#i will never be able to see another dark&mysterious glasses crowley in the same way again

[seraf-mina]

IM FUCKIGNHJN PISSING MYSELF

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Within the Circles

Good Omens Spooky/Whump fic.

This fic was written for the @tricketyboo2020 “Trick-or-Treat” prompts; @peppervl requested a scary angel/demon summoning, with the summoners wanting to hurt their captive, a rescue, and Hurt/Comfort (non-graphic and SFW). Well, I have Part 1 ready to go, but rescue and comfort are still being written! I’ll try to get out more later today!

This fic is massive (part 1 is just under 5k), so please consider reading on AO3!

Part 1: Circles of Protection

Crowley snapped awake, fighting off the dream, just as the sun rose. He could still taste the salt and smoke, still see the black candles, the silver sigils laid into the floor, still hear the careful chanting – the words changed over the centuries, but the intent always remained the same.

Someone had started the process of summoning a demon last night, and Crowley was the unlucky target.

“Bad dream?” He shook himself out of the reverie to see Aziraphale smiling down at him, reaching over to gently brush strands of bright red hair from his eyes. “You always get clingy when you have one.”

“Nh.” Crowley was pressed as close to his angel’s side as he could get, arms twined around soft stomach, one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s knees. There was a warmth emanating from him, surrounding them both, a warmth that had nothing at all to do with Hell or Earth, a warmth that could heal everything in Crowley within seconds. “Better already.” He pressed his face into the soft tartan flannel, soaking it all in.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” A little too quickly, perhaps, but Aziraphale didn’t try to pry, simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deeply, as if he enjoyed the burnt-match smell that still clung to Crowley even after all this time out of Hell.

“Alright. Get some more sleep then, darling, it’s only just after seven.”

But Crowley didn’t have time to sleep. He needed to prepare.

Was the New Moon tonight? Most likely. And it was halfway between the Harvest and Hunter moons. The night the humans would have the most power. More than Crowley could resist on his own. Hard to judge how strong they were – felt like at least three, could be more. Already he could feel their hook in his mind, tugging at him. It was just lucky his mental defenses were still intact, or else they’d have him now, bound to a circle, and the questions…

Aziraphale noticed how tense he was, rubbed a hand down his back. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. Just a dream. It’s over now.”

No, it wasn’t over. It had barely even begun.

“Angel…” he started slowly, not wanting to pull away. “I’ve got…some things to take care of today. Why don’t you head back to the shop?”

“Oh, no, I’d much rather stay with you.” There was no denying the growing concern in his voice.

“Really has to be done alone.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Now Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the back of Crowley’s shirt.

“Ngh.”

He could. Aziraphale could probably help him. Even with his defenses, Crowley would be in for a fight tonight, and there was no one else he’d rather have at his side.

Except.

Except Crowley would have to tell him. Would have to say the words out loud. Would have to admit to all that fear and pain, and see the horror he could just barely keep buried reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes and then what was he supposed to do?

No. Much better to face this alone, as he always had. He could fight this off, and after the New Moon the humans wouldn’t be able to do more than irritate him, no matter how large their group. They’d lose the trace on him in a day or two, and that would be the end of it.

Besides, Aziraphale would only worry. And fuss. And get anxious and lose his appetite, and a thousand other things Crowley had sworn to keep him safe from.

No, this was the way it had to be.

“S’nothing to worry about.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. Covering up his nerves as best he could. “Just demon stuff. I’ll call you first thing in the morning when I’m done. We can...mmm…go for a picnic?”

“It’s a bit cold for a picnic,” Aziraphale admonished, wearing his most put-upon frown. “And you know I would much rather spend the day with my husband.”

“Nh, I’m in trouble.” Crowley tried to smile, pushing himself to sit up. He felt a wave of cold the moment he moved away from Aziraphale, his mind filling with that echo of chanting, but he quickly slid beside his angel, head on his shoulder, arm around his middle. Back into the warmth. “I know you only call me husband when you’re angry at me.”

“Or when I’m angry at someone else. Do you remember that rude man in the park?”

“How could I forget?” This time his smile was almost genuine. “You made that old bigot cry. It was beautiful.”

“Well. I obviously didn’t want to use such harsh language, but there were children around. I couldn’t have them thinking his behaviour was socially acceptable.”

“My hero,” Crowley said mockingly, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it again.

“Stop trying to distract me. Why don’t I stay here and, I don’t know, make you tea? I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I just...it’s easier this way.” Another kiss. “And we do whatever you want tomorrow. Dinner? Trip to Paris? What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale pulled away a little, trying to see his face more clearly. “And...you promise it’s safe?”

There was no hiding the way Crowley hesitated, but he pushed through it quickly. “If everything goes right, worst thing that’ll happen is a sleepless night for me. No one else gets hurt, promise.” Not unless something went very, very wrong.

“I still don’t like it,” Aziraphale sighed. “But…I suppose…a nice walk in the woods? See the leaves?”

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Scarecrow competition?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “And...a maize maze? Oh, a vegetable grower’s contest! There’s one at that farmer’s market over in Oxfordshire – we can stop by Tadfield and see how everyone is. And then we can fly kits and carve pumpkins and – and have a bonfire with marshmallows—”

“We can’t do all that in a day!” The demon slumped back down with a dramatic groan, head hitting the pillows with a thud.

“You said whatever I like. And if I’m to be deprived of your company for a day, I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, rubbing his jaw. “S’Friday tomorrow anyway. We can make a weekend of it.” He’d need to recover, and a weekend out of London sounded more appealing than ever. “Just promise you’ll let me take a nap first. Then we can head over, take the kids wherever you like. I’ll even do jack-o-lanterns. Show them how to make a proper one out of a turnip.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.” Aziraphale leaned across and kissed his lips. “And if you insist on being mysterious and secretive, that just gives me an entire day to think of wonderful autumn activities for you. There will be fuzzy jumpers. Maybe a crown of leaves.”

“Bastard.” Crowley kissed him back, trying to pull in every ounce of that warmth.

He’d need it to get through the night.

--

The back room of Crowley’s flat contained his most important possessions – an eagle lectern rescued from a bombed out church, several artworks by Leonardo da Vinci, a photograph of Aziraphale, the first he’d taken when they no longer needed to keep themselves a secret.

He hadn’t meant for the room to have a theme, but all the important things in his life tended to have something in common.

He tugged open the safe that had once held his flask of Holy Water. The flask itself was long gone - Aziraphale had whisked even that away, a gruesome reminder of his greatest fear. Crowley had never considered asking for a replacement; the first had nearly cost Crowley the most precious thing in his life, and that was too high a price to pay.

Still, he wondered how Aziraphale would react if he knew about the box.

Tucked in a corner of the safe sat the simple chest of dark wood, sigils traced across the lid with little more than a hint of the silver that had once inlaid them. Still, they remained strong enough to keep the box safe, and to keep Crowley safe from it. Even picking it up made the hair prickle down his arms, his fingers tingle. It was almost too heavy to lift.

He carried it to a table in his solarium, settling it between trembling plants. They, at least, would have a relaxing day. No time to shout at them now. The lid rattled when he set it down - it had once locked securely, with a key that he carried everywhere, until an emergency caught him unprepared and Crowley had shattered the latch to get inside. He should get it replaced, probably, but in truth the only one he needed to keep out was himself.

Crowley flipped back the lid.

The inside was lined with deep red velvet, worn and torn in many places, and packed tight with rows of glass vials. Some held salt, others spices, herbs, small stones, one even had a jumble of tiny iron nails; the largest held pure black ink. A side compartment held larger stones – amethyst, agate, selenite, quartz. In another, a bundle of candles, black and white and deep violet. An Evil Eye pendant, the back carved with symbols of protection even more obscure.

Every good luck charm, every token of protection that humanity had ever devised. Everything that had ever been waved at him in fear, in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit - everything except holy symbols. Not because he feared them more (though he did), but because they wouldn’t be any help to him now.

Even without the Holy Water, Crowley could still be a danger to himself. Every object in this chest, if used properly, could harm a demon – some of them almost fatally.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes he needed to take risks to protect himself.

--

Crowley decided to make his stand in the bedroom. No windows, only one door, practically a cave, though a literal cave would have been better. He miracled out all the furniture, leaving a glass-fronted concrete cube, facing west across the solarium to the windows, then set to work scrubbing walls, floor, even ceiling until it was almost astringently clean.

Grabbing a bowl from the kitchen, he mixed salt, black pepper, cayenne and a few other ingredients, muttering words of power few humans would still remember. His fingers began to sting as he stirred them through the mixture, but that just meant it was working. Crowley carefully poured a thin line of black and white powder, moving in a clockwise circle in the center of the bedroom, being careful to leave a gap to move in and out through.

Four black candles, set at the cardinal points; four white halfway between them. Three violet, inside the circle. He wasn’t sure if those last ones did anything, but he’d never been summoned while burning them, and he wasn’t going to risk it now.

Another clockwise pass through the room, putting down incense burners – cedar, cloves, dragon’s blood, sandalwood. Even unlit, the scent of them made his lungs ache. He could feel the power building in the room, like a charge of static electricity, like lightning looking for a place to ground itself.

The vial that should have held garlic was empty. He’d used it all back in the 70s and never replaced it. Stupid. Careless. He could miracle some up, but he’d learned the hard way that anything he manifested would be useless for protection until cleansed by a witch. Book Girl would probably help if he asked, but not without asking questions and making it a whole thing. She wouldn’t be as bad as Aziraphale, but it still wouldn’t be good.

Besides, he didn’t even have time for a trip to the grocery store, never mind Tadfield.

The jar of ink, thankfully, was filled to the top. He snapped his fingers to create a paintbrush – that, at least, he could manifest safely – and set to work dabbing sigils of protection on the floor and across the walls. They were hasty, badly formed – but each one hurt, a burning flash of pain up his arm as he finished it, some of them jabbing at his heart. He couldn’t imagine what a proper sigil would do to him, so he went for quantity over quality.

Sixteen around the outside of the salt-and spices circle, eight more around the inside, and one on each wall. In between he set the stones, piles of herbs, and glass jars filled with dried flowers and less savoury items.

The protection in the air was almost palpable now, dragging across his skin, clinging to him like the heat in a sauna. It made his head spin, and he wasn’t even done.

The box was nearly empty now, just a pile of assorted good luck charms – a horseshoe, a rabbit’s foot, a stone with a hole worn through the center – and the Evil Eye amulet.

They burned when he picked them up.

Fumbling, Crowley set the last items around the innermost circle, barely leaving himself space to sit.

Every time he stepped into the solarium, it was like the shock of a cool breeze on a hot day, or the flare of a campfire on a frozen winter night. Both at the same time. A relief. The bedroom repelled him.

He leaned against the table, eyeing the empty chest, trying to think of anything he’d missed.

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

Heading to the back room one more time, Crowley made a quick call on his mobile phone.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called across the line, and a little worry unknotted almost immediately. “I’m sorry, you just missed us. We’ve been closed since August—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Crowley! How are you? Did you, er, take care of what you needed to do?”

“Nh. Finishing up now.” He grabbed what he needed and turned back, feet dragging as if he could delay the inevitable. “Few more hours. So. Um. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, of course I’m worried, you silly thing.”

“Really you don’t—” The sky burned red as the sun sank behind the buildings of Mayfair. The hook in Crowley’s mind stirred to life.

“It’s my job to worry about you, dear,” Aziraphale went on. “Why don’t you let me come down and help. I’m sure whatever it is—”

“Nuh. No chance.” He snatched up the box of matches, hand shaking so badly half of them immediately spilled onto the floor. Get it together, Crowley! “Stay wh – where you are.” 

“Crowley!” Now there was no mistaking the deep concern. “Something is wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

“I don’t believe that for a second.” A pause, while Aziraphale probably paced around the room, lips pressed together. “I...I know you have your secrets, and I’ve never pried. I won’t start tonight. But, please, just tell me...are you sure everything is alright?”

Crowley took a deep breath, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. No, he wasn’t sure. There was nothing sure about summonings. He’d be in for a fight tonight, and the smallest thing to distract him or throw off his wards could bring disaster.

He knew what he was doing, he was good at this, really. Hadn’t lost the fight in centuries. Not since 1386, when a group of seven summoners had overwhelmed all his defenses. Of course, Crowley had barely escaped them, and when he had…

No. He would not – could not – tell Aziraphale that.

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

“Honestly…no. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Crowley…”

“S’fine. M’gonna feel…” His throat closed up, and it had very little to do with the lingering scents of incense. “Feel so much better when I see you tomorrow.”

A short pause, and then a voice so soft it nearly broke Crowley on the spot: “I love you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley wiped at his eyes again. “I, uh…” Swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “I…”

A tug of power at the back of his mind, almost too subtle to feel. So strong already. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

“I gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was rough, even to his own ears. “Call you in the morning.”

He shoved the mobile into his pocket and hurried back into the bedroom, striking a match as he went, trying to keep his fingers from trembling and putting it out.

Moving clockwise around the room one last time, he carefully lit candles and incense, filling the room with thick, cloying scents. The tug on his mind weakened, but the protective charms were almost as bad, flaring across his skin like red-hot razor blades.

When everything was complete, he settled in the center of the room and poured out the last of the salt-and-spices mixture, closing the circle. At least seven layers of protection surrounded him, candles and charms and sigils and everything else humanity’s fantastic imagination could devise.

Crowley tied the amulet around his neck, where it hung like a millstone, and placed the object he’d retrieved from the back room in front of him: the photograph of Aziraphale, smiling at St James’s Park, three days after the world had ended and a better one had taken its place.

The picture wouldn’t provide any protection, but it made Crowley feel stronger anyway.

“Right, Angel,” he managed, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. “Here we go.”

Through the windows of the solarium, he watched the sun vanish.

--

The first attack came an hour after sunset, at 7:18 PM, just as the tension was beginning to make Crowley’s back ache.

Candles flickered around the room, and the flames turned violet-black, one by one, growing, towering almost up to the ceiling. Whenever a candle shifted, it tugged at Crowley, absorbing his own power as much as the power invading his space.

A wind stirred around the circle of salt, sending stray grains rattling and tumbling away. Glass vials rattled and clicked, but so far everything held. Crowley tried to recite the mantra he used - Latin, very dignified and appropriate - but he kept messing up the words.

The air of the room sucked at him, like the sea going out before a wave, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself before the wind solidified, slamming against his circle like a physical force, swirling around him, coiling, boiling, trying to find a way in. 

Each impact rattled him, and the hook in his mind pulled, trying to drag him towards the door.

“No, no, no, fuck off!” He braced his feet against the floorboards and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave up on the Latin and tried something more his style: Get the fuck out of my home, repeated, over and over, until it was no longer words, just a wave of sound.

The power slammed against his circle again, nearly knocking him over. One foot lashed out, and his toe caught one of the glass vials of protective herbs. It teetered - spun - and fell over, rolling towards the circle of salt. “Oh, shit, no--”

Before he could put the blessed thing back, the power sensed the hole in his defenses and struck. It hit him in the chest, like an arrow, like a harpoon, and the force of it threw him to the ground. Gasping and twisting, Crowley sprawled on the bedroom floor, scrambling for something to hold on to as the line of power started to pull, dragging him towards the door. He scratched at the concrete floor, the ink-drawn sigils, but there was nothing to hold. His toe tapped another vial.

Fuck, why did I put so many of these things in here? He used the pull on his chest to force himself to sit up, despite the pain, and caught the vial before it fell. The first one had come to rest just shy of the circle of powders, leaving them unbroken. Where did this one come from? All the blessed trinkets made circles within circles, and if he didn’t plug the gap—

Something not-quite-solid shot around Crowley’s neck, constricting, squeezing, pulling him to his feet, up, off the ground. It was a hand, he could feel it, fingers digging into his flesh, becoming more real as it tried to pull him to his destination. Crowley twisted in the air, helpless, feet kicking futilely at a captor who stood miles away, scratching at his own neck in his desperation to get free.

One finger shifted, brushed across the amulet he wore, and suddenly it released him, dropping Crowley in a heap in the middle of the circle. He coughed and tugged at the charm, which sliced his finger like broken glass even though it was still intact, and crawled across the sigils to the gap in the circle of stones and jars. Another bolt of pain struck his shoulder, insubstantial fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, but with a scream of “Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley slammed the little glass jar back into place—

A flash of black light and a shock of pain through every nerve—

And suddenly everything was still again.

The candles burned, blue flames steady, the circles unbroken.

Crowley curled into a ball at the center of the circle, shielding his wounds. Everything hurt, his ribs, his shoulder, his back, his neck. He felt like he should be a bloody, bruised mess, but apart from the tiny cut on his finger there was no sign of injury. And beyond that, the cold, every part of him down to his core, a bone-deep cold beyond shivering.

With a great effort, he managed to push his sleeve up enough to see his watch.

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

Already, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the chanting again, calling to him. The candles started shifting from blue to black. Already.

His eyes fell on the picture of Aziraphale, smiling like a bastard by the duck pond after stealing Crowley’s ice cream. Crowley hadn’t been angry. He’d ordered Aziraphale’s favorite for a reason.

“S’gonna be alright, Angel,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to sit up even though his arms and chest and head felt like lead. “I’ll see you soon.”

No wind this time; the summoners tried a different approach. The quartz crystals began to glow and hum, a high-pitched noise that ground against Crowley’s eardrums.

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

--

Crowley was not winning.

Candles lay scattered across the floor, most with flames snuffed out, and he had long since lost the power to miracle them back into place. The charms, the herbs, the incense - everything had failed, one by one. Even the sigils were smudged beyond recognition.

Every part of his body was bruised, broken, sore.

Now Crowley clung to the ceiling as a powerful wind shifted the circle of salt, grain by grain breaking down his last barrier. His fingers dug into the light fixture, even as more lines of power than he could count buried themselves into his bones, hauling him towards the door. Metal twisted under his fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned as the circle below grew thinner – thinner – and vanished altogether, breaking the protection with a snap he felt in his soul.

The forces pulling on him – harpoons and snares and hands and everything else the bastards had thrown – suddenly became irresistibly strong, ripping him free, dragging Crowley back along the ceiling.

His feet slammed into the glass above the door, bracing him, but only for the moment. 

It was the last line of defense, the last thing keeping him safe – once he passed through the door they would have him. He pawed at his jacket looking for any other tricks – the amulet had burst shortly after midnight, all the powders burned to nothing, even his mobile phone was gone, lost in some struggle he barely remembered.

Nothing remained but his legs bracing against the wall and ceiling, his mind bracing against the pain and the call, and his glasses…

Shit, that might work.

He pulled them off and glared at the lenses. More black holes than mirrors, but they might be reflective enough.

It was dangerous, trying to reflect power back on the attacker. It worked best if you knew who was attacking you and where they were. A desperate stab in the dark could go wrong in too many ways.

Worse, leaning forward to attempt this might tip his balance enough to drop him through the door, ending this fight entirely.

But what else could he do? Try to hide in this corner until dawn released him?

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

Planting his feet on the ceiling, Crowley swung his head down, glasses in hand and pointed west, through the door, in the direction the power pulled him. Shoved them right where the pull was strongest and snarled, “Get out of here! Find some other bastard to play your games. I’m not fucking going!”

And just like that, the power released him.

Crowley hit the floor – hard – hard enough to crack his ribs, if they weren’t already damaged, hard enough to slam his teeth against each other. He spat out a mouthful of blood – had he bit his tongue? Or some other injury in the night, ignored until now? – and wriggled across the floor, grabbing four candles as quick as he could. North, east, south, west, all around him. One still flickered and he used it to light the rest before the attack could come again.

But…nothing came. Not even the chanting in the back of his mind.

He looked at his watch, cracked but still running. 5:08 AM.

Had it worked? Had he made it through the night?

Crowley shook his head and let his gaze drift around the room, trying to focus on anything.

What a mess. Broken glass, plant matter and powders scattered everywhere, formless smears of ink, burnt-out wax stubs. Even his glasses were destroyed, frames twisted, glass melted.

Would he have to do this again tonight? Most summoners could only manage an attack like this on certain nights when the forces of the universe aligned, but these had been strong and persistent. There was a chance…

At the center of the room, Aziraphale’s picture suddenly burst into flames, turning to ashes in a heartbeat. Too quickly for a stray spark, for a mundane fire.

“Shit, no, no,” Crowley’s eyes darted around the wreckage for his mobile. Had he dropped it in the corner? Blown out of the room in a stray wind? He snapped his fingers, trying to summon it, but he couldn’t find a whiff of power.

It could be a mistake. It could be a trap. One step out from his makeshift candle circle, and they’d have him, and Crowley didn’t have the strength left to endure what came next.

But if something had happened to Aziraphale, that didn’t fucking matter, did it?

One cautious step past the candles, half in and half out. Nothing.

Three steps to the door, leaning through into the incongruously still-clean flat. Nothing. The plants didn’t even stir.

He crossed the solarium, gazing out through the windows at the night sky. The miracle that allowed him to see the stars despite the lights of the city was rapidly fading, as he hadn’t even the strength to sustain it, but he could still see Venus, clear as lamplight, and Regulus, and Leo…

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

--

“No, no, no, shit, shit, shit, no, no, shit, fuck, no,” he muttered the entire drive to Aziraphale’s shop, an excruciating three and a half minutes at speeds the Bentley had never previously reached.

The east window lights were on, the rest of the shop dimmed, the way Aziraphale liked it when he was reading all night in his favorite chair.

The door was blown wide open.

Crowley slammed the Bentley into park right in the middle of the road and staggered out. “No, no, no, Azira—”

There, lying in the doorway: a suit, a waistcoat, a tartan bow tie.

Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley had told the summoners to find some other bastard, and they had. They’d found his bastard.

He collapsed in the street, and for the first time that night, screamed in pain.

--

Thank you for reading, and I’m so sorry! More coming soon!! Special thanks to @angel-and-serpent who gave me so many ideas for protection magic, I’m probably going to have to write MORE fics with witchcraft in them! In particular, thanks for the idea that the protections would hurt Crowley as much as help him, which really allowed me to go off.

[i-llbedammned]

Title: Aziraphale’s Perspective

Word Count: 3399

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273104/chapters/57178519

Summary: An account of Aziraphale’s mindset and actions after Crowley rescued him and his books during WWII

Text:  It was a foolish notion that compelled Aziraphale the streets at night.  He should just go back to his bookshop and have a calming cuppa, reflect upon what just happened by reading a lovely story –perhaps Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories as he had just gotten a first edition copy of that.  He should make sure all the books were perfectly intact- though he strangely did not doubt Crowley’s assertion that they were.  He just wouldn’t lie about something so important.  Yes, that would be the wisest choice, surely a choice that would smiled upon by all the angels in Heaven and God herself.  Yet, being a flawed servant of perfection he didn’t do any of that.  Instead he found himself in the war torn streets, staring at the frightened faces of all the mortals who had just seen him crawl out from the fiery wreckage left behind by the attempted Nazi assassination.

The knowledge that he had almost been so easily discorporated shook him.  It wasn’t that a body was exactly hard to get, papers and all that were not impossible to do even if they were tedious.  But this body was special.  This body was the one he had spent so many thousands of years on this plane with, the body that Crowley recognized as being his and that he had lovingly grow and stretched into a pleasantly soft shape.  The new form they would give him – well it wouldn’t be him.  It would be like how he was guarding Eden, all tall and muscular with nary a comforting bit of fat on him.  No doubt he would be built like a soldier despite his desire to have a bit of cushioning.  Even though Gabriel shamed him about it, he liked it because it was his own and Crowley had once said that the belly suited him so…<br /> There he was thinking about that blasted demon again.  He had not the foggiest clue of why he continually came back to that tempter.  Up until a few moments ago he was sure that the demon hated him, he certainly hadn’t made any attempt to contact him after the holy water incident and no doubt was gallivanting around causing all sorts of trouble.  Not that, Aziraphale admitted to himself, he had not cause a small amount of trouble himself in those years.  One simply had to cause some or else it got terribly boring on this plane.  Then even after barely talking to him and saving his life and his books he just danced off.  That devilish red-head had just danced off with barely a “bye” or an explanation!  It was infuriating.  Not that the angel even cared about such things from his mortal enemy, but it was more the principal of it!<br /> Despite his small annoyance, he found his heart softening.  Why would he do such a thing, the poor soul?  Why would someone who had avoided him for hundreds of years now come back just to save him and his books?  Aziraphale knew that just walking past the fonts of holy water was dangerous enough for a demon let alone treading upon hallowed ground.  The poor dear was probably feeling it a bit after that show of heroism.</p>

<p>That show of heroism that he had made for the angel’s sake and no one else’s.</p>

<p>It was probably nothing, probably just in his mind.  The bastard was probably laughing it up back at his flat.  All the same, Aziraphale felt like he should check up on him.  You know, just to make sure everything was alright.  Surely, Heaven could see no harm in simply a show of compassion even towards the damned.</p>

<p>So, after dropping his book bag off at the shop, he made his way towards the flat that he knew the dreaded demon Crowley was making residence in.  The building loomed like a gargoyle over the city, flashing in the travelling storm clouds.  As he entered into the lobby, the angel’s silver eyes caught upon a bit of wetness glimmering in the lamp light and he bent down to get a better look. Sweet sanguine savior!  That was blood!  Not just any blood either, judging by how thick and black it was.  That was demon’s blood, no doubt in his mind!  </p>

<p>Crowley!  Despite his better instincts his heart pinged with a deep seated desire to run up the stairs, knock in the door, and run to him.  Tell him he was an idiot for putting himself at risk like that all for an angel who didn’t even like him and who he was sworn to defeat!  It had to have cut very deep to make that much blood, enough to leak through the wooden sole of the shoe.  They probably ached something terrible and pained him a good deal.</p>

<p>With urgency, Aziraphale took off up the stone steps because Heaven knew that the lift never worked properly around here, using his wings to boost him up a few steps at a time when he was sure that the mortals weren’t looking out on the landing.  What if he was desperately wounded?  What if holy made wounds never fully stopped bleeding on a demon?</p>

<p>As he reached the hallway the angel slowed down his pace.  It wouldn’t do to seem like he <i>wanted</i> to be there or that he was in a rush.  There was a storm coming and Aziraphale was just passing through and noted that there was a shelter here.  Pure coincidence lead him up the steps and to this apartment, not design.  Certainly not a concern.  He straightened his jacket and tie, trying his best to make himself look presentable as he made his way down the green papered hallway.</p>

<p>The black door was slightly ajar as he approached and gently Aziraphale extended his hand to push it open fully.   Any thoughts of trying to seem proper vanished promptly out of his mind upon seeing the fully extent of the damages laid out before him, damages that would not exist if it weren’t for his own foolhardy plan and lack of perception about mortal motivations.<br /> “Oh dear, that looks even worse than I thought it would,” the words practically tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.</p>

<p>With an inward wince he noticed the way that Crowley’s muscles all tensed upon hearing his voice.  Even after all these years, it still was like being plunged into cold water just to hear his voice unexpectedly – he noted with a touch of sadness.  Despite the circumstances, the angel wished for it to be a truly happy greeting.</p>

<p>“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried sitting up and trying to sling one arm casually over the back of his couch, as if the smell of blood wouldn’t have been enough to alert him that something was wrong.  “What are you doing here?”</p>

<p>“I, well,” Aziraphale looked away, unable to bear the terrible guilt that he felt upon seeing the wounds that only existed because of him and this damned ineffable war that he was forced to take part in, “I happened to be in the area and I wanted to check in on you after the whole ruckus at the church. “   </p>

<p>It was far more honest than he wanted to be, but then again when talking to Crowley he was always far more honest than he wanted to be.  No matter how much planning he did, how much he coached himself on the stories he would tell this demon somehow when he saw the angular face with the jaw made tight by pain the truth just flowed out.  Cautiously he took a seat upon the leather chair next to the wounded demon, remembering that the last time he saw so much demonic blood there was a great and terrible fall from grace.  The smell of blood still haunted his dreams some nights as well as the screams.  Honestly he was surprised that Crawley wasn’t screaming now.  Instinctively his eyes began to well up with guilt-ridden tears and the angel tried his best to cover them up with a motion like he was scratching his face.  </p>

<p>“Well no need to check up on me, I’m fine.”  The words came out cold, but you didn’t spend so many centuries near a being to not be able to tell when they were lying.  The avoidance, the casual cold tone of his voice, everything about the demon was dismissive right when things were the worst.  The hiss only confirmed that which he already knew to be true, that which he could see in the dark red ebb of pain in a corona radiata around him in the type of sight that only angels of a certain circle could have when they focused.</p>

<p>“You most certainly are not fine.” Aziraphale got to his feet, sounding indignant and pointing at the stain on the demon’s grey shirt, unmistakably dark.  It wasn’t like he could gesture to an aura, but stains were physical enough that even a half-blind demon could see it.  “I can see the blood!”</p>

<p>“Oh that,” Crowley gave a shrug, “Blood’s in fashion now. War and all that.”</p>

<p>The flippant way that he took a drink from a mysterious wine glass just added to the message.  He didn’t need help, from Aziraphale or anybody.  Heaven forbid that he be allowed to feel the touch of someone who wanted nothing more than to take away his pain.</p>

<p>Well, Heaven might forbid it but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.</p>

<p>“Let me see the wounds, I can help.”  It wasn’t a request, not really.  The angel was going to help him.  There was no rightness in a world that would let someone suffer so dearly for another without respite.  No one deserved such pain, especially not Crowley who had gotten it taking out Nazis and saving knowledge and a life.  Saving Aziraphale’s knowledge and life specifically.</p>

<p>“No, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” The casual tone was almost enough to make Aziraphale scream “I can see in your damn aura that you are certainly not fine, you old menace” which of course he didn’t because a proper angel would never do such a thing but the impulse was still there because he was an imperfect angel.</p>

<p>Making his voice gentle he knelt down, supplication in his silver eyes, “You are exasperating. Listen,” The angel knelt down by Crowley’s feet and gently tugged the blanket off, making him hiss. But his feet stayed where they were.  They didn’t shift into another form, they weren’t illusioned away to look healthy all of a sudden.  That was a degree of trust, the knowledge that he wouldn’t be smote immediately.  Progress.  “You got these wounds helping me. At least I can help make them better as payment.” </p>

<p>Payment was a system a demon could understand, or at least he assumed that they would.  Instead he exploded like a tinder keg being lit up, “Payment?” You don’t owe me payment for anything!” Bright lines of anger lanced through the aura, making Aziraphale’s eyes sting with their intensity.  </p>

<p>Instead of looking away, he maintained eye contact lest it be seen as a lack of trust on his part.  “Then as a favor to you then.”  That was surely the problem, the fact that Aziraphale would have the upper hand in the scales.  Leave it to a demon to always be conscious of who had the upper hand, at least that is the speeches they always gave in Heaven about what demons wanted.  Truthfully Aziraphale just wanted to give him an out that wouldn’t disgrace him in front of either of their superiors.</p>

<p>“Oh? An angel would owe a demon a favor?”  There it was, the smirk that said that everything was okay between them again and that nothing had changed in the centuries of absence.  A palpable feeling of relief flooded through Aziraphale despite the circumstances as he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.</p>

<p>But what if Gabriel found out he was showing such kindness towards Crowley.  The lining of Aziraphale’s stomach tried to turn itself inside out at the thought of the flames of Heaven trying to burn him alive.  “One angel, specifically me, would owe one demon, specifically you, a favor. Yes.” </p>

<p>“Right. Get on with it then.”  He barked, which was as kind of a permission as a demon could give.</p>

<p>Using the kindest touch he could, Aziraphale practically peeled the remaining shoe of his companion’s foot.  Bits of blood and burst blisters, tendons sticking through the bottom of the soles of his foot – it was all far more messy and grotesque than he had first assumed it would be.   It was a bit of a surprise the shoes held it in as well as they did.</p>

<p>”Oh dear,”  he mumumured, mostly to himself.  Any thought of keeping his suit pristine and white vanished as Aziraphale tried to draw off bits of pain, but there was too much for a simple touch and Heaven would not allow wounds to be made by consecrated ground to be healed with a miracle.   “You really burned yourself badly.” Tears welled up in the angel’s eyes, as he thought of how many years he had gone hating the poor creature who had just put himself through so much pain for his sake “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve these. Not for-“ With a watery grin, Aziraphale broke off.  No, no sense in making all the pain worse by projecting his own guilt onto Crowley.  That was the last thing the demon needed at the moment.</p>

<p>It wouldn’t do to let such a selfless act go punished.  “Be back in a tick.” He assured his hellish companion, trying not to let his gaze linger upon the look of pain etched in every line on the face.  Frustrated, he turned off the aura gaze lest it become a distraction.</p>

<p>Heaven had said no miracles, but they didn’t expressly forbid him from making a salve that could take away any pain.  In fact they had ruled neither positively or negatively about any alchemical processes.</p>

<p>How convenient.</p>

<p>Drawers were opened, but of course Crowley had next to nothing kept in there that was useful.  It wasn’t like he actually used the kitchen in his apartment after all, it was mostly there for show.  At least he had the good sense to keep the fridge stocked, even though Aziraphale knew that he didn’t actually consume the food kept there.  Some herbs there, some water inscribed with sigils that had been lost three hundred years ago to most men, boil the freshly grown herbs with some fat and speed up time just a touch so that everything could be done quickly.  It was a risky move, speeding everything up, and certainly not something that could be done on a large scale but getting the soap to cool was at least a simple, untraceable task.</p>

<p>Bandages came out of the bathroom, kept there for Heaven only knew what foul purpose, and the whole pot of water was brought over as well just for sanitation, with a charm on it so that it would refresh itself without him having to get up and change it.</p>

<p>Thinking of nothing else but wanting to heal the wounds, Aziraphale cast aside the hat and jacket and got to work.  Healing was a delicate art, one that needed time and patience of which he had plenty to spare.  If anything was done improperly the foot might heal crooked or stay bubbled forever, both of which were intolerable to think of.  </p>

<p>It wasn’t til he heard smothered whimpers of pain that it occurred to him that the whole process might still hurt even given the precautions.  “It’s alright if you need to cry out, my dear. I won’t judge you. What you are going through is tremendous. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt.”  Permission.  Sometimes that’s what he thought either of them needed just to break through this awful shell both of them had around each other.  Permission to be themselves, unabashedly.</p>

<p> “No. This is fine. Feels like puppies.” Another bluffed lie, but an allowable one.  Sometimes a being in pain, even an immortal being such as Crowley, didn’t need their entire worldview stripped away all at once.  Sometimes a mask allowed them to be able to be vulnerable even around someone who was supposed to be their mortal enemy.</p>

<p>Heaven protect him and his silly mask of being strong.  Aziraphale would take care of the rest.</p>

<p>With a slow, methodical hand the wounds were cleaned ‘til the water ran clear and the flesh was already beginning to reform thanks to the alchemy ingrained within the soap.  Bandages were placed over it so that there would be no visible proof of what he had done.  When Crowley saw that he was more healed than he should be in the morning it would just be another one of Heaven’s silly little miracles come to roost.</p>

<p>His gaze travelled upwards after the work was done, a tired but satisfied smile upon his face.  There he saw Crowley gazing back at him.  The angular face seemed placid and a crooked smile danced across his face as he rested one hand on his cheek and the other splayed across the back of the couch.  His shirt hung open with a few buttons undone that made him look rakish even despite the full suit and for a brief moment Aziraphale wondered what he would look like with the shirt all the way undone.  Why in this light he looked positively enchanting, calm and strong.  In this moment Aziraphale saw the mercy in the angel that Crowley used to be.</p>

<p>Neither looked away and for a second it almost seemed like permission.  Like he was being the go ahead to make a move, to run his hands through that red hair and place a gentle kiss upon that brown that would show the demon that all had been forgiven and that he could stop suffering because his guardian angel was finally here.  To hold him close and let that frail body for once be able to relax rather than constantly be on patrol for the next threat or person to tempt, to be able to collapse and ramble about life, the universe and everything to someone who could actually understand him.  The only other immortal being who had been on this rock as long as he had been.</p>

<p>But no.  Heaven would not allow such a thing.  Sadness tinged his eyes as he remembered how much was at stake and how Gabriel would flay him alive for even such kindness as he already had given.<br /> With an effort, Aziraphale looked away from the golden fire burning within Crowley’s eyes.  “Good night, my dear.” One last gesture of kindness, a soft kiss above each ankle was all he would allow himself.  A selfish gesture of a world and an affection that should not be, but one he had no regrets about acting upon nonetheless.  “Get some rest. I’ll check on you some time soon.”<br /> “You don’t have to leave, you know. I could get wine and-“  Rushed words and desperation to cling towards a bit of kindness.  It broke his heart to leave, but if he stayed Aziraphale knew he would do something stupid and lovely.</p>

<p>“Another time. There’s a war and I have to go put away my books. But I will see you again. I assure you.”  Maybe next time he would bring some wine.  Crowley seemed to like wine and it wasn’t like either of them couldn’t get drunk without being able to reverse it.  People had cordial drinks with mortal enemies all the time, right?</p>

<p>But it wasn’t thoughts of war that he carried with him through the lightly raining streets of London.  It was the look of utter peace and fulfillment upon Crowley’s face that shone like a beacon upon him.  Trust and vulnerability, something that was rarely seen in anyone’s face.  It was like a weight he had been carrying for centuries learning the gavotte was suddenly lifted and forgiveness was right in front of him.</p>

<p>It was hope.  Hope for something more, something brighter.</p>

[nox-feratu]

A hungry boy and a caring boy

Carry On Countdown 22nd December- Dance

Hope you will like it. Baz is a softie and Simon is extra wow. Amazing. Word Count: 2775

S i m o n

"I can't believe you brought my to a dance party at my arch nemesis house."

"C'mon, Si, stop being such a drama queen. It's free booze, and you get the chance to dance with all these pretty girls and guys that are too drunk to realize how big of a mess you are."

I look over at Agatha in the front mirror and scoff. Of course she was going to make fun of me and my incapability to flirt, especially after our attempt of a relationship from a few years ago.

"And.. I think we are here." says Penny from the pasager seat, phone in her hand. She assumed the role of co-pilot very seriously, even though she could have simply casted a spell on the car.

The house we park in front of is huge. It's so big, I think I could get lost and starve before finding any kitchen.. thinking of food makes my stomach growl. I need to eat something before drowning myself in that sweet, sweet booze.

I need to stop myself from opening my mouth in awe every five seconds viewing the beautiful scenery Baz's mansion has, such as the private forest or the numerous statues of Greek figures. When Agatha knocks on the door, dark and scary, yet mysterious and intriguing, such as the rest of the land, I do not expect to be in more shock than I was while seeing the house.

"Baz." I say, before being able to stop myself. "You're wearing jeans."

From the doorway, the light reflecting in his hair and making him look like a shiny angel, Baz sneers. There goes the charm. What was I even doing, thinking that... even though he may look like one of those statues, his personality and desire to kill me may be an inconvenience to our friendship. "Surprisingly, I do not own only tuxedos, Snow. Bunce, Wellbelove, I'm glad you made it. I hope you have a good time tonight-"

"Woah woah woah. Stop right there. You invited both of them? And are being.. polite... almost... nice. What are you plotting, Basilton?" I say before I think once again.

He looks at me, his grey eyes fixing themselves onto mine and I am not sure whether  he wants to punch me, roll his eyes or smile. I look at Penny to see what she thinks, but her eyes are shining and a smile is playing on her lips. I scoff. Probably the jeans got to her too. I try to calm my stomach, trying to convince myself the weird feeling is hunger, not jealousy.

"Just. Go inside. Please."

Penny and Agatha follow the pointing hand immediately, but I glare at him on my way inside. He wears a pair of slim, black jeans and a white shirt, not much different from the one wear for school, but seems much softer to touch.. a few of his buttons are opened, and I can't help but stare at his chest.

"What are you doing, Snow?" he asks, his voice soft. Too soft. I snap out of my trace in a second.

"I am watching you." saying this, I go inside and follow Penny's purple hair until I reach a huge kitchen, with a table longer than me two times. It is all filled with alcohol."

"Now that's what I call a party!" shouts Agatha, covering the music which was blazing from dozens of speakers from everywhere.

Surprisingly, it was not the posh, classical music I would have expected from a party held by Baz Pitch, but electro and rock one, that makes my fingers twitch and shoulders move.

"Easy there, Agatha. You are still driving." Penny says, even though she was pouring some strong alcohol in a glass herself.

"To hell I am." shouts Agatha, giggling, and I smile. She never handled her drinks well.

Food. I need to find some food. A lot of familiar faces are  coming to say hi, but all of them are leaving as soon as I salute back. It was always like this, I was just the face you say hi to, but don't care to actually stay for a chat.

The fridge was, as expected, filled with all the wonders in the world. I found myself in face of one of the hardest choices I ever had to make: steak or potato salad.

Before I get the chance to reach my hand towards the salad bowl, the fridge door shuts, only a few centimeters away my fingers, and I feel myself being dragged by a tanned hand in the living room.

Penny's hair is puffy and she is smiling, so I smile too. We were in the middle of an improvised dance floor, sweaty bodies all around us, moving in a crowd of lascivious movements and screaming voices. Penny was not that good of a dancer, and neither was I, but we moved on the music like nothing really mattered. And it really didn't.

I am in my arch nemesis' house, who was looking and acting extremely different and concerningly better than what I know, and I am having fun. Who would have thought this would ever happen to me?

B a z

Seeing Simon Snow do anything was like watching a show. The way he was dancing like a toddler who just learned how to walk, the way his eyes lit up whenever he bent his head towards Bunce so she can tell him something, the way the shirt was barely fitting his chest.. it made me love him so much more than I already did.

But what can't be fixed with alcohol and bad choices is not something worth trying, right? I pour myself another two shots in different glasses and drink them at the same time. I have so much experience that my shirt doesn't get dirty at all.

Without my intention, I remember how he looked at my chest when he came in. For a moment, I swear I saw a blush covering his cheeks, but it might have been the dim lights or the alcohol already fuzzing through my veins. Tonight was maybe my only chance to tell him my feelings, now that the girls managed to bring him to the party. I can't screw it up.

"Hey, Baz." said a loud, yet calming voice next to me. Wellbelove was laying on the wall next to me, a cup in her hand. I wonder if she could even stand up straight. It didn't seem like it. "Why dontchu go talk to him? He wants to but he no say cause he doesn't know yet. "

"Agatha." I am surprised that I even know her name. "You've been here for an hour. How did you manage to get so drunk already?"

She just shrugged, and I rolled my eyes and took her hand. "Come on. We are going to my room so you can catch some sleep."

"But I don't wannaaaa. I wanna partyyyyyy. I haven't even danced yet."

"You'll get to do that later, after you wake up. Now come on."

S i m o n

Baz is taking Agatha upstairs. Baz is taking a drunk Agatha upstairs. Anger starts burning up in the back of my neck, thinking about the two of them and how he might take advantage of her. I cannot believe I thought he seemed more human just an hour ago.

It's not like I have feelings for Agatha, not anymore anyway. I just don't want him to get close to her when she is like this. Or in general. That boy is no good.

And so I leave Penny alone on the dance floor. I ignore her calls for me and make my way up the stairs, three at a time, and I only catch a glimpse of Baz's black hair before they both go in a room on the other end of the hallway.

I don't hesitate before bursting the door wide open. I see Agatha on the bed, fast asleep, and Baz by her side, putting a blanket over her.

"Wh-what is this?" I stutter, and Baz turns his face towards me. His eyes are wide.

"Simon. What are you doing here?"

"What did you just call me?"

This night was one surprise after another. Baz blinked in surprise, then leaned his head a little to the side. "Snow. How else could I have called you?"

That bastard. "Nevermind. What are you doing in here with Agatha? Alone?"

He looked over at her, like he forgot about her existence entirely. "She was drunk and I didn't want any of my persian carpets to be covered in her puke, so I took her upstairs where she can lie down for a bit."

"It's fine Siii" I heard from the bed, and exhaled. She was okay, not asleep. Or drugged. "Just enjoy yourself. And Baz too. He is nice. He covered me."

My eyes dart over to him again. Just like before, he is beautifully painted in the light, this time by the moonshine that was coming through the window. I gulp. "Yeah. I guess he is."

Baz straightened his back, seeming emotionless. I pretend to not notice the blush from his cheeks. "Back to the party then, Snow?"

I look over to Agatha one more time and hear her snoring softly. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

B a z

It was almost midnight, and I don't think I have ever been this drunk in my entire life. The room was bright, too bright, even for me, and everybody morphed into one being, laying on the ground or moving tiredly on the dance floor.

Except him. He was probably the most glamorous, alive being at the party, all laughs and moles and sun and I was drowning myself into him. Because he was so beautiful, and I would give everything I have to be part of that wonderness he carries around himself..

"Hey. Would you like to have a dance?"

I almost said no. Almost. Then I took a better look at the person's face, and almost had a heart attack. Simon Snow was asking me to dance.

Instead of saying no, I say "Thank you", which makes Simon have a little crust between his eyebrows that I instantly want to kiss. I don't. Maybe after the dance, and luckily the confession.

"So... is that a yes or a no?"

He is so confused. I love that. I chuckle, and that seems to scare him, so I laugh, and he smiles. Crowley, I love his smile. "Yes. Yes."

I pick myself up from the leather couch on which I was sitting and extend my hand towards Simon, who takes it hesitantly. I wrap my other hand around his waist to keep our bodies a little apart, and he puts his other hand on my hip too. I don't want to scare him away. It may be my only chance to have him so close, while I still have the courage from the booze in my veins.

"So.. did Penny tell you?" I ask, because I am weak and I have always wondered how it was like to hear him this close.

"Tell me what?"

"Why I invited you here, silly." I chuckled. He is so clueless. And adorable. And beautiful. And he is shining..

"No? She didn't. Why did you?"

Oww. I hoped she did. That was the only reason why he would dance with me.. unless... "I wanted to have a chance to talk to you."

Simon looks puzzled. I want to lay my chin on the top of his head and kiss away the worries. It's okay Simon. I will not hurt you.

"About what?"

"Why did you want me to dance with you?"

The hand that was on my hip pulls at my shirt, and I groan, then cough, hoping he hasn't heard. "You were.. alone. And sad."

"And drunk." I laugh.

"That too." he said, chuckling. I want to hear that until I die.

"You don't usually do this, Snow. Don't notice me."

I may be wrong, but Snow walks a little closer to me, so we are swaying closer on the electro music, my breath on his face. "You don't usually take care of drunk people during parties either, Baz."

"No. I don't. But they are your people."

This time, the common blue eyes that made my heart grow so many years pierce mine, and I swallow. He steps even closer, letting his hand out of mine and lacing both of them around my neck. I hope he doesn't feel the burn.

"What did you want to talk about?"

His voice was barely louder than a whisper, and I suddenly felt hot all over. No, this can't be happening. Not like this. I hug him close to me and let my head in his hair.

It's much softer than I imagined. "I like your hair. It's very soft."

"Thanks?" he says, but it's more of a question. "That's the thing you wanted to tell me?"

I wrap my hands stronger around him. He just leans in. "Why are you not backing away?"

"Why would I?" he asks, and I can tell the question surprises him.

"Because we are enemies?"

His hands grip harder around my neck. "You won't remember any of this. You are so drunk, if I punch you, you'll fall, then fall asleep right there on the ground."

"I always remember you."

We are still moving, but the music is much calmer now. I look over to the laptop that's connected to the speakers, and Penny thumbs up at me. I am so glad Simon has such good friends, that help me to talk to my crush even though I have been an arse to all of them for eight years.

"Baz." Simon says, and I try not to moan. I need to realize that he is actually here. "Do you like this?"

"Yes. With all my heart." I don't even wait a second before telling him, and I'm somehow afraid I might scare him, before he pushes his nose in my neck.

I remain still. If he moves only an inch, I might tell him. I might explode. I might kiss him. "Baz. Do you like me?"

I back away a little so I can look him in the eyes. "Yes, Simon. I do."

He is looking through me, and his brows are furrowed again. Like he is trying to understand something. But then he starts to stare at my face. My eyes. My nose. My cheekbones. My lips.

And then he kisses me. His lips are chapped, yet soft, and he is moving his mouth so eagerly, I might fall. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, I am sure all Hampshire can hear it, and I can feel Simon's pulse through his shirt, his blood moving so fast it can electrocute me.

When he finally backs away, he licks his lips. It doesn't take a minute before he kisses me again, much softer and, unfortunately, shorter.

"You taste like alcohol."

I laugh at his conclusion. "And you like the steak and potato salad from my fridge."

He smiles. "Touche."

We end up cuddled on the couch, his head on my lap, and he falls asleep almost immediately, just like a cat. When Penny comes to ask me if she can crash at my house for the night, I more than gladly tell her how to get to the room Agatha is sleeping on.

"Hey, Bunce." I say and she stops with her feet above the staircase. "Thank you for bringing Simon with you and Wellbelove tonight."

Penny looks at me, the smile on her face softening her features from the tired, concerned mother to the loving friend in a second. "Thank you for taking care of him." she says, gesturing to the small smile from his face. I cannot stop myself from smiling either. "But if you'll break his heart, I'll break every bone in your body. Twice."

She got back to being a concerned mother again. I smile even wider, and turn my head back to Simon. He crunches his nose, and I awe out loud. "Don't worry. I'll break mine three times before you even get the chance to catch me."

I fall asleep with my head on the backrest of the couch and a fire in  my heart.