demonicmiracle | (duplicity) ic contact

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.]

[He's quiet for a little while, turning over his own thoughts as he sips idly at his tea. Usually, it's pleasant and comfortable, just sitting with Aziraphale, but there's a weight in the air that he can't quite get past.

He could try to address it, maybe, but he doesn't know how.]

I've been thinking about adding some new plants to the herb garden. Might do tomatoes, maybe strawberries, they ought to be easy enough. [He rubs his thumb along the edge of the cup, cutting a quick glance over at Aziraphale.] If you've any requests I can look into it?

[It's hard for him to stay quiet like this. When the mood is more fraught, he's always the one with everything to say, crowding the air out of the room and Crowley out of space to think. So he doesn't this time.

He nibbles his biscuit, brushes away a few crumbs, slowly turns his tea cup between his hands, handle to thumb, reverse. Handle to thumb, reverse. He takes a few sips.

The conversation isn't what he was expecting. He goes with it, because what's the point of giving someone else the wheel if one is going to hijack it the moment the other person takes things somewhere different than one hoped?]

Cucumbers perhaps. Cucumber sandwiches are nice when it gets warmer.

[The discomfort radiating off Aziraphale is almost palpable, and Crowley wonders if he should leave to spare them both this awkwardness, but he knows that'll only make them both feel worse.]

Yeah, alright, I've heard they're not too difficult to manage, could probably wrangle some for you. [It seems stupid, talking about nothing when there's tension in the air, but it's better than silence.] S'weird to think about Spring coming up. Could finally go on that picnic you promised me.

[Almost sixty years ago, now, but Crowley hasn't forgotten.]

Edited 2020-03-16 20:33 (UTC)

Yes, I could, couldn't I? They have some nice parks here. It's not St. James's, but then nothing else is, is it?

[He brightens a bit at the prospect.]

You'll have to tell me what you'd eat. I don't want to make you uncomfortable or sick.

Or perhaps we could have it on the beach. Oh, I don't suppose the gulls would leave us alone, would they? The greedy things.

[For all his fussing, he loves the birds. He glances at him quickly, wondering if he's humoring him, or if he truly wants this.]

[There, that's better.]

Wine's sort of a food. [Wine is not a food.] I've given you too high expectations, haven't I? With me eating.

[It's very gently teasing, trying to inject some lightness into this.]

And I'll keep the gulls away, if you want. Not that hard to distract them, I'd think.

Wine is not a food, Crowley. Not to say there won't be wine. It would hardly be a proper picnic.

[He sips his tea primly.]

Just don't frighten the poor things. They're only greedy because they're hungry. I'd be hungry living out in the open on the beach with nothing but little clams and seaweed to eat, too.

[He has no idea what gulls eat besides the bread he throws them now and then.]

It's grapes, isn't it? Soup's a food, wine ought to be a food.

[This is a familiar argument, he's sure they've had it a dozen or so times over the years.]

M'not sure that's what seagulls eat, angel, and anyway, they're wild animals, they're supposed to be finding their own food. If they're hungry, they should be better at it.

Wine isn't grape soup, for Hell's sake. If it were, they'd serve it to school children. They don't.

[He scoffs.]

They are finding their own food. Just because they're robbing it from someone is no less wild. Have you ever been pecked by one? Nasty buggering beaks. The wildest creatures you'll find on the beach with their screaming and flapping about your head.

That's only 'cause it's got alcohol in it, s'bad for their little brains.

[According to scientists or something.

He's glad that the tension seems to be entirely gone, now that they're arguing about useless things.]

No one says that about wolves when they're stealing sheep, how come seagulls are allowed to steal my chips. [He doesn't even eat chips.] When did you get pecked by a bloody seagull?

No one ever says that about soup, that it's bad for anyone. Ergo, wine is not soup.

I'm pretty sure that's because sheep are fluffy. If chips were fluffy, it would be a completely different tale.

[He takes an aggressive bite of biscuit to punctuate his point and flails his hand toward the window, talking with his mouth full.]

The other day.

[After he washes that down with more tea, refills, and begins doctoring, he elaborates.]

I think I invaded their nursery quite without meaning to. You know how I am when I'm strolling.

[Could fall down a manhole and take half an hour to realize he's in the dark.]

Bet there's a soup with alcohol in it, one of those posh restaurants probably does it.

[It's muttered to himself, he's apparently willing to give up the wine v. soup argument in favor of the 'seagulls are the worst'.]

They still eat sheep, though! When they're babies and everything, you'd think they'd not mind a wolf having one or two. [Where are the shepherds for chips??? He's asking the real questions.] And you ought to be more careful, wandering about like that, who knows what's lurking in this place.

Do you think so?

[It sounds delicious, especially if it's some sort of beef soup with stout, or fish soup with white wine. Dry, of course.]

Have you ever bought a sheep? Much more expensive than chips, I'll have you know. That's probably the real rub of it. Cost. Also no one says wolves aren't wild for eating sheep. Quite the opposite. You're not even making sense, and I'm certain I didn't spike the tea.

[He lifts his spoon for more stirring, his tea not uniformly sweet. He hates sludge at the bottom.]

Lurking. I bet it's not the bloody Kraken.

[He lifts a hand in what do I know sort of gesture, because he's clearly never paid attention to the soup menus at restaurants and is just talking shit.]

The point was that you shouldn't pity feed the seagulls. Not a bad idea though, spiking the tea. [It's a miracle that he manages to get to his feet without spilling his tea, considering he makes no effort to actually try not spilling it.

He's off to the kitchen in search of something to put in his tea.]

S'probably horny mermaids. Something like that.

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