| ...but I never claimed that I know where to stop. |
[Sep. 24th, 2007|11:10 am] |
Title: For All the World
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R
Notes: After a little breather, I get to missing them. The day-to-day has always fascinated me; it's a routine that everyone, mortal and immortal, must deal with. In some ways, the immortals have it a lot harder, because they have a lot more time at their disposal. This is about coping with small disasters in much the same way that Survivors' Guilt was about coping with large ones. It's intended as a companion piece/extension, but not mandatory as such. Besides, someone wondered aloud, as it were, about a "flip-side" piece that didn't focus so much on major human calamities. This isn't exactly that, but I hope it's a lighter foil for its predecessor.
Summary: Wherein spilled milk is (or is not) the End of the World.
For One Night
They had, indeed, shared a flat before, but they had never shared a bed.
After the shock wore off, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that Crowley was shaking as if he'd taken a chill. He tugged up the soft, white covers, sheets and duvet and all, and cradled Crowley's head where it rested against his shoulder. Outside, the rain was still pattering against the windowpane. They had left the lights on low, but that had been more out of neglect than by intention. Aziraphale closed his eyes and stroked the nape of Crowley's neck, then carefully slid his hand down the length of Crowley's spine.
Crowley shivered harder, pressing close. His leg was draped lazily over Aziraphale's hip, and it was the most distracting thing in the world, except for the fact that they were not wearing anything and had not been wearing anything for several hours.
"Are you comfortable?" asked Aziraphale, finally, feeling somewhat concerned despite the fact that he was, otherwise, drowsy and relaxed enough to consider sleep an option.
"Mmmh," Crowley sighed, sounding roughly the same as Aziraphale felt. He was still shivering, and it occurred to Aziraphale then that perhaps he didn't even realize it.
"I agree," Aziraphale murmured, letting his hand drift up Crowley's back again. He didn't know if that kind of thing soothed Crowley the way that it soothed humans, but it had always seemed to help in the past when Aziraphale had touched him even briefly.
On the contrary, Crowley tensed as if his roof had just sprung a leak on them.
Aziraphale felt his stomach clench. He'd seen this before, of course. Crowley's body had a way of making it abundantly clear that Crowley was panicking even when he was trying valiantly to pretend he wasn't panicking. He'd just never been close enough to feel it, or at least hadn't been close enough in quite a few centuries. He certainly hadn't been naked.
"It's gone, you know," Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale felt the demon's chest heave as if it had to expel the words by force. The shaking had only gotten worse. "There's not a single…" Crowley trailed off, twitching uncomfortably.
Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's hair. He'd settle for confused before he'd settle for stricken; a harsh reaction would make Crowley's anxiety worse. It always had.
"Crowley, what are you talking about?"
"The bookshop, you stupid prat. I can't believe I let this – let go."
Aziraphale felt his stomach drop through the mattress, but he held on, and nuzzled Crowley's ear. No use in letting it run away with you; better to ask and be sure.
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"Those bloody candles," Crowley said, his breath coming high and fast. "I can't imagine why you had them burning, but there was the smell of wax under it all, and I could only save the one, you know, the girl's – "
Aziraphale closed his eyes. Yes, better safe than sorry, and he hadn't been either.
"Well, what's done is done. We'll go over in the morning, of course, so I can pop in and have a look at the damages."
Crowley's heart skipped a beat, hard enough to be felt.
"I'm not going in, angel."
"My dear, I'm not blaming you."
After that, there is silence, and Crowley's shaking began to subside. Aziraphale wondered if there isn't something to those relationship books he'd once been shipped by mistake. Crowley responded well to soft kisses that weren't meant as an invitation to anything more than cuddling up to sleep, or to try to sleep.
When Aziraphale lowered the lights, Crowley shivered his last, and was still.
For Crying Out Loud
In all truth – and, if he thought about it, he usually was honest – Crowley had never seen anything like it.
The day before, he had expected Aziraphale to come flying out of the shop at ten times his usual speed, in a rage, right toward the curb where Crowley was sitting in his faultlessly restored Bentley, and tell him to get out of there right this instant if he knew what was good for him. Instead, Aziraphale had strolled back out quite calmly, even with something of a light step, and gotten back into the car and told Crowley that, yes, he still fancied that stroll in the park very much.
It was rather hard to believe that, now, forty-eight hours later, Aziraphale was having a full-on crisis thanks to a missing slip of paper.
"I know it's around here somewhere," said Aziraphale, worriedly, pacing around to the other side of his desk. He dug under a thick sheaf of price guides and newspapers, and they slid gracelessly onto the floor. He made a noise that was half disgust, half panic, and scooped them all up angrily. He stared at Crowley as if he'd forgotten Crowley was there.
Crowley wasn't sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. He'd known Aziraphale could dither with the best of them, but he'd never seen Aziraphale so agitated over losing track of something that he couldn't function. He hadn't been like this over the sword, or perhaps it was just that he hadn't gotten the chance to get like this.
"I'm sure it'll turn up," Crowley said, giving reassurance a crack. "This place has fallen to a bit of disrepair, you know, and I'm sure Adam couldn't remember exactly where to put everything, especially when all he had to work with was ashes."
Aziraphale just stared at him, then went back to shuffling through the papers even though there wasn't much left to dig through. He ran his fingers over the wood of the desk, desperately, as if he couldn't believe the paper wasn't there. Fist clenched, he struck it.
"Look, this isn't getting you anywhere," Crowley said without thinking, crossing the room. He took hold of Aziraphale's wrist and worked his thumb under Aziraphale's fingertips, prying them free. He'd never known Aziraphale to tense up like this, unless it was during a ride in the Bentley when Crowley was speeding or traffic was horrendous.
"Crowley, I've got to find it. We're wasting time. Let go of – "
"No," said Crowley, simply, and used his grip on Aziraphale's wrist to turn the angel to face him. "Now," he said, meeting Aziraphale's glazed eyes, "what's on this paper, exactly?" He let go of Aziraphale's wrist and took him by the shoulders instead.
"Information," Aziraphale said evasively, and tried to pull away, his eyes darting back to the other side of the desk, which was where he'd looked already.
Crowley held him still, which took more force than he'd had to use in ages.
"I think you're blowing this out of proportion," Crowley said reasonably, patting Aziraphale's shoulder, letting go of the other. "After all, it turned out you were blowing the whole sword thing out of proportion. I mean, look, it turned up in due course, and nobody was the worse for it. It was supposed to happen like that, wouldn't you say?"
Aziraphale glared at him, but he at least seemed to be listening.
"I suppose so," he said reluctantly.
"What's on that paper, anyway?"
"Recipes," said Aziraphale, wretchedly.
"Come on," Crowley said, ignoring the impulse to roll his eyes, and gave Aziraphale a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm taking you to Blackwell's. They've got a cooking section."
All too willingly, Aziraphale let himself be led out of the bookshop.
For the Time Being
This time was both the same and different. They were in Crowley's bed again, tired and sated, and they'd been asleep for hours (as nearly as Aziraphale could tell) before things had taken a turn for the worse. He hadn't known Crowley wasn't a sound sleeper.
That was an understatement, really, when what had awakened you was a hard kick in the shin and an unintelligible shout. It was only once the haze of pain had cleared (Aziraphale's mind was too foggy for him to think of making it subside) that he realized Crowley was covered in sweat and shaking, though it was somehow different than before.
"My dear," whispered Aziraphale, tentatively, "what is it?"
"Nothing," Crowley muttered, his voice thick with sleep, and turned over so that his back was to Aziraphale. There was the unmistakable sound of his fingers winding in the sheet.
Aziraphale sighed, blinking at the dark ceiling. Nightmares: he'd never had one before, but he was certain that plenty of his waking existence had been worse than any nightmare ever could be. The same probably went for Crowley, though sleeping had undoubtedly added an unnecessary dimension of horrors to it over time. How dreadful.
"It's all right, you know," Aziraphale said, cautiously setting his hand on Crowley's side. He could feel that Crowley was breathing, and that every breath came high and shallow.
"Why don't you try dreaming, and then see how you feel about it."
"I don't doubt that I will, eventually," Aziraphale said tentatively, fanning his fingers over Crowley's ribs. He wanted to make the breathing stop if it would calm Crowley. He wanted to do something, but he had no idea what.
"Then get to it, and leave a message after the beep," Crowley grumped, and turned onto his stomach so that his face was buried in the overstuffed pillow.
Aziraphale took hold of him and turned him back over again, sighing.
"You might try telling me about it," he ventured. "I've heard that helps."
"I've heard that amateur therapy can really screw you up."
"Crowley! I meant – "
"Help," Crowley whispered, curling over, and buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder.
"I will," Aziraphale promised, holding him tight. "I'll try."
After several long minutes, Crowley's breathing subsided, ceasing into sleep.
For Heaven's Sake
Crowley had heard a lot of suspicious noises in his time, and he'd even been the cause of a fair number of them. Still, that was a different story from hearing some in his own kitchen. It was as if a miniature thunderstorm had decided to possess his pots and pans.
He poked his head in and blinked, unnecessarily, horrified.
"You've rearranged everything," said Aziraphale, accusingly, and picked up a sieve that had rolled to a stop near his feet. "I can't find the colander, if you've even got one."
"What d'you need a colander for?" Crowley asked, mystified. There were two pots on the stove, and one of them looked near to boiling over. He turned off the heat with a wave of his hand.
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, clearly distracted, and went back to scanning the mess on the floor, one hand twisted in the knit hem of his pullover vest. There wasn't a colander on the floor, and both of them could see that. Clearly, in fact.
Crowley waved up the mess and said, "Look, you just go like this – "
Aziraphale caught his hand mid-gesture, exasperated.
"I want to do it properly," he insisted. "You've never made pasta before, have you?"
"No, why should I when there's take-away from Franco's?"
Aziraphale huffed, then produced a colander out of thin air and turned to the stove.
"Get out of the kitchen. It's going to be soggy on account of your meddling."
"I'm not the one who decided to empty my crockery cupboards onto the floor."
"Please," said Aziraphale, dangerously irritated, transferring one steaming pot to the sink. "You're distracting me. Go away."
And that, of course, was exactly what Aziraphale needed.
"Yes, in fact," said Crowley, going the exact opposite of away. He avoided an upset teakettle and stepped up behind Aziraphale. The angel flinched when Crowley slid an arm around him, but he set the pot down in the sink beside the colander and waited. "That's exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to do no such thing. If it's pasta you want, I'll order it in. For my part, I'm not really hungry." He nosed Aziraphale's ear, then licked it.
Hesitantly, Aziraphale relaxed.
"Your actions would suggest, er, otherwise."
"Of course," replied Crowley, reasonably, and kissed the back of Aziraphale's neck. "Besides, it's a little too early for dinner, wouldn't you say?"
"I needed the time to prepare," protested Aziraphale. He slid one hand over Crowley's, not so much staying as encouraging. All the same, he didn't move, eyes fixed on the pot.
"Angel," Crowley murmured, reaching over to close the book open on the counter.
Decisively, Aziraphale snatched Crowley's hand away and closed it himself.
For a While
Crowley fell asleep before they could discuss dinner, but Aziraphale was past worrying about it. They didn't really need to eat, no more than they really needed to sleep. It was troubling, though, that something Crowley had always enjoyed wasn't lately enjoyable. Perhaps it hadn't ever been consistent: to Aziraphale, it seemed hit and miss.
As drowsy as Aziraphale felt, he stayed awake, waiting.
Near dawn, Crowley shouted and thrashed at the covers, narrowly missing Aziraphale's shin. Aziraphale tried to hold him still, but Crowley twisted away from him.
"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, shaking him when he fought back a second time. "Crowley."
The demon shivered and went still, panting hard.
"Tired of this," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm sure," Aziraphale said, pushing back the covers to give Crowley some breathing space. He let go of Crowley, then, but Crowley made no move to escape him.
"It's funny, but I don't think about those things," Crowley whispered. "At all."
"No," agreed Aziraphale, bringing his hand up to Crowley's cheek. He could imagine what those things were, thinking back, and there were a disturbing lot of them.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Crowley sighed and closed his eyes.
"Thanksss."
Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss.
"For…what, exactly?"
"Not asking," said Crowley, stretching against Aziraphale, relieved.
"Of course," Aziraphale murmured, and kissed him softly on the mouth.
They didn't sleep until after sunrise, and Crowley's dreams retreated with the dark.
For Nothing
From the very second they set foot in Harrod's, Crowley was reminded of why he avoided shopping, any kind of shopping, at all costs. Unless he could do it by mail.
"It's not very flattering," said Aziraphale, holding up the suit jacket dubiously.
"It's a good color," Crowley said, leaning on the rack and examining his fingernails. "Er, on you, I mean. Very flattering. I can't imagine why more people don't give it a try."
"Crowley, almost everybody gives it a try. If you really want to know, that's why I've developed an aversion to it. It's so unoriginal. Everybody dresses like y – this these days."
Crowley let his hand drop and stared at Aziraphale, eyes narrowed.
"You don't like the way I dress, then?"
"No, that's not it," said Aziraphale, emphatically, placing the jacket precisely back on the hanger. "You've found a way of making it work." Vaguely, he indicated Crowley's boots and sunglasses. "I can't say as I know anybody else who does – er, that."
"Then there's the trick, angel," Crowley said, pulling the entire suit off the rack and checking the price tag. Marvelous; Aziraphale always did love paying far too much for his apparel. "Basic black ought to be in everybody's wardrobe. You've just got to find a way of making it work for you."
"I look washed out," Aziraphale said, appalled, as Crowley held it back up under his chin and turned him back toward the mirror. "I really ought to stick to tans and – "
"Humor me," Crowley suggested, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder and appraising the odd scene that they struck in the mirror. "Please? This was your idea, not mine."
"I said I needed to replace the shirt," said Aziraphale, emphatically, shoving the suit back into Crowley's hands. "Not the whole suit."
"Right, you can't go wrong with a new shirt," Crowley agreed, setting it aside on the chair he'd occupied until a few moments ago and picking up the neatly packaged white linen shirt that Aziraphale had already chosen. "Or a new black suit to go with. You never know when you might have to attend a funeral."
"My dear, that's morbid."
"No, that's life," said Crowley, smoothing the packaged shirt against Aziraphale's chest. "There, look. It'll keep you from looking washed out. And you can stick that little silver pin that you got in Italy all those years ago right here, see?"
"In Italy," Aziraphale repeated, his eyes suddenly distant.
"Yeah," Crowley sighed, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. When he'd said he never thought about certain things, damn it, he'd meant –
"I'll wear it to dinner if you like," Aziraphale said, stepping away. He went over to the chair and collected the suit, then held the two items up together.
"Dinner?" Crowley echoed.
"Yes, quite," said Aziraphale, almost cheerfully. "Now, let's get these paid for."
That night, they dined at the Ritz, and Crowley found it difficult not to stare. Maybe black wasn't Aziraphale's color after all: the angel did look paler than usual. Out of tact, though, Crowley didn't say anything. Aziraphale let him pick the wine.
As soon as they got back to his flat, Crowley found himself shooed in the door and wrapped firmly in Aziraphale's arms there in the darkened hall for what felt like a small eternity. Later, on the bed, for the first time, Aziraphale kissed him from mouth to belly, and then lower, until Crowley fell back against the pillows, gasping, and came with a sob.
He fell asleep with Aziraphale draped over him, and didn't dream at all.
For Now
Aziraphale wasn't accustomed to waking up after sunrise.
Crowley was still asleep, of course, sprawled out under him with his had thrown to one side on the pillow and hiss-snoring softly. Aziraphale lifted his head and considered this for a moment, wondering if Crowley had slept well of his own accord, or if it had been the lovemaking or the fact that Aziraphale had pinned him down and kept him from moving.
As if he felt Aziraphale's eyes on him, Crowley opened his own and blinked, blinded for a second by the brightness streaming through the bedroom window. He shaded his eyes with one weak hand, then made a soft, hissing sound of disgust.
"Didn't close the blinds?"
"No," Aziraphale admitted. "We didn't."
"I guess nobody would've been watching," Crowley said, yawning. "Too dark, and we're up too far."
"I don't know, those neighbors of yours across the street are, er, interesting."
"They like a good party now and then," said Crowley, approvingly.
"Not last night," Aziraphale said, glancing from Crowley to the window, then back again. "Would you prefer that we closed it next time?"
Crowley yawned again, shrugging.
"'S up to you. I don't exactly live here."
"Funny, but that's what we've been doing these past few weeks."
Instantly, Aziraphale regretted saying it. Crowley froze under him, unblinking, then closed his eyes as if he'd suddenly developed a ferocious, sun-induced headache.
"It's too early to be awake," he said.
"I beg to differ, eleven is quite a reasonable – "
"Shut up," muttered Crowley, and threw the covers up over their heads.
This, Aziraphale thought as they kissed, might be progress.
For the Love of G – Sa – Argh
Crowley buried his face in his hands and hoped it would be over soon.
As usual, Aziraphale had no clue what he was doing. Crowley was already more organized than was generally good for him, but going in and organizing things even more was just taking the joke too far. Wasn't alphabetical order enough?
"You've done them all by title," Aziraphale said for the third time, pulling another stack of books off the shelf and watching the dust roll off them with horrified fascination. "By title, Crowley. Don't tell me your compact discs are in disarray, too."
"You'd do it that way, too, if titles were what you remembered things by," said Crowley, irritated. He shifted on the sofa and looked the other way, pretending to be interested in the window. "No, my music is not like that, thank you very much. I remember artists. It's writers I'm bad with, you'd be amazed."
"I am amazed," said Aziraphale, carefully sorting the books into separate piles, some of which were threatening to topple over, but didn't dare, because Aziraphale was in charge, and when it came to books, Aziraphale's word was law. "Your memory's usually so sharp. Too sharp, in fact."
"Consider it your reformation project," Crowley muttered, selecting a magazine off the table. He flipped through a few pages of useless ads, then glanced surreptitiously across the room again. Aziraphale had all the contents of his bookshelf on the floor and seemed more intent upon examining each book individually than actually putting them back.
"You've got some quite wonderful paperbacks," Aziraphale said at length, and waved his hand at one of the stacks. It obediently arranged itself on the top shelf. "Out of curiosity, how many of these have you read?"
"Most of them," said Crowley, truthfully, rolling up the magazine. If he took careful enough aim, he'd be able to send the stack of B-authors tumbling onto Aziraphale's head.
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and sent the stack up to join the A's.
"Really, my dear," he murmured, and picked up a lonely hardback with interest.
Glowering, Crowley unrolled the magazine and made a mental note of which book it was. He'd see to it personally that its new career as a flowerpot coaster got off on the right page. He'd been neglecting the plants, after all. They were probably feeling jealous.
"Oh, and don't worry about the plants," Aziraphale added, standing to place the hardcover on the shelf by hand. "I watered them this morning."
Crowley threw the magazine, but all it got him was insufferable, wonderful laughter.
For As Long As It Takes
The nightmares came back, because nothing leaves indefinitely.
Aziraphale had to shake Crowley awake, digging into Crowley's shoulders with bruising force, because speaking to Crowley as loud has he could hadn't been of any use. Aziraphale had caught some words in Crowley's shouting this time, and as much as they pained him, they didn't surprise him: didn't do it, volcano, you bastard, and run. He was grateful that no torture devices had shown up.
Crowley panted, abruptly jerking awake.
"Said…I don't…think…"
"Thinking," Aziraphale said slowly, bracing his hands on Crowley's shaking elbows, "is not the same as dreaming. You may not think about these things, but clearly you – "
"Had a few yourself, have you?" Crowley retorted around a yawn.
Unable to think of what else to do, Aziraphale shook him again.
"Nightmares, Crowley," said Aziraphale, harshly, making sure that his breath grazed Crowley's ear and that every word would strike its mark. "Every minute of every day that I have no bloody idea what's haunting you, or how I might ease it."
After a few moments of stunned silence, Crowley swallowed hard.
"They're not going to stop," he murmured. "I can't make…"
"You're too hard on yourself," Aziraphale sighed, smoothing Crowley's damp hair. Unlike the books, it was a lost cause.
"Not harder than time," Crowley whispered, his fingers curling at Aziraphale's shoulder. "Nothing has been harder than time, do you know that?"
"Yes," Aziraphale replied, keeping his voice quiet. "That's not going to stop, either."
"Neither will you," Crowley said, and finally, tiredly, smiled. |
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