demonicmiracle | (longest night) ic inbox

[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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