybe a little more properly this time. Maybe say a few of the things that need to be said between them.

New music starts up, some song Crowley has never even heard of before, and everyone around them starts dancing again. The happy, crazy dancing from before, what he'd originally wanted to try to get Aziraphale to do.

Maybe now isn't the time for what he wants to say to him. Somewhere more private.

"Should we get out of here?" he suggests. "Coast might be clear."

[salutosinedelectat]

Somewhere where the moment won't be right, either, but maybe it never is.

He has to clear his throat quietly, idly straighten up Crowley's lapels, even though there's absolutely nothing wrong with them, but it keeps his eyes and hands focused. "Yes. I do believe it is getting quite late."

Not that it matters. Never did.

[sauntered_downward]

It's getting quite late, Aziraphale had mentioned before. And what will they do? Certainly not sleep. Maybe eat the sushi that Crowley froze in time for them. Then, what? Sit there and not talk about what they're not talking about? Maybe lie on the bed and wait for morning, wait for the next wave of trouble to follow them? Drink, maybe? Crowley could sit, stare at Aziraphale, and long for what they almost have right now?

Aziraphale is literally in his arms right now. Right now. And if Crowley can't do anything about it now, when will they ever? Another thousand years? Another six? If they even make it that long.

"Oh, fuck it." he mutters, and he leans in to kiss Aziraphale again.

/victorious airhorns

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel stares up at him when he lingers, finding himself in another kiss before he even knows it. There's only a muffled beginning of a word, a few seconds of startled confusion, and then--


--and then he just...closes his eyes. Holds onto his jacket, gently, and, for a moment, he wants to keep forgetting. Keep himself from all the idle comments that mean nothing and go nowhere, from advertising the looks he can't make himself keep. For this moment, just this. This is all there could be, and he's more than fine with that.

AT LAST!

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley can't say anything he wants to, but he can try to show Aziraphale. He's tried to show him for thousands of years, but it's never been enough. And now, in this moment, he tries to say what he can't through a moments-long kiss.

After all, demons don't love anything. And Crowley doesn't really like much of anything that isn't associated with Aziraphale. He's been soft for a long time, but he's not soft enough to think he loves things. Except Aziraphale. And if he could express how unique and special the angel is to him in this kiss, he would, and he tries to. He tries to share it.

Because, if this is all they ever have, Crowley wants it to be enough.

[salutosinedelectat]

Angels are beings of love. They can sense it, among other types of auras, ever lasting as it might be. And it's not that Aziraphale couldn't read the signals Crowley was sending him. It's not that he doesn't know the words and thoughts unsaid, however vague his assumptions might be. It's all the things in the middle and around it, making it too risky, impossible, too dangerous. Too terrifying and strange.

But here they are. Here they are, and living years at a time, in a moment, all their looks and the more powerful times when things went unclear, unsaid. And he's holding onto the now, the Present.

Another moment, he doesn't know how long it lasts. Can't tell how people and sounds and things change around them. When he does pull back, barely so, he looks up at him again, and all he wants is a moment of peace, alone, with him. All he could give everything for.

"...Crowley-" He starts, muttered, but doesn't quite find the words even then.

[sauntered_downward]

"Aziraphale," Crowley replies. His angel, the only one. He can tell him, now, that he loves him. Or maybe he can take him back to the safe place, hold him there, tell him there. Give him a moment where it's just the two of them. There has to be some way to make this moment last longer. Because after everything, don't they deserve this? Didn't they earn this moment together?

"Crowley!"

Crowley has been so wrapped up in his moment with Aziraphale that he didn't even notice that the singing had stopped, that someone had taken the stage, had grabbed the microphone, and was now addressing the crowd. A few people in the audience are startled, a few are even afraid, and with good reason. Crowley turns immediately, putting himself between the speaker and Aziraphale.

Hastur.

GODDAMNIT HASTUR WHY

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale immediately jumps to attention, whiplash between the moments and emotions having to wait until later. He knows that figure, though it takes him an extra second to recognize him in a place that was, until mere seconds ago, filled with joy, music and dancing.

How many things can happen in one night? How many times--

He looks at Crowley, then stares at the Duke, not speaking, but wondering if any demon or angel would attempt to attack them directly after the trials. Had they seen through it? Did they know? Is this one alone?

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley stands between Hastur and Aziraphale, but he isn't certain that Hastur can see them. He must know they're there, otherwise why expose himself like this? Several reasons, Crowley's mind immediately supplies: #1) Hastur is not all that bright, and #2) Hastur hates Crowley. This is the opportunity to attack Crowley directly, and he will, with a vengeance, and whenever possible. He might not even be acting on orders, for all Crowley knows.

"There's a door in the back," Crowley says to Aziraphale. "Behind the toilets. I'll distract him, you turn and run."

He raises a hand up and a notecard appears, with the address of the temple on it, he thrusts it towards the angel.

"Meet me here."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale has the notecard in his hands before he has anything to say about it, he stares at it, then at Crowley.

"--are you bloody mad? I'm not leaving you here by yourself." There's anxiety in his voice, sure, but quite a lot of assertiveness.

"And there's all these mortals here, we can't just--we can't do this here."

Because, you see, Aziraphale might think himself soft and a coward, but he's not letting Crowley to fight alone.

[sauntered_downward]

"I'll take him elsewhere," Crowley says. "I won't let them get hurt." Much. Well, not very much, at least. He can't control Hastur, who currently has lit his hands on fire as he calls out for Crowley again. Patrons of the bar have started to run towards the door, though few have made it out the back way Crowley had suggested.

"Hastur hates me, always has and he always will. He'll do anything he can to hurt me. That includes hurting anything I love," Crowley says, gripping Aziraphale's shoulder. "I can handle him, but I can't handle losing you."

Can he handle him? Of course he can, he tells himself. He's faced the Duke of Hell before and won. Mostly won. Got him out of the way for a while, at least. He can do it again.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale stares at him, once again finding himself almost resenting those very stylish sunglasses. Resenting that this is how they--

"No." He says finally, after a long moment of staring. But, of all people, Crowley might know how there are times when the angel is incredibly hard to sway. There's the right things to say, right things to use, sometimes, but not here. No, he's not leaving Crowley alone. Not now. Not here.

He goes to speak but he light from the flames are moving closer and the other patrons are running, and they soon will be discovered. So he grabs Crowley's arm and quickly rushes out of the dance floors, pulling the demon behind a corner with him. Not a good hiding place by any standards, but they need to think.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley lets Aziraphale pull him away. Aziraphale has to listen, he has to---but he knows that tone, he knows when the angel isn't going to just listen to reason like he should, like a reasonable person would. No, he's going to stay and get himself killed. The thought of something happening to him sits in the pit of Crowley's stomach like an icy knife. Nothing can happen to Aziraphale, he can't let it.

"That is Hellfire," he warns the angel. "Any of that touches you---" It's like holy water to an angel, but he's certain Aziraphale knows that.

What can they do? There has to be something they can do, with their limited competence combined. He can't convince Aziraphale to leave, and he's not going to try to argue, not when they have such little time. All he can do is----well, not pray, that's not exactly Crowley's style, but hope, at least.

"What have we got?" he asks, letting out a reluctant sigh.

[salutosinedelectat]

Hellfire. So, that's a thing. That's a thing, and that is Hellfire, and that is a Duke of Hell, and they're stuck inside a karaoke bar with no flaming sword and no holy water.

Great. Yes, this is great, this is fantastic. Damn near perfect.

He tries to think, back pressed against the wall. "Magic." Obviously. "We get these people out of here and--and we go. Maybe back to the temple, oh--"

They don't even know if he still thinks they can't be destroyed by traditional means. He certainly doesn't actually want to know how it feels to be gently kissed by fire from the pits of Hell itself.