Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Hunger

You ask if I want you, not knowing
I could swallow you whole.
As quickly as that, as complete.
I could devour you all in one gulp
and leave not a scrap behind.

Or I could go slow,
taste each bit of skin,
flick my tongue over every pore.
It would take days, weeks.
I might do them twice over,
to make sure nothing is missed.
Then cover the same ground again
but this time with small bites, nibbles,
taking my pound of flesh and more.
I could be carnivorous.

But fast or slow: yes, I want you,
beyond hunger, beyond measuring,
as a black hole wants to swallow light.
I could glut myself on you for eternity
and never be satisfied.

Chapter Text

Written for the Do It With Style: Who Needs a Great Plan? Event.

Prompt: Day 5, Locations, Park

The rumours say there’s a vampire in the park.

Some, drunk on youth and whatever else they can find, like to try and find him once the sun goes down. Some cast demure eyes up from the ground when unobserved, in fear or in a wistful romantic curiosity. Some scoff or hunt or ignore it, some roll their eyes or purse their lips. Some tell quiet stories to their children: beware, beware the dark strangers who lurk in the night, they mean you no good.

(That much, at least, is true. He never means anyone any good. It’s the whole point of him.)

The rumours say there's a vampire in the park, and for once the rumours are surprisingly in accord about what it looks like. Tall and black, slim and sharp like a sword. Angular, red-haired. That’s a good way to know him, by his unlucky hair. Judas had red hair, they say, it’s the colour for those who betray.

(He’s never betrayed anyone that he knows of, not on purpose. Except that he has, because again, that’s the whole point of him. It’s part of his definition. But is it really a betrayal if you make a deal, if you set out options, if you offer a choice? It’s not his fault if they choose wrong. It’s not his fault that he chose wrong.)

The rumours say there’s a vampire in the park, and this much is true: a dark man-shaped being lurks there sometimes at night, when the moon is behind the clouds and there are more shadows to slip between. Shadows don’t trouble him and he doesn’t trouble them. The footpads and cutpurses and honeytraps leave him be, or if they don’t they have a story to tell the next day, a brief tale of a flash of fangs or a glint on yellow eyes or a smile like a knife. The drunkards have tales of someone who, when you throw a punch at him, turns into mist or bats or what have you, some unbelievable explanation for why they can never land anything on him.

But the quiet ones who watch, who knows best how to distinguish between what harms and what will pass you by, they never see a vampire. They see only a figure who walks around through the park in the night. Who avoids the paths. Who carries a small bag of seed in his pocket and feeds what ducks are still awake by the light of the stars. And they see how sometimes he looks up at the sky, his head tilted back in a challenge.

The rumours say there’s a vampire in the park, and perhaps they aren’t wrong, because something walks there, and he knows what it is to snarl and bite. He knows about seduction and appetite.

(The rumours don’t know that what he hungers for are answers, even as he knows where are no satisfying answers to be found, not above or below or in the spaces between. Knowing it never stops him asking. The rumours don’t know that nothing bites like questions, not even vampires.)

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Transcript:

Crowleystick: DUCKS!
Azirastick: Pardon?
Crowleystick: They're what water slides off of.
Azirastick: But...he's sliding on the water.
Crowleystick: So...water slides off a duck, unless...
Azirastick: Unless you're in a waterpark, in which case...
Crowleystick: In which case the duck slides on the water instead?
Duck: QUAAAAAAAAACKKKK!!!! (translation: WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!)

Chapter Text

He fiddles with the chain of his pocketwatch, anxious fingers twisting gold links, smooth metal catching against the calloused thumb. My eyes follow the chain to the small pocket, and further, to the neat row of buttons lining his waistcoat.

I don’t hear what he’s saying anymore because I can only see buttons, covered in loved but worn, thinning fabric, perfectly tidy and in place. I bite the back of my tongue hard to keep from reaching out and snapping one off, throwing it against the wall, eating it, anything to ruin that tired, perfect line. It doesn’t matter what he says because it’s all more buttons to keep things closed in and locked up.

His fingertips still twist the chain and I bite the inside of my cheek now to keep myself from ripping it from his grasp, tearing it off, leaving holes in his neatness. So I won’t shout at him to just let something be a mess, you’re so tired, for once in your blessed life can you please just let things be imperfect for ten damned minutes and say something that has no buttons on it.

Chapter Text

Prompt: Establish the status quo

Aziraphale was not overly fond of balls. He liked people, and enjoyed watching them enjoy themselves. He loved watching them dance, the graceful movements and the flow of fabric. He adored the music. But balls were inevitably crowded and really rather hot, and the food was never as pleasant as it would be less chaotic circumstances. Though the wine, it must be admitted, was first rate; Mrs. Rivenhall would hever have permitted anything else.

“Do you not dance, Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale jumped slightly, recapturing his wandering attention and returning it to his companion, a voluable stout woman named Lady Blackmarsh. “No.” He tugged a little fretfully at his shirt cuffs, elegant trimmed with lace. “No, I’m afraid I have no gift for dancing, none at all. Two left feet, you know.”

“They seem like normal enough feet to me. You should dance. I like to see young people dancing.”

He smiled, for Lady Blackmarsh was nearly seventy and took great glee in calling everyone a young person. “I am hardly that, dear lady.”

“Younger than me!” she cackled, looking back at the dance floor.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered, and he twisted the gold ring on his pinky finger. Another reason he was uncomfortable at balls: it was astonishing how much more isolated one could feel in a crowd, as opposed to when one was actually alone.

Another gentleman joined them, smiling benevolently. Lieutenant Beaumont? Something like that, there were so many that even an angelic brain couldn’t keep all the people straight, although the Almack’s dames never seemed to have any difficulty. “I marvel at your daring, Mr. Fell, truly I do. I would not dare to drink red wine while dressed all in white, for fear of marring my ensemble and forever earning my tailor’s wrath.”

Aziraphale flushed slightly, but this time with some pleasure. He did so like his outfit. Predominantly white, of course, with touches of cream and ivory and palest blue. His tailor had at first doubted the wistom of such sartorial inclinations, but had risen to the challenge, and both now enjoyed a certain cachet because of the eccentricity. “It only requires a little caution, Lieutenant--”

“Oh!” A young beauty darted into their company, flashed them all quick nervous glances, curtsied. “Oh, Mr. Fell, will you not oblige me?”

Aziraphale frowned, perplexed, and took the young lady--Marianne, daughter of Mrs. ...Mrs. Someone Or Another--a little to the side. “I will certainly assist you if I can, my dear, but whatever is the matter?”

Marianne’s voice was a low, moritifed whisper. “Please, Mr. Fell, please, I do beg you to dance with me. I know you do not as a rule, but if I am seen in your company Mama cannot object, and I am most desperate to avoid--” She took a sudden breath, her eyes darting around almost fearfully. “To avoid a certain someone.”

Aziraphale laid a hand over hers, smiling his most gentle smile. “Far be it from me to refuse a damsel in distress, my dear. Though even if you thank me I think your toes may not, afterwards.”

Prompt: Disrupt it.

Aziraphale looked down at his wine glass, uncomfortably aware that all eyes. “Yes, it is true I have a bookshop. I am very fond of it. And in truth, although I have always...ah, always had all I need in terms of wealth and status, I feel it is foolish to look down on those who make their fortunes through trade. Why should they not? What virtue is there in merely inheriting wealth, unearned and unmerited?”

“That is just what I think!” said Marianne, with enough spirit that her mother coughed in a quelling manner, which the girl entirely ignored. The color was high in her cheeks. “I do not look down on those who must work for their livings. It is at least honest! What I despise is those who prey on others, and make their living that way.”

Aziraphale swallowed, not knowing if that sally was directed at the banker (who thankfully looked oblivious and bored) sitting by Marianne’s side, or at Crowley. Crowley seemed to have no such doubts and leaned forward, smiling enigmatically. “That, I take it is meant for me? But you misunderstand, dear child. I am not the predator; I merely provide a venue for others to prey on each other.”

Marianne’s eyes flashed. “It is the same!”

Crowley’s eyebrow rose. “Is it? In my life--and I assure you that has been longer than you may believe--I have found that people will feed on each other’s weaknesses no matter what one does. Very little external effort is needed.”

“I have always found the overall bent of human nature to be towards kindness,” Aziraphale said quietly, stiffly.

Crowley looked at him, her eyebrow raised even higher. There was a brief flash of gold eyes behind the dark sunglasses. “Perhaps you have a kinder nature than I do, Mr. Fell.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Chapter Text

“Oh goodness!”

“Wha?”

“I do believe I just…well…”

“What’s it, angel?”

“I hesitate to say. Bit embarrassing, really.”

“What.”

“Well. Yawned.”

“…you wot?”

“I think that’s what it was. I’m not sure. Never have done before.”

“…thassit?”

“It’s unprecedented!”

“Isn’t. I do it all the time.”

“But I never have!”

“So? Look, we’ve been here drinking for…wassit…few days…?”

“Hours, dear boy. Six of them, I believe. Maybe seven. …oh my, that is rather a lot of bottles, isn’t it…”

“How d'you talk so prissy when you’re smashed?”

“I have standards. And besides, you like it.”

“…”

“…oh dear. I really am rather sozzled, aren’t I.”

“S'true, though. I really do.”

“Crowley.”

“The point is, get that much alcohol into you, y’end up tired. Also it’s been a hell of a week. Literally, for me. Been a heaven of a week for you.”

“I’ve never found drinking soporific before.”

“Never saved the world from ending before either.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“After six thousand years of work you’re well overdue for a bit of a kip, I’d say.”

“But I don’t need sleep. I’m an angel.”

“Who said anything about needing it? S’bloody good fun, sleep is. Get over here and I’ll teach you the basics of yawning.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard. Over here now.”

“I hardly think yawning is a matter that requires instruction.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a novice.”

“…”

“…”

“Why do I need to be over here for this?”

“Ehhh…s’better close up. Observing your technique n’all.”

“I remain unconvinced.”

“No, mean it. Here, let me show you—“

“Why do you have your hand on my chin?”

“…d’ye mind?”

“Oh. Well. …no, as it happens.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…I don’t think this counts as yawning…”

“…sss…close enough…”

“Mm—“

“…”

“…”

“…ah, bugger…”

“What was that?”

“Knocked over one of the blessed wine bottles.”

“We might want to do something about all those before we continue this…lesson.”

“Lesson, is that what we’re calling it—“

“May I remind you that you started it?”

“’ll finish it too, get back over here…mmnhh…”

“Mm—lovely as this is, my darling, I really do think we should stop and clean up a little first. And perhaps sober up.”

“But you won’t need lessons then, won’t be tired anymore ‘f you’re sober.”

“Maybe not, but I shall still need you, my dear.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Cleaning up first, dearest. And then…well, I may or may not need lessons in yawning, but I think we can undoubtedly teach each other a thing or two about beds.”

Chapter Text

They sat sprawled against each other on the couch. Crowley was his usual tangle of limbs, resembling nothing so much as a deconstructed mobius strip. Aziraphale was actually slouching. They were less drunk than they had been several hours ago, when they had been very drunk indeed.

There had been a point, Aziraphale vaguely remembered, when they’d both decided they’d had enough for the moment. It hadn’t been said, just silently agreed upon. It usually happened that way when they drank like this. They’d drink and converse and enjoy each other’s company (what a relief it was to be able to think that at last!), and then eventually there’d be an I’d best be popping off, you know how it is, bad deeds to do or well this has been lovely but I really must be getting on with things, you’ll see yourself out, won’t you? Making excuses, one or the other of them, because they weren’t supposed to be meeting like this at all.

They seemed to have left out that part, this time. There was the drinking and conversing and, oh yes, the enjoying each other’s company. The smiles had been that much brighter, the laughter that much more unrestrained, the gazes openly fond.

And now the sun was rising, the dawn light finding them both still there. Sprawled against each other on Aziraphale’s couch, on the morning of the second day of the rest of their lives.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever feeling so completely, transcendently happy, even if his head was aching and his mouth tasted as though he’d licked the carpet clean.

Crowley made a ludicrous snorting sound of some kind (Aziraphale’s heart positively ached with affection at how undignified it was) and pushed himself up into something a bit more like a proper sitting position. “I ‘spose-–”

His voice sounded easy enough, but the words were slow and reluctant, dragged out, which made it all the easier for Aziraphale to interrupt. “The thing is-–”

But he stopped too, they both did. Aziraphale sat up straight, automatically adjusted his waistcoat.

“The thing is?” Crowley asked, leaning back. Looking as though he’d be content to just stay there picking up lost threads of thought from the night before, and no matter that the sunrise was throwing lines of golden light across them. No matter that he’d been about to offer the same sort of excuse he always offered and take his leave. As he did, as they both did.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale said again. The slowness wasn’t because the words were difficult. It was because they were so astonishingly easy to say. “The thing is, I don’t really want you to go.”

There was a long moment of silence in which they both just looked at each other in silent, perfect understanding. Dust motes danced and gleamed in the pale gold air between them.

“I ‘spose,” Crowley said, the edge of his mouth suggesting a smile to come. “I could stick around for a while longer. Not got much planned yet, after all.”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale agreed, his eyes hopeful. “And it looks like it will be a lovely day.”

“Mm. Could do with some coffee. A croissant, maybe.”

“Oh, I know just the place-–”

For the first time they left the bookshop at the same time in the light of the morning.