Anthony J. Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anguiform) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2014-11-18 11:48 pm
anguiform) wrote in bigapplesauce2014-11-18 11:48 pm
Entry tags:
finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world [closed]
The Devil hadn't wanted much with Crowley after he'd returned from dumping Aziraphale back at his bookshop. That, apparently, had merely been to reinforce the terms of their agreement; Crowley did what Lucifer said, and Aziraphale might get strung up and horribly tortured, but he'd be alive at the end of it. He'd had no immediate tasks that He wanted Crowley for, and, satisfied that Crowley had got the message (he had), He'd buggered off. Crowley had cranked up the heat as high as it would go, and crawled into bed to pass out, feeling more miserable than he had in centuries.
He wakes up a day and a half later, according to the fancy digital clock on his nightstand, and he still feels cold.
His flat is a wreck. Crowley spends a moment simply standing in his living room, gazing at what had once been a row of almost obscenely verdant plants, and is now a spill of shattered pottery, spilled dirt, and withered and frost-scorched stalks. One wall has scorchmarks on it, courtesy of his own infernal fires, and he feels an awful twist of guilt somewhere under his diaphragm. Crowley has never had much truck with guilt; it's bloody pointless when you're a demon, but occasionally, and more often as time has gone on, it's shouldered its way in anyway. And he shouldn't, he tells himself firmly. Aziraphale had as good as given him permission, and even if he hadn't, Crowley had saved his life, more or less; he doesn't doubt that Lucifer would simply have killed him if Crowley hadn't acquiesced to his terms.
So guilt, really, is pointless. Pointless.
It doesn't work.
Crowley goes to take a shower.
He turns the water up so hot it probably would scorch a human, but Crowley luxuriates in it, and scrubs himself pink under the spray.
He knows, of course, that he shouldn't go check on Aziraphale. The angel's fine, of course he's fine, and even if he weren't, the Devil is probably watching and the last thing Crowley needs is for Him to see him going to make sure his pet angel is all right like some kind of-- well, like whatever Crowley actually is. Aziraphale's flat and shop are both warded, and if Lucifer wants him for something and can't find him because he's behind a ward, he doesn't imagine that it'll go well for him. But he also knows that channel surfing will only entertain for so long, and so it's not at all to his own surprise that he finds himself, uncomfortably anxious, at Aziraphale's shop some few hours before noon.
There's no reason for the anxiety, he tells himself; he has never been anxious about seeing Aziraphale, but there's something twisting up his insides nevertheless as he slinks into the bookshop, the ever-present layer of dust muffling the closing of the door behind him. The angel is not in immediate evidence, and Crowley slides past the front desk towards the back room, where he suspects he's most likely to be, lifting his voice as he goes. 'Oi, Aziraphale! You here?'
He wakes up a day and a half later, according to the fancy digital clock on his nightstand, and he still feels cold.
His flat is a wreck. Crowley spends a moment simply standing in his living room, gazing at what had once been a row of almost obscenely verdant plants, and is now a spill of shattered pottery, spilled dirt, and withered and frost-scorched stalks. One wall has scorchmarks on it, courtesy of his own infernal fires, and he feels an awful twist of guilt somewhere under his diaphragm. Crowley has never had much truck with guilt; it's bloody pointless when you're a demon, but occasionally, and more often as time has gone on, it's shouldered its way in anyway. And he shouldn't, he tells himself firmly. Aziraphale had as good as given him permission, and even if he hadn't, Crowley had saved his life, more or less; he doesn't doubt that Lucifer would simply have killed him if Crowley hadn't acquiesced to his terms.
So guilt, really, is pointless. Pointless.
It doesn't work.
Crowley goes to take a shower.
He turns the water up so hot it probably would scorch a human, but Crowley luxuriates in it, and scrubs himself pink under the spray.
He knows, of course, that he shouldn't go check on Aziraphale. The angel's fine, of course he's fine, and even if he weren't, the Devil is probably watching and the last thing Crowley needs is for Him to see him going to make sure his pet angel is all right like some kind of-- well, like whatever Crowley actually is. Aziraphale's flat and shop are both warded, and if Lucifer wants him for something and can't find him because he's behind a ward, he doesn't imagine that it'll go well for him. But he also knows that channel surfing will only entertain for so long, and so it's not at all to his own surprise that he finds himself, uncomfortably anxious, at Aziraphale's shop some few hours before noon.
There's no reason for the anxiety, he tells himself; he has never been anxious about seeing Aziraphale, but there's something twisting up his insides nevertheless as he slinks into the bookshop, the ever-present layer of dust muffling the closing of the door behind him. The angel is not in immediate evidence, and Crowley slides past the front desk towards the back room, where he suspects he's most likely to be, lifting his voice as he goes. 'Oi, Aziraphale! You here?'
no subject
'Thanksss,' he hisses, when Aziraphale obliges (with some effort, it must be said), and miracles up another bottle of excellent tequila. Crowley lifts it in his direction in a faintly wobbling toast. 'G'on, angel, drink up.'
The wonderful thing about being really quite drunk, Crowley has always thought, is the way the numbness of one's tastebuds allows one to do things like chug straight spirits.
Some time later, Crowley has drunk his way well past the more or less contented state he'd been in after only one bottle and into what is more or less a choleric puddle. His legs have been thrown over Aziraphale's at some point in proceedings, and the angle at which he's slumped down against the arm of the sofa has shoved his chin into his chest. The only reason he's not frowning is because he's not sure he possesses the motor skills to actually do so at the moment.
He shifts, snakily, and prods Aziraphale somewhere in the general vicinity of the torso with his foot. 'Wha're we gonna do?' he asks, staring past the angel at nothing in particular. His voice is weighty with resignation. 'I mean... we're gonna hafta do. Do ssssomethin'. Aren't we? Like... properly. 'ventually.'
no subject
"Wha," he mumbles. "Wh. Where? R'you not comfor'ble?" He looks down at the foot that just nudged him, and rests a hand on it casually, like he doesn't know what else to do. Nice bit of snakeskin there. He moves his hand over it slowly, like one might drunkenly pet a cat.
"I can move," he offers. "Here, let's-" He tries to shift himself over, but that's not going to happen, not with the way everything is swirling and melting around him. He resettles himself, keeping his hand on Crowley's foot as if for balance.
"Ac'shly I... I don't think I can," he says with an echo of a giggle. "What's... oh. Oh. You mean about Lucifer."
Finally caught up there. He ponders it for a moment, frowning deeply, almost pouting, and then waves a hand. "Ahhhhh we'll figure it out later. S'not. S'not somethin' we can... Rome wasn't fixed in a day." Something like that. "Not sober 'nough for it now. Don't wanna be. C'mere." He couldn't get himself over to Crowley, so maybe Crowley will come to him. So stupidly far away. Silly demon.
no subject
Even if Rome wasn't fixed in a day. He frowns. 'Sssnot-- built, innit? Din't need t'be fixed. Well.' That's a philosophical point which is just not worth pursuing at this point. He waves a hand in Aziraphale's direction. 'W'ever.' As if it were the angel who had said that and not himself.
'Y'always say that, 'n, 'n 'n then'sss-- enda the world. I like the world.' On that declaration, his voice ascends into what is nearly a whinge.
Sober Crowley would scoff at what is plainly a request for cuddles, because seriously, demon, etc etc. Many-more-than-just-three sheets to the wind Crowley frowns in consideration, and tries to lever himself up out of the cushions. His legs are still thrown across Aziraphale's midsection, and the cushions just give under his hand when he tries to push off against them.
'Whoah,' he concludes, flopping back as the room rotates around a central axis somewhere just above his head. 'Don't think I can either. Your... bloody couch's ate me.'
He wriggles himself against the cushions and further across Aziraphale, prodding him again with his foot. 'Keep doing that; 'ss nicccce.'
no subject
"Crowley," he mumbles after a long gap. "Y'know I don't hold any'f it against you. Right?"
It's suddenly extremely, vitally important that he make this clear. He leans over, abandoning the foot in favor of clambering over the skinny pile of demon, jostling them both about, and then finally settling in clumsily, half beside and half on top of Crowley. This couch is certainly not built for this kind of thing, but what does that matter. Through great manifestation of will he holds himself up enough to stare intently into Crowley's lovely snaky eyes. "S'not - s'not your fault," he babbles. "I know that, I know you'd never've - if, if-"
Abruptly, talking becomes too great a bother to continue. He flops down heavily, his arm draped over Crowley's chest, his scarred, distantly stinging face pressed into the curve of his neck.
"S'okay," he murmurs.
no subject
'Nnoooo, he protests into it, batting uselessly at Aziraphale's back with a flapping hand. Only one, because his other arm is pinned beneath some part of Aziraphale. 'Don' need... f'giveness,' he mutters. 'I know, you know, we both know, 'sssnot-- doesn' matter.'
Except that his brain, sticky with liquor, is sliding inexorably down the blessed path of recollection, unhelpfully presenting Crowley with a montage of sense memories. The crunch of bones and the scorched-meat ozone smell of flesh under unnatural fire and the stupid openness of Aziraphale's eyes, giving him permission. The awful cannonball of guilt and resignation sitting heavy in his gut with the knowledge that stopping is not an option. Lucifer's eyes on him as he lazed and watched.
With his face pressed into Crowley's neck, Aziraphale can't actually see his expression, but still, Crowley doesn't trust it. He can feel his face doing something, unknown and possibly dubious. The solution is plainly to just me something less expressive.
'M'gonna,' he says, and flaps his hand again in vague illustration. Moments later, he's got no hands to flap, and Aziraphale bumps down slightly atop him as the man-shape shifts smoothly into that of a serpent.
Crowley's usual shake-shape is quite large, nearly as thick around as a man's thigh in the middle, and probably twice as long as the couch. He hisses, drawing excess coils up onto the cushions and squirming under Aziraphale's weight. He doesn't think he's ever actually been drunk in snake-shape before; it's... disconcerting.
'Tha'sss better,' he decides.
no subject
It's nice to see Crowley like this again. He hadn't realized he missed it, but... there's a pang of nostalgia, or something. Been a very long time, and though they've each had many, many shapes since the Beginning, there's something quite nice about the originals. If he could be his proper self now he would, but that wouldn't work very well for numerous reasons.
He reaches out and strokes the top of Crowley's head, his hand moving gently a short ways down the back of him. "Nice t'see the old you, dear boy." Sort of symbolic, he thinks sludgily - whatever situation they're in now, they've still got their history, they're still this, underneath, whatever it is. Oh dear. He lets himself wander with overwrought drunken care away from that mental sinkhole.
He turns onto his back, resting his head on the arm of the sofa, keeping still and slack to allow Crowley to move about as he likes. Much better this way. Now they both fit.
no subject
The room is still tilting lazily and stickily around them, and the numbness of his human extremities has translated into the strange feeling that he's shifting about inside his own skin. He can feel the scales lift, just, as he squirms against the cushions, but its weirdly muted, like he's floating. Aziraphale is pleasantly warm, though, and he hoists his coils around with a very un-snake-like lack of grace, drawing himself around Aziraphale's torso until they're a tangled heap.
'Tassste like a garden,' he mutters, a general observation to the world at large as his tongue flicks out into the air. The floral notes of Aziraphale's fancy gin are much more obvious to his vomeronasal organ than they had been to his human nose. 'Sss bloody-- 'ppropriate, that.'
'Could... eat 'im,' he suggests after some indeterminate length of time, and bares his fangs in illustration. The effect is somewhat ruined by a spray of hissing laughter seconds later.
no subject
"Don' do that," he mumbles. "Get indigg- ingid- indigestion." He laughs as well - it feels strange and good to laugh - and when it dies down he lies in comfortable silence, still petting, thinking he could let himself drift off like this and it would be all right. He wouldn't mind sleeping on purpose, he thinks, just this once.
He ventures to say something else but doesn't make it, only breathing softly. Crowley seems to be into the idea as well, resting heavily on him. Yeah, sleep. Just to extend the temporary contentment. That'd be worth it.