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viktor-noctis · 4 years ago

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Harvest Moon

Anakin Skywalker wanted to kill everyone in the room. And then himself.

Even if they didn’t know who he was, because the chance they might find out was too terrifying to consider.

But they hadn’t. He knew they hadn’t. Because if they had, they would all have died of laughter before he could slice them into little pieces with his lightsaber. Which he didn’t have.

This night just keeps getting better and better.

He had completed well over two-hundred missions since he joined the Jedi Order, from escorting diplomats, brokering peace between nations, and fighting on battlefields the galaxy over. He had traversed forests full of dangerous, man-eating flora, ice cloaked mountains with beasts that could rip one apart in seconds, and even desserts. Full of sand. Which he believed was far eviler than the worms waiting beneath the surface of the dunes, ready to swallow one whole, or any of the previous threats combined. He would take any of them, all of them, even a dustbowl, over his current assignment.

On paper, it looked standard: use secured invitation to get inside of a party of ambassadors, senators, and potential members of the Separatists. Easy. Sneak past heavily armored centurion guards wielding plasma canons and ion missiles that may or may not have heat seeker technology embedded in them. Interesting, without a weapon, but not impossible. Find information regarding the movements of enemy shipments, containing stolen kyber crystals, and potential hostages of their side. Somewhat difficult… If one didn’t possess an encrypted pass code, capable of rapid copying the necessary data in record time. All-in-all, the usual kind of Jedi mission that included a bit of espionage on the side.

Except the teeny, tiny, minute detail of the invitation being formatted for a Lady Skylar Erie.

A woman from a small, noble house on Naboo. She was twenty-two years old, six feet tall exactly, and didn’t speak due to a childhood incident. Her hair was a light brown with touches of golden blond, possessing eyes the color of dark turquoise gems, and skin bronzed by the sun. Lady Skyler had full, dark lips, now shaded to a deep crimson, and high cheekbones. Her shoulders were broad, her legs long, and –

“Luckily,” the stylist had smiled at him in the mirror, “handsome young men make beautiful women.” Obi-Wan didn’t look like he agreed with that statement. His arms were crossed, eyes wide beneath his furrowed brow, and lips pursed within his beard… which he was stroking. Which meant he was looking for something comforting to say. Anakin was almost curious what sort of backwards, reorganized Yoda-phrase he would use, no doubt intended to distract him from that fact that he made a passable woman in a pinch. His former master opened and closed his mouth several times, forming nothing, and eventually just let a burst of air out behind his sealed lips. Which was probably the wisest thing he could have done.

The dress was another monstrous affair. The fact that Padma had been the one to gift the pattern to the tailor made him want to jump off the nearest bridge. Because that meant it was from Naboo, which was notorious for having so many hard to navigate layers, it was like trying to solve a puzzle maze. He’d overheat and die. Either that, or it would be a flowing slip of silk that would immediately give away the fact he was a man, and he could already see the billboard tagline all over the tabloid side of the holonet.

A form fitted, off the shoulder, obsidian gown arrived. There was a deep cerulean, satin sash that wrapped around the top, no doubt to hide his lack of cleavage, and draped down to curl over the low arches of his hips, falling down his buttocks like a tail. The entire thing was accented with ivory stones across the top, coiling in abstract patterns down his ribs, growing smaller till they faded at his thighs. Made from the finest silks, the whole thing had been custom fitted for him a week before.

“It’s a shame you want to destroy it.” Obi-Wan’s voice held six feet worth of lamentation that Anakin was ready to bury him in. “It’s rather beautiful.” One look from Anakin had shut him up for the entire evening. He had his word that when they made it back to the Temple, he was allowed to slice it to pieces with his saber until it was nothing but a smoldering, crumpled ruin of unidentifiable cloth and cracked stones. He was also not to take a single holo of him in it, no matter how much Senator Amidala plead or bargained.

However, he had quickly realized that the most dangerous part of his mission didn’t entail trying not to fall flat on his face while wearing three inch heels (how Padme managed the ‘dagger stilettoes’ that were over five he would never know, but he was going to bow down on his knees the next time he saw her), nor glaring at the men who gave his backside leering glances (he just about managed not to Force push that last one’s face straight into the buffet table), or even punching the last piece of kriffing, snorg-birthed, moose-goose snot brained –

I hate this, I hate this, I hatethis, IhatethisIhatethisIhatethis –

He almost tore his dress. Again.

No, the most dangerous part of his mission was none of the above. It was navigating the toxic snake pit filled with people he knew almost nothing about. Oh, some of them he had seen, certainly: thieves, murderers, drug dealers, and slave traders. They were up to their ears in nothing but filth and injustice, the lowest of the low, scum that he had to smile and play nice with like a mute, pretty girl with only three brain cells to her name would.

Anakin’s face hadn’t stopped burning the whole evening. He only prayed his embarrassment couldn’t melt away the layers of foundation and contour applied to his features. She’d even combed and fixed his hair, plating the strands into a short braid with ribbon that matched his dress, and flowers that curled into the elaborate cuffs around his ears. He hated the jewelry almost as much as the gown… the dainty chains in his lobes had snow drops on the ends, bearing sapphires so deep they appeared onyx. The choker around his neck was emblazoned with them as well, with diamonds that offset the ones on the dress.

He had to wear gloves. To cover up his mechanical arm, as if it were something to be ashamed of. Anakin managed to contain a growl, keeping his fan close to the lower portion of his face. He didn’t dare lower it, least someone find his jaw too strong, his neck too thick.

How can anyone believe this? Maybe everyone around him thought it was just as ludicrous, just as impossible that Anakin Skywalker liked to spend his Tuesday evenings dressed as a woman, strutting around some of the worst moss-pit vipers in the galaxy. He swallowed what remained of his pride.

Get the information. Get out. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Never like this he hadn’t.

He had the advantage of his height at least, his gaze straying over the facades in attendance, knowing his mark would favor a more private location. The mask they had given him was just insult to injury… It covered everything above his cheekbones, wrapping over the bridge of his nose. Carved from delicate ivory, with swirls and coils painted on in black at the top, fading to midnight blue around his eyes, and then a rich silver at the edges. The top of the brow split in a mane of feathers, mimicking the shades already present. According to Obi-Wan, it was meant to represent a delicate, blue bird found on a planet covered mostly in water in the furthermost reaches.

Anakin almost felt relieved when he saw his target in the throng of dignitaries. His mask wasn’t strapped on like his own was, dangling from his right hand, while his left arm remained occupied by a Togruta girl with red skin and yellow horns. He really did not need to be thinking of Ahsoka right now. What would she say if she could see him? She’d never stop talking about it. She’d probably sneak a holo or two just to save for future blackmailing purposes, because what sane Padawan would pass up the opportunity to have a picture of their Master all dressed up for the ball?

The man in question, with more gold than white or black in his mouth, was one Fren Pollock. After obtaining a hard-won pardon from the Republic – something that made Anakin’s teeth grind – he had somehow acquired a governorship on a small lunar colony. Drugs, munitions, and people, nothing was beneath him. Anakin found himself reveling in the notion of bringing him down, of dismantling his little empire into the dust, and taking all of his accomplices with him.

“Woah there, blondie.” A bodyguard. One of four. No armor, no weapons, as was the standard, per the request of the hosts.

[ I’m really terrible at writing scum bags, but Fren allows Anakin closer, only to drug him. Someone intervenes, of course, but after unmasking Anakin things go from bad to worse. Also, Dooku wears a Loth-wolf mask. - ]

“I believe the young Lady has had enough.” Anakin’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t breathe. His next whimper was stifled against a hard chest. Hands, warm and solid, one on his wrist, and the other on his back. Protective, almost tender, they held him steady against the taller man.

The chuckle that emanated from the Count tightened around his chest. The air left him, slipping free in a low, hoarse whimper. Dooku just laughed harder. Anakin didn’t dare raise his head to see the slice of his grin through his cheeks.

“My, my, this evening is just full of surprises.” Dooku’s sneer rippled through his already weak knees. They shuddered beneath him, leaving him to sway dangerously. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Skywalker, but considering this turn of events, I’m rather glad I did.” Red and blue. Anakin’s teeth clenched, jaw ringing with the pain, straight into his temples. He should jerk forward, smash his head into Dooku’s nose. Crimson and azure. Their sabers should clash, they always had, easy and familiar. Darkness and light, trading breath and edge, till one consumed the other. Mars and Venus. Planetoids too far to know, yet the tales of them were wreathed in the fantastical. The coin flipped, came down in a shower of sparks that were the shades of stars.

Dooku tasted like something bitter and yet sweet. It reminded Anakin of the grapes Padme had given him while they were visiting Alderaan, off a vine five years old. She said they were native to the planet, that they would keep the same fruits without dropping them for hundreds of years, but when they were plucked clean… they died. Those same plants were the reason the planet was known for its wine. She had challenged him to taste as many as he could, all the way up to the first century. They made his nose wrinkle, his vision darkening as his eyes squinted, then misted with tears he blinked away. He didn’t even get to twenty.

He still had the gift… the one Bail Organa had given him. He had winked at him, saying something about how even Jedi needed to have fun every once in a while. The crystal, ruby embossed bottle was hidden somewhere under his bunk, protected by his worn, old Padawan robes. He still didn’t know how a beverage made from fruit as old as Yoda was supposed to be a good.

“What are you doing?!” His head throbbed. His parted lips trembled, prickling with something he couldn’t name. Anakin’s cheeks were still burning, but a new heat had been added from the friction of the Count’s beard. Dooku’s hand gripped his bicep, the muscle throbbing beneath his hard palm. Anakin could feel the bruises forming, the pulse of blood beneath the surface. He’d torn away, smashing him into the wall, and he had… he had kissed Count Dooku, a known Sith Lord, and leader of the Separatist Systems Alliance. A tremble lanced through him, clinging to his muscles, till he felt as if he were going to shake straight out of his skin.

Anakin’s head twisted, turning away from Dooku, but his body wouldn’t follow as easily. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, thick with the ichor of whatever had been in his drink. He swallowed it back, trying to free himself of the Count’s hand with a sluggish, surly throw of his shoulder. He stumbled instead, pivoting dangerously close to the wall, but durasteel bands took hold of his waist. His body jerked, a whimper exiting his lungs as they compressed. The darkness crept into his vision, stifling him in the heat and musk of whoever held him.

“What have you done?” Far away, harsh and whispered. The syllables grated against his scorching ears. His throat ached with the sound that left him, high-pitched and terrible. His mouth contacted something solid and warm and smooth. He couldn’t help but rub his face into the warmth of that broad shoulder. Whoever held him smelled like heat and spice.

Padme and Obi-Wan sat across from him, laughing as his face twisted. He had grown up a poor boy on Tatooine, you didn’t just waste food, no matter how much you didn’t like it. Which meant swallowing down whatever you were given, which meant he was willing to try anything once. Even the boiled bark of a strange planet. It was not the taste, but the brittle texture on his tongue. Citrus and tang, almost metallic in its bite, sliding down his throat with the same viscosity of honey, and the viciousness of alcohol.

That was the smell that surrounded him now, sharp and distinct. There was something overtop, layered on to smooth the undercurrent of that wild, intoxicating aroma. Anakin almost thought it was… roses. Yes, roses. Extravagant and sweet, enough to hide the Loth-wolf’s true scent.

[ Dooku makes a strategic retreat, taking Anakin with him back to his room… Mistake. The drug is in him now, and inhibition is taking a nosedive straight into hell. He puts Anakin in his room, where he struggles out of the dress, tearing off the jewelry, and rubs at his face. The Count returns after a thunderous crash, effectively shattering every bottle in his private bar. Not good… He returns to the room, submerged in darkness, standing at the end of the bed… ]

Anakin trembled beneath his own pride.

The moonlight splayed over his shoulders, weaving through his white hair, curving over the hard edges of the right side of his face. His eyes, cheeks, lips, chin, his entire face lost to the shadows. Anakin could see nothing of him, but he could imagine the furrow of his brow, the pull of his mouth into that familiar sneer. Or would his cheeks ripple with a snarl? He almost wished he could see him, the revulsion of his features, the cruel amusement preferable to the void that stared back at him.

He could feel something though, intangible as the Force, but as palpable as its presence. Dooku’s gaze. Those hard, dark orbs, piercing his bunched shoulders, his heaving chest, the tremble of his stomach.

He lost.

“Please…”

[ And this is as far as I got because I’m terrible. I’m not tagging this much either, because its a WIP. ]

#WIP

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moiraineswife · 5 years ago

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Exposed - An Ineffable Husbands Fic

i return. bearing the fruit of my brains. it is angst. again. because i’m Predictable. Shout out to the goblin discord squad whom I love and cherish <3 Previous Good Omens fic may be found here!

Title: Exposed

Summary: Aziraphale wakes in the middle of a quiet night’s peaceful meditation to find that the demon he (deliberately) fell asleep next to is no longer there. After some minor panicking, he finds him, and then angst and hurt/comfort ensue. Crowley has chronic pain/wing stress from his Fall. Split POV.

Teaser: They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way.

Link: AO3

Aziraphale slowly returned his mind back to his body. It became aware, as he did so, that it was enveloped in soft warmth, and he instinctively burrowed down into it, like a bird settling into its nest.

He had never quite managed to sleep the way that humans, or indeed, Crowley, did, but...Well, holding Crowley while he fell asleep was very nice.

After a while, he had learned how to do something better than sleeping. He had reasoned that he was lying down, warm, and comfortable, and Crowley wasn’t a very good conversational partner while sleeping (though he did occasionally mumble things, but they were never very distinct, nor very coherent) he may as well try and get some form of rest.

He liked to call it a ‘deep meditative state’. Crowley always snorted at this and said that was just a fancy word for napping.

Aziraphale knew the difference, though, whatever Crowley said.

He lost awareness of his body, as one would when they fell asleep, but he kept awareness and control over his thoughts, unlike the dreamlike state that humans, and his demon, entered into.

It really was rather wonderful. He’d tried to explain this to Crowley. He’d even suggested that he try it for himself to see just how wonderful it was.

Crowley had just looked vaguely horrified and said, firmly, “Angel, the whole point of sleeping is that I don’t have to think about anything while I’m doing it! Maybe you should try that. It’s dead...Refreshing,” he’d added, with a slightly wistful look on his face.

Frankly, Aziraphale thought it was a waste of his time.

Immortal he may be but there was always so much to do that he never managed to fit it in to his days as it was. He had no idea how human beings managed to function, much less be productive, when they were expected to sleep eight hours per day.

No, his few hours of quiet deep meditation were enough for him.

An unexpected little breeze whispered across Aziraphale, and he shivered, burrowing further down into the covers to escape it. Instinctively, he shuffled to his right, seeking Crowley’s natural warmth.

One of the perks of being with a demon – one was never cold. Crowley’s skin always seemed feverish to the touch in its heat, like the hot rocks you got at certain quality spas. Aziraphale had been known to indulge in them from time to time, and they were very pleasant indeed.

To his disappointment, he didn’t shuffle into Crowley.

He stretched out a hand, fumbling blindly through the sea of sheets and pillows and blankets and duvet, reaching for him.

“Crowley,” he mumbled thickly, in what Crowley would have described as a ‘whine’, to which Aziraphale would have corrected that it was more a general noise of displeasure.

He was most indignant either way that his demonic heat-source was being so rude and not making itself easily available.

No response to his noise of displeasure, either.

Frowning, he blinked, and the dark room around him came slowly into focus. He had learned when coming out of his meditative states to do so gradually, so as not to overwhelm his body’s senses.

There now, the dark walls, the luxurious silken black sheets, the abstract paintings on the wall, everything as it should be.

He looked to his right.

An empty space where Crowley should have been was all that stared back at him.

No long, lanky demon frame. No red hair, mussed from sleep. No pale skin so beautifully reflecting the moonlight. No deep, golden eyes, finding Aziraphale’s soul bare upon his skin with every glance.

His heart jumped as though lightning had just punched into it. Familiar flickers of panic, like a thousand tiny hummingbirds spawning in his chest to frantically beat their wings at once, beginning in his chest. Then tightening in his stomach and tying his nerves in knots.

Calm yourself now, dear boy, he thought, firmly.

There was no reason at all to suspect that anything at all was amiss. Crowley could simply have decided that he needed to water the plants. Or that a rerun of his favourite episode of Golden Girls was on and he wanted to watch it. Or that, that he desperately needed a cup of tea.

Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have meditated through an entire, elaborate scenario that involved the vile agents of Hell breaking into their home and resting a terrified, struggling, fighting Crowley from their bed, and kidnapping him away for all kinds of unnatural, inconceivable, unthinkable tortures while Aziraphale was right beside him, surely.

Or could he?

“Damn you and your ridiculous little human notions, Crowley!” he exploded, scrambling out of the bed.

In his state of panic, which had not been appeased in the slightest by his calming, logical thoughts, though they’d been as firm as they could be, he felt he was allowed this minor hypocrisy in the moment.

“I swear I shall never forgive you for this, you stupid old serpent,” he continued, ranting, wringing his hands at thin air like an old maid in the kind of old-fashioned television show Aziraphale rather enjoyed, but would never confess to liking, even under demonic torture1.

Aziraphale had discovered hand-wringing some centuries ago. Perhaps even invented it, he was unsure. Six thousand years of memory was quite a lot to trawl through, especially at a time like this.

Either way, Gabriel would have had a fit if he’d ever seen him doing it. He wouldn’t consider it ‘appropriate’ behaviour for an angel. But, well, blast it, it helped.

Aziraphale paced in a nervous fluster through the flat, following his familiar anxiety path.

Cat, who had been enjoying a midnight snack, followed him with her big, yellow eyes, so painfully like Crowley’s. She gave a soft mew at his obvious distress, but unfortunately shed no particular light on the whereabouts of their favourite demon.

Finally, he returned to the bedroom, and began to do his utmost to wear a hole in the rug as he tramped up and down up and down up and down, as if this would suddenly reveal Crowley.

It didn’t.

A cold wind tickled the back of his neck again, which was the very last thing he needed at this moment in time. Feeling distinctly aggrieved, he angrily looked up in an attempt to locate its source.

Only then did he realise that the window was open.

There were very few windows in Crowley’s flat. He seemed to have a certain aversion to them. Which Aziraphale supposed was understandable, given he was a demon. He’d always had rather sensitive skin, bless him. Likely a side-effect of him being a red-head.

The plant room had some, naturally, but the only other one in the whole flat was in the bedroom. It was set into the ceiling, a huge, beautiful, circular structure. Though it had no right to, given that Crowley lived in a mid-floor flat, it looked right up onto the sky beyond.

At present, there was no glass in it. Aziraphale could feel the ripple of the wind but was shielded, thanks, no doubt, to another little demonic miracle, from the pouring rain outside.

He breathed again.

He didn’t, strictly speaking, need to, but he’d found that his body got rather cross with him if he didn’t at least make an effort every now and then. It started turning blue in various different places, and he got awfully dizzy. Humans were very delicate creatures, really.

Slowly, luxuriously as always, Aziraphale spread his white wings. He was really rather proud of them, he thought, as he flexed the feathers to stretch everything out appropriately. And he did miss being able to have them out whenever he felt like it.

He centred himself beneath the window, crouched slightly, wings flaring- Then he hesitated.

If he was seen...He shuddered, vividly recalling the paperwork nightmare of 1795. He hadn’t emerged for weeks. His hand had cramped for days afterwards. He hadn’t been able to so much as look at a book without it bringing him out in a cold sweat at the memory of all those pages and pages full of cramped handwriting and scrawled signatures.

And people were so much less likely to believe in the supernatural these days. Things had died down alright in 1795 after the required measures had been put in place There were modern cameras about now, and those clever phones like the one Crowley had and-

No.

Hang it.

He didn’t care.

Anyway, it was dark, and they were so high up that no-one would see. If they did, well, he would deal with them. Them and the ensuing paperwork, if that was what it took.

With one powerful down stroke, Aziraphale propelled himself up into the night sky.

It was a strange sensation. Crowley had altered things to allow the sky to filter directly into his window. His body wasn’t entirely aware of this, and struggled to cope with the tunnel of altered reality and the fact that Aziraphale was, strictly speaking, flying through a building.

Reality, however, coped, and Aziraphale endured. He emerged a minute or so later, feeling much as he had when he’d decided to take his first (and last) pleasure cruise on the Titanic back in 1912. And this had been before the whole iceberg calamity.

Crowley had laughed so hard he’d snorted wine through his nose so badly he’d nearly discorporated himself at the idea of an angel getting seasick. Aziraphale had not found the matter nearly so amusing.

He’d almost been glad when the thing had sunk. Hundreds of casualties aside of course.

The rain struck him as soon as he was clear of the building, and he winced. He did so hate getting his wings wet. It was always such a trauma trying to dry out all the feathers properly. And then there was the fact that it just felt awful.

Shuddering, he landed on the roof, a little harder than he’d meant to, feeling distinctly ungainly for an angel. It had been quite a while since he’d done this. It seemed he was rather out of practice. How embarrassing.

Flying was rather like riding a velocipede, one never forgot how. That did not mean one retained their level of competence without sufficient, regular practice, however.

He strained his nightshirt with dignity, then took stock of his surroundings, blinking in slight surprise.

There were dozens of plants dotted around the rooftop in different troughs and tubs, in a very haphazard approximation of a terrace garden. There didn’t seem to be any particular order that he could identify. Yet even in the dark, he could tell that they were well-cared for. They had all been trimmed, and dead-headed, and watered, and fed appropriately. A lot of love had gone into this little place. He could feel it.

At the centre of it all, like the sun in a sea of smaller stars, sat Crowley.

His chest was bare, exposed to the deluge from the Heavens above. Aziaraphale could see his beautiful tattoo. He had never known that he had it until the two of them had become...rather more intimate in the months following the Armageddon that was averted.

It was a stunning thing, truly. A rippling black watercolour reflection of star spattered sky above them. The cosmos carved out in ink upon the skin of its creator. A beautiful, haunting echo to how it all began.

Through it all, the serpent swam. It would have been invisible, but it was of a darker black than the night around it.

Like the wings that spilled from Crowley’s back.

They were even more breathtaking than the tattoo. A different form of art, to be sure, but no less exquisitely wrought.

They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

Something in Aziarpahle’s chest caught looking at him, as though he too had been snared by some trap.

For all they had done together, for all they had shared in more than six thousand years, for all the intimacy between them now, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley quite as vulnerable as he appeared now.

It felt as though he was intruding on something deeply private. Something that should never be witnessed by another. Like a confession. A confession that revealed the barest parts of another’s soul.

Rain continued to fall between them like a veil. So thin he could see him, could smell him, could taste him...But could never quite reach him.

Aziaraphle stared, swaying slightly in place, hypnotised by the scene before him.

For all he moved, Crowley might have been a statue. Carved from marble and obsidian, a study of the Fallen, and the weight they bore.

Dear Atlas carried the world upon his shoulders.

His dear Crowley seemed to hold the Heavens upon his back, in more than ink and skin. He was still crushed, Aziraphale knew, by the weight of promises that had been made, and lost. By things that had been taken, and the knowledge that they would never be returned.

Aziraphale jerked himself from his indulgent thoughts. They didn’t do Crowley any good, and that had to be his focus right now.

Crowley.

How he would hate those thoughts. As he would hate anyone, even Aziraphale, seeing him in this state.

He had worked so hard for years to cultivate his show of aloofness, to act as though he cared for little, and loved even less.

But it wasn’t true.

Angels were beings of love, it was often said. He could sense it. But Crowley? Crowley felt it. Truly felt it. And it was both his destruction and his salvation. He needed it, but he feared so much that anyone would see it, because in his world, all they would ever see was weakness, and targets.

Aziraphale had never considered himself as particularly strong – in any sense of that word.

As he’d admitted to himself after his conversation with Gabriel in St James’ park, he was soft.

His soft, bleeding heart had given away his god-granted sword for pity’s sake. His soft will had let him succumb to base mortal pleasures.. His soft moral compass had permitted Crowley to tempt him into the Arrangement.

Aziraphale was just soft.

But for Crowley, for this being he loved with everything he was, and everything he might ever be, holy or profane, angel or demon, whole or in pieces...For Crowley, though it went against every instinct he had and felt as though his soul was being dragged over hot coals, he would do this to spare him any further pain.

He turned to slip back inside the flat, hating himself for every step, even as he loved Crowley with them.

He would go back inside, drop down to the back, walk around the front and return via the main entrance. Then he would wait. Draw a bath, perhaps, though he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was concerned or fussing, for then Crowley would know that he knew that there was something to fuss about, and he wouldn’t want that.

But he would wait. He would be ready. Whenever Crowley was. In six days, or six months, or another six thousand years, he would be ready for him, and then-

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice was a hoarse rasp, but it was distinct enough.

It carried through the quiet night air like a scream, with only the soft static of the rain to disturb it.

Aziraphale froze. Then he turned slowly back. If he had made this worse, if he had ruined it all-

Crowley still hadn’t moved a muscle, but he spoke again. His words were so faint they were almost stolen by the wind that rose around them. Except for the fact that Aziraphale clung to them the way a holy man might cling to his prayer beads in the middle of, say, Armageddon.

“It’s okay,” Crowley mumbled quietly, “Y’don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

The words slurred together a little, most likely from pain.

It was the cruellest kind of pain, he knew, though he had never tasted it himself. An echo of wounds six thousand years old. A phantom Aziarpahle’s magic, though holy, could not banish.

His heart ached for him. And, not for the first time, a flicker of anger stirred to life within him.

“I just mean you can,” Crowley added, giving a tiny half-glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

He noticed then that his demon was shaking. From cold or pain, he couldn’t tell.

“S’a free country ‘n all that,” Crowley mumbled vaguely. “But m’ point is...You don’t have to leave. You can...You can stay. If you like.”

Aziraphale softened.

He knew Crowley well enough by now, he should think, to know that ‘you can stay’ meant ‘please don’t leave’.

“I would like to,” Aziraphale murmured as he moved in closer.

Tentatively, he knelt down at Crowley’s back and eased his arms around him. Crowley let out a tiny whimper and melted against him. Aziraphale braced himself against the rain damp tiles and held Crowley close, pressing his forehead to the seam between his wings.

“You’re freezing cold,” he admonished, concern leaking into his words, but no harshness. He had seen too much of that already.

“’M a demon,” Crowley grunted back, “We don’t get cold. Hellfire in our veins and...Stuff.”

“Well you are,” Aziraphale said, firmly, drawing him in even closer, instincts flaring, the desire to protect, to shelter, to save overwhelming.

Crowley didn’t protest.

With a soft exhale, Aziraphale extended his own wings, stark white against Crowley’s inky black, and draped them gently around the pair of them. The rain pattered mockingly against them, but in the moment, he couldn’t care less about that.

Crowley shuddered slightly and pressed himself deeper into Aziraphale’s soft embrace. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed him in. For a long while he simply held him in the rain, and the world was blessedly quiet as the stars turned overhead.

Finally, Aziraphale croaked, voice shaking just a little, which he thought was quite the achievement, considering “Is it your wings? The pain?”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale raised his, surprised, and felt Crowley shift slightly beneath him. Uncomfortable at the reaction, or at the simple loss of contact, he couldn’t be sure.

“I mean, they hurt,” he clarified, bluntly, “But it’s not the pain...Not just the pain. I know pain. I can deal with it, it’s-” His voice broke and he shook his head, trembling more tangibly in his angel’s arms.

Aziraphale stroked his fingers tenderly along the arc of Crowley’s spine. Up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing rhythm, like breathing, seeking to calm him.

Finally, he managed to choke out, “I miss it, ‘Ziraphale. I miss it.”

The agony was so obviously etched into this last words that Aziraphale nearly flinched from it.

Crowley shivered in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel stroked his back, hands running so delicately over his tattooed skin.

“D’you know why I like to sleep so much, angel?” Crowley managed to get out at last.

This was an unexpected follow-up, to say the least, but Aziraphale simply said, gently, “Tell me.”

“I dream,” Crowley whispered, “And when I dream...I fly again.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, unable to stop himself instinctively pulling Crowley in more tightly. As though he could shelter him from this grief as he sheltered him from the rain.

It was cruel, what they had done to him. So cruel sometimes it was all Aziraphale could do not to find himself that flaming sword and storm the whole of Heaven with it, blasphemy be damned.

***

“Every time, Aziraphale. Every time,” Crowley rasped.

He swallowed with difficulty past the lump in his throat and let his head hang on his neck, limp and pathetic, like an old child’s doll that had been so thoroughly abused, it couldn’t exist without its saviour and breaker.

It had taken a while, and a lot of talking to humans, before he’d realised they didn’t see the same thing over and over and over again every time they fell asleep.

Well. Some of them did. Some of them had nightmares.

That had terrified Crowley. The idea that Hell could reach him the only time he ever felt truly safe, the only time he knew any real peace anymore.

It had never happened.

Every time he dreamed, he flew over Eden. His wings were strong, and beautiful, and whole. The black feathers rippled like black glass in the sun as they caught updrafts and sent him endlessly through the interminable vista of rolling clouds and soaring winds.

Sometimes, in the distance, he could make out Aziraphale standing sentinel on the Eastern wall.

He never joined him in the air, though. The skies were his, and his alone.

He was safe. He was happy. He was free.

At least until he woke up.

“She does it,” he said now.

He tried not to let his voice shake but...what was the point? He was only here with Aziraphale, and all his ghosts, and they had both seen far worse from him then a tremor on his tongue.

“I know she does it. I don’t know why. She never talks to me anymore.” And why would she? “But...She does this.”

Aziraphale’s grip on him was so tight it was painful. It felt good. It felt grounding. Crowley was afraid he might be torn away by the rain storm without him. A stray feather in a hurricane. Insignificant. Helpless. Forgotten.

“I don’t know if it’s to punish me, to remind me of what I lost, what She took,” he couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that crept into that last word.

It was like a thief in the night. Unwanted, unwelcome, and invasive. But ultimately, that didn’t matter. It came anyway.

Six thousand years. Six thousand years since he’d Fallen. He should have been over it by now. He should have been over it centuries ago. Millennia, really. But he wasn’t.

“I don’t know if, maybe, it’s Her letting me remember it, letting me live it again. Just a bit. If maybe...Maybe it’s the only bit of forgiveness that She can give me.”

He sagged in Aziraphale’s arms at that, ashamed. Ashamed that he could still hope, could still believe She might still care about him. After everything he’d been through, the Fall, Hell, the torments they offered up down there, Her relentless silence, after everything She’d done to him, he should know better. He should have learned.

There was nothing left to have faith in anymore.

Crowley took a breath as the wind stirred up again and rippled through his feathers, making them tingle. He could still feel his wings. Some days he could feel entirely too much of them. He could still move them, still have them respond to him but...He couldn’t fly.

He had tried. He had tried a lot, especially those first few centuries, and every thousand years or so since. It had been excruciating. He’d told himself if he just pushed a little bit harder he could make it happen, could make them stronger, could fly again. All he’d gotten for his pain was near discorporation and a very strong letter full of expletives from Below.

“I like it out here,” he found himself muttering, conscious of Aziraphale’s patient embrace, “’Specially when it rains. Being up here, under the stars, with the wind, and the rain, and the peace...It’s the closest I can get to flying anymore.”

He felt pathetic admitting that. His deepest secret. His ultimate weakness, laid bare. Like the shiny metal covers they put on food at the Ritz, whipped off to reveal his soul, exposed beneath.

“If I could,” aziraphale breathed behind him, soft as a blasphemy whispered in a church2, “I would give you mine.”

“Aziraphale,” he croaked, starting with surprise in his arms.

He’d have been less shocked if the angel had blasphemed in church, had cursed out God in every language known to humankind (and the few they hadn’t discovered yet), and told her he quit3.

An angel’s wings were near holy. It was a miracle (not truly, but sometimes that human turn of phrase was all that would do) that they were sheltering Crowley and not destroying him.

An angel’s wings were everything to them. Their pride, the overwhelming symbol that set them apart from demons, from humanity, from everything. And Aziraphale’s...They were perfect. Just perfect. To give them up, to even consider it...

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled, “You’re an angel. It’s practically lying.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said, so sincerely, he might have been reciting scripture.

Crowley jerked in shock.

“What?”

Aziraphale shifted faster than Crowley could follow. In a heartbeat he was before him, kneeling as though he were an altar the angel had been made to give worship at. It was profane, the very thought of an angel on his knees before him and-

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, fiercely, and every other thought was wiped from his mind.

Aziraphale reached up and cradled Crowley’s face firmly between his soft hands.

“If I had to carve them from my own back, if I had to pull them apart a feather at a time, I would do it. For you.”

Crowley recoiled, shaking his head uncontrollably. The very idea was repulsive, unbearable.

Aziraphale didn’t understand what he was saying, what he would lose, the pain of it. He’d had his wings six thousand years longer than Crowley had. To lose them now…

“It would destroy you,” he breathed, hoarsely.

Unconsciously, he lifted a hand and grazed the tips of his fingers slowly, reverently, along the top crest of his angel’s beautiful white wing.

“It’s destroying you,” Aziraphale whispered back, catching Crowley’s hand and intertwining their fingers

Demons were supposed to be selfish creatures who cared only for their own interests, who took whatever they wanted, regardless of what it cost anyone, or anything, else. But he couldn’t even contemplate doing something like this. Not to Aziraphale.

Crowley was weak. All of Hell said so. They had for years, behind his back, like he didn’t know.

He didn’t particularly give a shit anymore.

“I would never let you,” he choked out, shaking his head violently, as though to rid it of the thought.

The look on Aziraphale’s face in that moment could have been used to define love for the first time in history.

“Which is why I would do it,” he breathed reverently. “Without hesitation.”

He leaned forwards and gently touched his forehead to Crowley’s. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, to the cool comfort of his angel. Who was insane. Completely, and utterly, insane because Crowley knew he meant it. Every word.

Angel’s could sense love. Demons could feel truth. It kind of went with the territory of the whole drawing up contracts, making demonic pacts, sealing ancient bargains, and that kind of thing.

But in the same way that angel’s didn’t spend their entire life being bombarded by every human’s love for peanut butter, or mystery novels, or Queen - he could only feel deep, raw, truth. The kind that was so sincere it left a mark upon the soul.

Crowley knew every word that had just come from the angel’s lips was like gospel to him.

With a slow, gentle movement, Aziraphale wrapped his wings tenderly around Crowley, then pulled him in close, as close as they could be while remaining separate entities.

All at once, he was enveloped in a soft, feathery cocoon, breathing in the smell of old books, and leather, and some kind of spicy fragrance Aziraphale had been favouring for centuries that he’d never been able to exactly identify.

After a long time spent cradled up in angel, his fingers carding soothingly through Crowley’s hair, he heard Aziraphale speak again, very softly.

“I, I could take you, if you wanted. Now. I could, I could carry you while I flew and…” He sounded so hesitant, as though one wrong word would send Crowley skittering away from him like a nervous animal. “I know that it wouldn’t be same, perhaps not even close, but...But we could try? If you wanted?”

Crowley’s face crumpled with emotion, but when he withdrew enough for Aziraphale to see him, all that was left was a wry smirk.

“Isn’t that against the angel’s code of conduct?” he said, “Heaven’s Flyway Code: no exceeding 30mph, no overhead-taking, no flying under the influence, and absolutely no being seen by humans?”

To say nothing of taking demons with you. If that wasn’t already part of the code, he could practically hear Gabriel squeaking up in Heaven and barking at Michael to get it added immediately.

He felt that it wouldn’t really be necessary to point out that they happened to be in the most densely populated city in the UK. Even with miracles, it would be a risky thing to attempt even in the countryside.

Then again, he never thought he would have to remind Aizraphale of anything even remotely resembling a rule. ‘Fussy stickler’ was definitely near the top of the list of ‘most frequently used phrases to describe the Principality Aziraphale’.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

He reached out and cupped Crowley’s cheek in a hand, the pad of his thumb lightly tracing the arc of his cheekbone, “I want to help you, my dear.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own and squeezed gently, “If you’re seen- If they catch you-“

“I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” he cut in, firmly.

“Aziraphale-” Crowley began.

“Please,” the angel interrupted, a slight quaver in his voice.

Crowley arched up on his knees and gently kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, breathing him in. Sweet, naive, foolish angel, even after all this time.

“There are some things you can’t fix, angel,” he said, quietly, fingers threading through Aziraphale’s thick white hair. “No matter how hard you try. No matter how badly you want to. Some things are just broken.”

“You are not broken!” Aziraphale burst out indignantly.

Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second. In truth, he was. But not because of this.

“No,” he agreed, slowly, “But these are.”

He gestured over his shoulder as he gave his wings a slight flex which stoked the burning pain in them to a sharp flare before settling again into their familiar dull ache.

With a sad smile he said, quietly, “You can’t catch me, angel. I’ve already Fallen.”

Aziraphale slid a finger under Crowley’s chin and tilted his head up until their eyes met. He brushed his mouth tenderly against Crowley’s lips, gentle as the kiss of a feather on the wind, and breathed, “that’s no reason to keep me from lifting you up again, Crowley.”

In his mouth, his name sounded almost like that of an angel.

For the first time since he had held him, Crowley looked past Aziraphale. He looked past the bright blue eyes, full of empathy and the need to help. He looked past the beautiful white wings, now glowing faintly in the moonlight, perfect, not a feather out of place, forming a halo around his soft form.

He looked out to the stars he had crafted from the darkness. The rain continued to fall around them, but the clouds where he looked had faded. The sky was clear, and he could see the stars beyond, beckoning him home.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in.

The wind ran its fingers through his feathers the way Aziraphale might when welcoming him back after he’d been gone too long.

The air was cold, but it felt good against his burning skin.

His imagination carried him and he soared over the city. He imagined what it would look like from so high up, all little lights, and square buildings, and long narrow streets. The feeling of testing himself in those narrow streets, weaving between those buildings, racing around tight corners. It was exhilarating.

The fierce wind was nearly ripping feathers from his wings. The rain was like bullets against his skin, nearly blinding him.

Aziraphale’s arms were around him, making sure he didn’t fall.

The fantasy shattered.

All he could see now was Aziraphale cradling him, like a child, his wings dragging uselessly behind him, utterly dependent on another to carry him and care for him in the skies that used to be his.

He couldn’t feel the wonder, the joy, the freedom anymore. All he could taste was bitterness, and resentment, and humiliation.

It was a stupid reason not to try, to further deny himself something that had been taken from him for six thousand years but...He couldn’t. He couldn’t stand it.

“No,” he said, shakily, “No I, I can’t. Not now. Not-“ He swallowed with difficulty and added, pathetically, “I’m not ready.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, gently, softly stroking his hair again.

Crowley was pretty sure he didn’t understand at all. But he was so grateful the angel wasn’t pushing him, or using that limitless reason and logic to explain at the moment why they should at least make a go of it.

He couldn’t face trying to put the tangled web of his emotions into words right now. Not like this. Aziraphale at least seemed to understand that, damn him.

The angel wrapped his wings around him again, but more loosely this time. Stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair he said, quietly, “What do you need? Tell me what I can do for you. Anything. Anything at all.”

“Just don’t leave me,” Crowley mumbled. The words were out before he could stop them, and he felt utterly pathetic saying them, but there was no helping that now.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s hair, more said to himself. “I couldn’t bear to be on my own without you just now,” he admitted, and Crowley found himself pulling the angel in closer, no longer feeling weak or useless, only grateful.

Gently, Aziraphale began massaging Crowley’s wings, clever fingers finding and loosening the knots in the muscles. It didn’t take away the pain, but it helped.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, softly, “May I continue?”

In answer, Crowley sagged against him, mashed his face against Aziraphale’s neck (in a comforting way), and managed to groan out an incoherent but enthusiastic, “Uh-huh,” against his skin.

There was a faint smile beneath his disapproval when he said, “You see, if you’d just come to me first and skipped all of these dramatics, wouldn’t that have been better?”

Crowley growled indignantly.

This was somewhat undercut by the soft moan of relief that escaped him around the same time.

“You were napping,” he mumbled, thickly.

In a very bloody disconcerting way, he didn’t add, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Would have given humans nightmares for years.

Aziraphale huffed with irritation, as expected, “Actually, I’ll have you know that I was engaged in a deep meditational study concerning the evolution of symbolism and theme throughout the life’s works of William Shakespeare. I was not napping, as you so crudely put it.”

“Were,” Crowley muttered petulantly under his breath.

Aziraphale dug his fingers into a particularly tight knot and Crowley yelped in protest.

While he frowned up at him with wounded indignation, the angel said, angelically, “So sorry, dear boy.”

Still scowling, Crowley slumped gracelessly back into his original position.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale went on, voice softening, “What I was doing is irrelevant. You will always take priority, Crowley, whatever I might be doing. I need you to know that.”

“You’ve gone soft in your old age, angel.”

“And I’ll make no apology for that,” he replied, calmly, gently kneading a particularly tender spot as he did so. “And we’re ageless, dear,” he added, placidly, “I cannot be old. Nor can I be young. I simply am.”

“Simply insufferable,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in his serious ‘stop deflecting or I’ll be nice to your plants again’ angel voice which meant he had to listen to him, “I love you,” he said, firmly,” And I will keep pestering you with that knowledge until the end of time if that’s what it takes to make you accept-“

“I do, I do accept it,” Crowley interrupted irritably, pawing at Aziraphale’s hands in an attempt to get him to skip the lecture and resume his soothing massage.

“Until you accept that you deserve it,” Aziraphale pressed on.

Blessed angel really was insufferable, Crowley thought, ignoring the sudden lump in his throat. All good, and noble, and decent.

He couldn’t find a proper answer with words, so he arched up, ignoring the painful tightness in his back, and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

The angel recoiled from the shock of it for a heartbeat, then melted into him, smiling against his lips, hands gentle on his waist.

Crowley leaned into his upwards momentum and shifted into his serpent form, coiling endlessly around Aziraphale until his entire weight was supported by the other.

“Take me back inssside, angel,” he hissed softly, nuzzling affectionately against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, well, my wish is your command, sir Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled at this issuing of orders, but without any real heat or rancour.

The angel miracled them both back inside with a blink and let out a small sigh, shaking out his wings and spattering every surface in a ten foot radius with water droplets.

Crowley knew how much Aziraphale hated getting his wings wet.

He gave him a little squeeze and said, “Run usss a bath, angel. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to make up for, my dear,” the angel insisted, obstinately, all the while continuing to drip mournfully onto the carpet.

Crowley growled impatiently and slithered around him until they were nose to nose.

“Aziraphale.”

“No!” the angel said, “Not while you’re this sore, it’s utterly unfair, I won’t even-“

Crowley squeezed until Aziraphale cut off with a look that very plainly said ‘really, darling?’

“Aziraphale,” he repeated, in his best ‘agree with me or I’ll miracle inappropriate typos into all your favourite books again’ demon voice. “Let me take care of you, too. Pleassse,” he wheedled.

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands dramatically as he did so, “You wily old serpent, you,” he added, fondly, gently kissing Crowley’s snout.

Crowley wriggled away from him with an indignant hiss, “I am an apex predator,” he informed Aziraphale, tartly, as the angel carried him to the bath he had just miracled into existence for them.

“Of course you are, dear,” the angel replied, not at all patronisingly.

“I could eat you for breakfast,” Crowley persisted, rearing up a little as he said it to add to the threatening effect of his words.

“I rather hope you will,” Aziraphale replied evenly, without missing a beat.

Somehow, Crowley’s snake form blushed.

They continued to bicker throughout the bath, in which Crowley carefully washed and groomed Aziraphale’s wings to rid them of the rain damage. And afterwards, as Crowley dried Aziraphale’s wings, then the angel carried him back to the bedroom, where he stretched luxuriously on the bed.

Then he nestled against his angel, coiling around him in heavy black and red folds, still in his snake form. Aziraphale settled back against the pillows, a book already miracled to him on his chest of drawers for when Crowley drifted off.

The tips of his fingers traced soothing patterns over Crowley’s scales, bleeding the last few vestiges of tension from his body.

Just before he fell asleep, head pillowed against Aziraphale’s soft stomach, Crowley found that, perhaps, there was still something left to have faith in after all.

******************************************************************************

Footnotes:

1- Crowley had tried. The wily demon had taken him unawares, striking him when he’d least expected it, in spots he was most vulnerable, tickling mercilessly, but to no avail.

2- As if Aziraphale would ever even dream of doing such a thing.

3- Crowley didn’t know if it was strictly possible to quit from being an angel. The same way it wasn’t really possible for a cow to quit from being a cow. Or for a table to request a transfer to be a chair instead.

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