Work Text:
"My dear, is there any reason in particular you're wearing gloves in what seems to be about 20 degrees Celsius?"
Sat a table in the back of the cafe, Anthony is furiously typing away on his laptop. Occasionally, he huffs and puffs to himself in annoyance; most notably, though, his hands are clad in thin, black gloves.
Asa lingers at his side, two to-go cups in his hands. Receiving no reply, he places one cup — espresso — next to Anthony's laptop; the other cup — tea — he sets down on the other side of the table. He takes the seat across from his husband. He waits.
After a couple sips of tea, he tries again. "Anthony?"
Anthony blinks. At last, he appears to notice his surroundings — the interruption, the coffee, Asa himself. He utters something less than savoury under his breath and straightens up, his back cracking loudly.
"Asa— hi." He smiles apologetically. "Sorry, I was—" He gestures at the laptop. "Yanno. In the zone."
Asa shakes his head fondly. "The gloves, dear?" he repeats the inquiry.
Anthony's eyes dart over to his hands and he hurries to put them in his lap, out of view. Then, perhaps because he's looking for a reason to stall, or perhaps because he's usually awfully fidgety, he reaches for the cup. He winces the moment his fingers wrap around it.
Asa, well attuned to his ticks, frowns.
"Well?" he prompts once more.
Of course, rather than respond, Anthony lifts the cup to his lips and takes an infuriatingly long sip of coffee. He makes a face — likely at the temperature of it — but powers through without a word of complaint. Definitely stalling.
.He sets the cup back down after what feels like a century. "It's nothing."
Asa merely raises his eyebrows. He knows his husband's lies when he see them.
He's right, too, of course. Anthony fidgets with his cup; Anthony glances at his laptop; Anthony, finally, slams it shut with a frustrated sigh.
Without being asked to explain, he speaks, so softly that Asa barely catches the words, "I'm trying not to bloody shed everywhere."
"I'm sorry, did you say shed?"
Anthony groans. In lieu of responding, he pulls one glove off and lifts his hand to show it to Asa. Asa gets just enough time to see that Anthony is in fact shedding — there are little white patches on his hands where the skin is coming off in thin flakes; not enough to be strictly alarming, but certainly enough to be noticeable.
"Oh," Asa says softly. Anthony hurriedly puts the glove back on.
"It's fine," he insists. "I just don't wanna— leave flakes everywhere."
"Is it very uncomfortable?"
Anthony shrugs and sniffs. He stares pointedly into his coffee.
"Anthony."
An annoyed huff. "Itches. Hurts a bit, but." A humorless laugh. "That’s probably unrelated to the shedding."
"Shedding— you're not a snake."
"Might as well be. At least then I’d know it’s gonna stop eventually."
Asa shakes his head. He considers his husband carefully over his cup of tea. "You need a break, you ridiculous man," he decides. "And some hand cream. How about we head home, stop by a pharmacy on the way and then go for a nice walk? Give your hands a rest, use your legs for once."
Anthony opens his mouth and Asa knows exactly what's about to come out of it — objections and complaints, as usual — so, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, he adds, "I've been really craving some ice cream lately…"
It works like a charm. Anthony's whole body deflates and he immediately relents, nods. "Fine, angel. We'll go get you some ice cream."
Asa should perhaps feel a little bit bad about this tiny spot of manipulation, but truth be told, he doesn't. He is always in the mood for ice cream, after all — and if that benefits Anthony's health, too, well… there's hardly any harm in it, is there?
Anthony stares at a blank page.
He knows what he's supposed to write about — his notes are scattered all over his desk, nebulas and theories on the origin of the Universe and calculations and star maps and outlines and—
But. Where to even begin? How to convey the size and the wonder and the science of the entire Universe with something as simple as words? He doesn't have the language for it, certainly not one that isn't the language of maths.
He rearranges the printouts in front of him. Then rearranges them another time. He scrolls up a page to where the title of his eventual book is, written in BIG BOLD letters — ASTROPHYSICS FOR EVERYONE. Stares at those letters for a minute or two. Scrolls back down to the empty page. Tries typing a sentence, two sentences, a mathematical equation; the letters swim in front of his eyes as they often do. Is that a d he typed in there, or a p? He rubs at his eyes.
What a terrible idea, he thinks. A book, I mean, really? Takes him ages to write even a single scientific article; the writing bit of science is how he nearly failed most of his degrees, no matter how brilliant he supposedly is.
A book.
He slams his laptop shut with a frustrated hiss, not having written even a single page. The deadline looms heavy in front of him. He needs a drink.
"Darling, it's getting late. Are you still working?"
Anthony, lit only by the moonlight and the dim glow of his laptop screen, continues to type away for a few more seconds. Asa waits, hovering in the doorway. Lately, he's had to get used to this sight — his husband, always click-clacking away, stubbornly refusing to do anything else but keep working on what will, eventually, become his second book, for now tentatively titled Astrophysics is (Really) For Everyone.
Asa tries to be supportive. Asa is also growing increasingly worried.
The noise of the computer keys fades away. "Yeah, thought I'd get a couple hundred words more tonight." Anthony glances over his shoulder at him. "Heading to bed already, angel?"
"It's almost two," Asa points out gently. "You've been at it for hours."
Anthony shrugs. "Good day for writing. I won't be long, okay?"
Asa considers arguing, but decides not to. He's tired — and so must be Anthony. Like this, overworked and stressed, he's vulnerable and likely not to take well to even the gentlest of criticisms. Or show of care, for that matter. Asa watches him for another moment; Anthony's returned to typing the moment silence fell between.
Asa dithers in the hallway, torn between heading to bed, on his own — something that happens rarely, these days — or idling about some more, with the hope Anthony would join him soon.
Unable to decide, he heads to the kitchen. These things are best approached with a cup of tea and maybe by the time Asa has some prepared, Anthony will be ready to rest. And if not, well, a cup of tea is never a waste, in Asa's opinion.
About fifteen minutes later, he returns to the study with two mugs in hand. Anthony is still in there, still click-clacking away. Asa huffs fondly. He sets his mug on a nearby bookshelf and approaches the desk.
"Anthony?" he says softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I made you tea."
Anthony looks up at him blearily. He flexes his hands a couple of times and then rests them against the edge of the desk. Flexes them again. "Angel. Why are you still up?"
"Making sure you stay hydrated, you menace," Asa responds, holding out a black mug. "Here. It's hot, so do be careful."
Anthony huffs. He considers the mug for a moment, then pushes himself away from the desk, twisting his chair so that he's facing Asa. "I know how to handle a mug—" he begins and comes to regret the words in the two minutes that follow. As he takes a hold of the mug, he winces, his hand suddenly cramping up. The mug slips his hold.
Asa doesn't have enough time to react properly. He jumps back as the mug tumbles to the ground, immediately shattering into several pieces and spilling hot tea everywhere. An idle thought passes his mind that at least it all lands on the floor, rather than Anthony's sleek laptop.
"Mangled bollocks," Anthony hisses under his breath, grabbing at his own hand and staring at the puddle underneath his feet. "Shit."
"Oh—" Asa's gaze flickers between the carnage and his husband. "Dear, are you— what happened?"
"Nothing, it's— nothing," Anthony grunts. He's still holding onto his own hand, even as he gets up from the chair. He curses under his breath as he steps into the tea, liquid seeping into his sock. "Shit. Sodding— shit."
"I'll go get a towel—"
"Don't bother," Anthony mutters, hopping from one foot to another through the puddle. "Just— I'll deal with it."
"Anthony, really—"
"Just let me handle it!" Anthony snaps. When their eyes meet, Anthony's pupils flared in frustration, Asa finds himself taking a step back. He's never liked this look on Anthony; anger doesn't suit him. "Shit. Sorry," Anthony corrects immediately, turning his gaze away. "Just. Shit. Go to bed, Asa," he adds, a little desperately.
Asa wants to argue. He wants to tell Anthony that he's clearly exhausted and in pain and really, he should just sit down and let Asa clean it all up before he hurts himself more. But there's something in Anthony's expression that tells him this is not a fight he'd win right now and he, too, is tired.
He relents. "Okay," he says with a nod. Careful not to step on the pieces of the shattered mug, he walks across the room. Picks up his own, previously abandoned, tea. "Just… come to bed when you're done, will you?"
Anthony doesn't respond. Asa doesn't try to ask him again.
(Later, when Anthony gets into bed at last, Asa still awake, they don't talk about it. But Anthony does press apologetic kisses to Asa's stomach, burrowing himself as close as he possibly can.)
Anthony's hands are, honest to Someone, trembling. His hands don't tremble, as a general rule. He's fidgety and often hopped up on too much coffee or hungover or, plain and simple, anxious, but his hands, decidedly, do not tremble. He is, under no circumstances, a type of person whose hands tremble. He's done conference talks and lectures and, hell, even one or two radio and TV interviews and, sure, one of his foot is always tapping away to some unheard rhythm, but that's fine. That's different. That is not trembling hands.
This, though? He's sitting in front of his bloody laptop, staring at his bloody inbox and his hands won't stop moving.
He swallows. This is stupid. Get yourself together, Dr Crowley, you daft bastard. It's just a stupid email.
After what is far too long of a time, he forces himself to open it. His editor, as usual, starts off with some cheerful encouragement, notes on deadlines, blah blah blah. Anthony already knows he's running out of time, that he's too late. He's always too late.
He scrolls past all the flowery bullshit to the bit that actually interests him, an attachment titled CrowleyA_AstrophysicsForEveryone_v1_Edited. He downloads and opens it.
It's the damned Red Sea in there. Words crossed out or underlined, whole sections marked with long comments that either explain how what Anthony is saying is a bunch of unscientific crap or, somehow worse, just lines of question marks. The bits that Anthony's editor can't comprehend, much less the rest of Anthony's audience of supposedly casual enthusiasts.
Anthony stares at it for a while. When he gets up, when he goes to grab a bottle of whiskey, his hands are still trembling. They continue to tremble thorough the entirety of the editing process.
"Mingy bloody buggered arse— blast it all to— absolute mind boggling wanker of a—"
Asa has just settled in to read when a long string of increasingly creative curses comes floating in from another room. It's immediately followed by far more understandable words, "Asa! What in the ever loving hell is this about?"
Asa lets out a long sigh. In no hurry at all, he slides a bookmark in between the pages of his book and gets up. He already knows what to expect when he walks into the study.
The scene in front of him is as he suspected — Anthony is standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and glaring at his desk. On his desk: a large bottle of Extra Sensitive Hand Cream For Ultra Dry Skin (Fragrance-Free); a cup of water (also extra large; as well as fragrance-free); and a sheet of paper that Asa knows is a print out with a variety of hand stretches and exercises for writers. Notably — no laptop anywhere in sight.
When Asa stops in the doorway, Anthony directs his glare towards him.
"Care to explain?"
Asa crosses his arms as well. "I think it rather speaks for itself, does it not?" he says primly.
Anthony narrows his eyes. "Where's my laptop?"
"Somewhere out of your reach, dear," Asa says, trying to sound patient. "Did you care to take a look at the print out I provided you with?"
Anthony barks a humourless laugh. "What is this, an intervention?"
"Maybe so."
"And the water. Really?"
"You are most certainly dehydrated, which I'm sure is not helping your hands." The way Anthony is standing, Asa can't see his hands — but he knows, for a fact, that they're likely as dry as ever.
"This is ridiculous." Anthony tilts his head back and groans dramatically. "You're being ridiculous. Where'd you put my laptop?"
“Would you have taken a break if I hadn’t hidden it?” Asa counters.
Anthony shoots him an annoyed look, but doesn't respond which in itself is more than enough of an answer. He begins to pace — opening cabinets, pulling out drawers, peering closely at the shelves — all clearly in the hopes of finding his laptop somewhere. He grows more and more agitated by the minute, before finally turning back to Asa. He stalks closer to him.
"This isn't funny, Fell," he practically hisses. Asa feels his mouth twitch at the use of his last name. "Where. Is. It."
"You need to quit abusing your hands, Crowley," he responds. "I'll gladly give it back when I know you're not going to spend the next God knows how many hours pushing through pain just to write one more page."
Anthony exhales through his nose. He comes even closer, until he's all up in Asa's face. Even like this, Asa can see, out of the corner of his eyes, that Anthony is continuously flexing his hands at his sides. "I'm fine," he huffs, despite evidence to the contrary. "And I don't you need to be babysitting me."
"Say that to me once more when you aren't acting like a baby, Anthony."
"You are absolutely infuriating!" Anthony snaps. It looks as though he has more to say, but he doesn't. Instead, he shoves Asa out of the way and disappears into the other end of the house.
The moment he's out of the room, Asa feels air escape his lungs. He slumps a little, arms falling to his sides. He rubs at his forehead. He hadn't meant to rile Anthony up quite this much, but what else was there for him to do? The man's always been too stubborn for his own good.
Still. Asa cannot help but worry.
Anthony walks into Asa's bedroom and immediately freezes, taken aback by the sight in front of him.
Because there is Asa, sitting on the bed with the sheets piled up over his legs, dressed in his silly old fashioned pyjamas and with equally silly little round reading glasses perched at the top of his nose. There is Asa, holding what appears to be—
"Is that… my book?"
Asa notices his presence then. He smiles, lifting the glasses off his face and looking up at Anthony.
"Ah. Yes," he says, carefully slotting a bookmark in between the pages. He seems to be only half a chapter in. Maybe he hasn't even gotten through the introduction. "I've been trying to read it in my spare time."
Anthony snorts. He's hovering by the doorway, eyeing the book warily. "Really," he mutters. "I thought you'd have tossed it into the back of your closet by now. Or into the bin."
"Anthony," Asa admonishes softly with just his name alone. "Why would I ever do such a thing? You wrote it."
Anthony shrugs lamely. He swallows around the words coming up his throat like bile, something like well, angel, love of my life, it's because it's all rubbish and gibberish and, really, just a load of absolute trite. The way Asa is looking at him, he doesn't think he'd take kindly to any of it.
"You're not an astrophysicist," he mumbles instead, at last forcing his legs to cooperate so that he can join Asa in bed.
"And I believe this states—" Asa turns the book around to look at the back cover. "—that it should be suitable for everyone, including those unfamiliar with the subject. Which would be me!" he says brightly.
Right. That was supposed to be the point of it, wasn't it? Astrophysics for Everyone. Anthony had the title long before he had anything else in it. And yet, well…
Anthony glares at the book. He crawls under the covers, then slides down until he's mostly hidden in the sheets, just his nose and eyes poking out.
He doesn't quite look at Asa as he asks, quietly, "And how is it?"
There's a pause. Asa is actually thinking about the question which, if you ask Anthony, is Not Good. If anything, it means Asa is trying to find a way to let him down gently.
"It's… I will admit that I am finding it a bit difficult to wrap my head around it all," he says, giving Anthony what can only be described as a reassuring smile. "Though I suppose that's on me, rather than the quality of your writing."
Anthony snorts. He pulls the blanket up so that it covers his face entirely. "No, it's definitely the writing."
"Anthony—"
Anthony inhales. He doesn't come out from under the covers, but he does turn his head so that his nose is pressing into Asa's side. He cuts him off before he decides to go on some sort of complimentary tirade, "Which bit is confusing you? Maybe I can explain."
"Oh, would you?"
"'course, angel. Any time."
Asa stands in the garage doorway silently, two mugs of cocoa in his hands. From where he stands, Anthony cannot see him and as long as Asa doesn't move a muscle nor make a sound, he'll remain oblivious to his presence. And so Asa watches.
Anthony is sitting on a cardboard box, a copy of his book in hand. The box Asa recognizes as storing half of the remaining copies of the book; the other box — the other half of the collection — is on its side, pried open and with its contents spread out on the floor in front of it like a sandcastle kicked over by a roaring wind. The sight of it makes Asa's heart throb painfully — he can picture it clearly, Anthony storming into the garage, kicking it over, then picking one of the books up before collapsing onto the other box.
Not wanting to leave Anthony alone with his thoughts for much longer, Asa steps into the garage. Anthony notices immediately — he tenses up and rushes to rub at his eyes, discreetly wiping away tears. Asa knows better than to bring any attention to it.
"I brought you cocoa," he says gently.
Anthony snorts and sniffs. "Shouldn’t have."
"Why, because you’re in an atrocious mood?" Asa asks, but his tone stays the same as it was. "That’s precisely why you need it, if you ask me."
"That’s just a polite way of saying I was being a prick," Anthony mumbles.
"And I’ll gladly bring you cocoa even while you’re being a prick." Asa comes closer and hands one of the mugs to Anthony. He sets the other one on a nearby shelf. "Besides, I believe so was I."
Asa crouches down and begins the painstaking process of collecting the discarded books. He sits the box upright, then gingerly picks up each of the book off the floor. He sets them, one by one, back where they belong, smoothing out any errant crinkles as he goes.
"You were trying to help." Anthony shrugs. His hands are wrapped tightly around the mug, the book now flat in his lap. Asa wonders if the heat is soothing.
"In a way that was clearly causing you distress," Asa responds. He gets to his feet, brushes off his trousers. Rather than sit down on the box he's just reassembled, he drags over a stool and takes a seat on it instead, right in front of Anthony.
"Well." Anthony picks Asa's mug off the shelf and hands it to him. Asa gives him a grateful smile. "Realistically, could you have gotten through to me any other way?"
"I don’t know," Asa admits. "But regardless, it did hurt you." He reaches out to place a hand on Anthony’s. "As do these. Will you talk to me, dear?"
Anthony's bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it to hide it. He won't look Asa in the eye — Asa doesn't try to force him to. He knows how difficult this must be, knows how vulnerable Anthony is feeling in this moment. There's little he can do to help it besides holding his hand and giving him space.
"There's just— nghk." Anthony shakes his head. Words don't come easily to him. "Do you know how bloody long it took me to write this— this—" He gestures with the mug at the book; the cocoa within it, obedient as always to the laws of physics, moves with enough force to splash onto the cover. Anthony snorts as he watches the liquid seep into it. "—this crap?"
"Don't call it that," Asa admonishes softly. He doesn't want to let go of Anthony's hand, but forces himself to if just put his own mug down on the floor and then reach for the book in Anthony's lap. He soaks up as much of the cocoa as he can with his sleeve, even though it's obviously a lost cause already — the brown stain will stay, no matter what he does.
Asa refuses to give up on him.
"What word would you rather I use? Rubbish? Nonsense? Drivel?"
Asa gives him a long look, carefully placing the book on top of the other box. "Book, Anthony. You wrote a book."
Anthony rolls his eyes. "Book that no one wants to read."
"Is that why you've been so—" Asa pauses, searching for the right word. "—determined?" he settles on finally, at the same time as Anthony says, "Stubborn?"
That, actually, has them both chuckling. There's a brief moment of silence as Anthony takes a slow sip of his cocoa. Asa waits — will wait — as long as he needs him to.
"Kind of," Anthony says eventually. He sniffs, eyes trained on his mug. "It's— I wanted— want to make something that, that… people can understand. That someone can point at it and go, oh yeah, now the universe makes a little bit more sense to me and maybe all this physics nonsense isn't as awful as I thought. Even if they know bugger all about maths or physics or, or, or, y'know. All that."
"And you don't think your first book achieved that."
"It didn't," Anthony says firmly. "It got shite reviews, no one was buying, you barely got through it and you're so damn clever, I mean, really. Only people who made any sense of it were my students and I'm talking about the ones who already had some physics training."
Asa hums. He doesn't try to argue — much as he wants to encourage Anthony, he doesn't think his husband needs any sugarcoating at the moment. Not when they both distinctly remember how much time Anthony has had to spend explaining passages of his book to him.
"You want to make people understand. You want to write something better, something that will let them," he states softly.
"Mhm— yeah." Anthony glances up and then away. "While I still can."
Asa softens impossibly at those words. Overwhelmed by a vast fondness for his husband, he reaches out and wraps both his hands around Anthony's. Between the warm drink in Anthony's grasp and the heat of Asa's own body, Anthony's sore hands are now completely enveloped in warmth.
"My darling, none of that means you should have to push yourself to destruction." Anthony makes a little choked up noise, his gaze not leaving their joined hands. "You are not running out of time just yet. You are allowed to take breaks. You must take breaks. And… oh, I don't know. There are ways around keyboards and such, aren't there? Text to speech, or you could even dictate it all to me, if you'd like!"
"I'm not making you do all that," Anthony mumbles. "It's—" He pries one hand from under Asa's and runs it through his hair, visibly growing frustrated all over again. "The thought that I can't just do this, myself— The universe is so bloody large and it's a miracle we're here at all and that we can think the way we do and make connections and learn about it all and— I can do bugger all with that. I mean, really, what have I achieved so far? Wrote some stupid papers and a book no one will read and if I could at least, at least, get some other— some other kid to, to take interest and continue this work, it'd be… it'd be something. But I can't. Not without some stupid program or you or, or, or—"
"Anthony."
Gently, Asa pulls the mug out of Anthony's hands. He sets it on the floor, next to his own, then turns his entire attention towards his husband. He takes his hands again — turns them around so that they're flat in his lap, palms up. He traces his fingers over the delicate skin there.
"You are…" he begins slowly, looking for the right words to settle on. "The most passionate, clever man I have ever met. You are so terribly kind and loving and I know how desperately you want to share that with others. How desperately you want to understand and help others understand. It's one of those things that I love so much about you, Anthony. And I know how frustrating it must be not to have a way to share all this knowledge and passion easily with others. I know how frustrating it must be to constantly butt up against the limitations of your own body and brain. I feel it, too, sometimes, do you know? But that's why I'm here. That's why you don't have to keep pushing yourself so much, love. Allow me to help. Do you know how happy it will make me to be able to contribute to this wonderful thing you're creating?"
It's only when Asa runs out of words, when he looks up from their hands, that he realizes Anthony is now openly crying. There are tears running down his face and he's sniffing, with no attempt being made to hide it or stop it.
"See, this is why I don't buy that you've never written a book," Anthony says, chuckling wetly. Asa shuffles even closer to him, reaching up to take his face into his hands. "You're— you've really got this way with words, angel."
Asa rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "I just read a lot, darling," he says, stroking Anthony's cheeks. "Will you let me help, you stubborn man?"
Anthony doesn't say anything, but he does nod. Asa knows it's more than he could've ever asked for.
"Okay," he says, softly but decisively, as he slowly gets to his feet. He offers Anthony his hands to help him up. "Then how about we start by getting you out of this atrocious garage?"
"Oi. Who are you to call my garage atrocious?" Anthony grumbles with no real bite to it, allowing Asa to pull him up by his hands.
"Our garage, darling, and your husband, I believe."
Anthony snorts a laugh. He rocks back and forth on the heels of his feet until his face is hovering a mere centimetres away from Asa's. Up close like this, Asa can clearly see the wetness on his cheeks, how his eyes are shimmering with even more unshed tears.
"Kiss me, then, my husband," Anthony demands, smiling despite those tears.
Asa does — as he will again, and again, and again.