demonicmiracle | (longest night) ic inbox

[ Picture a box. Not especially large-- the cube-ish sort of gift box that could be easily one-handed.

It's gift wrapped in black paper patterned with gold stars, with all the obnoxiously straight-edged military-esque precision that implies it probably took a few practice runs to get it ~just right~, and a neat pile of matched ribbons on the lid that imply the person adding them thought they were fun to make and charming to look at. The tag, of course, sticks out like a sore thumb in that it's tartan patterned and tied on with a bit of twine.

To: Crowley, it reads, From: Aziraphale, in highly familiar script.

Its contents:

- A set of whiskey glasses for Crowley's little bar that meets their overall old lush queen standards for drinkware.
- A pair of very soft spooky socks because Aziraphale thinks he's incredibly funny, and
- A hand-embroidered handkerchief (light grey, to give minimum due respect to Crowley's aesthetic). The work lacks the precision and practice of the wrapping paper; the stitches are simple, some clumsy, a smidge out of line. A green vining pattern around the border that could maybe theoretically be maidenhair fern if one squints. Maybe? And in the center, much less nebulous, is a cluster of yellow daffodils.

(If the particular shade of yellow seems to have been very, very particularly selected and happens to be a 1:1 match to a certain someone's eyes, there's no evidence that would hold up in court to support that claim.)

anyway get out of his school, merry christmas(?), thank you for accepting his incredible next step in romance. ]

How on Earth did you manage to wander off just in time to miss being in a very interesting trap? Or have you wound up in a different one? If so, stop looking at your mobile phone and solve the puzzle. Quickly, please. It would be very difficult to speak to you after you've experienced molecular liquefaction. Your mood alone would be atrocious. Thank you. This is Aziraphale.

[ What's he even been worried about the past few years? It turns out instant text messaging is just like, super easy and he's very good at it actually? He doesn't even need to know what emojis are! Not that there's literally anyone else he'd text message in the first place. ]

[Please hold, he has to stare at his watch for a few moments in shock at the fact he received a text. From Aziraphale. A text.]

Do I look like I wind up in traps?

[Rude.]

I've been making friends, angel, only they're not quite as happy about it as I am.

[This is code for: I bit a bunch of shitty humans, don't worry about it.]

Hold on, who's experiencing molecular liquefaction? Do not tell me that's where you disappeared to, I'll be so cross.

Dastardly traps don't pick and choose, Crowley. That's why they're so dastardly. Ah. So a good night for scotch. Carry on.

[ Get that taste out of Crowley's mouth with something good and strong. He's earned it. Aziraphale likes pretending that he doesn't have a tangible wandering-off history, in the way that he likes pretending he didn't go to the trouble of texting because he was worried.

Well. And because he's having a little strop that he got a good grade in puzzle and the only person whose opinion of him matters didn't get to see it. This place truly is a den of evil... for that reason and no other reasons at all. ]

I'm with Loki and Apollo, and I'll have you know my molecules are all in tip-top condition. We even freed a Myth. I think you would have liked her. Inorganic humanoid. Absolutely lovely.

And yet here I stand, not having been trapped in a dastardly trap.

[Of course Aziraphale understands. It would be almost worrying if he didn't, and Crowley wishes he knew how to show appreciation for that.]

Were they any help at all, or did you have to sort out the whole mess for them?

[Talking shit about other 'Gods' is always fun, but more importantly, this is how he's choosing to communicate that he thinks Aziraphale is soooo clever and talented and obviously got them all out of the trap.]

Oh, that is a bit of a disappointment. You'll have to tell me about her over that scotch.

Luck of the draw. Good luck, in this case. Freedom of movement suits you. Oh, I think we all contributed. But! [ But! Exactly! Thank you for the validating implication he craves! ] I was the one who uncovered the missing pieces we needed. I'll tell you all about that later, too. So do try not to make other plans.

I'd hardly call it luck. It's the wiles that are doing the heavy lifting.

[He's soooo wiley. No trap could ever keep him.]

Obviously. They're lucky you were there to keep them from experiencing molecular liquefaction.

I'll keep myself hale and whole so as not to interfere with you telling me all about how clever you are.

You do have a singular way with wiling.

[ Crowley seems to have been alright so far, which is the most important thing, and he gets to brag to him later, which is second most important. ]

This is all I ask of you. As the human expression goes, "it's a date."

[ bitch....... stop flirting this is NOT the time ]

[A compliment and Aziraphale using the phrase 'it's a date'???? How is supposed to cope with that.

He knows that he's only joking, making fun of a silly human term rather than actually meaning it, but he probably does get shot by some random guard while he was reading that text. It's fine, he can heal it and disappear the blood.]

I'll break out the good scotch, then, shall I?

We can revisit the implication that sometimes you don't.

[Whoops.]

Well, I'd best handle these guards who just rounded the corner.

Good luck, angel, don't do anything dangerous.

[Hard to tell if he's lying, via text. It's fine. He's not gonna get smote. Probably.]

Edited 2024-04-07 19:58 (UTC)

[ Aziraphale finds the moment the daemon situation is rectified that he feels-- wrong. Buzzy. A persistent weight in his chest, his throat. Well. It's not that any of that is new, strictly speaking. It's that the feelings don't seem to want to settle and sink back down the way they ought to be doing.

Or maybe it's that some of this has been very new and unfamiliar, and it's all happened in such short order from an immortal perspective.

But he should still be fine. He's been fine for thousands of years, he's always fine. Mostly fine. Most of the time. When it matters, which is always.

He doesn't even miss Timothy. Didn't like him, didn't like how easily he said things that could be dangerous to say, didn't like how much space he took up, never looked at his own daemon and felt like it made a proper... proper representation. Didn't like that Timothy wasn't really in his control. He's glad to feel like he's properly alone in his own quarters for a moment, gotten the breathing room.

But he sort of does miss him? He thinks? (Not nearly as much as he already misses Asteria, of course. Darling thing.) The idea of some part of himself that could, that could say things and ask for things and take up that space, though, that was a nice idea to have. But he's irritated he even existed. He doesn't-- feel like Timothy came from him, went back to him. It's all heaviness and too-much-ness and a carefully cultivated instinct to cut things down before he's foolish enough to act on them.

Not that anyone would be watching if he did. Heaven isn't watching. The Almighty isn't watching. Not even here.

It keeps circling in his mind, that thought, the impression of it. Nothing is watching.

Nothing is watching while he fusses with his outfit, smoothing his fingers over well-worn fabric, or while he squeezes his own fingers with the sort of force that would probably maim a human. Nothing is watching when he turns to make himself tea, forgetting that that ridiculous lion pushed his furniture a little out of place because it had to be bloody particular about where it slept. So nothing is watching him accidentally knock his mug to the floor, where it shatters.

Nothing is watching when he sends the teapot down to follow suit, ears ringing, feeling half removed from himself. Or the tray it was sitting on, or the little side table when it smashes against the wall, or when he overturns his bed or sweeps everything off of his writing desk or when Aziraphale hits his knees and starts stabbing his armchair with a letter opener, and it's not-- it's not enough no matter how hard he does it.

He needs something, but he doesn't know what, and he feels something but it's stuck and it's painful and he can't make it stop.

He's being a bad angel. Unprofessional. Selfish, immature, melodramatic, overwhelmed over nothing, disheveled and anxious and, and terrible, really, absolutely awful, but nothing is watching.

Not that they would need to be to know all that. They've always known that. He's always known that. He can't fix that. He can't even try to fix it anymore, in the terrifying and exhilarating grey area of "retirement." That should be fine, he should be fine with it, but he shouldn't be fine with it because he's still an angel, surely. Aziraphale doesn't know. It's why he tries not to think about these things.

But now he's thinking about it and he can't-- he can't stop, he can't stop, and his breath is short and his eyes are streaming, all these ridiculous physical things he shouldn't need to bother with. The terrible calcified thing in his chest won't sink back down or break into smaller pieces.

(Why is he like this? Why was he always like this? Why is he still an angel when he never fit the standard, why did they never listen to him, why has Heaven's love always needed to be cold and uniform and painful? Or is it only like that to him?

What's the point? What's the point?

He can't ask. No one is watching. No one is listening. Maybe they never have been.)

Aziraphale leaves the letter opener stabbed into the chair so that he can bite down on his hand to muffle a scream. Some shrill, warbling sound that seeps into multiple planes, sets eyes and feathers and light spinning like a localized hurricane.

It's the first action to put a crack in the thing in his chest, to ease it somewhat, so he does it again. And again. Again. A few times. He doesn't know what else to do.

Which is all an incredibly long walk to get to saying "consider this updated itinerary for the day: instead of the library or a little romantic breakfast, what if they meet here to sit on the floor and scream into all dimensions (physical and metaphysical) and try not to think about the fact that it's happening in Santa's fucking North Pole."

A kitschy little Do Not Disturb sign even appears on his room door because it's a polite door. Perfect date material, 10/10. ]

[Something is wrong.

It sneaks up on him, a sense of concern that once drove him over the Channel to the Bastille, and at first he attributes it to the loss of the daemons, not quite able to untangle his own despair at losing Asteria from the nameless pull he has towards Aziraphale.

Until there's a scream that he feels more than he hears, at which point he operates on instinct more than thought. Meaning that he initially tries to will himself to Aziraphale's side, before remembering that isn't possible and he has to walk the scant distance down the hall, keeping his composure the entire time out of further instinct. He doesn't know what's wrong, but for all his fear of immediate danger, there's a deeper fear of someone knowing he's scared.

That's always more dangerous.

Nothing is amiss at the door, aside from the sign, which serves as a small relief when he can sense it was created by a miracle. There's further relief when the door still opens at his unspoken request.

The relief drains away immediately at the disarray in the room. Not the broken crockery or torn chair. There's a maelstrom of angelic pain that's utterly unfamiliar.]

Aziraphale?

[As gentle as he can be, and equally gentle in his movement as he closes the door and carefully approaches, unsure if it's wanted.]

[ Aziraphale goes quiet at that, at least. The sound of Crowley's voice. Unlocks his jaw enough to release his hand, shame-faced and frantic, largely just because he's struck by the thought that it must look-- must look--

Well, a lot of things must look. In here. Some way or another. Aziraphale couldn't say. He can't get his corporation's lungs to cooperate, can't stop turning in on himself like some godawful whirlpool, eyes darting between any number of things that aren't Crowley. ]

I'm sorry. [ Hoarse. Wobbly. Distracted. ] I'm sorry, I was, I was just.

[ Maybe there's a reality where he's quite good at these things. Coming up with the words to explain anything that eludes him in this moment. Or failing that, the perfect spin to explain it all away and make this not have happened.

The right answer.

He'd like if it were this specific reality. As it stands, all he's managing is hitched breaths and a crumbling expression. There's no end to the statement. Aziraphale hasn't got one. So he sort of fishes something out of the old vague handbook instead, because he can reliably say those things without screaming. ]

Won't be a minute.

[ Statements that are... technically true? ]

[It's the shame that breaks his heart more than anything. He understands it, of course, not only from the perspective of someone who understands how awful and dangerous it can be to demonstrate any emotions, but knowing that Aziraphale needs to maintain control in a way that Crowley doesn't. The heart-breaking part is that it's only him, here, and the shame is still there.

But old habits die hard, and these are very, very old habits.]

Don't do that, don't apologize.

[The worry hasn't quite gone, but he doesn't think something has happened so much that something has needed to happen for a long time. The destruction is familiar in a way that aches. How many times has he torn his flat apart in a fit of hurt or anger that's too big for his body?

So he finishes crossing the room, pulling up a quick miracle as he does, creating a soundproof bubble around the both of them on both a physical and metaphysical level. It leaves him free to crouch down, to wrap his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, to gentle tugging him into his chest.]

Let go, love, I've got you.

[How many times has Aziraphale wanted to scream and shout and cry about how unfair it is? Crowley can't imagine he ever allowed himself the freedom, because it's different for an angel.

A demon is allowed to be angry, to be destructive, to scream and throw things and summon down lightning with their fury, but angels are only allowed righteous anger. And Aziraphale doesn't think he has any right to his anger.

But maybe Crowley can give him permission to hold onto it, just for a moment.]

[ No one is watching. No one is watching, and now no one else is listening, and Crowley is close enough that Aziraphale doesn't need to try to look at him. Crowley closes in the world around them and Aziraphale thinks it must be a relief.

Must be, somewhere, in the span of the complete breath that he's finally able to gasp through, in being able to clutch at Crowley's jacket with stiff fingers while he can't stop making pieces of reality creak around them like old wood.

Crowley and his stable familiarity, his reliability, his- his impossible and unending well of patience and indulgence for someone who never earned it. Who says things like 'don't apologize' and 'I've got you,' even after everything he's had to endure.

How could God have ever looked at this creation and seen something to cast aside? It never made sense, not really. So many things never make sense, but it's not his place to ask about them, he's supposed to just-- know. Believe.

He never knows. He always seems to do a poor job of believing.

Crowley is the only thing in the whole of creation that's never truly let him down. The only one. He can't say that, he can't say that, but it's not fair, it's not fair-

Aziraphale presses his face into Crowley's chest like he's considering trying to crawl into it, and rattles his way through the next terrible noise that refuses to go in any direction but outwards, as many directions as he can provide. Then through the ones in line after that, because giving one an inch just seems to give the rest of them a mile, and he's starting to think the only turning point will be when his vocal cords give out and all that's left is crying. He doesn't want it. He doesn't like it.

He can't make it stop.

(He can, he can apologize again later, he'll do it properly, he'll say thank you properly later, he'll pretend he knows how he's supposed to look Crowley in the eyes again after this properly later. Humiliating, ridiculous thing. He'll fix it. He can fix it.)

For now he has a metaphorical life raft to cling to, and no bandwidth to worry whether it's fair to be making it take the extra weight, so Aziraphale will go ahead and cling.

The floor is going to be home base for now. There are worse places. ]

[For a horrifying moment, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has fallen, because the only time he's had a breakdown like this was after crawling out of a pit of sulfur, but Aziraphale still feels like an angel. Surely he'd know, if something that awful were to happen.

He doesn't feel any relief, not really, since it means he's still in the dark about what sparked this, but it isn't a mystery that needs to be solved right away. There's no immediate danger, as far as he can tell. They can talk about whatever they might need to talk about once Aziraphale has worked his way through this and come out the other side. Crowley doesn't want to ask any questions right now, preferring not to risk Aziraphale thinking he needs to get a hold of himself in order to answer.

Better out than in, with these things.

Crowley keeps his arms around Aziraphale, letting him press as close as he needs. One hand is a solid anchor at the nape of his neck while the other strokes up and down along his back, as though helping to ease out the sobs. After a moment or two, his wings slip into this dimension so he can bring them up and forward around them both, adding an extra layer of enclosure. An extra layer of safety.

There isn't anything he can say to solve this, but he can murmur reassuring nonsense as he holds Aziraphale, telling him that it's alright, that he's safe, that he can let it all out. Whatever Crowley thinks he might need to hear in the moment to help get him through.]

[ Aziraphale winds down eventually. Inevitably. He runs out of steam and then some, whittles that tangled mass of feelings down until he's scraped raw. Returns to something resembling normalcy on the metaphysical plane, a slower, wobbly orbit.

His head aches. He feels tired and extraordinarily stupid. How do humans stand doing this? It's too much.

But it is nice, the way Crowley muffled out more sound. Closed them in. Easier to bear. The way he's been steady and careful and, and accommodating. There are probably better words than accommodating. Gentle. Loving. Patient. ]

Right. [ Aziraphale sniffs. Tries to clear his throat. He loosens his grip a little bit, but finds he can't bring himself to pull away. Maybe if he doesn't move away, this doesn't have to be real and he doesn't have to actively be in the moment with it.

He can just hide from it in one of his favorite places to be. ] Terribly sorry. Thank you.

[ If he manages anything constructive today, it should be what he told himself he'd do. Terribly sorry. Won't happen again. Not enough expressions of gratitude in the world for Crowley's existence, as ever. ]

[Whether it takes five minutes or five hours, Crowley remains exactly where he is, doing the absolute best he can to be a source of comfort while Aziraphale exhausts the font of emotions that's risen up. It's reassuring when the metaphysical maelstrom settles; that was the part he wasn't entirely sure how to handle if it got too bad.

When his grip loosens, Crowley makes the executive decision not to let go, keeping a steady hold on him out of a suspicion that Aziraphale doesn't actually want to leave and instead just feels like he ought to, out of some sense that Crowley might have grown tired of this. If Aziraphale presses it, he'll let go, but until that point he has no intention of going anywhere.]

What did I say about apologizing?

[It might make him a hypocrite. He knows he'd be apologizing out of sheer mortification if the roles were reversed, but that hasn't happened yet, so he can by a hypocrite in peace for as long as he can keep his own emotions handled.

He presses a kiss to Aziraphale's hair, for the simple sake of affection.]

We can just sit here for a bit, if you'd like.

[They don't have to talk about it, or worry about what happens next. Aziraphale can just stay here and be held until he feels ready to face the world again.]

[ An absolute hypocrite. Aziraphale allows it because a) he already got his apology out so he wins, and b) he doesn't feel like picking a silly argument about something right now.

Certainly not when he's gotten free affection on top of everything. (Like all the shared affection to date has not also been entirely free.)

There's no hiding the slight drain of tension that comes with Crowley's offer, the touch of relief. Aziraphale should be getting back to it, sorting things out, trying to forget this happened at all, but, well. Gift horses. Crowley makes it sound easy to do. Maybe it is easy for him to offer, comparatively speaking. If it's an option, Aziraphale is very much in favor of taking it. ]

If you wouldn't mind. [ Things said purely for the sake of good manners. He would like to just sit here for a bit, very badly, please. If it gets revoked he may never recover. ] Nicer in here.

[ Safer. Quieter. Easier. Who has not yearned to become an anthropomorphic little mouse that lives in their partner's pocket.

Consequences don't get into the bubble until they get invited into the bubble, is what he hears, and that feels slightly more like being in control of something. ]

[Something tells him that Aziraphale might not have fully internalized the don't apologize part of this, but there wasn't an argument, so Crowley will accept it for now. It's going to take more than one or two reassurances, he suspects.

But at least Aziraphale accepts the offer to remain where they are, instead of trying to pull himself immediately back together.]

'Course I don't mind.

[It gives Crowley the opportunity to start stroking his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, lazily playing with his curls in what he hopes is soothing and distracting; something to focus on.]

I'll not ask you to talk about it, but I'll listen if you want to.

[ Aziraphale stays silent for a stretch.

There's not a dignified way to say "I broke my mug and suddenly everything that was ever too much for me rushed the door." There's not a dignified way to say a lot of things right now.

Do you suppose we have much of a point anymore once we get home? he wants to ask. Do you suppose I ever had one, or did they just like me better out of the way? Well. For all that, he may as well ask if Crowley supposes the grass is green. It's no secret.

(He liked himself better out of the way, too. Likes Earth better. He always has.

Why create him as an angel at all? Why make Heavenly love such a dreadful thing at all? Aziraphale doesn't expect he'll ever ask Her, but he can hardly get into trouble for wondering, here.) ]

Got a bit overwhelmed. I suppose. Couldn't seem to-- to make it stop.

[ The thinking. The feelings he could normally bottle up one-handed and blindfolded. Oh, he was right. This is absolutely undignified. Couldn't seem to make myself stop throwing a fit and committing Thought Crimes, darling, hope that helps.

If he fidgets with Crowley's lapels to cope, that's between him and the lapels. ]

Nothing quite worth the dramatics, I'm sure.

[The answer isn't entirely a surprise, though it isn't properly an answer and it isn't really much of a relief, either, even if it does save him from worrying that something terrible happened. It just means that there's been an underlying stress and he can't stop himself from wondering if he's to blame. If he's been — too much, or not enough. If Aziraphale has realized that being together this way isn't what he truly wants and he's been worried about admitting the truth.

Would Aziraphale have let him in, though, if that were the case?]

Mm, we've all been there. [It's a reassurance that he isn't judging Aziraphale for the minor breakdown, and it's a reassurance that this sort of thing does happen, sometimes, to humans and demons and angels, including him. Sometimes he has to trick Aziraphale into being gentle with himself by drawing comparisons between themselves, because he knows Aziraphale wouldn't think unkindly about Crowley the way he does about himself.] Least you didn't cut off all your hair.

[Not as much to cut off as Crowley had, back in the day, but the point is to drive home the fact he understands.]

And sometimes the dramatics are necessary, I think.

[Whatever inspired this, he doesn't think it was the actual issue, just the straw that broke the camel's back.]

[ Every day Crowley proves why he's the only one who gets any level of vulnerability privileges. Frankly, no one else is worth that level of trust.

It's a relief. Not the idea of Crowley experiencing anything like this, this incident, all alone with none of the comfort that he's here offering-- god, no. Just. A relief to hear the understanding. Not needing to stumble over wording anything better, or over how to backpedal. ]

Oh. No. Changing my hair wouldn't go over right now. [ Aziraphale's had enough of this madcap whiplash lifestyle the past couple of weeks. Well. Technically probably the last couple of years, but in a picky and choosy way as to what tipped the scales. If his hair felt different right now, he'd kill everyone in this hemisphere. ] Yours suits you whatever you do with it, of course.

[ Not that he's a simp or anything.

He prefers personally deciding when and where he has a necessary moment™️, of course, but he expects that goes without saying. Crowley probably prefers that himself. Maybe that hasn't got very much to do with it. ]

Does it happen often? To you?

[ Not changing the subject or staying on the subject but a secret third thing: paralleling the subject like a dog that needs its pill to be wrapped in cheese. Maybe also worrying about it. A tad. ]

[The fact that Aziraphale has his breathing and emotions under control enough to have a conversation is a good thing, probably, since it hopefully means he's gotten through the worst of it.]

You haven't got much to cut off, anyway. A buzz cut wouldn't suit you at all.

[In another situation, he might be playfully smug about the compliment, but right now it doesn't feel right, so he just gives Aziraphale another kiss on the head to show his appreciation for the kind words.

He's less appreciative for the question, but he can't really blame Aziraphale for asking, not when he's the one who brought it up in the first place. It would only be fair, really, now that he's seen Aziraphale be awfully vulnerable.

It won't kill him to share a little vulnerability in turn.]

Not all that often. S'just — [His teeth click softly as he closes his mouth, taking a second to work out how much he can make himself share.

It's easier like this, at least. With his wings over both of them, softening the outside world.] — All gets a bit much, sometimes.

[The hurt, the anger, the love.]

time is fake it's still december probably

mission timelines are fake have an idiot text

i am eating it for power

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the post-daemon economy is in shambles

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