demonicmiracle | (duplicity) ic contact

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.

It's not pity. You never said I shouldn't feed the ducks. I see no difference. They're both water birds. Gulls are just saltier.

[He calls after him.] Second cabinet, behind the biscuit tin.

[There are two bottles, aged whiskey and dark rum.]

The joke, as they say, is on them. I've nothing for them on my walks.

Don't bring ducks into this!

[That's an entire different argument altogether because the only reason they can feed the ducks and not seagulls is that he's fond of ducks. He doesn't want to admit it, though.

There's some idle rummaging sounds, and then he returns with the whiskey, already pouring some into his tea as he walks.]

What, you'd not take the chance to sleep with a mermaid? [He looks thoughtful as he drops down into his seat again, whiskey tucked casually by his side.] I would, I reckon. Not the sort of chance you get often, is it?

Seagulls' polite cousins. Honestly, I'd think you'd prefer the gulls.

[He holds out his cup toward him for a pour.]

Is that our criterion for sleeping with others now? Wouldn't often get the chance?

Ducks don't make a habit of eating slithery things.

[So he saw a seagull eating an eel once and was traumatized for life, what about it.

Crowley pouts at that unspoken request, as if he has any right to horde the alcohol, but relents after a moment and stretches out to splash a little whiskey into Aziraphale's tea.]

Not the worst criterion, you have to admit. Oh, I've slept with a werewolf! [He grins, bright and a bit ridiculous.] So that's one for the folklore list. Haven't run into a vampire yet, bit of a shame, that.

Fish are slithery. I'm sure ducks eat fish. What else would they be diving down for all the time?

[He makes a satisfied noise at the pour and draws his cup in close to his chest to cradle.]

I've run into a vampire. Polite fellow. He's going to play the violin at the salon.

[He narrows his eyes slightly.]

This werewolf you're speaking of. His name wouldn't happen to be Professor Lyall, would it?

Fish aren't slithery, they're just wet.

[There is some kind of distinction there and it probably has something to do with the fact that fish have fins.

He opens his mouth to say something about the vampire, when Aziraphale follows up with that question and he sort of chokes a bit, instead. He hadn't planned to name names, since it feels rude to talk about that sort of thing with names attached.]

How'd you know he was a werewolf? Took me ages to figure it out.

[Just... sidesteps the question. It's fine.]

[He takes a nice long swallow of the doctored tea.]

He told me the day we met at my first orientation. I suppose I have that sort of face. It makes people want to confess things.

You do have that sort of face.

[There's some irony there, in the fact that he's about to confess something. Sort of.]

Have I made it weird? [He winces a bit.] If it helps, it wasn't — you know, a choice I made. Was just one of those things that happened.

[Which would be a piss poor excuse anywhere else, but he's sure Aziraphale knows what he means.]

No. I just... We were making friends, and now when I look at him, I'm going to think about that. You know how I am.

[Intrusive thoughts. They go hand in hand with being an anxious sort.]

I'm sorry that happened to you. I don't like to think of it happening to you, but I know it has.

[He reaches over to squeeze his knee.]

Oh, suppose that'd be a bit weird, yeah. You get used to it eventually, this place being what it is, but we've sort of mutually agreed to just pretend it never happened.

[Which might not be all that encouraging, but it is what it is.

He frowns slightly at the hand, not because of Aziraphale, it's just weird to have an apology for it.]

Only a few times, honestly, and most of 'em weren't... awful. I've been lucky, really.

He strikes me as a good old bean that way.

[A proper Englishman. Stiff upper lip.]

I'm glad of that much.

[He doesn't miss the frown, pulling his hand away quickly and drinking more of his tea.]

Sorry, I wasn't... [He gestures at his knee, at Aziraphale's hand, realizing his expression had likely been an unpleasant one and not wanting him to misinterpret it.] That one was one of the awful ones, is all. But I was just making a stupid joke, don't really want to make a big deal out of it, you know?

[He just feels like he needs to explain, now.]

Yes, I understand.

[He brushes a few crumbs from his waistcoat and leans forward to set his mostly empty cup back on the tray.]

You needn't worry I'd say anything to Lyall. It was just rum luck the only werewolf I've met was, well...

[He flutters his hand a bit uselessly.]

Small world. Small island. Can't tell much about the world, can we? Other than it's filled with stress bakers and lost souls. I didn't know stress baking was a thing. I've met three so far. Your dear boy and a couple of others.

[He shakes his head.]

I know you wouldn't.

[There's an unspoken thank you in there, in his tone and on his face, the sort of thing that's obvious when they've spent so long dancing around the concept of gratitude. It's there for both the reassurance he won't talk about it, and for the distraction.]

Well, suppose it makes sense when you give it some thought. It's something to do with your hands, with strict enough rules you have to pay proper attention, and then at the end you've a tangible product to show for your effort.

[It's not dissimilar to him and his plants.]

[He graces him with a faint smile, his version of an unspoken, You're welcome.]

I suppose. I've just always associated baked goods with happiness.

[Because he eats them and doesn't make them.]

I'm starting to remember why I didn't get too close to them on Earth. I don't have that luxury here. I'm not sure what I intend to do about it yet. I could always mend a broken bone or a split...what-have-you. One squishy bit inside is much like another squishy bit.

Hearts are trickier.

So do the rest of them, that's half why they choose to bake over anything else. Makes 'em feel better once they're done.

[Or at least that seems to be the case with Martin, he usually works out whatever happens to be stressing him during the process.

He regards Aziraphale quietly after that comment.]

You don't have to be their best friend or what have you. Not that I really intend to get much closer to them either and now I've had two of them living in my flat at some point or another. [He shrugs, takes a sip of his tea.] You'll be alright, most of the time they just need to feel like someone gives a shit about them, you know? They're not all that different than when they're children.

I didn't think of it that way. Of course. That makes sense.

[All of the bakers are so different, though. He ponders it a bit more, quietly thoughtful.]

Do you think Warlock misses us? He could be a trial, but he could also be a dear thing. I don't miss the family, per se. Dreadful Americans in the worst ways. Although I suppose that could be more because they were mixed up with Satanists than where they were from.

[He goes quiet a second time, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.]

That's the rub of it. They're all children. Afraid they'll be rejected. Or seen. They expect it so hard that when they aren't, they can't process it. It's such a perversion, that cruelty should be easier to accept than love.

[Of course he didn't, but then, neither did Crowley until he met Martin.]

He might do, you could always write him, once you got back. And Mrs. Dowling was alright, too, doing the best she could with that husband of hers. Sometimes on Fridays if Warlock was over at a friend's place we'd have a drink together.

[It was hard for her, he knows, alone in a different country with only an absent husband and her child for company.

He turns Aziraphale's next comment over in his head, weighing up his next words carefully. Not because he's worried about saying the wrong thing, but there's an option here to admit some vulnerability, and he's not sure if he should take it.

But they're trying to be open with each other, so maybe he should.]

Could be why I've a bit of an easier time with them than you do.

[Because he relates, because he gets it.]

Would I think to, once I was back, I wonder? We were very means to an end with that business.

[Excusable to an extent. They were trying to prevent Armageddon. Maybe when they had some breathing room, they'd slow down, but he also knows himself. He has always been more abstract in his care than personal when it comes to them. He wasn't exaggerating when he compared them to mayflies to Anderson.

At Crowley's soft sideways admission, he nods. He has always had more in common with them, his role one that took him closer to them. He had to understand them to tempt them, and worst of all, he has been hurt the way so many of them hurt each other. Aziraphale has seen firsthand how difficult it is for him to accept acceptance. Love.

He brushes his knee with his fingers again without letting it linger. He suddenly very much feels his age and more than a little alone.]

You are loved. Not just by me. I'm sure you know this.

We had to be, but I dunno, you're a soft touch, it might occur to you.

[Crowley had kept a very careful distance from Warlock, because he'd known how easy it would be to come to care for the boy, and despite their best intentions, part of him had expected it might come down to eliminating him.

He offers a wry sort of smile, trying to take away the sting of that admission, and he catches Aziraphale's hand before it can get too far away, leaning forward enough to be able to kiss his knuckles.]

Mm, there's two people stupid enough to fall for my charms, apparently. [Which is double what he had at home, with just Aziraphale, and even that he'd never been entirely sure of.] S'weird, really, hearing it.

I have my moments.

[At times he wishes he had fewer of them. It would make so many things easier.

He squeezes his fingers lightly when he catches his hand. Hopes he never reaches a point such small gestures as lips to knuckles don't warm him, direct contradiction of his previous thought. He has never pretended not to be mercurial.]

That just means I need to say it more often. Desensitize you.

[He offers it lightly enough. Crowley seems to handle it better that way.]

(duplicity) ic contact

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