demonicmiracle | (duplicity) ic contact

I don't like how that sounds. You're upset so I should keep my distance? Isn't that the opposite of what we're trying to do?

[What if he just goes and lives in the ocean because emotional vulnerability is hard.]

Not your fault I'm upset, I'll get over it

You weren't upset before I started talking to you, so I can only assume I have something to do with it. If I said that to you, "I'll get over it," would you happily leave me to it?

[He knows better.]

Still not your fault

I don't know. Probably not? But it's not a big deal, angel, just feeling a bit guilty, is all.

If it's about what I said, you have nothing to be guilty for.

I wanted to be honest with you because hiding things from each other is self-destructive. I didn't want to put a cudgel in your hand for you to beat yourself with. I just wanted to provide some context for why having an idea of how to fight will be helpful. I'm not upset or angry with you at all.

Wouldn't a whip be more appropriate if we're talking self-flagellation?

[He's got jokes! Because he hates this!]

I should've let you leave

You didn't make me stay. I chose that.

Now I'm trying to choose not to keep making the same mistakes, because we can hurt each other so viciously without even trying.

If both of us have an ironclad understanding that walking away to cool off or regroup isn't walking away, then we'll both manage ourselves better in those situations, I think. Feel less guilty in needing that time and taking it.

Do you need me to stop talking about this?

[There's a slight delay before the response finally comes.]

Last time we walked away from each other after a fight, you were gone when I tried to come back for you

May I please come talk to you? Or would you prefer to come here?

I'm sort of in public. I'll come to you

[He'd been taking a walk through the park, which isn't the greatest place for an emotional conversation, so a few seconds later he appears in the middle of the bookshop, feeling... shitty and ridiculous. Not a great conversation.]

Hey.

Hey.

[He sets his phone aside, stands, and approaches, spreading his arms but not encroaching.]

May I?

[It's weird, being offered comfort when he still feels like it's his fault that he's even upset in the first place, but it's Aziraphale, and Crowley's terrible at saying no to him, so he steps into his arms.

His own come up around his shoulders, head turned away because he's still wearing his sunglasses and is polite enough not to press them into his cheek.]

[He wraps him in his arms and rests his chin on his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh. Maybe texting him was a bad idea. Maybe he should have just started here. He doesn't know.]

I wish I was better at all of this. That I knew how. But I don't think anyone has that luxury. We get to do what the humans do. Muddle through the best we can.

Humans don't often have some six thousand years of bullshit to work through.

[Because that's what they're doing, in a way. Six thousand years of playing games a certain way, of hurting each other accidentally and sometimes on purpose, of loving without anywhere to put that love.]

You're doing alright. Can't be easy to manage this sort of thing with a demon.

[He draws back a little to cup his cheeks in both hands.]

No harder than it is being a demon trying to manage with an angel, I'd wager. I wish... I feel like you think you're the problem somehow. You're not. I know this is hard for you. I'm hard to deal with.

What were you talking about just now? About the last time we parted after a fight I was gone? Was that after I was discorporated?

You're not hard to deal with.

[He's far too on display like that, and is grateful that he hasn't taken his glasses off yet. At least it hides his eyes.]

I — yeah, s'about that. I came to find you, 'cause Hell had come for me and it didn't matter that you'd all but told me to fuck off, I wasn't going to let them... [He shrugs, gaze cast down.] You know the rest. The bookshop on fire and you nowhere to be found, couldn't even sense you anymore.

[He's talked about the basics of this, but it's still not easy.]

I know that isn't true, but it's kind of you to say it.

[He's well aware of what kind of bastard he is.]

I'm so sorry. I can't begin to imagine how awful that was. Crowley...will you tell me what has you upset?

[What does have him upset? That's the struggle with all this, he usually doesn't have to explain himself to anyone else, he can just go lick his wounds in private until he gets over it or sufficiently buries it. They've had so many discussions about feelings and he's still no better at putting them into words.

He reaches up to remove Aziraphale's hands from his cheeks, though he doesn't release him, just holds his hands between them, his gaze focused on the movement of his thumb over his knuckles, to save having to look at his face.]

S'like I took advantage. It was selfish, letting you stay, I should've known better.

[He knows he's selfish, but he's trying not to be with Aziraphale.]

Darling, you didn't. I swear it.

[He squeezes his fingers gently.]

Do you honestly think you could if I didn't let it happen? I pushed for it to happen because I know how wrenching being left is for both of us. It got us to where we needed to be. I'm grateful for that.

It makes me second guess what I'm proposing right now. I don't know. I don't have any answers. I only know I'm tired of hurting you, and I don't always know how not to. I don't even always know when I have, because we don't communicate that well, either of us.

Alright.

[It's a quiet agreement, not very certain, because he thinks he could, if he'd been trying. He knows Aziraphale's buttons as well as Aziraphale knows his, and even though he wasn't putting that sort of conscious thought into it in the moment, there's that niggling doubt that maybe he did it sub-consciously.

He doesn't trust himself.]

No, no, you're right, we ought to be able to walk away without it turning into something worse. We've just got to not take it personally, if one of us needs that. Making it a rule might make that easier.

It's what I'm hoping. With the time limit, it takes the guess work out of it. Not saying if the person who left cools down or regroups sooner than two hours, they can't come back to it before then. That's just the outside limit.

[It's less than the blink of an eye objectively. Subjectively, it's a different story for both of them.

It's significant to him that he's not removing his glasses. He squeezes his hands again and steps away toward the kitchen to give him some space.]

I'm putting on the kettle. Am I making tea for two?

[Crowley nods; tucking his hands into his pockets once Aziraphale pulls away, shoulders curled in a little protectively.]

I'll stay, didn't have any plans for the rest of the day.

All right.

[His voice carries from the kitchen just fine while he putters. It's his way of calming himself, of trying not to read into the strange tension or contribute to it with his endless pushing.

Sounds of water and the kettle carry faintly into the shop, the clack of china and spoons.]

[Normally, he might follow Aziraphale into the kitchen and bother him while he's making the tea, but Crowley decides to take the offered space and goes to the couch, trying to get his shit together.

They're fine, he has to remind himself. This is a good idea, talking about how to conduct themselves in a fight before they're actually in one. He just hates knowing that he was responsible for Aziraphale ignoring his own boundaries.

He wonders if being privy to Jon and Martin's latest fight is messing with him a bit. He wouldn't be all that surprised, considering how unfortunate that whole thing was, how angry he still is about it. Crowley sighs, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair so he can rub at the bridge of his nose, and after some indecision, decides to leave them there.

His boots come off, too, so he can curl up on the sofa. It isn't — entirely opening up, the glasses would be gone all together if that were the case, and he'd shed his jacket, too, but it's not as closed off as he was before.]

[Eventually, he comes out with the tray laden with the pot, cups, milk and sugar, spoons, the strainer, tea towels, and a few almond biscuits he's sure Crowley won't touch.

He takes him in at a glance, cautiously optimistic of what he sees, and brings the tray to the coffee table, immediately moving to pour. Only once he has offered Crowley his cup and saucer, doctored his own, and taken up a biscuit does he finally sit, too.]

Nothing a spot of tea can't make better.

[He takes a sip and has a nibble. His heart isn't much in the food. It's habit, mostly.]

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