demonicmiracle | (duplicity) ic contact

Then I'm glad I never did that. Wouldn't want to, oh, how do they put it? Freak you off.

[He widens his eyes momentarily to make the point.]

But you wouldn't panic now. If I went to my knees for you. If I told you it's OK if you are angry. If I told you I've never been afraid of it.

Out. Freak me out.

[He's not so far gone that he can't manage at least that correction. Though maybe that's helped by the fact this suddenly feels like the sort of thing he has to focus on, his gaze searching Aziraphale's face.]

I'm not — [He doesn't know where that sentence is going. His brow furrows slightly as he licks his lips, caught between the image that Aziraphale has so lovingly supplied him and the unpleasant sensation at the thought of ever hurting him.] I'm a demon, Aziraphale, you should be afraid of my anger.

[Not him, he doesn't want Aziraphale to be afraid of him. But his anger shouldn't be taken lightly.]

I'm very aware of what you are.

[He inhales and sits back a little, fingers still in his hair. He's not withdrawing, but he is shifting gears. He doesn't want to upset him.]

I have never been afraid of any part of you, and I never will be.

[It's stupid, really, but something about those words makes his heart feel too big for his body, as if it might spill over. He manages to blink back the tears, though he's sure his eyes are still bright.]

Is that — is that something you want? My anger?

[He has a feeling he understands those almost tears. It wasn't so long ago he had his moment. His hand trails from his hair to his cheek, but not in a way to call attention to what he sees. Not directly.]

I've told you. I want all of you. It's part of you. How could I love it any less than your care and kindness? Your mocking? Your teasing? There's no picking apart the threads without unraveling the entire package. Why would I want to?

[I'm not kind is on the tip of his tongue before he swallows the words, knowing that this isn't the argument to get into.]

Is that what you're trying to do, unravel me? [He's asking a lot of questions, he realizes, but Aziraphale has never minded his questions. There's something in that, too.] Knowing it's there doesn't mean you have to want it. Accepting it doesn't mean you have to want it, not like... that.

[Because he feels like they're talking about sex, or were talking about sex, and that makes a difference.]

No. That would be cruel of me. You've had quite enough of that.

[Coming apart. Being unmade in a sense.]

What if I do? Am I asking too much? You can be honest if I am. I won't ask again. I don't want you pushing yourself into something that would upset you to do. And I don't want to push you into that, myself.

I'd not mind, if it was you.

[Maybe that doesn't need saying. Maybe it's obvious, considering the name carved into him, what he let the other version of Aziraphale to do him.

The rest of it he's less certain of. He trusts that Aziraphale is being honest with him, that if he's asking after this it's because he wants to, not because he thinks Crowley needs it. He's quite for another moment, still watching, still not quite sure he's got the thread of this conversation. He could keep trying to parse it out piece by piece, but he decides to cut straight to what he thinks is happening here, even if it's a little blunt.]

Are you asking me to be rough with you?

Crowley.

[It's one of his smiles that isn't.]

I'd not mind if it was you. If all I wanted was rough, I'd pull your hair. You'd get there.

[He hates the sensation that he's missing something, that there's a layer of the conversation he can't parse out, and maybe it's that he's scared to dig too deeply into it. He hates that smile, too, when Aziraphale gets all cold and too calm.]

I'm sorry. [a little shaky, and he draws back, draws in on himself.] I don't want to hurt you.

[He's not sure why saying that feels as if he's failed somehow.]

All right, Love.

[The coldness is gone as though it never were. He looks at him with understanding. He won't ask again, won't put him in this position twice.]

Then I won't ask you to. I'm sorry I upset you.

[He feels wrung out, between the anger from earlier and the vulnerability and now — this. The sickening sense that he's failed, given the wrong answer to a question he didn't want to be asked.

He's struck by the urge to run away, to be anywhere but here so he can deal with this awful, ugly thing in his chest without making Aziraphale witness it, but he doesn't want to give the wrong impression, so he swallows it down instead.

Words are useless and he doesn't trust his voice anyway, so he just nods mutely and tips his head to press his forehead against Aziraphale's thigh, letting his hair fall down to hide his face as much as it can be hidden.]

[He has the sense that he has dug into something he shouldn't have and shoves down his own mounting frustration with himself for continuing these missteps. Why wouldn't Crowley crave something more gentle?

So he can be very stupid sometimes, despite his intelligence.

He lightly sets both hands on his head and does the only thing he can think to do, the same thing he did when he took him off that rooftop, opens up enough of himself to give him a feeling of love without the divinity that would harm him.

One day he prays he can figure out how not to hurt him. Today isn't that day.]

[It isn't necessarily the wrong move, to give him that love, but it's another sudden intense feeling on top of everything else and it makes it impossible for him to keep everything buried the way he'd been hoping to. Instead, a sob wrenches free of him and his shoulders tremble, a painful hiccup of breath as he tries to get himself under control.]

Fuck — sorry. I can — I should go.

[Muffled, against the fabric of his trousers, and he doesn't move despite the words. It's not a purposeful manipulation, but he wants Aziraphale to tell him to stay.]

Please don't.

[Very softly.]

If you feel that you truly have to, I don't want to force it, but if you can stay, I wish you would.

I'm starting to think maybe your friends are right to worry. About your choice in me.

[A little breathless.]

Because it seems like I keep pushing you to this, and...

[He just shakes his head, continues touching him both physically and with that openness. He loves him more than he knows what to do with it, and maybe that's part of the problem. He really doesn't know what to do.]

Don't you dare say that. [It's whispered harshly, enough to cut through his own distress. He doesn't want Aziraphale to ever think that.

He draws back, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm before he catches Aziraphale's gaze.]

I've spent every bloody second since falling keeping everything locked up tight. Now I'm not anymore, 'cause it's safe not to, but it's a lot, all of this. [He presses a hand to his chest, some physical representation of the mess of emotions inside him.] And I'm so fucking scared, all the time, that you'll... that you'll realize what God did.

[That he's not worth loving.]

Come up here.

[He reaches for him, trying to encourage him into his lap. Its a big wing back. It can accommodate him curled, if he will. He fully intends to hold him that way, pressed to his chest and shoulder, arms wrapped, because it is evident that this is something he needs to hear and something that will be difficult for Crowley to say.]

Come tell me what that is. Please, mon coeur. Whisper it to me.

[Despite his brief talk about leaving, he truly doesn't want to go, and he allows himself to be pulled up into Aziraphale's arms, guided into the embrace. His shoes and waistcoat and stupid belt buckle disappear as he goes, making it more comfortable to curl up, his head tucked into the crook of his neck.

Mon coeur isn't fair, when he feels this way.]

S'like what I said. About not being enough. [He doesn't shrug, but there's the sense of it in his voice, almost dismissive of his own words.] I'll not be enough, or I'll be too much, and you'll understand why She couldn't love me anymore.

[He doesn't know if he wants to shout, scream, or cry. Some amalgam of it all lodges like an ice shard in his chest. He wraps him tightly in his arms and that warm glow of love while calming himself down enough to speak in a way that won't frighten him or overwhelm him further.

His eyes sting fiercely. The only thing keeping that in check is that he doesn't want Crowley feeling like he has to comfort him. He's got this. He is a bloody Angel of the Lord, and he has got this.]

She valued obedience.

[He can't keep all the thickness out of his voice, and maybe that's OK. He shouldn't be able to be completely calm in the face of that. It's a disservice to both of them.]

And you weren't. Crowley, that was the whole of it. The whole of it.

[So maybe he doesn't totally have this. Hot tears spill. He turns his head a little so they won't splash on him.]

I don't need or want your blasted obedience. I never have. I have only ever wanted who you are. Even when you've infuriated me. I already understand what She demanded. And I swear to you... I swear it. It has nothing to do with your value and less than nothing to do with how I feel about you. How could it? I've only ever really known you like this. Only loved you like this.

[His chest hitches with an unwelcome spasm. He grits his teeth against it, but it's no use.]

I would bleed myself dry of ever drop of grace if that was something I could get you to see. Just once. Just bloody once.

[There's a deep, bitter part of him that wants to point out that Aziraphale hasn't been obedient. He gave away the sword, lied about it, spent centuries trading blessings and temptations with a demon, and he never fell for it, never heard a bad word from God.

None of that means he'd ever want Aziraphale to fall. It isn't jealously, not really. He's just furious about the double standards. He's furious that humans get a second chance, even though he doesn't want one. Mostly, he's just furious that he can't let go of this, that millennia later it still aches.

He can feel Aziraphale crying, and pulls back enough to look at him, to frame his face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. His own eyes are bright and wet and he knows he likely looks a mess, but what does it matter, really?]

I'm trying. [It feels like a plea as he says it, begging Aziraphale to understand.] I'm trying, I just — the only love I've known was conditional.

[It's hard to let go of the fear that this love will be torn away from him, too.]

I need you to be patient with me.

I know. I know.

[And he hates it. It tears at him in a way few other sorrows ever have. He feels guilty, completely unaware that in some ways their thoughts are traveling down the same river, just in different boats. Doubt has eaten at him for thousands of years as to how he can be considered good. And if he can't, what does it mean that he's still what he is? If She is playing favorites, it's horribly cruel to both of them in different ways.]

I will be patient with you until I stop existing. Love you until I'm no more.

[He brackets Crowley's face in his hands, too, wiping at his cheeks with his thumbs.]

But until then, I've got to stop tearing at you like this. I don't know...how to do this. I'm trying to learn. And I just...

[He kisses him almost too hard, a flat lipped, still press that stays until he has to pull back and draw in another hitch of breath.]

I'll figure it out.

[Roughly. He's furious with himself for not holding it together better than this.]

[They're so far away from Her presence and She's still hanging over them, won't ever not be hanging over them, so long as they both are what they are. Some foolish part of Crowley had hoped that maybe it would be easier here, but with how insistent the city is on dragging up all this shit, he probably shouldn't be so surprised. Of course he feels so raw about falling when he had to practically relive it not so long ago.

He opens his mouth to argue but snaps it closed just before the kiss, a hand curling around Aziraphale's head, holding him in it until he feels him pull back. Crowley presses their foreheads together, breathing him in.]

Listen to me, angel, neither of us were made to love this way. We have to figure it out, we'll have to learn. But we'll do it together, yeah? You don't have to... bury parts of yourself for me, that's exactly what you're trying to tell me not to do. Tear at me, if you love me so much you want to, I'll take it. I want to take it, doesn't matter if it hurts. I'm not scared of you, and I'm not scared of your love.

[He's scared of losing him, but that isn't the same. He doesn't want Aziraphale to feel the way he so often does, like he's too much, overbearing and needy and too hungry.]

[But that is exactly what he has to do, because he has already told him that. Repeatedly. He can't trust that he has actually changed his mind. He's saying it in reaction to seeing him upset, and he's not going to be stupid enough to listen to someone speaking under duress. He leans into the press, breathing heavily as he starts to get his emotions back under wraps.]

We'll figure it out together. Yes.

[He drops his hands into his hair, squeezing once, then lower over his shoulders and back, embracing him again.]

[It means something, he thinks, that Aziraphale only addresses that one part of what he's said, he's just not sure if he should push this point right now when they're both such a blasted mess. He doubts it'll be a productive conversation right now, they're both too caught up in their own heads.]

I love you, Aziraphale.

[Crowley kisses his cheek, his temple, the edge of his jaw, before returning the embrace, holding him tightly.]

Tell me what you need right now.

[He wants to help, wants to soothe this if he can.]

I know you do. Just as I love you.

[Not a shred of that is in doubt. He closes his eyes into the kisses and clings to him, glad of the size of the chair, that it allows for this without a danger of tipping or spilling.

He needs to be something with different needs. Something that won't hurt him when he loses control. Something that doesn't want the things that Crowley doesn't want to be. There's no way he can tell him that.]

You to be here. Just...here with me, just like this.

[The rest of it is his to sort. And he will. Somehow.]

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