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neutral_omensDate: December 27, 1999
Setting: Tadfield Manor, Crowley's Room
Status: Private - John, Crowley, and Aziraphale.
Summary: Continued from here.
It was some minutes after John had fallen asleep that Aziraphale found his way to the door of Crowley's room, surprised at how quiet it was. His own room, and bed, were empty, but he knew the demon was around here.
He cracked open the door, and swung it open with only a soft creak when he heard the quiet snoring of Crowley. The light was far too bright for the room, and he darkened it as he stepped out of his shoes. "There's a dear," he murmured as he took off his own jacket, removing stains as he did so, and hung it on the back of a small desk and chair there.
He loosened the cuffs of his shirt as he walked over to the sleeping form on the bed. He was too exhausted to focus - watching a demon suffer to that extent, for love of an angel, had taken more of a toll emotionally than he had expected.
Aziraphale wished for some tea, but wished even more for Crowley. The angel sighed, looking away from the bed.
That spell was meant to be theirs. The thought haunted him. He and Crowley had straddled the line of angelic and demonic for so long, each influencing the other undeniably.
And that was before they saved each other, before they kissed.
That spell could still be used on them. Revenge had been taken for their part in the Apocalypse - Aziraphale still woke up, some nights, as much from quiet reminders of his beloved bookshop to graphic images of Crowley's skin peeling from holy water, with tears in his eyes. He wondered how it would be to be free of their respective bureaucracies, and then ran a hand over his face. It wasn't worth it now, by any stretch of the imagination, but what if something happened and Hell wanted Crowley back? Their torture roster was, in Ligur's unforgettable words, "a t'ing of beauty."
Several things comforted him as the angel undressed silently, sunk into his thoughts. Lucifer, for all his faults, had never bothered Crowley the way he had Belial, and the angel suspected he didn't even know the extent of it. He didn't want to know either.
Gabriel... Gabriel was upset, now, and needed time to himself. The archangel's love for the demon surprised and gave Aziraphale hope, and it was comforting to know that if he and Crowley should ever need something, Gabriel and Belial would help, as would John and Ellie.
Ellie. Poor love. He had questions for her, questions he needed to know the answers to but was afraid to ask. She didn't need to be alienated from another friend, not when the poor girl seemed to have so few. He couldn't begin to imagine what it must have been like for her and John alone.
The angel brushed back a few blond curls from his face, and made a soft noise of disapproval when he found his fingers wet. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and then tucked it away.
He had just begun removing his pants, shirtless, when there was a snore from the bed.
A distinctly human snore.
Aziraphale, one foot caught in his pants leg, and one on the floor, nearly toppled over. His wings popped out, easily over eight feet wide when furled and and balanced him back onto his feet He shed them and quickly miracled a long, most likely so-out-of-date-it-was-in-style nightshirt, vertically striped in just the way Crowley disliked.
He spun around, nightshirt and wings hampering him, and strode over to the bed. He stopped at the edge of it, and blinked at the two dimly lit bodies asleep there.
Crowley's dark hair and familiar sibilant breathing was a sharp contrast to the bulk of John Constantine, distinctly blond and smelling like an ashtray. They were both deep in dreams, John's arm wrapped around Crowley's shoulders and both of them in deeply suspicious proximity.
Well, deeply suspicious if one didn't know the extent of John's straightness (now coming under review) and Crowley's virginity.
Aziraphale spent exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds torn between entirely irrational jealousy (they were both completely dressed, after all) and the urge to pet both of them and leave them to it. Exhaustion tugged at him again and he reached out and brushed his fingers along Crowley's peaceful face, the gesture culminating in Aziraphale holding his hands over Crowley's eyes. "Sorry, love."
Aziraphale tucked his own beautiful, lengthy white wings away, and turned his halo up.
And up.
And up.
Bright light illuminated the two bodies on the bed, and Aziraphale tapped his foot impatiently, feeling hysterical laughter bubble up.
Their explanations would be interesting.
Setting: Tadfield Manor, Crowley's Room
Status: Private - John, Crowley, and Aziraphale.
Summary: Continued from here.
It was some minutes after John had fallen asleep that Aziraphale found his way to the door of Crowley's room, surprised at how quiet it was. His own room, and bed, were empty, but he knew the demon was around here.
He cracked open the door, and swung it open with only a soft creak when he heard the quiet snoring of Crowley. The light was far too bright for the room, and he darkened it as he stepped out of his shoes. "There's a dear," he murmured as he took off his own jacket, removing stains as he did so, and hung it on the back of a small desk and chair there.
He loosened the cuffs of his shirt as he walked over to the sleeping form on the bed. He was too exhausted to focus - watching a demon suffer to that extent, for love of an angel, had taken more of a toll emotionally than he had expected.
Aziraphale wished for some tea, but wished even more for Crowley. The angel sighed, looking away from the bed.
That spell was meant to be theirs. The thought haunted him. He and Crowley had straddled the line of angelic and demonic for so long, each influencing the other undeniably.
And that was before they saved each other, before they kissed.
That spell could still be used on them. Revenge had been taken for their part in the Apocalypse - Aziraphale still woke up, some nights, as much from quiet reminders of his beloved bookshop to graphic images of Crowley's skin peeling from holy water, with tears in his eyes. He wondered how it would be to be free of their respective bureaucracies, and then ran a hand over his face. It wasn't worth it now, by any stretch of the imagination, but what if something happened and Hell wanted Crowley back? Their torture roster was, in Ligur's unforgettable words, "a t'ing of beauty."
Several things comforted him as the angel undressed silently, sunk into his thoughts. Lucifer, for all his faults, had never bothered Crowley the way he had Belial, and the angel suspected he didn't even know the extent of it. He didn't want to know either.
Gabriel... Gabriel was upset, now, and needed time to himself. The archangel's love for the demon surprised and gave Aziraphale hope, and it was comforting to know that if he and Crowley should ever need something, Gabriel and Belial would help, as would John and Ellie.
Ellie. Poor love. He had questions for her, questions he needed to know the answers to but was afraid to ask. She didn't need to be alienated from another friend, not when the poor girl seemed to have so few. He couldn't begin to imagine what it must have been like for her and John alone.
The angel brushed back a few blond curls from his face, and made a soft noise of disapproval when he found his fingers wet. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and then tucked it away.
He had just begun removing his pants, shirtless, when there was a snore from the bed.
A distinctly human snore.
Aziraphale, one foot caught in his pants leg, and one on the floor, nearly toppled over. His wings popped out, easily over eight feet wide when furled and and balanced him back onto his feet He shed them and quickly miracled a long, most likely so-out-of-date-it-was-in-style nightshirt, vertically striped in just the way Crowley disliked.
He spun around, nightshirt and wings hampering him, and strode over to the bed. He stopped at the edge of it, and blinked at the two dimly lit bodies asleep there.
Crowley's dark hair and familiar sibilant breathing was a sharp contrast to the bulk of John Constantine, distinctly blond and smelling like an ashtray. They were both deep in dreams, John's arm wrapped around Crowley's shoulders and both of them in deeply suspicious proximity.
Well, deeply suspicious if one didn't know the extent of John's straightness (now coming under review) and Crowley's virginity.
Aziraphale spent exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds torn between entirely irrational jealousy (they were both completely dressed, after all) and the urge to pet both of them and leave them to it. Exhaustion tugged at him again and he reached out and brushed his fingers along Crowley's peaceful face, the gesture culminating in Aziraphale holding his hands over Crowley's eyes. "Sorry, love."
Aziraphale tucked his own beautiful, lengthy white wings away, and turned his halo up.
And up.
And up.
Bright light illuminated the two bodies on the bed, and Aziraphale tapped his foot impatiently, feeling hysterical laughter bubble up.
Their explanations would be interesting.
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