demonicmiracle | (longest night) ic inbox

[ Crowley is always so ridiculously good to him.

This swell of emotion in Aziraphale's chest, for the first time today, is a comforting kind, and that's no small relief in itself. A little balm over what's been scraped raw and left empty.

He lets out a breath. He makes himself not think about the tendril of anxiety already trying to creep back in-- don't look at me differently after this, don't think of me differently after this. ]

I can do tea. [ It's fine. He knows how to live in a body. He knows how to do behaviors. ] Lots of options if you'd like something, too. Of course.

[ Aziraphale doesn't even need to worry about how Crowley looks at him, because he can't bring himself to look Crowley in the face as he pulls away. He focuses on smoothing out the wrinkles he put into Crowley's jacket instead. The trick to life is that an angel can avoid almost anything if he really, really wants to. ]

[There's no missing the fact that Aziraphale is avoiding eye contact, but Crowley decides not to press that particular issue at the moment. He gets it, after all.]

Tea sounds perfect.

[First they have to make the daunting journey from the floor to the bed. Crowley leans in for a quick peck on the cheek, then pushes himself up to standing, so he can offer his hands out to help Aziraphale to his feet.

There's a tingle of a miracle, which is both the kettle starting to boil, and a set of very cozy, very soft tartan pajamas appearing on the bed, folded neatly.

Crowley won't actively point them out, but they're there for Aziraphale if he wants to get properly comfortable.]

Why don't you get yourself tucked into bed while I do the tea?

[ Was there ever so daunting a journey as this? Probably. Definitely. But at least knowing that makes it objectively seem less difficult to manage.

Aziraphale takes the help up without making a fuss, and he keeps Crowley's hands for a few moments after. They're a very good set of hands to squeeze, carefully as he can, and an even better set of hands to kiss-- hardly more than a press of lips, but a sincere one. ]

I'm meant to be the one who fusses, my dear.

[ Of all the times for Crowley to come after his crown...

He suspects he might get in trouble if he says I really am sorry about all this or I don't deserve you right now, so he'll have to settle for simply thinking them instead. ]

[The initial plan had been to step back once Aziraphale was up, to busy himself with getting the tea sorted so that there was a moment of privacy, a moment to decompress without being observed. But Aziraphale holds onto his hands, and kisses them, and Crowley has no thoughts about moving away.]

Which one of us was the nanny?

[He can fuss with the best of them, even if it's historically been directed towards children. The same principles apply, he's sure.]

I don't need to be nannied. [ ... well. No, any thoughts he may have historically had about certain Crowley personas aren't relevant in the slightest.

There's an air of obligation attached to the term, the clear association with looking after a child. Not what Crowley means, he thinks. Obviously. Even if he did mean it like that, it can't turn into an obligation anyway. Aziraphale is never letting this happen ever again for the rest of eternity. So that's fine. Just having a bit of a back and forth. ]

But I'm sure I see your point.

[ Only one of them has, in fact, literally been a nanny.

He presses one more kiss to Crowley's hands before letting go, falling back on the hand-wringing habit that has never once failed him. He'll be using Crowley as a fidget toy again in no time. It's a necessary step in the process. Etc. ]

[The look that Crowley gives him is one of very, very fond exasperation; it's a look that says they both know that isn't what he meant and that they both know Aziraphale is being contrary for the sake of being contrary and that Crowley loves him because of and in spite of that.]

The point is that I've gotten quite good at fussing, thank you.

[The previous look softens with the kiss, before he draws back so he can go fix them tea. Despite his instinct to keep an eye on Aziraphale, he purposefully focuses his attention on the process of making tea, to give him a moment or two of privacy.]

I'm sure. [ It's nice to be contrary for literally no reason sometimes. Familiar old patter. Aziraphale likes the comfort of familiar things and settled-in things.

So he leaves Crowley to the tea, because as humiliating as this has been, a solid cup of tea can do wonders and he knows precisely the way that Crowley makes tea. A little fixed point at the center of the universe. If he weren't sick of crying, he'd consider crying again.

He settles for making his way to the bed instead. Takes his moment. Makes certain that his face is clean, if nothing else. The tartan pajamas pass muster after a quick inspection, so he goes about methodically getting changed. Another little ritual. Something to focus on. ]

Barely had time to get out of practice.

[ What's a handful of linear years but the blink of an eye? ]

[If he's pleased that the pajamas are accepted, that's his business, because Aziraphale already knows exactly how stupid and in love he is and doesn't need further proof.

He can just focus on the tea, doing everything the proper way, both to give them time and due to the fact that he knows Aziraphale prefers his tea to be made without miracles. The least Crowley can do is indulge his tea preferences.]

Would've been awful if I were out of practice. Who knows what I'd do.

[Commit some awful social faux-pas while attempting to be comforting.

Which, to be fair, he was worried about doing anyway.]

[ Aziraphale looks over at him now, couched in the familiar cover of Crowley being occupied. The sharp angles of him, his preferred shades of black and grey, the deliberate styling of his hair. The way he intermingles tension and boneless slouching, care and nonchalance. More familiar than ever here. Now that they're-- a them.

He would recognize that profile before his own reflection.

It hasn't made Aziraphale any less covetous. If he's entirely honest. He could carve a little nook into himself on every plane and tuck Crowley away into it. Keep him safe, keep him for himself. (Crowley might like having it to hide in. Sometimes.) ]

I imagine you would love me while you did it. [ In the good way. The warm, romantic, careful sort of way that shapes itself around something instead of trying to force it to fit the other way around. ] No need to sell yourself short in that case.

[ Top marks. Glowing reviews. Would recommend even just for existing and being willing to stay in the Incident Sphere with him. ]

[The words startle him enough that he turns his head to look at Aziraphale, despite having told himself he wouldn't do that, his expression surprised but in the soft, fond way that he's stopped trying to hide so much.

It has his chest doing that twisty sort of thing, that Aziraphale knows how much he loves him. That Aziraphale has — has faith that the love would be there, even if he was fumbling his way through.]

'Course I would. [There's a roughness in his voice, but he moves past it.] S'easy to do, isn't it?

[Loving Aziraphale.]

[ Every day, a new thing out of Crowley's mouth that he says like it's the most obvious, natural answer in the universe even though it's enormous. Straight into the mental album of good things to remember on rainy days.

Aziraphale doesn't make it easy to love him. He's always known that. But Crowley has always had a way of making it seem like less trouble than it is. Like it's something he can't help doing even when he's irritated, hurt, disappointed. Over and over again.

Credit where credit is due, or so they say. He puts his attention back towards getting into his pajamas because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands while he's holding this moment. ]

Oh. Well. [ Easy to do. He'd like to think so. It's nice to think about. ] One of your talents, I think.

[ A gazelle would probably tell a fish that it's very easy to run through a field, of course. Sometimes build is just a factor. ]

[The scale is poised on the edge, Crowley can feel it, and he can either tip one way into sincerity, or he can let the moment pass. He thinks, perhaps, that anything heavy, even with love and kindness, might be a little much for Aziraphale right now.

So he keeps his tone light, as he carefully stirs his tea.]

What's that old human saying? Practice makes perfect.

[It isn't dismissing the moment with a joke, because there's truth behind the words, but it's the sort of thing that doesn't require a response, and most important, it doesn't need to weigh either of them down with more emotion.]

[ If Aziraphale can ever convey to Crowley even half of how much he loves him, make him feel even a fraction as-- as cared for as Crowley makes him feel-- oh, it would be no small feat, that. He's not certain it's possible from a mathematical standpoint.

He'll do better. Learn to do better. Won't worry him like this again if he can help it, won't make himself into some relational liability that needs to always be watched for.

No, he'll just settle himself into his usual side of this bed like he normally would. Try to focus on smoothing the blankets out. Act like he's not buzzing with the desire to be physically touching Crowley again.

Well. That last bit is at least a little bit normal. ]

Doesn't it just. [ Warmth creeps into his tone despite everything else. The proof is in the pudding and all that. ] They always have had a way with words.

[The warmth is counted as a considerable win; he's doing a great job at being a comforting presence, which is really all he wants to do in this moment.]

That's why you like 'em so much.

[It would be an effortless miracle to move the tea over to the bedside tables, but Crowley does it the proper way, instead, carrying the two mugs over to the bed, offering one to Aziraphale.]

Here you are, love.

[He'll wait until Aziraphale has taken the mug to set his own down so he can climb into bed. His clothes change as he does, shifting to the set of black silk pajamas that he prefers.

It's still something to get used to, the domesticity of an act like this. In a way, it's trickier than the sex, if only because he doesn't have the bandwidth for existential crises, during sex. The quiet, simple moments are just that, quiet, and it leaves room for him to mull over how much it feels like this isn't something he ought to be allowed to have.

But here they are, tucked into bed, with Crowley moving close enough to hook a leg over Aziraphale's, just for a solid point of contact.]

[ There are infinite endearments in infinite combinations across infinite dimensions and realities and languages, in the whole of creation in all forms that it takes.

Aziraphale thinks his favorite is when Crowley calls him love. But that's between him and-- himself, he supposes. No one is listening if no one is watching.

He can worry about that again another time. He can worry about things like consequences and eye contact later, too. Right now he has physical affection and a warm mug. His tea tastes exactly the way it's supposed to taste. Crowley is Crowley. Things are quiet again. Nobody needs to be any more vulnerable than they want to anymore. It's grounding. Tethering.

The tight knotted thing in his chest starts to relent. Aziraphale can't imagine having the energy to give it the reins again in any case. ]

I always liked you better. [ Water is wet, grass is green, etc. ]

[If he's being honest, the tea he made himself is mostly for show, so that Aziraphale didn't have to feel weird or — whatever about sitting in bed drinking tea while Crowley twiddled his thumbs. So he picks up his mug to warm his hands, pretending not to be watching Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye.

He isn't really worried there's going to be another breakdown, he's just trying to get an overall gauge on how he's doing.]

I should hope so, it'd be a bit odd if you spent so much time around someone you didn't like.

[If Aziraphale didn't like him, if he preferred humans, he could have spent the last several millennia entirely in their company, not seeking out Crowley as often as he safely could.

The easy acceptance of the words doesn't mean they don't have his heart all twisted up pleasantly, but now isn't the time for him to get all sappy.]

'Specially since I always liked you better, too.

[ It's always nice to hear that he's been Crowley's comparative favorite. He'd have known that without saying, he thinks. Crowley always had a way of making it clear.

Maybe it's selfish that he wanted to hear exactly that even though he already knows it, but Aziraphale doubts that Crowley would begrudge him. Hopes that he wouldn't, anyway. That there isn't a list of things he's resented having to give hanging over their heads, just waiting to hit the limit.

(But it still is something he wanted to hear right now. The worry can't outweigh the gratitude. They've both spent more than enough time having to keep unpleasant company. It's nice to know that when they've had the option, he's a contender.) ]

I had my suspicions. [ He shifts his mug to one hand long enough to give Crowley's leg a quick squeeze. ] But thank you.

[ If he didn't want to be thanked he should have reconsidered the moratorium on verbalizing apologies. ]

[All things considered, Crowley will accept the thank you with only a small grumble and fond roll of his eyes, rather than actually arguing about it. There are times when a little back and forth is called for and can even be fun, he just doubts that now is one of those times.]

'Course.

[Like it's easy. Like none of this makes him all squirmy and uncertain, though not necessarily in a bad way, just an unfamiliar one.

He can squash all that down for the moment.]

You can — call me, you know? Or whatever. If things ever get a bit much again.

[Crowley came anyway, because he knew something was wrong, but he still needs to put the offer out there, so that Aziraphale understands he wants to be there for him.]

[ Aziraphale hesitates. It's the tell-tale hesitation of trying to figure out how to thread the needle he wants threaded. The space between very real, fluttery gratitude and abject embarrassment.

He already admitted that this helped, which was a relief in itself because he hadn't had much idea of what would. In the moment. It's just. ]

I'll, um. I'll remember that, yes. Word of honor. [ See. He will remember it. Because it's very nice, and because if he says differently, Crowley might think he doesn't want him here. Or might think that when he offered the other way around, it didn't count.

So complicated. ]

I don't plan on indulging in any repeat performances, of course. So, so no need to have an active concern about that. [ That's how feelings work. If you believe. ] But you're the only one I would call in any case.

[ The only mortifying ordeal that would not outright kill him, he's fairly sure. ]

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