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He who burn into the lightbulb
It wasn’t supposed to go like that. He was working on this for a fucking good number of years, and it happened now? Curse the angel, for they make all his effort irrelevant.
Yesterday still he was wondering if it should be at the Ritz but not as usual, with a lil’ thing added. Almost called that boy, Hugh, that somehow is their waiter every. single. time. Crowley did not miss how pretty the man was, or how red his “gorgeous” hair was. Thought it was a sign*.
* Did hurt him a bit as well. The poor Hugh may have suffered a good amount of curses in the last year. And he's been working at the Ritz for two. But Crowley have only know his name for eight month : at some point, Aziraphale's multifarious comments had made an effect and anyway, you do need a name for traditional mid-HurtingBalls level whammies. The troubles started by half his sock missing; the most recent mésaventure is any beans' beverages tasting awful, which did vexes grandly his latest date and their home-made italian morning coffee. Lately, the boy is thinking about paying for a energy cleansing.
Or at the pond. He would have trained a duck (he do love these idiots, they’re very competent birds), to bring a letter or a necklace. Not a ring, he wasn’t much of a wedding’ guy*. Neither was Aziraphale right? Sure there the idea of all that delicious food but the grooms can’t really eat it so the angel wouldn’t be a fan of that. Plus, demon can’t walk on sacred ground and who would witness the whole things anyway? And the sacred vows… Well they already kind of respect them.
* he also wasn't sure about how and when humans did it and if it could apply to them. Does a six thousand years of weird "situation-ship of enemies to friends to EehSometing that obviously includes love but which kind for fucks sake" is equal to two stranger merely dating for twenty-eight months ? Does nowadays lovers count their times like parents do for their infants? Did he watch that french show of strangers getting married for nothin'? No. He really couldn't do the marriage things erck.
No, he just wanted a… special moment, scenery, something! To put the angel in the mood, fluster the cheeks and see the smile one last time. Aziraphale always loved a good intention.
But he entered the shop and they were sitting. With their thumb in the mouth (anxious chewing he can guess) and a book open in the other hand - to change. No prob’, already endured much worse.
Well usually ‘cause lately, he hadn’t so much of a handle on his pent-up emotions. Weird. Aberrant even. Blamed the two naive fools; that damn fly and whatever Gabriel allegedly is. Making him hope and all that. Acting all whacko and shit.
Still, Crowley only flinched a bit before walking just fine, nonchalant as always, The lil cat walk who, needless to say, promptly make his angel stare. Love that don’t we? Yes, we do, usually. But today? Seems Aziraphale was all for their so absorbing story.
Well fuck that. Freaking asshole of a bookworm. Mind yall, the demon sat right on their left. Maximazing the effect of jouncing on the teeny-tiny sofa. That will show them and their inconsiderate, stick-in-the-ass, bewildering boonie bastard act. And so they did properly look at him.
Maybe he shouldn't have; that’s when the brain melted. It wasn’t the smile, it was... well ehm so much more? It emptied him yet he felt so good, so warm, so more other four letter words. And he had to let it out.
“Fuck- Angel. Oh I adore you.”
And he does, did, will. He wasn’t lying. The moment the sentence merely leave lips, tongue, mouth, throat, body, he endured it himself. That feeling. That full emptiness. It was adoration. It’s him before the fall. It’s God. His essence itself.
He fell. He was going to.
God will run away. Abandon him behind, inverse his soul, make the fullness empty.
The world was dark, or maybe it was just his closed, so tightly close, eyes that make it like that.
“… Crowley.”
The demon only pushes the human eyelids even more close. It wasn’t natural for him, to do that. As a snake of course but also even without intent, his gaze was fixed on them all the time. Glass hiding it, a bit, to them, and to him. Not looking at the angel was contre-nature. It hurt him.
But if he looked, if he saw them then it would be real. If it’s real, it hurt. Crowley don’t think he can take hurt any more.
His cheeks burn. From the tears he supposes. Always found the whole bit of them being enfeebled, diluted holy water so funny.
Something about cries being a begging for forgiveness, about God's love, about flogging to touch it; Their love and atone, and something about Hope. (And deep-down, behind two heavy doors of denial : missing revoked privileges and affection, or the possibility of redeeming yourself.)
It’s laughable. Or bullocks as fucking hell if you asked him. That and this.This whole situation with Aziraphale. Hysterical, really.
“Oh, Crowley, your skin is too cold...”
That’s when his eyes opened. What did he say about two morons making him sopped? Effete? Never been so grateful for his sunglasses, the Crowley, 'cause if he wasn’t before now he must be wretched and sobbing. He won’t allow his angel to see the tears.
But it wasn’t tears, it was Aziraphale hands. Stroking gently, how so gently, his cheeks. Warming him; The Demon.
He always thought Aziraphale presence was the intermediate zone between him and faith. Allowing him to do good in the secure arms of pretense. But also the weird vulnerability of someone knowing and allowing them to do so. It was a double edged knife - a so well-known one, he would easily save himself from the sharp point and stay in the safe, slow, no-touch zone. It was merely fraternizing, after all.
He was wrong. Oh so wrong.
The truth is that the angel wounded him, in the core, and proceeded to twist him into another shape so that he wasn’t responding to anything any more. But to Aziraphale only.
Maybe he was one of those stupid fly killing themselves by running into lightbulbs, burning. Maybe that’s why he genuinely loved Icare back then; admired how bold he was with his desire.
Eyelid closed again. He will not burn, yet. Not gonna let the angel take him apart again. Can’t.
Crowley mumbled something, got up, shaked his head, leaves.
Or didn’t. Because Aziraphale’s hand grab his wrist. People forget how monstrous heaven’s warriors are; like the antonyms of humanity. Their voices sound immouvable and maybe they are. It’s cold too, usually, but not this one, this one’s warm, too much, alighting.
Because of Crowley demonic influence maybe. Or maybe it’s precisely Aziraphale’s voice and they choose to not make it that way.
“Oh no, you’re not leaving. Come back here.”
A whimper answer*. And his knees give up.
* Aziraphale thought they would get the usual - but still enjoyable- "Ngk". They found themself even more pleased with this outcome.
Can he sit close to God? On Their Side? Resist to the Voice? And leave Them? Did he ever?
And so he falls - on the ground. His only defiance is to look away, anywhere but there.
“Eyes on me, pretty doll.”
Angel’s voice makes him weak, always have. But not like this. He looks up, can't resist the temptation nor the order. The so avid hand take his sunglasses off, and he whines at that: at his last strand of dignity leaving but also at the light skin touch.
And at the smile.
“Pretty?”
Don’t know how they properly understand him, sounded more like a prayer, growl and cry than a four letter word*.
* partly because it’s a six letter one but also: he thought of the term ‘doll’ as he said it.
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, faking wonder yet unable to hide that little sparkle. Did one game he's oblivious of started? Apparently so.
“Don’t you like it?”
Oh, he does. Both of the terms. Not gonna say it, though.
“ ’can endure it.”
A smirk emerges; he melts, again, in a pathetic gesture. And that cheeky voice “I don’t doubt that since you adore me so much.”. Should have shut his fucking mouth, damn idiot he is. Dammed Aziraphale for being such a bastard. And dammit himself again for liking it.
The familiar hand pull him toward its owner. He’s warm all over now. And so full and so empty. No more crazy running thoughts, no more hurt, he’s safe here.
“That’s it, dear, relax.”
Didn’t have to ask. So mellow, Crowley only catch by luck whispered words: “Oh my dearest”. They stroke his back slowly as he folds his body around them. It’s warm. It burns him. It’s an ask for forgiveness, love and hope.
And, Aziraphale, they give him all.