#the scholar rests (queue)

[elizabethrobertajones]

I've just remembered why I never queue for anything as AST any more... You just ALWAYS end up with another AST on your team and spend the whole raid overlapping your cards and stuff in a way that literally even SCH on SCH violence doesn't feel as bad as >.>

(watch me swap my weekly queueing for things run for SCH and get a fellow scholar for the rest of the pandas and eurovision, and start foaming at the mouth about wasting our recitation procs)

[estrogenpatchnotes]

Dying was not a peaceful experience for Shadow the Hedgehog. Whether the unpleasantness of this particular death was unique to the hedgehog, or if it was due to the nature of its well earned demise is a matter of debate for scholars of all inane and overly narrow subjects.

The long trip down the Styx eventually deposited the Hedgehog where all eventually find their way, that place in which all mortal souls face judgement, the House of Hades. In landing at its entrance, the quilled menace was greeted with the visage of the ever eager Hypnos, brother to death, lord of sleep.

Hypnos

“Wowzie, wow! I’ve never seen a creature like you emerge from the Styx before. And it says here you disintegrated from atmospheric re-entry? Have you tried not leaving the atmosphere to begin with?”

Shadow

“Leave me alone to die.”

Hypnos

“No can do buddy, you’re already dead!”

The recently vanquished Hedgehog was puzzled by this declaration. While it had sent many souls down to Hades, it was not aware of anything that lay beyond the veil of death. Indeed it seems that of the very few things it had learned in its brief time walking the earth and traversing the lowest heavens, it had failed to consider the nature of its own mortality.

Shadow

“Dead…”

Hypnos

“Yup! Right here on the list, “Shadow the Hedgehog, died of Atmospheric Entry Related Disintegration”!”. I’ll admit it’s an impressive way to go, especially for a mortal. Even Zag would be hard pressed to beat that one.”

Shadow

“Wait, hold on, this has to be some sort of trick… Sonic of course, he must have-” Hypnos

“Woah woah woah, slow down there little buddy, I don’t think you understand. It’s fine, most mortals these days don’t-”

Shadow

“Get out of my way, I don’t have time for any cheap tricks, I have to figure out what’s really going on here”

The unnatural quickness that served him in life was called forth once again as Shadow the Hedgehog rushed forth, cutting quickly ahead of the many varied petitioners within the House of Hades. Despite his efforts, his escape was cut short before it even began by the monstrous, three headed Cerberus.

Hades

“Who dares disturb the order of my house?”

The lord of the dead loomed from his throne, sending the many waiting shades scurrying from their places in the queue and into the shadowed corners of his hall. His weighty gaze resting upon the impudent hedgehog held by the scruff of its neck in one of Cerberus’s terrible maws.

Hades

“Speak now shade, and do it quickly to explain yourself, you won’t have time again for such luxuries during your time in Tartarus.”

Shadow

“My name’s not Shade, it’s Shadow, and you’re the one who should be explaining himself to me. What’s the meaning of this, where am I?”

Hypnos

“Ha ha, Lord Hades I see you’ve met our latest guest. When I read his file I just knew you’d want to meet him as fast as possible! Not only did he come down in one of the most spectacular ways I’ve ever seen, he also apparently dropped a bunch of things called… The Chaos Emeralds?”

Hades

“Did you just say… the Chaos Emeralds?”

At the mention of those artifacts, the Grim Lord of the Underworld was distracted from his righteous fury at the intruding hedgehog. His mind turned back to the early days of his rulership over the Underworld, when the old order of the Titans still colored all aspects of existence both living and dead. That some of the most ancient jewels from that era would find their way once again to the Underworld gave even him pause.

We take a refrain now from the House of Hades to look upon the surface of the Earth, where the former enemies and allies of Shadow the Hedgehog now contemplated the aftermath of a prior tale.

I did actually read the whole thing here that’s delightful

[wrathful-banette]

Does He know?

Magomarch day 20! Scholar

We're back on it again day 20! Yesterday was another rest day come on and I had meant to queue up another piece of old magolor art to post, but I it completely slipped my mind. I'll post two the next rest day to make up for it!!

Sidenote: i completed this one in just under 30 minutes !!

[blackbackedjackal]

Oh my gosh, I didn't know you played GW2! Do you have a sideblog for that, or is it appropriate to ask about here? I'd love to hear about your Olma ;w;

You can ask here! I've been playing on and off for about 8 years now? It's one of my favorite games I just kinda have to be in the mood to play it. I'm pretty much all rp and fashion wars.

Nyra Blackmist is my Olmakhan Charr. I really liked A Bug in the System and the general vibe and aesthetic of Sandswept so I made Nyra's story for that plot and use her to command the metas there from time to time ;o;

Nyra was an Ash Legion soldier and scholar at the Priory. One day while going through the restricted archives, she stumbles upon with an old book on necromancy. Obsessed with the text (as it pertained to the Mordrem threat at the time), she tracks down the author, Herah Katoh (my partners Norn Harbinger). Herah was taken by the Inquest after she has a fight with her mentor with Eir Stegalkin, and the inquest preformed the same sort of necrotic Mordeum experiments on the secondborn Sylvari to her, turning her into a lich and seeking revenge in the Inquest. She teams up with Joko and basically queue Living World season 4 :0

Nyra works under Herah until a Bug in the System, where she meets Sierra Forgeflame, one of the Charr that escaped the Flame Legion and elder Olmakhan leader. Nyra's mother was accused if being a traitor to the Ash Legion for working for the Flame Legion after her warband was captured (the honorless gladuim path), but Sierra explained to Nyra that her mother allowed herself to be captured so that the rest of her warband could escape to Sandswept.

Faced with the realization the Olmalkhan are her mother's (and subsequently part of her) warband she joins the Commander of Tyria and the Olmakhan to fight against Joko and Herah.

[thewrongexecution]

it is Time. for Fashion.

I have been working on this project. for months. and it is finally. still incomplete on several technicalities but good enough for now. I'm very proud of what I've managed to accomplish. Please enjoy looking at my beautiful child,

Millennia Crowe.

(...Wait, what do you mean "30 image limit?" Uh, gimme a minute to edit these together. This post is gonna be long.)

Gunbreaker

The truest self. The most Millennia of all Millennias. Confident without being cocky, ornate without being gaudy. Black longcoat with silver and gold trim, splash of white for flair, and the Iconic Hat (TM). Very proud of the gauntlets (gold trim to match the coat) and boots (fur lining to match the collar).

That jacket was actually what inspired this whole project. I'd picked up every job and had outfits for each role by then, but the Jacket was a perfect match to The Hat... and Gunbreaker exclusive. Could I get all the rest their own unique look, that looked just as good?

Judge for yourself.

Warrior

Millie's first job. I'd tried Lancer on a different character, but was frustrated by how fragile they were; starting as a tank was partly to alleviate that concern, and partly to skip ahead in dungeon queues. And then I just. never stopped tanking, lmao.

Most of these outfits start from the chestpiece, and this one's no exception. The boots and pants went through a few revisions, but I think the heavy-plate look works well. Those elbow spikes still bother me a little, though; might rework those sometime.

Paladin

Here's our first what-I-call-military-formal outfit; you'll see them recur pretty often. While the jacket is suited to the valiant protector identity, Lenny also likes to antagonize Fray; wearing this outfit while in nominal service to the ruler of a corrupt, unjust society is one of her little jokes.

A lot of coats seem to me to just cut off abruptly in the front, so I was very proud to get those pants with the faux-hem. Shoulda tried for a better shot of the shield, but in most poses it obscures the rest of the outfit. Which is what it's supposed to do, I guess...

Dark Knight

The traditional look was actually too broody for my tastes; I've instead opted for the look of someone who walked halfway around the world without stopping to rest to find you and kick your ass. Postman's Creed (Evil)-type beat. Using the Forgiven's chestpiece is also another one of those fun little jokes.

Not many of these deviate from The Hat, but a more intimidating look that hides the identity just feels right, here.

White Mage

Gridanian jobs tend to lean more outdoorsy. Here, the fur lining evokes White Mage's traditional frills without leaning too far towards femme. Proud I found matching boots.

These days, Millennia gets chills if he channels light aether too much. It's a psychosomatic reaction, mostly, but the extra insulation helps all the same.

Technically incomplete, but the Rose Couverte takes slightly more grinding than I was willing to put in at the time. The hunt for perfection remains never-ending... But it's good to still have something to aim for.

Scholar

My current main! White Mage was my first healer, but I value the ability to preempt damage that Scholar provides. Nothing better than seeing a raidwide fail to touch the party's actual health. Your "real flame" ain't shit, bud.

(...A-hem. Right. Fashion.)

I wasn't sold on the ribbons at first, but military-formal longcoats with gold trim win out every time. Plus, it matches the book. Kinda funny that my two favorite classes still use these specific chestpieces, under the circumstances. What can I say? The li'l lady does good work.

Astrologian

Another victory for pants that look like shirts: that white bit with the triangles? Not part of the chestpiece! There's no good shot of it here, but the boots also have star ornaments that match the ones on the coat.

This one was fun to figure out the staging for. Originally, I was cropping these shots down, but didn't like how inconsistent the sizing was. Had to redo half of them, but I'd figured out proper lighting by then, so it worked out.

Sage

Once, Millie had a daydream of an admiral leading a fleet through the sea of stars, and feverishly assembled this getup in response.

Strange how things work out sometimes. The Manusya/Bonewicca gear was a mainstay of outfits past, but this is the only one in which the gloves survive. On the other hand, I might never have known the Raincoat's fashion potential if I'd never gone to the aquarium.

(Shoutouts to the Eorzean Museum Network, whose passion for elaborate digital projects, despite the conclusions you might draw from this post, far eclipses my own.)

Monk

This outfit originally belonged to Samurai, but I felt the simpler design drew better attention to those fists. Includes matching heavy metal boots, to amp the impact of kicks.

Dragoon

Another outfit where I was aiming for military-formal before I stumbled ass-backwards into this chestpiece while browsing the PvP gear. It just somehow incidentally went with all the other pieces I already had. Still hardly believe it.

Ninja

Nondescript traveler. Dressed well, but unmemorably. Safe to ignore.

I'm not actually that big a fan of the whole mystical wizard direction that Ninja takes; this outfit is meant to evoke its origins in Rogue. I even had Generic Dagger as a weapon for a while- anything with a proper hilt guard just doesn't feel right- but these shortblades better represent Millennia's actual threat level.

Might change the boots for something softer-soled sometime, but I like the way they flow into the pants.

Samurai

Used to have a cyberpunk getup that I was very proud to have assembled, but the vibes never hit quite right. I got very lucky with this year's Heavensturn reward. Also features the #55 boots, another staple of outfits past. Black and gold and so on, you know.

Reaper

I saw the scythe and I saw the chest and I knew I had a winner. I wish the skirt was a little less ornate? But it's like, the only one Reaper can wear that also has pants. So many opportunities for your dress to fly up in these latest dungeons...

Shoutouts to every DRK main with the same chestpiece, and the one Reaper I saw with the same getup but in white. I am shaking your collective hands.

Bard

Leaned into the outdoorsman/hunter look for this one. I debated waiting until Valentione's ended to pose in the amphitheatre, but fame is a mantle ill-tailored to Minnie; she'd rather perform for friends than crowds. Not that I've. ever actually used the performance feature...

Machinist

It may look silly when using flamethrower, but there's no real alternative to the platonic ideal of [Gun]. I'm sure you're all shocked to see another military-formal kit as well.

Sometimes it bothers me that so many of these just use Normal Black Glove, but you don't really need anything fancier if the sleeves and cuffs are good on their own.

Dancer

It is. so hard. to find Dancer-y outfits that actually cover the body. Very satisfied when this one came together.

Having second thoughts on the boots, but most other options were pointier than I liked. Not trying to evoke Waluigi, y'know?

Black Mage

Refined and elegant and big metal boots. Another little joke. Very lucky they released that hat; a surprising number of these pieces only came out within the last few weeks. The Appointed flatcap is fine- you've seen it in a couple outfits already- but the puffier look vibes better in general, I think.

Those gloves were the last piece I got before I considered this project complete enough to show off. They took three days to drop.

Worth it.

Summoner

I wanted a heavier look for Ifrit's melee skills and a draconic vibe overall. The Radiant's chest was my first pick, but ended up too monochrome; this still ticks all the boxes and pairs well with the Archfiend gauntlets.

Gonna need a new outfit if Oracle becomes real, though.

Red Mage

Took me a while to settle on this chestpiece. Used to have a lightly-armored look which had a scarf I rather liked, but there kept being too much brown leather for my tastes. This way, though, I can draw narrative connections to Alisaie. Inspiring and being inspired in turn, kinda deal.

Disciple of the Hand

If not for the utility belt, this would make for a perfect casual outfit. And the gloves, but those're on purpose.

Lenny's more keen on the intricate, high-detail work of alchemy and goldsmithing than the blunt routine of armorsmithing and the like. However, the armorsmithing guild has excellent staging, so that's whatcha get.

Someday, I plan to assemble unique outfits for each Disciple of Hand and Land, but for now I am literally out of glamour plates. Desperately hoping they add more by the time 7.0 rolls around.

Disciple of the Land

Did you know? The Disciples of Hand and Land share the base animations of the Paladin! I've exploited that for the action shot. Please do not chop wood one-handed unless you know what you're doing.

I think at this point the outfit speaks for itself, but that coat serves as a good reminder of how expensive this whole endeavor was. Must've cost about a million gil on its own, and that's with the relative discount of buying the materials and crafting it myself! Let alone all the jet-black dye I still haven't bought. I used to have savings in the seven digits...

Blue Mage

Didn't think I'd forgot, didja?

This one's a little special. Millennia uses the guise of Azuro as an escape from the pressures of being World's Savior; this outfit is deliberately gaudier than the others to better create a separate sense of identity.

Sometimes I wonder if using an Allagan outfit on a Meracydian job is in poor taste, but it's already being exploited for bloodsport, so...

...Uh. Azuro?

Whatcha... Whatcha doin' there, bud?

?????

Thank you for reading.

[leonbloder]

On The Island of the Apocalypse

In the book of Revelation, at the end of the New Testament, we read these words: 

9 I, John, your brother and companion in the suffering and kingdom and patient endurance that are ours in Jesus, was on the island of Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. 10 On the Lord’s Day I was in the Spirit, and I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet, 11 which said: “Write on a scroll what you see and send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea.”

After this beginning, John the Revelator revealed an incredible vision that has confounded scholars and theologians for centuries.  

The book of Revelation has been the source of countless misinterpretations, bad theology, fevered visions of the future, not to mention the foundation of many of the strange ideas and beliefs that many Christians hold about the end of the world. 

John the Revelator's vision happened on the Greek island of Patmos, which is home to the Monastery of St. John the Theologian, founded upon the site where John is believed to have received his vision in a cave.  

I had the chance to revisit the island during my trip to Greece and return to the Monastery.  My visit got me thinking about many things, including all of the studies I've made of John's Revelation. 

To begin with, it's important to know that the very name of the book of Revelation tells us a bit about what it's all about.  The Greek name for the book is the Apocalypse of John, which reveals the kind of writing we're reading off the bat. 

This kind of writing was not meant to be a future prophecy.  It was a revelation of what was happening and what outcomes current events might have in the future. And the fantastical word pictures that we find in Revelation would have been completely understood by the readers. 

It's also up for debate whether The Apostle John wrote the Apocalypse of John. It's been dated as having been written well after 70 AD and the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, and could have been written by an elder (or presbyter) who was the overseer of the seven churches mentioned in the text. 

At any rate, there is a vision that occurs in the book's opening lines--a vision that happens on the island of Patmos, where hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit each year. 

During this last visit to the island, our group joined a huge queue area to visit the grotto or cave where John the Revelator had his vision and where, according to tradition, dictated what he saw to an assistant.  

The wait time was over forty-five minutes to enter the Chora or Cave of the Apocalypse, which was converted into a chapel as part of the Monastery of St. John the Theologian in 1088.  

As I wanted in line with the rest of my group, I reflected on how many people over the centuries have waited to enter the Chora--the curious, the devout, skeptics, tourists from cruise ships, faithful pilgrims, worshippers, and the like.  

And everyone who visits has their own sense of what occurred in that cave and why it's considered a holy site.  

Some believe that some sort of code needs to be cracked in the Revelation to determine the course of history.  Others write it off as a legend or the ravings of an unhinged person suffering hallucinations.  

There are also some (myself included) who don't take the text to be literally true and find in it a warning to followers of Jesus not to assimilate to the excesses of the Empire, whatever form the Empire takes throughout the ages. 

Yet, we all gather on a remote island off the coast of Greece to stand in line for a glimpse at where this book of Revelation was conceived.  

There is something quite beautiful about it, really.  I had to wonder what made a place holy.  Was it what happened there, or was it something else?  What was it about that cave that made us all enter into it hushed into reverent silence after waiting so long for a glimpse of it? 

Could it be that the place is made holy because so many of us gather there, wondering, praying, seeking understanding, longing for answers, or simply wanting to find some connection to the Divine, some glimpse of what comes next for all of us?

Perhaps this is the secret to Revelation, after all.  

Like so many aspects of the Christian faith and tradition, it is a mystery.  It spoke to a particular time but also speaks to all times.  It was for a specific group of first-century Christians, but it was also for all followers of Jesus in all places and times.  

And we find ourselves saying like those Christians of old, "Even now, come quickly, Lord Jesus!"  We long for the world to be made right by the eternal and universal Christ.  And we live as faithfully as we can until then. 

May the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always. Amen. 

[loregoddess]

so...Octopath II is very fun. No spoilers that weren't in trailers already, don't worry, just some first impressions.

I am in awe of how much new stuff is in the game, like, not even just the night/day mechanics or the additional path skills, like, all the environments feel larger and more immersive, the battle animations have a lot of extra oomph to them. A lot of elements feel very similar to the original game, like the main menu UI is stylistically similar enough that navigating it feels like second-nature, and a lot of weird tidbits like the main font for speech and map icons are the same, which makes it feel more like "this is part of the same series" rather than just lazy reuse. It's very pretty and handles really well so far, there isn't even too much of a learning curve esp. coming from the first Octopath's control scheme.

I started with Osvald bc...scholar, obviously. Also I do enjoy a good vengeance quest, and there's a very specific brand of widower that I enjoy in fiction, so he seemed like the ideal character to start with. The game's much more balanced, so Osvald doesn't feel half as squishy as Cyrus was in battle (as Cyrus was my starting character way back when, and surviving those early battles was a task. Not for Osvald though, sitting in prison built him some decent defense I guess). I managed to recruit and play through the Ch1 for Temenos and Throne as well, and both of their Ch1's were also very balanced in the sense that both classes were a bit squishier in the original game, but this game goes out of it's way to make sure that no one's like, dying or nearly dying in their Ch1.

Story-wise my experience has been like, the complete opposite of my experience w/ the first Octopath, if only bc I didn't start with like, Primrose, who had one of the darker storylines. Definitely a lot more dark or mature tones narratively for the characters I've recruited so far, although that's not a bad thing, it's just different. I'm very excited to meet the rest of the characters and continue exploring the world and various narratives, as so far I'm having a great time. Also the music is, once more, excellent. Very original to this game, there aren't too many motifs borrowed from the original Octopath, which is nice, but also all the tracks so far have been very, very good.

Also, going forth, only vague reactions to things. Specific spoilers will be under cuts if I want to talk about them and tagged accordingly as "octopath ii spoilers" or "minor octopath ii spoilers" if I decide to share any at all. I won't reblog anything for the game for a while as well, everything will just be saved to the behemoth that is my drafts and then hopefully I remember to queue it after I finish the game. But overall, I will remain as spoiler-free as I can for those who wish to go in blind.

[bloodsorceress]

"I'm fine...it's gonna be okay," Missy insisted, though the dark orange blood seeping through her shirt said otherwise.

(From ineedmyfriendback)

Iley could only stare with wide eyes, feeling something like panic begin to thrum through her veins. Panic because Missy was bleeding, that much was obvious. But panic because. . .

Because the song seemed so wrong. It wasn’t like any other she heard, this one more of a cacophony, a chorus that seemed to carry a tune like a beating drum. For a brief moment, brown eyes flashed crimson before reverting to normal, and Iley moved quickly, moving so she could try and get Missy into a more comfortable position.

“Okay my ass! Look, I’m not the best of healers-” unless she used her blood magic, “-but show me the damage and. . . and I’ll see what I can do,” she said, trying her best to not let her panic and slowly collapsing self-control, that drumming noise that made up the song of Missy’s blood echoing in her head.

[kiatheinsomniac]

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  queue name: resting in the café theatre

𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐔:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ encyclopaedia, the realms, the myths

masterlist of posts

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐈:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ altaïr ibn-la’ahad

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ altaïr ibn-la’ahad

five times you almost kissed and one time that you did

cinnamon and lavender 

dry your eyes | ko-fi reward

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ezio auditore

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  ezio auditore

undercover escape

come to bed

rooftop confessions

Ezio as a jealous lover headcanons

the party

when the party’s over

away from the parties

womaniser

seeing you in a tank top and shorts headcanons

Ezio comforting your insecurity

innocence and experience  | smut

5 times you almost kissed and the time that you did

feeling good | smut

feeling good II | smut

gods au: Ezio

gods au: Ezio II | smut

gods au: Ezio III 

yandere! Ezio headcanons

I know that face (strange though it seems)

branches of the brotherhood

a welcoming embrace

consequences of an affair 

that four-letter acronym  | modern AU, dad! Ezio, daughter! Reader)

If you need me, I’ll be there 

I hate knowing that you’re hurt and there’s nothing I can do

Ezio meets a hijabi! reader | headcanons

show my face?  | gn! reader

more than earned it | smut

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐈𝐈:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ connor kenway | ratonhnhaké:ton, haytham kenway

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  connor kenway | ratonhnhaké:ton

first times | smut

sub! Connor | headcanons, smut

I don’t ever want to leave this cave  | smut

homestead skillsets 

Connor with a musical s/o | headcanons

rut | wolf hybrid! Connor, smut

day’s hunt | ko-fi reward

breaking down walls

of sailors, of mer | lunar raffle, mermaid! reader

this life is mine | smut

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  haytham kenway

coming home late

rescue

yandere, romantic! Haytham | headcanons

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐕: 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐆:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ edward kenway, james kidd | mary read, 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  edward kenway

thine honour 

the cruise  | smut

gods au: Edward

adrift

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  james kidd | mary read

just the two of us

just go back to sleep, I promise to be here when you wake up

just go back to sleep II

what a day

the diver  | mermaid! reader

you can keep it down | smut

a siren’s song | smut, x oc

a siren’s song II | smut, x oc

little boat | ko-fi reward

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃: 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ shay cormac

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  shay cormac

the precursor scholar  | Egyptian! reader

reuniting with daughter! reader | headcanons, angst

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃: 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ arno dorian

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  arno dorian

caring for you while you’re sick headcanons

modern au work headcanons

gods au: Arno

soulmate au

versailles tryst | smut

Arno x musketeer! Reader

bonne anniversaire

moments like this | smut

cuddles & forehead kisses

nightmares & music boxes | smut

seeing you in a tank top and shorts headcanons

yandere! Arno headcanons

so much for an early night  | smut

I never stopped loving you

no one’s ever touched me like this  | smut

masquerade

Arno with a modern s/o  | headcanons

I promise to be here when you wake up

gods au: Arno II

je ne parle pas français

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃: 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ evie frye, jacob frye

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  evie frye

Evie slowly falling for another female assassin  | headcanons

you’ve stolen my heart

12 red tulips | ko-fi reward

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  jacob frye

ransom | pirate! au

the type of person he’d hate  | headcanons

spontaneity  | smut

yandere Jacob drabble

jealousy 

Jacob with a tall s/o | headcanons

always on my mind

Jacob with an s/o who’s struggling with anorexia  | headcanons/ tw: mentions of ED but only in a sense of comforting + supporting recovery

Jacob with a cold s/o who’s only tender around him  | headcanons

meeting in the Schoolyard

being the big spoon with Jacob | headcanons

Jacob with a goth s/o  | headcanons

cuddles

deep breaths honey, you’re okay now, you’re safe  | daughter! reader

tea and cake

Jacob with an s/o who has depression  | headcanons/ tw: mentions of depression but only in the sense of supporting recovery

night thoughts 

warming up on a rainy day | smut

bonfire night | ko-fi reward

marry me? (broken as I am) | smut

upon thames | ko-fi reward

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃: 𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐘:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ alexios of sparta, kassandra of sparta

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  alexios of sparta

Acteon  | smut

how he shows affection  | headcanons

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  kassandra of sparta

can’t take my eyes off you

sweet treats part I

sweet treats part II | smut

nervous Kassandra w/ an oblivious crush headcanons

breathless at a misthios’ hand | smut

a weapon and her heart | Deimos! Kass, smut

seashells | ko-fi reward

scarred kisses

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃: 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀:

｡･:*˚:✧｡ eivor varinsdottir, eivor varinsson, basim ibn ishaq

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  basim ibn ishaq

basim with eivor’s cousin! reader | headcanons 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  eivor varinsdottir

hunt gone wrong

healer

the red scarf

second chance | modern! au, ft. Kassandra)

argument 

flirting with a shy s/o  | headcanons

‘take me instead’ 

fire and chamomile 

sleepy cuddles 

the shield-maiden and the selkie | au

Anxiety 

the woman in red | au

deep breaths honey, you’re okay now, you’re safe 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  eivor varinsson

under his eyes | smut

alliance 

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒 / 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

✧ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒

highschool au featuring various assassin’s creed characters

✧ 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒

vampire au! ezio auditore x reader

✧ 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄

ezio auditore x reader

✧ 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

a collaborative event with @itseivwhore​

☾ ⋆ﾟlike my work? why not: 

∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ join my taglist ∘ consider following/reblogging

[chocolatepot]

Day ten of @domaystic - in a queue.

fandom | MDZS

notes | A true drabble of 100 words

Lan Wangji waited behind an elderly scholar and a gangly adolescent at the ink-maker’s cart at the market. Wei Ying had been standing with him for a time, but naturally he had been distracted by other vendors and had wandered off to browse, finally ending up inspecting the toymaker’s wares.

“Lan Zhan!” he called, waving one hand to catch his attention. Unnecessary: Lan Wangji paid only the required amount of attention to his place in the queue, and all of the rest went to Wei Ying, wherever he was and whatever he was doing. “This little wooden donkey is adorable!”

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 32

Fandom: Marvel 

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine

There comes a time in one's life when all is said, but still needs to be done, and in a heartbreaking majority of events, it also requires dressing up. 

You watched Loki pull on the ephemeral, golden threads shifting through the air around his face. "You sure it's working?"

"I know how to cast an illusion, darling," he muttered, focused on the mirror. "It's really not that hard."

"I don't see any difference." 

"You're not supposed to. It'll only work on strangers."

"So… We'll only know if it worked when someone screams?" 

"I'm touched by how much trust you put in my skills," Loki sneered, with eyes focused on his jaw. You wondered what the face he was working on looked like. Given the intensity, it must’ve been a work of art. 

Loki sealed the illusion and checked it from every angle. It felt so much better than the shabby mud that monk had plastered onto his face with little finesse. It might've worked against the less intellectual part of the population, but to anyone who had even the slightest knowledge of the high arts, it was no more than a laughable effort. 

Loki smiled, imagining the clash that would follow if the monk and his excuse of a sorcerer met the Asgardian magic wielders. It would be a sight worth paying for. Loki would make sure to get a seat in the front row. 

On the other hand, even he had to admit that the bracelet they came up with was a piece of work that he would never expect to find on Earth. Oh, he would've figured out how to get rid of it eventually, of course. There was no denying that. Loki might've figured it out earlier, if he… wasn't distracted. 

He looked at the source of his distraction in the mirror. It was that moment you found something in one of the pockets of your jacket. 

It was a phone. 

"I knew we forgot about something." 

"Is this…?" 

"That guy's phone. I didn't manage to unlock it in the end. How about we drop it at the precinct on our way?" 

Loki frowned. "Won't your officers be suspicious how we came into its possession?" 

"Not if we magic it in. Anonymously." 

"...that is not how it works." 

In the end, it was precisely how it worked. 

The phone, with a handy little note of explanation, just found itself at the right place, at the right time, without anyone at the precinct noticing. 

You patted Loki's shoulder. "Nice job. I wish you could teach me a few tricks." 

"It's not that easy. Your world barely has any magic, so it's difficult to make it comply with one's wishes," Loki said with a hint of sadness as you both turned and walked up the street in the direction of Peter's school. 

The streets were full of people, busy on their errands. The sun was blinding against the fresh scope of snow. The sky was clear and crystal blue, with the sort of unachievable intensity that almost felt artificial. 

"What is it like on other worlds?" 

Loki sighed. Walking so close to you, he could feel the brush of his arm against yours. His hands remained in his pockets, though. The reason wasn't the cold, of course, since he could barely feel the bite of it. His hands, for reasons beyond understanding, kept getting sweaty no matter how many times he discreetly brushed them against the fabric. 

"Spell casting is… essentially, wishing for something to happen, and convincing the world around you that it can become true. Magic is the means by which the world listens to those brave enough to wish. In your world, there's barely any magic. But there are others, where a mere thought shapes reality."

"Must be cool to see that." 

"It's almost like lying, truth be told. Ancient scholars used to classify it as the same thing, although mostly due to mistakes in translation of the most ancient volumes. Thankfully, I'm skilled in both. It makes life easier."

"Wait...so THAT'S where the whole 'Loki the Prince of Lies' thing comes from? Not that you're a lying, deceptive piece of—" 

"That's quite a touchy topic, you know. I might've… meddled in the lives of some very vengeful individuals, who out of pure, unjustified spite might've decided to curse me a little—... Wait, why are there children."

Loki stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the pavement. 

In front of him, as far he could see, stretched a sea of colorful stalls surrounded by a writhing mass of people, dominated by younglings in all shapes, forms, and levels of noise. 

You looked at him and back at the crowd. "It just kinda happens that this huge building right there is Peter's school. And this very school is organising the science fair for the kids attending it. Who, right now, are taking part in it. Here." 

Loki's frown deepened as he comprehended the mess. Groups seemed to form around the stalls, children and adults alike. It would be difficult for a stranger to guess what was being presented on some of the tables, and indeed, Loki couldn't guess it either. Some seemed to flash chemical reactions aimed to showcase colorful effects, mostly to the entertainment of the youngest offspring roaming freely around. Other tables were filled with equipment that surely took a lot of time to build, and even more to explain. Loki was quick to be bored by those. 

While swallowed by the crowds pressing on from every angle, you called Peter, pressing the phone to your ear close enough to hear him over the overwhelming noise. 

There were attempts at bringing order to the gathering, and some spaces had been less prone to chaos than others. Those, usually, were centered around food. 

"Ooh, I like that too," you said, putting the phone away at last. 

Following Loki's gaze, your eyes fell on the delicious looking snacks. The smell drove you insane and seemed to do the trick on the trickster too. You watched as some kids walked by, chewing on the deliciousness. Then you looked at the queue. A very orderly, and very long queue. 

"Hey, Loki." 

"Yes, darling?" 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" 

"To my great surprise, I think I might be. Magic truly is a blessing." 

Peter found you not so long afterwards, when you were finishing the second round of magically-brought treats. Of course, you made sure an equivalent amount of cash appeared where it should. You didn't fall so low yet to outright steal from kids. 

"Mr. Mischief!" screamed over the heads of strangers was what caught Loki's attention. And the impact of a teenage body jumping right at him was what squeezed the air out of his lungs. 

"Hello, boy," Loki muttered. You gave him thumbs up. 

"I love the way you smell," Peter pressed his face a little more into the god's chest. 

Loki blinked. "Thank you, boy." 

Peter finally unplastered himself from the god and took the both of you in with such genuine joy that you couldn't stop a smile from spreading on your face. He was dressed up in a spotless shirt he kept tugging on. You whiffed a smell of cologne definitely not suited for his age. 

"Someone's nervous," you teased Peter. "I wonder what would've happened if we forgot your ring… " 

"Please, tell me you didn't!" 

"Of course we didn't." You pulled it out of your pocket. So many happy moments were connected to that ring, you almost missed it already. So much cake… 

Peter immediately tucked it away in the pocket on his chest, glancing around himself. If, by any chance, that one special someone was anywhere near, he wanted to know. 

He noticed you watching him. "I'm not nervous. I'm just cautious." 

"Whatever you say, Peter. It's your call." 

Despite his words, Peter couldn't stay in place. "Come on, guys. I gotta show you my project before we present them all!" 

Going any further into the mass of people was the last thing Loki wanted to do. The day was bright and chilly and the place Peter was leading them to was unmistakably a sports hall where the more ambitious, and temperature-sensitive projects had been placed. 

Loki, theoretically, of course, began wondering how he could disappear without anyone noticing. People got lost all the time and no one made a fuss about it. As much as he might not hate the kid, he wasn't interested much in high school projects of dubious chemical reactions, shown in stuffy, smelly interiors. 

As if you could hear his thoughts, you turned your head to face him. "I hope it works out. He's been working his ass off for the past few weeks to impress MJ." 

Before Loki answered, he noticed your outstretched hand. His heart skipped a beat, and jumped into his throat out of surprise. It was a pure coincidence, and a completely normal, random thing to feel, and there was absolutely nothing behind it…

Your hand was warm and felt right in his own. 

Of course Loki didn't get distracted. He just so happened to miss the moment when you reached Peter's lab table, densely occupied by all manner of gadgets and parts, with the main construction hovering above the rest. 

Peter didn't notice Loki's state. He was focused on all the things that still needed to be put in place or cleaned off the table before the presentation began. 

"It's okay, I've got it all under control," Peter said, hiding a few screws in his pocket. "The teachers are probably going to start with the tables over there, so mine would be second to last, which gives me plenty of time to—" 

Plans are good as long as all the parties involved are aware of them. In Peter's case, the teachers weren't. 

Peter's face went pale when he noticed the commission arriving at the table to his right. His eyes were wide and frozen in utter terror. 

And then he desperately tried to scramble everything together in record time.

You tried to help him, but you had absolutely no idea how. All you could do was watch him panic through the preparations at light speed. Loki squeezed your hand. "The boy will do fine." 

The boy was not so sure. 

He barely noticed when his classmates encircled the table, wishing him good luck and sharing advice that vanished from his head in seconds. 

Despite that, Peter managed to clean his table as much as he could before the teachers neared, with notepads in their hands. They tactfully ignored loose parts laying behind him. 

Loki caressed the back of your hand in a reassuring gesture. You both listened to Peter give the explanation of his project, with his voice wavering only a little. Peter started to go through all the steps he had prepared, pointing out all the important details as things you had no idea about changed on the table. The boy was pale, but did his best during the whole process, and as he moved to present the project, you almost believed he had everything under control. 

He didn't. 

In the moment of the biggest tension, when everyone was waiting for the results, they didn't come. 

There was a second of pure, unfiltered panic on Peter's face. He froze, eyes plastered to the unquestionable lack of any result. 

Your elbow jabbed Loki's ribs. The ribs were slowly getting used to it. 

"Please, help him," you whispered with urgency. 

"What am I supposed to do from here?" Loki frowned. He was tall and could see everything from over people's heads, but it didn't change the fact that there was a row of bodies tightly pressed together between him and the boy. 

"I don't know, magic something up." 

"Magic something—It doesn't work like that!" 

"Then make it. Are you the Prince of Lies or not?" 

Loki frowned, torn between looking at you and Peter at the same time. "Oh, blast it…" 

The results, preferably big and flashy, were what the commission was waiting for. Loki gave them results. 

Peter's eyes went wide when his project, that had been completely silent for the past few seconds, suddenly gave fruit to absolutely outstanding results. They were applauded, scored, and noted with grateful smiles as the commission moved to the next table. 

And completely not what was supposed to happen. 

Peter was still frozen in shock as he got encircled by his classmates, and showered in compliments and questions. The shock was still bright on his face as he was dragged further down the line of tables, to support the next unlucky friend. 

Loki followed the boy with his eyes. It looked like no one had noticed that something was not adding up. Loki had a very general idea of what Peter's project was supposed to do, since the lack of time prevented the boy from showing them the final product of weeks of hard work. He wondered which of the girls around Peter was that MJ. 

"I can't believe it worked," he muttered to himself, lost in thoughts just as Peter got lost in the crowd. 

"Thank you. You did great." 

Loki huffed, but couldn't stop the hint of a smile from ghosting over his lips. He supposed he'd have to answer a lot of questions once the boy was freed and jumped him again, but even that idea didn't feel so bad. It felt good to be appreciated and welcome in places and events that were important to someone. He was strangely glad someone wanted him to be a part of their life. 

Loki's breath caught in his throat as your arm slipped around his waist. A nervous, careful presence hugged him for a second, melting any and all resolve he might've still possessed at that point. 

"You're awesome. Wanna steal some more candy with me again?" your voice asked into his neck that suddenly ran with goosebumps. Accidentally, of course. 

But there was nothing accidental about the way Loki leaned into the hug, welcoming it with a feather-light touch to your back. 

"With you? Always, love."

A/N: Please tell me what do you think about this chapter or the series in general! It’s so sad to see the number of notes and comments decreasing with each new chapter :(

[antorontology]

what is anthropology?

From the moment someone asks me where I study, I begin anticipating the typical pattern of follow-up questions lining up in our conversational queue... ”Why that university?”... or... ”What year student are you?”...  and, of course,... “What is your major?”... And then friends, the same confused frown predictably appears on their face, always just before the inevitable questions “What is that?”, or “Remind me, what is that again?” ––Sometimes, after I reply, people ask me instead if I'm referring to the store (Anthropologie). 

In reality, this is a very reasonable question. These friendly strangers I meet may ask this out of some perceived level of ignorance, but in truth it's a wonderfully philosophical, existential kind of question. Let’s address today the *traditional* academic definition and categorizations of anthropology, but please readers consider that this subject is not just limited to what we have defined below. Like any field, previous scholars have only just begun coding the map of knowledge we have now, and it’s up to the rest of us to continue these intellectual excavations for ourselves!

*** this type of image is heavily associated with (evolutionary/biological) anthropology and shows a supposed evolution from primate to modern human. There are problems (as always) with the evidence supporting such clean & clear shifts from one form to the next, but the main idea here still is to question what is human and what makes us ‘human’ (or at least distinct from other primates/animals). For some anthropologists, this is culture. However, there is good reason to question any distinctions we may want to make at all.

Anthropology is essentially the study of humans ––which (to be fair) seems like it could describe just about any subject in the faculty of the humanities. Anthropology (like many words) is of Greek origins. It is composed of the parts “ἄνθρωπος” or “anthropos” (meaning “human” or “man”) and “λόγια” or “logia” (meaning ”study of”). To be less vague, anthropology is an interdisciplinary field centered around four main areas of study. These include: biological/evolutionary anthropology, archaeology, socio-cultural anthropology and linguistic anthropology. Another subfield called medical anthropology is also gaining traction and going on to establish itself as another independent subfield of study.

My personal interest (which is also the focus of this blog) is the socio-cultural, however I’d like to introduce you to each of these subfields in a bit more depth below:

Biological/Evolutionary

This branch of anthropology seeks to identify biological markers and changes in the primate lineage in order to understand the development of human behaviors, practices and characteristics. Such research is often conducted by studying the fossil record and observing primates in the wild. This subfield pays special attention to evolutionary theory and processes to answer questions like: What biological or evolutionary purposes did a shift in Homo sapien mating patterns (such as switching to monogamy) serve? or What impact did the discovery of fire and cooking have on human physiology? Some subfields within this subfield include paleoanthropology, primatology, genetics, and forensic anthropology. 

Archaeological

The study of archaeology concerns itself with understanding human cultures and societies of the past –– especially with attention to material items called ‘artifacts.’ Archaeologists may also specialize in topics such as bioarchaeology, stone tool-making (called lithics), zoo archaeology, prehistoric archaeology and more. As a previous professor explained, archaeology is considered a ‘destructive’ science as its nature of methodology relies of the demolition of its research subject (past human living spaces). In this way, archaeologists must be incredibly careful and strategic in their approach to deconstructing their excavation sites in order to preserve clues that may tell them the information they need. Some questions archaeologists might consider could include: What factors (social/biological/economic/political) lead to the decline of a certain civilization ? or What was technology like in a certain civilization (like Ancient Egypt) and what does that tell us about the way they lived? 

Socio-Cultural

Social-cultural anthropology concentrates on understanding human societies and cultures in their own context (as opposed to an outsider’s projection). Such studies observe the unique beliefs, practices, and ways of life defining a particular culture or community. Socio-cultural anthropologists often conduct research in the form of ethnography which consists of months (or even years) of participant-observation research (living alongside the people they’re studying). Socio-cultural anthropologists may study any facet of human culture, including religion, food, entertainment, politics, economy, music, art, and so on... (the list is infinite!). Some questions socio-cultural anthropologists might consider include: What role do marriage ceremonies play in the socio-economic dynamics of a certain society? or How do varying attitudes towards female sexuality manifest in different lived experiences for people of different racial background in this particular society? Questions can even be more broad like: What does this culture define as ‘science’ and ‘religion?’

Linguistic

Finally, we have maybe of the most abstract yet fascinating explorations of the human experience –– the constructions of knowledge, identity and reality through language. Linguistic anthropology examines how different cultures (and groups within those cultures) project their interpretations of the world through language. Linguistic anthropologists may study the variation of perception in material things like the weather or shapes, as well as more less tangible concepts of emotions, consciousness, knowledge and truth. In this way, we understand that not all languages interpret so-called ‘universal’ ideas (like love or the color blue) in the same way. Each culture attaches unique meanings to the sounds and significance of words (these are called ‘signs’). As such, linguistic anthropologists may consider questions like: How does this language construct and maintain different social structures? or Who are the linguistic authorities regulating and affecting conversation in this society?

Sources

Images (In order of appearance):

Layton, Olivia, The Four Branches of Anthropology, Digital image, September 16th, 2021.

Unknown Artist, Human Lineage, Digital Image, Unknown Date, Encyclopædia Britannica, https://www.britannica.com/science/human-evolution#/media/1/275670/73009.

Unknown Artist, Cranial Capacity of Members of the Human Lineage, Digital image, Unknown Date, Encyclopædia Britannica, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Homo-erectus#/media/1/270386/73034.

Unknown Photographer. “Giza, Egypt.” Digital image. News from Brown University. April 23, 2020, https://www.brown.edu/news/2020-04-23/egyptology.

Hancock, Billy. “Malinowski Trobriand Isles.” Digital image. Society for Cultural Anthropology, April 5, 2016, https://culanth.org/fieldsights/enough-about-ethnography-an-interview-with-tim-ingold.

Saussure, Ferdinand de. Course in General Linguistics. New York: Columbia University Press, 2011.

Information (Academic references):

Chandler, Daniel. Semiotics: The Basics. Milton Park: Routledge, 2007.

Harper, Douglas. “Anthropos-.” Online Etymology Dictionary. https://www.etymonline.com/word/anthropo-.

Harper, Douglas. “Logy-.” Online Etymology Dictionary. https://www.etymonline.com/word/-logy?ref=etymonline_crossreference.

Unknown Author (AABA). “What is Biological Anthropology?” American Association of Biological Anthropologists. https://physanth.org/career/career-biological-anthropology/.

Unknown Author (Athabasca University).“Biological Anthropology.” Athabasca University. https://anthropology.athabascau.ca/biological.php.

Unknown Author (National Geographic). “Archaeology.” National Geographic. https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/archaeology/.

Unknown Author (SAA).“Types of Archaeology.” Society for American Archaeology. https://www.saa.org/about-archaeology/what-is-archaeology.

Unknown Author (UF). “Linguistic Anthropology.” Anthropology: University of Florida. https://anthro.ufl.edu/about-us/department-subfields/linguistic-anthropology/.

Unknown Author (UNC). “Sociocultural Anthropology and Ethnography.” Anthropology: University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. https://anthropology.unc.edu/graduate-program/programs-and-concentrations/sociocultural-anthropology-and-ethnography/

[petiteamores-archived]

What FFXIV Class are you? 

Your Result: Scholar 

You’re a nerd, but a fun nerd. You think preventing a problem is cooler than fixing it afterwards, and you like the idea of delegation. You think the coolest thing ever is slapping on delayed healing on a tank and then never having to worry about them the rest of the fight. You place a high importance on looks, because honestly, why else would you play this class? You tend to be hit hard by things out of your control, and your stamina isn’t the best, either. Some people probably think you’re a victim of the times, stuck in the glory days of the past, but that’s not necessarily true. There’s still plenty of fun to be had even if things are wildly different, and you play it because you love it. Or because you felt like queue jumping as a Summoner main. Just remember, if you think the class is easy, you’re probably playing it wrong.

[the-lack-of-errors-in-star-trek]

MIDNIGHT FLIGHTS - 0.1

Chapter 1

In a library, a young teacher, and a young FBI agent were browsing the same aisle of books on adolescent psychology, making efforts to stand a safe distance away. The first thing that Natasha noticed was a tall man with odd posture and interesting quirks for selecting a book, almost as if he were browsing psychological literature for fun. The first thing that Spencer noticed was that a relatively short woman was searching for two specific titles listed on a wrinkled sticky note, more than likely for the purposes of bettering her career. Both persons considered the other interesting for choosing to be in a library on a Friday afternoon when colleges, schools, and most workplaces were observing a winter break a week from Christmas.

Natasha is the first to leave the section with her two required readings, Spencer loitering around selecting three titles to occupy his afternoon in the library. While Natasha is checking out her books, she receives an incoming call, checking the number quickly before answering, expecting her mother on the line.

"Privyet, mama, what's going on?"

A familiar voice enters her ear, "Oh come on Nastya, I've been waiting on you for an hour now. Your mother is trying to get me to eat another bowl of borscht, please save me." The voice of her best friend, Anna, brings a light chuckle to Natasha.

"I'm almost done at the library, I promise, I'll be there in less than a half hour." She answers, handing her library card to be scanned by the sitting clerk.

"Da, please just hurry." Anna repeats her plea and hangs up, leaving Natasha to collect her items and hurry out of the lobby of the library, headed directly to the metro.

As promised, Natasha enters the small apartment above her family's store with 25 minutes to spare from Anna's disappointment. "Ya doma!" She calls out, a small "yay" can be heard from the kitchen as she sets her bag down by the door. Walking into the sitting room connected to the kitchen, she spots the clock as being 19:36.

"You need to eat dinner, Lisichka" her mother calls out to her, wiping down the counter and sipping on a coffee, lit cigarette in hand.

"And right after, we need to change, hurry." Anna demands of her, walking from the small kitchen to the living room couch, eyeing the news playing in the background.

Natasha's adult life was very much consistent, after a long week of teaching and grading middle schoolers, Anna would be right there to take her to the newest clubs in the D.C. area. Natasha took a moment to analyse her friendship while eating her borscht and bread. They had met in the local Eastern Orthodox church in D.C. Nowadays, both only practice in the name of tradition instead of the belief they held as children, but that bond was set when they spoke for the first time during a church meal, and most of the Eastern European community probably only went to church for that same reason, tradition. Nastya and Anna were practically sisters, and had felt loss in the same way. When Anna was 16, she lost her brother in a car accident, and finally understood why Nastya carried an air of grief around her. Losing family was losing a part of your soul, and that was an unshakable moment between the two teens, leading them to live in similar ways. For Nastya, she put her heart and soul into teaching, making the world better for young scholars one English class period at a time, and for Anna, working as an intern in a law firm while working towards the bar exam meant giving her family name a better reputation than just "some Russians" living in D.C.

Later that night, the metro ride to the heart of downtown was largely uneventful, both women dressed for a fun time in the city, Anna wearing her blonde hair up in a twist, exposing a black sweater and gold necklace, slacks and heeled boots to go with. Nastya was dressed in a similar fashion, a red sweater from light fabric and dark jeans going with her worn black heeled boots, both women holding their purses close while holding the same rail. Leaving the metro meant walking fast from the station to the club, as the cold December air placed a chill over their bones. Neon lights could be seen all over the city, entering a small queue where a bouncer was checking IDs for entry into a new and definitely not prestigious club.

With a side eye from the bouncer, most likely from the last names on their Virginian licenses, both Anna and Nastya enter the club with no further event. The lights were strobing different colors, the music was loud and pumping, and both women sought a beeline for the bar, hoping to clock in a few shots prior to dancing. The bartender is a kind woman who obliges in pouring the four shots, taking payment from Natasha immediately.

"I'll cover the next four," Anna states, washing the second shot down with a sip of coke.

"You better!" Natasha laughs, lightly tapping Anna's shoulder, and turning to look at the crowd. Both were thankful for the fact the club had a coat room, ensuring the only thing needed to carry was their phones and some cash. "Dance?" She asks her friend, looking to the floor.

"Definitely!" Anna shouts over the music, dragging Nastya by the wrist to the floor, alcohol keeping their chests warm as they begin to dance by themselves and next to each other. A few men pass by briefly, none getting too close, but a quite muscular man saunters over, seeming to try and seduce Anna. Nastya takes this as a cue to find something stronger from the bar, leaning over to Anna's ear.

"Have fun, don't leave without me." She commands, receiving a thumbs up from her friend before closing the gap and dancing up on the bald man who approached them. Nastya can overhear their introductions as she walks away and towards the bar. She orders a gin and tonic from the lady behind the counter, and sips on it while walking the perimeter of the floor, attempting to spot her friend. Assuming they went towards the middle of the floor, she hangs back, taking the next ten minutes to slam through her drink, leaving it on the bar counter before finally spotting Anna's figure at a table of people, the man she was dancing with not even 15 minutes before standing next to her. Nastya walks over, tapping Anna on the shoulder.

"I thought I told you not to stray far," Nastya starts in Russian, "I couldn't find you for a solid ten." She finishes in English.

Anna shushes her, "Dude it's fine, look these guys are awesome! They work here! In the D.C.!" Liquor had always taken Anna faster than Nastya, she was just hoping she could keep tabs on her. She shakes her head at her friend before looking at the table, spotting an oddly familiar face across from her.

"Are you two Russian?" A skinny brunette asks the both of them in broken Russian, alcohol makes anyone a polyglot with the right vocabulary. Both women nod, answering with a curt "Da" waiting for more conversation to enter the table.

"Well we love meeting new people, your friend already told me her name, I'm Derek, what's yours?" The tall buff man asks Natasha.

"Natasha, nice to meet you Derek, don't move too fast on her, she gets tipsy faster than I do." Natasha cracks a friendly comment, getting a laugh and a light slap on the shoulder from Anna.

"Nice to meet you both, I'm Emily." The brunette introduces herself to both young women on the spot, moving to point to the two people sitting next to her. "This is Penelope," she says, pointing to a slightly chubby and eccentric woman with cat eye glasses and an outfit to match, plenty of colour in comparison to the rest of their group. A short and sweet "nice to meet you" leaves Penelope's lips, moving to chew on her small bar straw in her red cocktail.

"And this is Spencer, our workplace genius." Emily finishes, the familiar man waving but finally looking up to face both women.

"Wait, I saw you in the library earlier today," he starts, shock coming to most of the table's faces. "Adolescent psychology, what was that for?"

"I'm a teacher." Natasha answers shortly, "I could ask you the same thing."

"Just light reading material." Spencer answers in the same matter of fact manner, the interaction leaving an odd air around the group.

Emily moves over slightly, "Please sit, the more the merrier, we can keep drinks going." Anna is the first to oblige, her boots new and not nearly as easy on the feet as Nastya's.

"Come on, Nastya, don't be a stranger, you need more friends than just me." Anna slaps the spot next to her, Nastya giving into the demands of her friend, as Derek excuses himself to grab shots for the table.

"So you know our professions," Nastya starts, "what brings you four together?"

"We work in the same office," Emily answers, her tone always warm and welcoming, definitely appealing to Natasha in opening up. "Federal agents, gotta cut loose every once and awhile."

Anna and Nastya nod, Anna piping up first. "What is that even like?"

"A lot of paperwork most of the time, but keeps us on our toes." Emily and Penelope seem to be the most talkative, the blonde answering the question this time around.

"Really?" Derek asks, coming back to the table and conversation with plenty of shots for everyone. "You're the one in the cave, Garcia, these girls were asking about our action packed adventures."

Everyone except Spencer takes a shot after making a cheer, catching Nastya's attention. "What is it, Mr. Spencer? Vodka not for you?"

"Actually it's Doctor Reid," he answers, taking Natasha aback, "and I've just never been crazy about drinking in general."

"Jesus, how old are you?" She asks, genuinely curious how a man looking so young could be that smart with a PhD.

"I'm 26 years old, a bit of a high IQ and fast reading will take you pretty far." He answers.

"Seriously? We're like the same age and you already have a doctorate?"

"Three of them, actually." This answer causes Anna to choke on her drink, an amused look from Spencer's work friends.

"Fucking impossible!" Anna calls out, "There's no way, you're too young!"

Derek laughs, "Anything is possible when this dude graduated high school at the ripe age of 12." Derek and Anna look at each other and nod, an unspoken agreement that both were bored and wanted to dance. Nastya moves to let Anna out onto Derek's shoulder, and takes her place at the table.

"So when did you leave Russia?" Emily asks, alcohol keeping the conversation on getting to know everyone.

"I mean, I was born here, by my parents left right at the start of the Glasnost and Perestroika," Natasha answers, no harm in answering the question no matter how odd it was to be talking to the FBI off duty. "Anna's family was a bit more lucky, her grandparents snuck out of the eastern bloc, making her second generation."

Penelope is the next to engage in conversation, "I can't imagine, have you ever travelled there since the wall fell?" She asks and it's a harmless question out of curiosity, but it places Natasha on edge. She shakes her head as a response. It was her time to ask questions.

"What even do you guys do?" She asks, not meaning to come off in a mean tone, but luckily Spencer sees through it and answers.

"We work behavioural analysis, most people assume that to mean we work to catch serial killers, but it's not just that, there's also arsonists, kidnappers, and rapists, and any crime in which behaviour can be studied."

"What a mouthful," Natasha responds, Penelope and Emily chuckling in response to the interaction.

"He's always quiet until he has something he can info-dump on you" Emily assures Natasha, keeping the same warm smile. It was certainly a nice group, but after an extra hour of small talk, and a few more rounds of shots, in which Natasha snags the numbers of all three at the table, it becomes evident that Anna had a very high chance of going home with Derek instead of back to Natasha's family apartment.

"You lost her?" Spencer asks, towering over her as they pack up to leave the club.

"Seems like it, metro should be loads of fun." Natasha eyes how Anna is practically climbing all over Derek.

Spencer looks between the two, and comes to a conclusion. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm driving for Emily and Penelope, I can drive you too. The crime rates at this hour skyrocket, especially if you're taking the metro by yourself."

Natasha decides to take up the group on their offer, making sure Anna left with Derek safely first. When stepping onto the street at a bright one in the morning, Natasha can't help but notice how far the temperature has dropped in just the past few hours. The group of four head to Spencer's car, and pile in.

The ride is largely uneventful, address after address meant that Spencer was left to drive Natasha home after Emily and Penelope, both remaining silent on the drive to the outskirts of D.C.

"It's this store right here, thank you." Natasha responds when Spencer pulls up.

"You live in a store?"

"Above it."

"Oh, yeah that makes sense..." He trails off, pulling into the side of the road. "It was nice to meet you, have a good night."

"Thanks again," Natasha answers, exiting the car with her purse, both of the adults creating an awkward silence between each other. "Good night." Spencer drives off right when she backs onto the sidewalk, getting into the store apartment with no alert to her mother.

As Natasha fell asleep that night, she wondered what kind of story Anna would have for her the next morning, as well as how the fuck the FBI got a lanky kid to hunt down serial killers, but couldn't teach him how to hold a conversation.

Taglist: @iwannabemorethanme​

[secretsaintpoet]

People In Parallel

Chapter 2: In Life and Dark

Like any other 16 year old bogged down by the social stipulations of high school drama I also feel trapped.  In 2014 life is interesting, the sea of clothes around him is remarkably bland, the hair styles involve all sorts of colors, and the smell, oh the smell would burn your nostrils for days.  I remember one day the smells were even more fragrant than usual, the weather was hot, the humidity was so high that I wouldn’t have been surprised if people started to begin to float up as water droplets into the sky.  Lets just say that body odor wasn’t just a word that day it was something you could see.  

Now, the smells weren’t the only thing keeping my mind occupied, the thought of the oncoming school year was like a train barreling down the tracks ready to hit me smack dab in the stomach.  With my best friend Lily moving across the country over the summer the void that was high school felt like it was sucking me in further and further.  Ya, I still had a group of friends, so it wasn’t the end of the world I suppose, but in my mind everything felt like it was teetering an uncomfortable amount.  

I have never really that much of what some might call a scholar.  I usually stayed after school to get help, because my parents might pass a few kidney stones if my grades dropped bellow a B average.  They always put so much pressure on me to do well, but I never seemed to get to decided what I got to do well at.  They forced me to learn instruments as a kid.  I mean sure I am for having kids pick up an instrument, but when you have gone through the entire brass section, the violin, and the piano you think they might take the hint that you don’t have a musical bone in your body.  Fortunately, the next logical step was to do sports, because if you aren’t musical then surely you will be good at what I like to call, “voluntary pain and humiliation”.   I don’t think I ever really got the hang of the whole coordination thing, so as you might be able to imagine I was benched in every sport except cross country which there isn’t actually a possibility to be benched.  Just a very real reality of coming dead last, even behind one kid who broke his leg, but crawled for the last 200 meters.  

Now, enough about my lack luster path, this year is going to be different.  I am going to do what I love, because finally after trying for years I have finally gotten into Photography 101.  Oh the chemical scents, the sensation of a dark room where only the haunting red light guides you.  A place to really think and just delve into the magic of expression through images.  I have always dreamed about taking pictures of busy streets at night and imagining a story about what each person is doing, why he is walking so quickly and why a woman who seems to be browsing through her phone is following 10 feet behind looking up directly at the mans back.  Why a group of school kids is racing down the street spilling hot chocolate all over the ground as a path is made for their chaos to disrupt the ordered disorder of the pedestrians.  All in a picture I can see the world and the world is staring right back at me with the honest eyes of a moment.  That is exactly what I want and once a week that is what I now get.  However, for the rest of the week my life is spanned by the monotony of general education.  

Coming out of a trance I hear the last bell signalling the start of the first class.  As I walk in I meet eyes with Grace.  Grace has been my neighbor for over 12 years now. We used to have play dates because my parents felt that I needed friends and Grace was the closest and best option.  Now that I am older I really only thing they sent me away because they didn’t want to hire a nanny.  So you could say Grace and I grew up together, although now as soon as our eyes meet she jerks her head down to the scribbles scratched into her desk below.  I walk over to my usual seat in the back corner to sit down.  

The day goes by as any day would, until over the intercom we are all hushed by, “This is a lockdown”.  Worried looks glance around the room as everyone nervously moves swiftly to the areas far from any windows and doors.  Our teacher, Mr. Hanson a tall bald man with a speckle or two of gray in his beard, moves to the lights obviously trying to portray calmness, but cracking with his shaking legs and hands.  

“He must not have been told about this, so it isn’t a drill.” I think wishing for some other thought to come into my head.  None come.

We all sit in the dark, sweaty silence with only the breathing of each other and our own heartbeats beating in our ears to keep us company.  Across from me underneath the next table is a boy with a slender face, with an almost ghost like appearance that I bet all of us actually wore.  I didn’t know him, but strangely I felt like I could hear his thoughts.  I felt like he saw me.  He saw what I disliked, what I liked, how Grace, who was sitting next to me, broke my heart in the 4th grade when after I asked to be her boyfriend she went to the movies that same night with Lance Donaldson.  I never got over that, I can’t believe my last thought might be about that scummy human.  That is what he did to me, he made me love to hate myself.  Somehow it felt like I knew myself better when he was staring at me.  Either I was staring a bit too intently or I didn’t here someone whispering because his eyes dart to somewhere else in the room where Mr. Hanson is consoling Natalie Barker who is almost in tears.  

I suppose this would be a really scary thing if we didn’t have one of these “Lockdowns” every other week.  Yes I know we should be prepared, but it is hard when all we get is someone jerking at the door handle and pounding on the door.  Right on queue everyone straightens as knuckles pound against the wooden door and the door handle moves up and down frantically.  As the noises come to and end the room takes a breath and a small ease comes over everyone.  Off in the distance a loud crash.  Then one single gun shot.  My throat catches blood rushes away from my head.  I sit there motionless and everyone else follows suit.

Hours pass with no sound, only the whir of the air conditioning going through its cycles.

“Buses will be here to take you home at 12:00.”. “Please take care.”.  “Boy shot dead in Klifton High shooting”.  Every news article, question, and statement that day felt the same.  Now we were just another school added to the long list of school shootings.  The shooter gets no attention in my mind, although the picture of the poor boy who was shot stayed with me.  He had a slender face, with eyes that could see me.  His name? Jonathon Davis Hentley, JD for short or so I would call him.         

22/11/2020

[dialux]

courage is the passport when your old world disappears

Hello @khrys, I hope you like this story! It started out as a Leap Year AU, but rapidly took a life of its own... to the point that it’s probably unrecognizable. Some notes for the fic that are hopefully unneeded, but enjoyable are available here. Hope y’all enjoy!

[Leap Year AU, where they’re completely human; with sand mafia, environmental terrorism, a Crowley who hates water and an Aziraphale who just wants to propose to his boyfriend.]

...

“Have a wonderful flight, love.”

“Mmm,” he says, and grins at Aziraphale, dry as white wine, before reaching for a kiss. “I will. And you- be careful. There’ve been some- ah- robberies going around. Apparently.”

“Oh?” asks Aziraphale. “You’d think they’d have realized minimalism’s in now.”

“Not with you it isn’t,” he says, before stepping away and shoving his suitcase in the trunk. “Which is why they’ll come for our flat first, what with a snowstorm on its way and all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Just careful.”

“As always.”

But Aziraphale smiles to take the sting out of the words, and kisses him goodbye one last time, and waves as the taxi disappears into the early morning fog, carrying his boyfriend with it. It’s only afterwards, after he’s sitting at his table, that he lets himself think it: always so careful, aren’t you, Gabriel?

It’d been a nice counterpoint from some of Aziraphale’s previous boyfriends, who wouldn’t have accepted responsibility if it killed them. For the first three years, Aziraphale had appreciated Gabriel’s brusqueness, his aura of control, his firm knowledge of right and wrong, the way he doesn’t act until he has all the needed information. It��s what makes him such a good PR consultant- he acts swiftly only once he’s got everything he needs.

Until now.

Four years of living together, and no further commitment from Gabriel’s end. It leaves Aziraphale a little worried: when has Gabriel ever not been decisive? And if he decides he doesn’t want Aziraphale anymore, what does Aziraphale have? A shop? His books?

No. It isn’t enough.

And Aziraphale doesn’t want him to leave. He wants a life with Gabriel, tucked in this part of London, warm and cozy and comfortable.

So here he is, sitting at his little kitchen-table, planning.

No.

Here he is: plotting.

...

A few hours later, Aziraphale packs himself off into a small taxi and takes off to the airport. It’s not a great day: the February morning is cloudy and cold, the promise of snow and rain heavy in the air, but Aziraphale has a very soft scarf that keeps his neck warm despite it. He gets a ticket quickly, though he has to suppress a shudder when the ticketing agent chucks his luggage- a proper antique!- into the check-in queue without any care about denting it.

It’s a good plan, what he’s come up with.

Gabriel is a staunch Christian. He knows all the saints. He knows all the tales. He knows the Bible back to front and front to back, and lives his life as staunchly by it as he can. And Aziraphale has always liked Saint Brigid, patron of scholars and printing presses. If he’s proposed to on the 29th of February, he’ll know the tradition Aziraphale’s invoking.

That, at least, Aziraphale is certain of.

What he isn’t certain of is Gabriel’s answer.

But still, four years is so long. Short in the larger scheme of things, yes, but long enough to know whether the relationship can last or not. And, Aziraphale thinks, if it ends here, if it ends like this, because Gabriel does not love him enough to wed him- then Aziraphale will walk away at least knowing that. At least this terrible uncertainty won’t dog his footsteps wherever he goes.

...

The flight is a small one; it always is for such short distances. Aziraphale doesn’t think much of it.

Not until the oxygen masks fall, at least.

...

“How is it,” asks Aziraphale, trying desperately to hold onto his temper, “that a plane from London gets blown further south?”

The lady behind the desk sighs. “I’m very sorry, sir. But the warnings about the snowstorm have caused emergency closures of all airports within the storm’s radius, and there is no-”

“Is there another flight to Dublin that I can take?”

“Sir,” says the lady. She looks very pale in the fluorescent lighting, and very tired, and about as incredulous as she can while holding onto her customer-service-mask. “There is a snowstorm that has grounded all flights in and out of Dublin for at least two weeks. If you’d like, I can put you on a flight to Spain.”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “That won’t be necessary.” He pauses. Tries to soften his voice, because it isn’t the poor woman’s fault, at the end of the day. “But do you have a ferry anywhere near here?”

“Nothing official,” says the lady. Then she takes in his face- the scarf drooping, the damp patches of sweat on his jacket, the visible dents in his- antique!- luggage- and sympathy visibly softens it. “But I think I can get a cousin on the line for you, if you don’t mind paying a bit extra.”

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale, fervently, and watches her face pink up a little in pleasure.

...

The boy the lady hires for the job is a young man, with a ruddy face and acne turning it ruddier, a shock of dark hair and limbs so long he looks more cricket than human. “Heard you need a ride,” he says, and his voice cracks cleanly through the middle, like a porcelain plate snapped in half.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, hauling his suitcase through the pier and onto the boat. “To Cork.”

“Dunno if we’ll get that far.”

The boy looks dubiously at the sky. It’s a strange yellowish tinge; Aziraphale isn’t certain if that’s from the sunset reflecting off of the clouds or if it’s a prelude to a storm, like in the accounts of hurricanes he’s read about from the Bahamas. But the wind is sharp and cold in his face, and it’s been so long since he ever felt something this wild, this uncontrollable. He has to stifle the strange urge to laugh into the teeth of the wind, giddiness turning his limbs light.

“Sooner begun, sooner ended,” says Aziraphale calmly, settling into the boat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Right,” says the boy, even more dubiously. “Hold on, then, I guess.”

...

Eventually, when the waves are almost completely swamping the boat, the boy seems to be aiming less for Cork and more for land, any land. They finally wash up on a rocky beach, the landing rough enough to jar Aziraphale’s back and cause it to ache.

“It isn’t Cork,” says the boy, but his sidelong look at Aziraphale tells him that it doesn’t matter even if Aziraphale tries to avoid payment, or promise more money. There’s no way he’s going to go out into the water again.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, and hides the disappointment as best he can before fishing out his wallet. “But a deal’s a deal. Do you know this town?”

“Not... well.” The boy hesitates, then pockets the cash. “But there’s an inn on top of that bluff, I think. If you want a place to stay the night.”

Aziraphale takes stock: the outer layer of his luggage is soaked through, and so is he, and the night is falling fast, the wind picking up with it. He thinks there’s an oiled cover in the boat’s supplies, but then the boy will probably use that himself. Which means that Aziraphale has no choice.

“Thank you,” he says, because for all his misfortune the lad doesn’t deserve to be on the wrong end of his temper, and Aziraphale can be courteous even if all he wants is fall into a soft, warm bed and sleep for a couple days.

He remembers: Gabriel, the ring tucked in his breastpocket. It’s going to be worth it. And perhaps, decades later, it will make for a good story when he’s telling people in a pub. The adventure he had, in going from London to Dublin.

The optimism lasts him right up to taking the suitcase up the bluff. Aziraphale doesn’t like exercise; Gabriel’s tried all sorts of methods to get him to go to the gym with him, from losing weight to sleeping better at night, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind either his figure or his insomnia, not really. He does regret not being in shape now, when there’s sweat making his shirt sticky and then immediately drying off under the freezing wind, and the hard edge of his suitcase keeps banging against his legs. There are going to be bruises in too many places to count.

By the time he gets to the actual inn, he is red-faced, cheeks chapped from the cold and flushed with the exertion, hair tamped to his skull and feeling wild-eyed with sheer desperation for rest. There’s a little bell that jangles when he enters- just another infuriating stimulus scraping away at his self-control- and he drops the suitcase with a huff in front of what he assumes has to be the reservation desk.

“Is there anyone here?”

“Yes,” says a cool voice behind him. “But please refrain from attempting to damage the floorboards. They’re new.”

Aziraphale turns on his heel and forces himself not to look too disbelieving of the man who’d just spoken. There’s absolutely no way these floorboards- which have more scars and dents than Aziraphale’s luggage- are newer than two decades. Probably between thirty-five and forty years, actually, if his experience in antiques is anything to go by.

But.

He needs a room, doesn’t he?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Are you the innkeeper?”

“Do I look like the innkeeper?”

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“Which is because I am the innkeeper,” says the man, and smiles at Aziraphale like he’s in on a joke. “Crowley, at your service.”

“Er. Right.” Aziraphale blinks, then nods once, sharply. “I don’t suppose you have any rooms I can let for the night?”

“I usually don’t take such late customers.”

“It’s not even eight!”

“Most of ‘em are online, nowadays,” says Crowley. “The reservations, I mean.”

“Are they,” says Aziraphale, flatly. “Do you even have any customers?”

Something closes off in Crowley’s face, and he leans back. “It’s off-season,” he says, and his voice has cooled off.

“Looks like it.” Aziraphale bites his tongue before he can say anything worse and get himself kicked out of the only place that can house him for- probably- kilometers on end. “Look. Can I have a room? I’ll pay upfront, in cash- I just need somewhere for the night.”

“Sure,” says Crowley, voice still flat. He taps at a screen in front of him- Aziraphale hadn’t known screens that large could be touchscreen, and certainly not when everything around them is so ramshackle and collapsing. “How many nights?”

“Er. One. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow morning.”

“So soon!” he says, and the sardonic uptick of his voice almost makes Aziraphale twitch with what’s rapidly becoming Pavlovian reflex. Then Crowley looks up, and there’s a brightness to his gaze that makes Aziraphale relax against his will. He holds out an envelope. “Your room key. There should be ice down the hall, but if the machine doesn’t work don’t worry. Just give it a couple of solid thumps and it’ll set it to sorts. Complementary breakfast in the morning, make sure you’re down by eight!”

Aziraphale pays and heads over to the stairs that Crowley had gestured to, pausing only to flip the envelope over and look at the room number.

204 shines back at him, stamped dark and heavy.

The bastard’s probably given him the highest room in the entire inn.

Oh my god, thinks Aziraphale, before taking his luggage with both hands and striding up it. Think of Gabriel. This is all for...

...

...

Crowley watches through the carefully-arranged mirror as the man exhales sharply and sends a dark look back to the reception desk before taking the stairs. He grins; there’s something amusing in pushing polite people to the edge of rudeness and pulling away right before they tip over it.

Then he turns away to do his work for the night.

The inn is not doing well. Crowley’s acknowledged that in his mind, even if he hasn’t admitted it to anyone else. The man- Aziraphale- was right. The floorboards are mildewed in some areas and there are so many other problems- the bougainvillea he’d planted years ago is threatening to rip apart the wooden stakes of the roof, and the kitchen has such an inefficient stove that he’ll probably have a carbon monoxide poisoning sooner rather than later, and there’s a stone wall running behind the inn that’s grown so weak it’ll give way to a goat’s headbutt as soon as the farmers start taking them out to pasture. But to solve all of those, Crowley’s going to need money, and that’s the real problem underlying everything: he doesn’t have enough cash.

He’s scraped by these past few years by the skin of his teeth.

And to be fair, it is lean season; February to April are the worst months, with college students busy with studies and the constant threat of storms like this one currently banging his window shutters so wildly. But Crowley doesn’t have the padding of a good Christmas season because he hadn’t been in town then, and he’s paying the price for that risk now.

There’s nobody who’ll loan him the cash. Absolutely nobody. Not with Crowley’s history, which he hadn’t bothered to hide when he moved here because he’s so tired of hiding it; they’ll all shake their heads and look at him with glassy eyes, pity and scorn lighting them in equal measure.

Screw them. He’s got enough pride not to let on exactly how bad things have gotten. You’ll figure this out, Crowley.

Like he always has.

Even if he gets a headache from squinting at the numbers and trying to balance them- even if the only time he gets to do this is past midnight- Crowley will, because this is the one home he’s chosen for himself and the one home he wants, and that matters, and Crowley’s never let go of things that mattered in his entire life.

...

The next morning, Crowley lets Aziraphale into the outer dining hall. It’s a good morning; the sun is shining through the clouds, and the rain has washed all the dust off of the leaves and petals to turn the entire garden into a shining, brilliant vision. He offers a plate of a proper English breakfast- eggs, bacon, toast; coffee that comes from freshly roasted beans. And Aziraphale seems to appreciate it more than the average customer, too, because he hums deep in his throat when he tastes the coffee, and refrains from gulping it down like a thirsty vagabond, for all that he’d appeared a drowned one just a few hours previous.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Crowley asks silkily, keeping his tone even and pleasant.

“No,” says Aziraphale. He looks up at Crowley, then, and his eyes are not a very deep blue; they are lighter than that by far, like floes of ice, and colorless when the sunlight shafts across them at a particular angle. Something clenches in Crowley’s abdomen, and eases only when Aziraphale continues to speak. “But- do you know where the nearest train station is? I’m headed to Dublin, you see.”

“There’s no train station near here,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale pales, a little, and Crowley finds himself elaborating: “They were building one down to here, but it got diverted more inland so they didn’t have to worry about the cliffs. They’re quite unstable, so they’d need to build that too, and you know how the government is.”

“Cheap?”

“Penny-pinching bastards, the lot of them,” agrees Crowley.

Amusement leavens Aziraphale’s face a little. He leans forward, and studies Crowley. “I’ll need to go inland, then. Catch that train.”

“Wouldn’t make sense. They cancel them half the time, any which way you want to measure time. And anyhow, nearest train station’s twenty kilometers away."

“Ah.” He slumps back. “I don’t suppose you know of another method of travel out of here? I’m on a deadline- I need to be in Dublin by tomorrow.”

“Something important happening?”

“Leap day,” says Aziraphale. “I’m sure you know the tradition- I plan to propose. To my- ah- boyfriend.”

That fist clenches in Crowley’s belly again, and he coughs to hide it. “Leap day,” he says, and knows his voice is too flat, the pleasant edge of it suddenly turning cold and sharp. “Doesn’t that mean a man who’s proposed to on leap day can’t say no?”

“Not without paying the person who proposed a fee. In the old times, it would have been the fur of twelve animals. Now... I suppose twelve books would be enough.”

“I didn’t take you for a gold digger,” says Crowley, staring at him.

Aziraphale flushes. “Excuse me?”

“What, just because he won’t marry he has to pay you to leave him alone? That sounds terrible. And cruel.”

“You don’t know him! Or me!”

“No, I don’t.” Crowley smiles, a flash of his teeth, and watches Aziraphale flush a little darker. “But I do know that there’s no way out of this town unless you drive. And there’s nobody who’s going to offer a taxi service.”

“They’ll do it,” says Aziraphale grimly, chin upturned and eyes flashing as he glares at Crowley. “For the money if nothing else.”

Money.

Rows of dark numbers flashes through Crowley’s mind, the dizziness of seeing them for so long that they lost almost all meaning. He’s not a greedy man, Crowley, but he’s a man who knows survival when he it dangles in front of him and stinks of bait.

“How much money?” he asks casually.

“I- don’t know.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “How much do you think it’ll cost?”

Crowley makes a rapid decision. “Five hundred pounds,” he says, and steps closer to the table, so he can better see Aziraphale. “Five hundred, if you want to go to Dublin. I’ll drive you there myself.”

“Oh!” For a moment, Aziraphale doesn’t answer. He’s looking for a way to decline, Crowley knows it. “I don’t think-”

“Take it or leave it,” says Crowley, folding his arms over his chest. He smiles, again, this time slow and wide. Debates on vocalizing the threat, but... he’s not a good man, and never has been, and he doesn’t think he’ll start just because he has a paragon of virtue or whatever in front of him. “And believe me, I know how to cut transmission wires on cars far better than I can drive them. So if you really want to get out-”

“How dare you!”

“Just the truth, angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t react badly to the nickname; he only pulls his eyebrows down and says, more petulantly than angry: “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t have to.” Crowley lifts his eyebrows. “Just pay me.”

Aziraphale taps his fingers on the table and studies the remnants of his breakfast. He looks deep in thought; like he’s trying to tease out some old, unknown truth instead of debating on whether he should take the expensive lifeline Crowley’s just offered him. Finally, he brushes a hand to his brow and looks up at Crowley.

“Oh, fine,” he says, and for all that it’s sullen and unhappy, it’s also an agreement.

Crowley will take what he gets.

...

...

The car Crowley comes up with is such an anomaly to his surroundings- well, it’s an antique, or so Aziraphale thinks, so not that much of an anomaly, but it’s shiny and black and long, the metal rivets gleaming and headlights almost larger than Aziraphale’s skull- and he can’t fathom where Crowley must have hidden it, because there’s nowhere around that should be capable of hiding it out of a storm or fell weather.

“Ready, angel?”

Aziraphale firmly- firmly!- ignores the twist in his chest at the name. The man’s only being sarcastic, and he’s only in this for the money, and Aziraphale has to remember that.

“You know my name,” he mutters instead, and drags his luggage the last few feet to the boot of the car. “Could you open it up? I’ll just-”

“-what is that?” asks Crowley, stepping out of the car and looking horrified.

“My suitcase.”

“It’s covered in shit!”

“Mud. From the rain.”

“Oh, so you can tell the difference between them, can you?” Crowley glares at him for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

He returns a moment later with a waterproof cloth, brightly decorated like the kind that Aziraphale’s seen adorning picnic tables for children’s birthday parties. Crowley spreads it over the backseat and insists on arranging the suitcase on top of it himself, so no part of it can touch his precious car, even by accident.

“You’ve gone mad,” says Aziraphale, before he seats himself.

Crowley slides into the other door. “I like my car,” he says primly; the dissonance almost makes Aziraphale laugh, though he takes care not to when he still doesn’t know how Crowley will drive.

Better not to antagonize him right before a relatively lengthy drive.

...

Only it seems that Crowley’s an insane driver, no matter what precautions Aziraphale might take.

...

“That is enough,” shouts Aziraphale, and reaches out, and yanks at the wheel Crowley’s currently spinning with far too much glee.

The car skids for a moment- Aziraphale’s stomach bottoms out in sudden, abrupt realization that he’s probably thrown them off the mountain they’re currently climbing- before it comes to a halt in the ditch on the other side, wheels caught in mud.

Crowley tries something that makes mud splatter all over the back windows of the car but doesn’t move anything, and then he swears loudly before turning to scowl at Aziraphale.

“Now look what you’ve done!” he exclaims.

“It’s at least half your fault, too,” says Aziraphale. “The way that you were driving- you were lucky you didn’t take us off the mountainside.”

“If you’ve ruined my Bentley,” he says, and it sounds like a threat, but there’s no actual threat following it up, so Aziraphale remains relaxed in his seat.

Crowley makes an inarticulate sound, high and furious, before slamming out of the car. The opening of the door brings a gust of cold wind and colder rain, and Aziraphale shivers as he hunches further into his coat, glad for the scarf around his neck. Crowley doesn’t seem deterred though; he stomps around, red hair clearly visible through even the pouring rain, and peers at the Bentley’s trunk and position for long minutes before entering the car once more.

“We’re stuck,” he says grumpily, ignoring the rain plastering his hair- once teased high as a fox’s tail with some product- to his head and dripping all over his precious seats.

He pulls out a phone, sleek and elegant, and taps something into it, bringing it to his ear before grimacing at the water still making its way down his face. Crowley looks at the rest of his clothes. None of them are any better off, and he’ll likely only make himself wetter by trying to touch any part of his face with his clothes. Wordlessly, Aziraphale hands him his scarf. Crowley jumps; he looks at Aziraphale with some strange look on his face before taking it and mopping his face.

“Yeah, Dagon?” Crowley closes his eyes and leans back, presses the cuff of his sleeve to his brow and drops it as soon as he feels its dampness. “It’s me. Crowley.”

There’s an explosion of sound from the other end.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, and he sounds tired. “I know, mate. I know. It’s been a while. No, I haven’t. Things’ve been... good.”

That inn, with half its doors hanging off hinges, with mold in the majority of corners, looking like it’s going to collapse on itself under a strong wind- that’s good? Aziraphale holds back his incredulous snort and tucks himself further into his jacket; Crowley’s cold jacket is making him cold, from the sheer difference in temperature.

“You still working in Kilkenny?” Another bit of sound, where Dagon is apparently either shrieking bloody murder or talking very loudly. Crowley coughs into his fist, rolling his eyes a little, and says, deliberately, “Kilkenny, Dagon. Yeah. Needed a bit of help. I- er- got stuck in a ditch. Long story, but I’m near the city, I think.” He pauses. Then, very loudly, “I cannot- d’you even remember that-”

The phone clicks off, and Crowley puts it down, and very slowly bends over his steering wheel to press his head against the knotted metal edge of the wheel. His hair flops down, longer than Aziraphale had imagined it without the product keeping it up, and the way his eyes close- Aziraphale feels warmth swell from his gut, all the way up to his throat, like he’s swallowed the first rays of spring sunlight.

“It’ll be a couple hours,” Crowley says hoarsely. He gets up and looks normal, for all that he’d looked completely exhausted just a few moments before. “For Dagon to tow, I mean. And we don’t have any connectivity. For calling a taxi.”

“Even in your fancy phone?”

“No. Not even in my fancy phone.”

Aziraphale nods and lets the conversation drift into silence. He looks out of the window; tries not to pay too much attention to the man beside him who looks like he’s half a minute from either punching something or crying. Mostly because there’s nobody else to punch in the vicinity apart from Aziraphale, and he doesn’t know how to handle anyone’s tears, much less Crowley, who’s bristly enough to put a porcupine to shame.

Then he sees Crowley’s face.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice pitched low so the alarm doesn’t worry Crowley, “are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Crowley turns slowly, like he’s one of those bobblehead machines that can move up and down but not side to side. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Your skin is- it looks- blue.”

“I... ah- well. I don’t. It’s quite... normal, I think that’s-”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snaps Aziraphale, leaning forward to touch his neck. He can’t quite help recoiling at the freezing temperature. “You aren’t alright. Not if you’re in shock already!” Crowley starts to furrow his brows, but unfortunately for him, Aziraphale’s patience has shattered under his worry about fifteen seconds previously. “Take off your clothes.”

Some emotion returns to Crowley’s face. “No,” he says, and sounds insulted. “Do I really look that easy to you?”

“You look half-frozen,” says Aziraphale, steely-eyed. “And like you’ll catch your death of the cold if you don’t handle yourself. Now, I think the jacket’s the worst off- and your shirt, too, but your jeans should be fine.” Mostly because he can’t imagine that Crowley has the dexterity to get the jeans off, and Aziraphale does not want to attempt to undo things plastered that close to the skin. “If you can get that off, I’ll give you my jacket, yes? And you should be better off. Warmer, at the least.”

They manage it after some shuffling around. In the end, Crowley stretches out in the backseat, stripped to the waist and shivering spasmodically- the shivers make Aziraphale feel a little better, because he remembers reading that shivering’s the body’s way of making itself warmer; the real danger is when that reflex stops- but it doesn’t seem to matter what configuration Aziraphale tries to shove him into. Crowley keeps shivering.

Where is that blasted friend when he needs to show up?

“Fine,” whispers Aziraphale. “Oh, fine. I suppose...”

It takes more maneuvering, with more dexterity than Aziraphale’s had to use in quite a few years. But by the end of it, he’s got himself pressed up against Crowley, his chest to Crowley’s jacketed back, one arm curled up at an unpleasant angle over the window and the other hanging over Crowley’s ribs.

This close, Aziraphale can smell Crowley from underneath Aziraphale’s jacket: it’s a strange scent, damped by the rain and vaguely reminiscent of a deep forest, full of moss and growing things. But that would make sense; Aziraphale remembers how lovely Crowley’s garden had been, rich and lush and verdant, full of bright plants and thick vines. They’d all looked under control, too, not the wild sorts of gardens that some places had, where they just let nature take its course. He can imagine it now: Crowley gardening, a cheek streaked with dirt and eyes shining with joy.

Slowly, trying to flex his now-numb arm, he lets it drop to Crowley’s head. Crowley doesn’t do much more than snort and shimmy, a peculiar movement that begins in his neck and carries all the way down to his calves. His hair is softer than Aziraphale had thought it might be, though that might because the product has mostly been washed out of it.

And it’s been a very long day. A long few days. If Aziraphale had known how much trouble he’d get into for just trying to go meet Gabriel, he wouldn’t have ever left Soho. But he didn’t and he has, and the car is- while not warm- strangely comfortable, and so he closes his eyes, and before he knows it, he’s fallen asleep.

...

...

Crowley jerks awake out of a dream. He usually does; he tends to thrash in sleep anyways, and moreso when he’s sleeping in unfamiliar places. There’s a thud and someone’s yelp, and he feels his heartrate pick up, the old panic rising up and threatening to drown him. One arm reaches out on reflex, a rabbit-fast punch that slaps against...

Leather?

His vision clears, and Crowley sees the shiny black leather of his Bentley. The rain-crusted window. A flash of cream on his chest, and another on the floor, and he chooses to roll slightly to see-

“What the fuck,” he says.

Aziraphale, who’d apparently been spooning him- which, again, what the fuck- looks up at him, and has the gall to look a little wounded. “You were cold,” he says. And sounds accusing, the bastard. “And kept shivering. I thought you needed some way to keep warm.”

“And you didn’t think of turning up the heat?” asks Crowley, flabbergasted.

“I'd break that thing as soon as get the heat up,” says Aziraphale. He lifts his eyebrows, and looks far too put-together for lying on the floor of a Bentley, hair and clothes all askew. “I didn’t think you’d like that very much.”

“Right.”

Crowley decides that he cannot deal with the implications of that statement just yet, and sits up, swinging his legs carefully to avoid hitting Aziraphale. He has to figure out what’s going on: the rain has pretty much stopped, but he can’t know when it’ll pick up again, not in the middle of a storm cell like they’re currently in. He grimaces at the feel of his damp jeans still on his legs. It’s going to take him ages to get those off now. Then he reaches for the handle.

“Where’re you going?” asks Aziraphale, sounding alarmed.

“Outside,” says Crowley. He lifts an eyebrow back to him, some of his humor restored. “Don’t worry, angel. I won’t just abandon you here.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, some of the apprehension fading. “I just meant that you don’t seem to handle the rain all that well. You did almost go into shock.”

And I’m liable to do the same again if I don’t have time to regroup. So. Picking the best of two evils, really, between the cold and sitting here with you.

“It’s stopped raining,” he says instead, and doesn’t wait to hear Aziraphale’s protest before stepping out.

Outside, the cold air is bracing and freezing on his open chest, but the rain has stopped. Crowley takes a few deep breaths of it, lets it settle in his lungs, lets it settle his brain. Runs a hand through his hair, and grimaces at the floppy feel of it.

It’s been a very long time since he slept with his back to someone.

Not since... No. I am not going to think about that. Not now, of all times.

Four years he’s gone without remembering that night, and now he’s just going to give it all up? Because he got cold?

No. Aziraphale doesn’t know anything, really. He still thinks it’s the cold and the rain that turned Crowley into that half-catatonic mess. Best to keep him thinking that way. And also for Crowley not to think about how warm his hand had been, how soft; how it had felt, to have that kind of kindness, unthinkingly given. Aziraphale’s going to go back to his fiance and his London life in less than a day, and Crowley cannot forget that. Cannot afford to forget that.

Another breath. Two.

Then he reaches for his phone and pulls up Dagon. The idiot could’ve at least provided him with an update if he wasn’t going to show up.

“Hello?”

“Dagon,” says Crowley, and lets his voice drop into the lower register he rarely uses anymore. He might not like threatening people, but he’s half-certain that Dagon’s scared of him anyways, and if it’ll get him out of these goddamn jeans, Crowley’s not going to hesitate. “Where’s the truck?”

...

“He isn’t coming,” Crowley says, returning to the car.

Aziraphale blinks. “But you-”

“Not tonight, at least.” Crowley closes his eyes briefly, but then he opens them. God. Today’s been one disaster after another, hasn’t it? “He says he’ll try tomorrow, because it’ll be Thursday and he should have the day off. But he can’t make it tonight.”

The idiot isn’t in Kilkenny. He’s driving around Kilkenny, but he won’t be able to make it until tomorrow. Which, if he’d just said-

But Crowley’s not in the habit of crying over spilled milk. He looks at Aziraphale, and smiles, and reaches for as much calm as he can manage.

“So what’re we going to do?”

“You found my inn yesterday,” Crowley tells him. “If we make our way down the mountain, we should find another. A bed and breakfast, or a pub at the least.”

They get Aziraphale’s luggage out, and Crowley takes the moment while he’s occupied to pull on his wet shirt and jacket and hand Aziraphale’s back to him.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s cold,” Crowley tells him, and ignores the violent shudders snaking down his spine. It’s just rain, not sprinklers. And it’s only damp, not soaking. He isn’t going to have a panic attack, not now. “You’re going to need it. Really. I’ll be fine.”

“Right,” says Aziraphale dubiously, but he takes the thing anyways, so Crowley is going to chalk it as a win.

They make their way downhill, Crowley’s backpack pressing uncomfortably wet cloth against his shoulderblades. It’s probably... just before sundown, which is why they have some light to see by, even if it isn’t a lot.

“Is Dagon your friend?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley cuts him a look sharply, but there’s no mockery in Aziraphale’s face; he’s concentrating on not tripping over the sharp stones in the path. And it would make sense: how could he know of Crowley’s past? Nobody does. It isn’t that nobody can, only that Crowley’d got a taste of how it felt to not have a past years ago, and he ran with it like nobody could have imagined.

“It’s... complicated,” he says aloud. Looks up to the sky, which is still scudded with clouds but clearing a little, just enough that the sliver of the moon is visible. “We were friends, for a long time. Colleagues, I think, would be a better name for it.”

“Oh.”

“Surprised?”

“He sounded like he was surprised that you were calling him.”

“He was.” Crowley kicks at a stone; feels the sweet ache of it in his toe. “I haven’t spoken to him in- Christ- five years.”

“What happened?” asks Aziraphale, voice soft, inviting. Without any hint of the maliciously curious edge that Crowley’s spent years searching for, dismissing people for.

“I left,” he says. “The company we worked for, I mean.”

“And that was- bad?”

“Worse than that.” Crowley laughs, once, shortly, humorlessly. “I was working in a construction company, see, and it had ties- all over the world. Global construction company. And I got the job by a fluke- it was a recommendation by someone who shouldn’t have ever given it, who wouldn’t have given it if they knew I’d get the job- but I was good at it. Really fucking good at it.”

Not for very long, maybe, but long enough. It’s definitely left its mark on him.

“Only...”

“Only the higher I got, the weirder people were acting. So I did some digging. And I found out that they were stealing sand.”

Aziraphale comes to a complete halt. “Stealing sand?”

“Doesn’t sound like much, does it?” Crowley shakes his head. “Only it was. They can ruin rivers with it. Beaches. Entire ecosystems. I didn’t know a lot about it, though, not until there was news a few days later- literal days- about entire towns being washed away in India.”

“Oh my god.”

“Seven people died.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

“So you... did what?”

“Went to the police,” says Crowley dully. “I showed them what I had. They put me in the protected person service while they were working on it, and it turned out that it was a bigger deal than I’d even known.” He snorts. “Proper sand mafia.”

“You’re not still in that service, are you?” asks Aziraphale, a little nervously.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I can hold my secrets for one day,” he says. Usually takes me the third date to spill all my secrets, but you’re a special one, aren’t you? He can still feel that hand, large and soft, pressed against the space between his ribs. “But it isn’t one, so it doesn’t matter. I got put in the protection, and then they got the worst of the people, and I got out. But I couldn’t go back to London after all of that. Didn’t want to.”

“Ah. I wondered, you know, why you don’t have an accent.”

“Because I’m not Irish.” Something similar to amusement bubbles in Crowley’s belly. “You could’ve just asked, you know that? I don’t mind questions.”

He might choose not to answer, but he’s never not liked questions. And he certainly won’t be offended by someone asking them. It’s the underlying currents that he’s never liked: the cruelty of it, the careless tribalism. The breathless desire for gossip, not for information.

“Gabriel never liked too many questions.”

“That,” says Crowley, very neutrally, “is the first time you’ve told me his name.”

Not neutrally enough. Aziraphale turns around to look at Crowley, wide eyes shining. Again, there’s that twist in his gut.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” says Aziraphale. “So many years. I just... want him to be mine. You know?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley. “I do.”

“You had someone?”

“No.” Crowley swallows. “Not like... that.”

But he can understand, better than Aziraphale can probably hope for. The possessive, jealous edge to his thoughts. Crowley does not like sharing things. Or people. If he ever fell in love, he’d probably scare the person off with how much he loved them; it’s a design flaw he’s accepted that can’t be changed.

Still. Better not to tell Aziraphale that, he thinks.

“But you said-”

“-yeah. Never had time for it, really- I didn’t have the best childhood.” He looks up to the sky. He’s always liked the stars; how they keep spinning, on and on and on, even when his life feels like it’s stuck in bog peat. “Streets, violence, the whole lot. Never had time before I got the job at the company. Never really wanted to, after. But I can get wanting a family.”

Aziraphale is looking at him. Crowley can feel the regard of that gaze, the sympathy, and it twists him up like a piece of paper braided together, too thick to tear but too flimsy to remain unfrayed.

“Gabriel and I,” he says, finally, when Crowley remains silent. “I always admired his ability to be careful. To wait for the right time. To do the right thing. There’s so much I wasn’t sure of when I met him. He gives me that certainty.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“What more could I want?”

“I don’t know. Love?” 

Aziraphale inhales sharply, like Crowley’s just punched him, and Crowley sighs. Another fuckup. I really need to warm up. He usually has better control on his tongue, or at least he does when he’s warm. 

“Yeah, no, that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to,” says Aziraphale, but he sounds a little weaker on the protest.

Crowley waves a hand. “Look, just because I don’t understand...” He trails off and stares at the sky. His throat hurts, a little, like the beginning of a cold just sneaking up on him. “I don’t get romance. Not really. So. That’s on me, not you.” Crowley sends him a smile, small and thin. “I think we’ve established that I don’t know anything about relationships.”

“I don’t think you don’t get romance,” says Aziraphale cautiously. “You did mention love, you know, and not, like, money.”

“Yeah.” Crowley turns, slightly, and sees a flash of light. “Is that- I think-”

Relief brightens Aziraphale’s face. “Yes,” he says. “It looks like an inn. Can we please-”

“Yes,” says Crowley, and they quicken their paces to get into the inn as quickly as possible.

...

...

The owners of the inn are rather older, but they look nice; Aziraphale feels himself relax, at the warmth of the little cottage, at the softness of their gaze.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, shoving a little in front of Crowley. “Our car broke down up the mountain, and we got caught in the rain, and-”

“-and we need a room for the night,” finishes Crowley.

“Oh, you poor dears!” The woman bustles forwards, takes in their damp clothes; her face creases in sympathy. “Yes, yes, we have a room. Right lucky you are, the both of you. Someone came in just an hour ago! Wanting a room!” She lowers her voice. “They weren’t even married. Admitted it straight out!”

Aziraphale is aware of Crowley opening his mouth, so he speaks quickly. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet you, then!”

Crowley freezes in his peripheral vision, shoulders almost seizing up to his ears. Aziraphale forces himself to keep going. 

“We aren’t married, actually,” he says, smiling with as little nervousness as he can manage. “But- ah- I just proposed. To Crowley.”

Crowley’s muscles, somehow, tighten further. Then he seems to make a decision, and flows forwards, one arm coming up to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders heavily. “I,” he says, “am so happy.”

Aziraphale makes a point of turning, just enough that he can shove his elbow into Crowley’s gut. 

“Call me Crowley,” he says, and barely sounds winded. But he’s smiling now, and it doesn’t look forced at all. “He’s Aziraphale.”

The woman’s eyebrows rise, a little. 

“A mouthful, I know,” murmurs Aziraphale. 

“You shouldn’t blame a son for his parents’ bad choices,” says Crowley virtuously. 

A pale flush of anger blooms in Aziraphale’s throat- Crowley doesn’t know who he is; doesn’t know Aziraphale’s parents; doesn’t know anything- but he doesn’t say anything. He’ll get this bed and hot bath today if it kills him.

“No, indeed,” says the innkeeper, hand clapping over his wife. He smiles at Aziraphale, wide and honest. “Why, Mary, we had that couple down from Glasgow- those two lads-”

“-true,” says Mary. Her eyes measure them closely, and then she’s smiling too. “Come on, then. You’ll need to get out of those terrible clothes soon enough.”

...

The room, however, has only one bed.

“I am not sleeping with you again.”

“Believe me,” says Aziraphale, “I don’t want to get punched either.”

“So who gets the bed?”

“Flip of a coin?”

“Fine by me.” Crowley holds up a coin from somewhere, glittering between his fingers. “Heads I win, tails you lose.”

“Sure.”

He flips it, and holds it out to Aziraphale. “Heads. I win.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be in the shower.”

...

The shower is not much- not really separate from the room, just curtained off by something that’s sheer enough to be translucent. But the water is hot, and Aziraphale isn’t going to complain when he hasn’t had a proper shower since getting soaked in that ill-fated boat ride. 

When he steps out of the shower, Crowley’s laying on the bed. He’s stripped off his jeans. He’s wearing a towel over his hips, but his legs poke out from under it, long, ankles hanging off the bed like little chicken claws, something graceful and awkward all at once in the slender bones.

“Crowley,” asks Aziraphale, though he keeps his voice pitched low. He doesn’t want to wake him, not when he looks so peaceful. “Crowley, are you-”

He jerks awake. Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s, and he wonders at the blind panic in them, shielded quickly before Aziraphale can do much more than identify it. 

“Mm,” he says. “Didn’t think I was so tired.” Rubs at his jaw, then nods to Aziraphale. “Mary said that dinner’d be ready in a half-hour.”

“You’ll need to change into something for that.”

“Yeah. You’ll head down now?”

“Was thinking about it.”

“Be careful,” Crowley tells him wryly. “Best not let them trip you up with all the stories you’re telling.”

“I’m a good storyteller!”

“Ah, but are you a good liar?”

Yes.

“That is none of your business,” Aziraphale tells him, and Crowley laughs aloud, loud and uninhibited.

Still smiling, Aziraphale leaves the room. 

...

The dinner smells wonderful. There are quite a few people downstairs already- a couple from Italy; another few on a visit from America; and, of course, the innkeeper and his wife. He makes smalltalk with a hiker who’s also from London, a woman with hair chopped short enough that it keeps falling into her eyes and she keeps shoving it out of them. 

Then Crowley comes down.

He’s wearing sweatpants and slippers, and a shirt that could only be called acceptable for a party by the biggest stretch of the word acceptable. But his hair’s also been slicked back again, teased up and high, and his face looks a lot livelier than it had been in the dim light of their room.

“Hello, angel,” he says, and quirks a smile at the hiker. “Making new friends, I see.”

“She’s a very accomplished hiker,” Aziraphale tells him.

She laughs. “Not very accomplished, I’m afraid, or else I wouldn’t have gotten caught out by this storm.”

Aziraphale goes to respond, but the dinner bell rings and everyone goes to their seats- assigned seats. Crowley mutters in his ear, “Feels like grade school, innit,” and it takes all that Aziraphale has not to snicker in Mary’s face.

And the food is-

Good.

Aziraphale would’ve been happy even if it wasn’t this good- the hot shower’s done wonders for his mood- but the stew and homemade bread’s making his day even better. The wine that the innkeeper has set out is sweet, pairing wonderfully with the heavy food. 

“So what did you say you did, Aziraphale?”

“I’m a book-owner,” he says pleasantly. “I own a shop in London. Mostly antiques.”

“‘s that why you stared at my floorboards like that?” Crowley whispers in his ear.

“I stared at your floorboards because I was afraid I’d puncture something,” Aziraphale whispers back, and bites his lip not to smirk at Crowley’s disgruntled face.

“And you, Crowley?”

“Innkeeper, like you.” He leans back in his chair, wineglass spinning in his hand. The candlelight from behind him catches on the blocky tips of his hair, and it shines red as a sunset. “A little bit further south. Near the coast.”

“And you’re heading to Dublin?”

“Yeah. Bit of a work thing, for him.” He tilts his head. The gleam of his eyes- the humor in them, the laughter that Aziraphale hasn’t had in so long, because Gabriel doesn’t like ridiculous things, and Aziraphale has decided it’s easier to accept his quirks instead of constantly fighting him- leaves Aziraphale’s tongue dry. “Setting stuff up for when he moves in with me.”

The wine swilling in his mouth goes down the wrong pipe. Aziraphale coughs, hard, and stares at him.

“That is not true,” he says sharply. Crowley lifts an eyebrow at him, the epitome of innocence. “We still haven’t decided that!”

“I’ve got my inn, though,” he says, and there is a smirk there, hiding in the very corners of his lips. “Nobody uses inns in London, do they, angel? People read books everywhere, though.”

You fucking bastard, thinks Aziraphale, even as he feels the outrage drip away like a leaking sink. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m planning to leave,” he says, arching his eyebrows back at Crowley. Then he turns to their hosts, who look a little startled, though altogether more convinced about their relationship now. “As you can see, we still aren’t completely in accord.”

“Ah, a lover’s spat!” Mary claps her hands together, warmth leaking out of her every pore. “Well, you’ll need to heal it the old way then, won’t you?”

Crowley’s fingers tighten, immediately, on his wineglass. “What do you mean?” he asks, in a voice that Aziraphale supposes ought to be neutral, though it leaps far, far past that into something that sounds frightfully threatening. 

What had he said? Bad childhood. Yes, Crowley’s good at appearing sophisticated and shallow, like every bit of him is visible at the beginning, like he’s nothing more than a sarcastic, selfish person who doesn’t care about anything other than himself. But such a man would not have given up his job because it hurt people thousands of miles away, and would not have apologized to Aziraphale on his opinions of romance either, hours and hours after the fact. Crowley’s got some unplumbed depths. Aziraphale’s... relatively certain of that.

“A kiss!” exclaims Mary, and Aziraphale’s entire body snaps to attention when she says it. 

Crowley’s a rigid line beside him, wineglass almost dangerously close to shattering in his hand.

“Ah, um, no,” says Aziraphale, weakly. “That isn’t really necessary, is it? We’re-”

“-nonsense, you’re newly engaged! You must!”

“Yes,” says the hiker, and she’s smiling, and Aziraphale makes a note to kill her slowly. Or at least scold her for not having his back. “You simply must.”

“I don’t think-”

A gentle touch on his elbow. Aziraphale turns, ready to roll his eyes, and Crowley swoops close, presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s.

It tingles up his spine, that touch. Especially when Crowley keeps doing it, even when Aziraphale’s still too frozen to respond, his lips soft and hot and strangely hot, in more than just temperature. It pools in Aziraphale’s belly, like skeins of gold. 

Slowly, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley. Touches the very tips of his fingers against Crowley’s jaw, that lovely, too-sharp jaw, leaning in. Skims it back to his hair, the cowlick that apparently can’t quite be smoothed down, and that richly colored hair.

It bubbles through him, warm, warm, and it’s been so long, because-

Gabriel.

Aziraphale pulls away, breathing just a little too hard. Crowley does, too, and his cheeks look pinched red, though that could just be the candlelight reflecting off his hair. Aziraphale looks away and throws back all of his wine, mouth drier than a desert. His fingers itch, ache; he can’t quite get the memory of Crowley’s skin out of his mind, that skin that was soft and dry, and gave so fetchingly, pressing back against his bone when Aziraphale pushed.

Gabriel, Aziraphale reminds himself firmly. I will not forget why I’m here. For anything.

“Well, that’s that,” says Crowley, voice sounding a little strange. “Happy?”

“Yes,” says the hiker, still smiling. “Of course. We were just worried about you, you know.”

“Never thought otherwise,” drawls Crowley.

Aziraphale can feel the pressure of his gaze. But he refuses to look back at him. Refuses to make things worse. He’s in this to get to Gabriel and surprise him, and Crowley is in this for the money, no matter how soft his lips or kind his words are, and Aziraphale cannot- and will not- forget that.

...

...

“You utter demon,” hisses a voice out of the dark.

Crowley turns blindly, limbs twisted up in the bedding. “Um. What?” Some old fear flickers through him, but it’s far and distant, lost in the comfortable weight of sleep. 

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

Something hits him. Then it hits him again, and again, and again.

“Okay,” he says, struggling awake. “Okay, okay. What d’you want?”

“Heads I win, tails you lose,” Aziraphale bites out. 

Oh. 

“Wondered when you’d get it,” snorts Crowley. 

“Out! I’m taking the bed!”

“I,” he says, with as much dignity as he can inject into the words, “am not moving.”

“I’ll drag you off,” threatens Aziraphale. 

“I’d like to see you try.”

“You utter cheating-”

“Just come in,” Crowley tells him, rolling to the other side of the bed. 

He hesitates, but the bed is warm, and the air outside is unforgivably cold. Crowley can just imagine the temptation of it. 

“You aren’t going to punch me,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley makes a mush-mouthed sound, waving an arm. “Get in or don’t,” he mumbles.”But do it quickly, yeah?”

A moment later, the bed creaks, and Crowley feels the warmth of Aziraphale’s body against his back. He closes his eyes, burrows further into the blankets, and lets sleep wash him away.

...

The sun is shining the next morning. Crowley wakes up to it, to the warmth of it making him sticky with sweat, and something even warmer pressed against him, from nape to ankle. He turns, slightly, just enough to confirm: it is Aziraphale. Star-haired Aziraphale, with a tongue like a knife and a gaze like ice and a heart warm as a blazing bonfire.

With lips, soft as a flower.

Crowley’s got nowhere to go: his back is to Aziraphale, and in front of him is the wall. Just a few days ago- just one day ago- he’d have told anyone that he’d never accept this kind of restraint on his movements. Panic attacks would’ve been the least of his worries. 

But now he’s comfortable, relaxed, soft with sleep and lazy for it. He closes his eyes and lets his breath even out again.

...

Crowley wakes up again, and this time Aziraphale is gone from the bed- he’s brushing his teeth- so he takes the time to stretch his arms and roll his spine. Aziraphale turns at the movement; smiles at him. 

“Sleep well?”

“Better than I expected,” says Aziraphale, gimlet-eyed. “It would’ve been better if not for your wiles.”

“Oh, it was funny. Don’t try and tell me it wasn’t.”

“To you, maybe.” 

“That’s who I was talking about, yeah.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and steps out of the bathroom, fully dressed, taking his jacket from the seat back he’d carefully arranged it on the night before. 

“Mary told me that there’s a train that leaves at five,” he says. “You’ll want to get ready at noon, though, because that’s when we’re getting a ride there. Or else you’re walking to the station.”

“What’s the time now?” asks Crowley, yawning.

Something glints in Aziraphale’s eye. “Half past eleven.”

...

Aziraphale gets the tickets for them both at the train station, but the train’s been delayed to six. And he’s not going to just sit around and stare at a wall grow moss for six bloody hours.

“I’m going to the church,” he tells Aziraphale. “It’s nearby, I checked, and I’m not going to sit here contemplating the meaning of life for you. Honestly, I’d rather die.” Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley holds out a hand and stops him. “If you make me stay, I’ll make you want to die, too.”

Aziraphale ducks his head, then just nods and lugs his suitcase higher so he isn’t blocking Crowley’s path. “Lead on, then,” he says, in a suspiciously mild voice.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Right. Out with it. Why’re you smiling like that?”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d like churches.”

“I’m not.” Crowley shrugs. “But apparently this has been abandoned for centuries, so it’s more just a small castle than anything else.”

...

It’s overgrown with moss and peat, and at a steep incline, so they need to go up quite a few stairs. Crowley doesn’t mind much, but Aziraphale does. He starts complaining about halfway there, and doesn’t stop, not even when Crowley tells him that he can go back to the station if it’s that difficult for him. 

“I’ve already done half the hard work,” he says, pushing some hair out of his eyes and glaring up at it when it doesn’t stay put. “So. Upward and onwards.”

“Your funeral,” mutters Crowley.

...

It’s a lovely church, even if it’s been abandoned. The cloisters are all ruined, of course, the wood rotted from the rain, and the roof’s long since fallen to pieces. But there is a flight of stairs that leads up to a room with stained glass shattered over the entire floor, and the wind that comes in is tinged with the faintest hint of salt. And at the nave, where once a pulpit must have stood, there is a cairn, stacked high with white, water-smoothed stones.

“It’s beautiful,” murmurs Crowley.

“Things like this are always beautiful,” says Aziraphale. Crowley turns to look at him, startled; Aziraphale sounds almost bitter. “It’s the possibilities that we love. We look at ruined things and think that they could be so much better- but when we try to fix it, it’s never good enough. Reality’s never quite as good as our imagination.”

“No,” says Crowley. “But it’s real, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He looks at the cairn, the stones stacked so neatly, so lovingly, and there’s something pained in his beautiful eyes.

“I- whenever I see them, I think of Gilgamesh. You’ve heard of him?”

“Some ancient tale, right?”

“Yes. From Sumeria. The oldest literature we have to date.” He inhales, and slowly levers himself down to sit next to Crowley, legs splayed out in front of him on the dirty stone without a care. “In the story: Gilgamesh is the king of a city in Sumeria, but he’s cruel to his people- he’s more god than human, so he is stronger than them, and because of his strength, he does not understand sympathy, or empathy, or kindness. So his people ask the gods to save them, and they send down Enkidu, who is Gilgamesh’s equal and his counter.”

Crowley lifts his eyebrows when Aziraphale suddenly smiles at him. “Enkidu’s a wild man. Nature, taken to its heights. And so because he is so strong, he can push Gilgamesh to be kinder; he pushes him to civilization; he says no to him. They fight. But they are twinned, and equal, and so they are necessary for the world.

“They have many adventures. They become so close- and then, Gilgamesh angers Ishtar, the goddess of love, by refusing her, and she demands that one of them die. And the gods choose to kill Enkidu.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, very quietly. 

Aziraphale doesn’t even look like he’s telling the story to Crowley anymore; he’s lost in his memory. In the story he’s weaving for Crowley, with his fluttering hands and bright, shining eyes.

“Gilgamesh mourns Enkidu’s death. He denies the death, for more than a fortnight, and it’s only when the corpse starts to rot that he accepts it.” Aziraphale’s eyes close, briefly, then open again, and they trace over the cairn with such longing that it thrums an ache in Crowley’s on chest. “Before he does anything else, he kneels on the beach where Enkidu lay, and he builds a cairn for him of sand.”

“That sounds- slow.”

“But he didn’t stop, not until it was over.” Aziraphale turns to Crowley, and his eyes blaze fiercely, and it takes everything inside of Crowley not to recoil. “The first cairn in the world, built by a man who could not bear the love he bore another man, his equal, sent to him by the gods. That’s what I always wanted, you know. That kind of love from someone. And whenever I see them- these cairns- I just think, all I can think, is who’d build a cairn for me?”

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, stepping forwards, alarm flitting through him. “You can’t-”

“I don’t have a family,” says Aziraphale quietly, clearly, calmly. “My parents are long gone. No siblings. I don’t know if I like Gabriel very much, but- something is better than nothing, is it not? I’d rather not be lonely than lonely. Have someone to build the cairn for me. Even if... even if I don’t think they’d ever mourn me like that.”

Crowley understands that desire. The need for skin, more than anything else, and the terror of abandoning it. He knows it intimately. How lonely has he been since leaving London? It’d been the thing that almost stayed his hand, time and time again, when he knew things and loathed the way they were but still had a good home, a good job, a good life; why should he be the one to lose all of that, all for defeating the barest drop in the ocean of humanity’s wastrels and sins?

But he’d chosen the higher road, the lonelier road, when he walked away from London, and he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t dare let himself regret that.

“Yeah, but you can be lonely and married,” says Crowley slowly. “Just because you marry him, it doesn’t mean you’ll be perfect for each other. Doesn’t mean you’ll understand each other.”

“So that’s your choice then? To be lonely?”

“To wait,” says Crowley firmly. “Until someone comes along who I’d like to spend my life with. Because I’m a casino’s dream, you know? I’d rather take the whole pot than just break even. And what would I do if I found someone better after I settled for somebody else? I’d always be thinking about that other person. I’d always be unhappy.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I’m happy by myself, angel,” says Crowley, reaching a hand out to him. “Don’t need people constantly around to make me feel better. And I think we should head back.”

“It isn’t six yet.”

“No, but it feels like it’s going to rain.” Aziraphale keeps frowning at him, and Crowley huffs a sigh. “I’ve got a sixth sense about these things. Can we please make a move on?”

He’s right. He’s also wrong, because his sense clearly isn’t much of one; they’ve made it just a few feet out of the church by the time it starts pelting them with heavy rain, the kind that’ll make it difficult to see anything two meters in front of them.

“Twice in two days,” mutters Crowley. “Someone up there really fucking hates me.”

Then he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, and runs.

...

...

They leg it all the way back to the train station, but not quite quickly enough. Aziraphale’s head and chest are completely sodden, the water soaking straight through his coat, vest and shirt. But at least he has a change of clothes in his luggage. While it may not be the clothes he’d want Gabriel to find him in- Aziraphale can just imagine the snide commentary- he also doesn’t think they’re too egregious either. 

And he’s thankful to the rain, really, because he’d felt like he’d just peeled away some awful part of his skin, bared some terrible, maggoty secret when he told Crowley about the cairns. Who wants someone to mourn their death like that, with hair-rending and screams? He knows what Gabriel would say: the best people don’t want their loved ones to suffer. They want to pass quietly, serenely, peacefully into the night, and the world will keep turning around them. To think otherwise is to be prideful beyond measure.

But Aziraphale still wants that. He wants to know he has become inextricable from at least one person’s life. And he knows, just as well, that Gabriel will never give him such depth of love or control. It is not in Gabriel to give that to some living thing; he’s already sunk it into his job. His first love, he’d told Aziraphale, when they first met. His first love and his largest love, but if Aziraphale could accept that...

And he could, for four years.

So what’s changed now?

At the station, Aziraphale excuses himself to the toilets so he can change. He takes the privacy to try to get his balance back. When he returns, it’s almost time for the train to return.

And Crowley looks strange again, face white and lips pressed so tight together they’ve almost disappeared. He’s motionless on the bench, knucklebones clenched tight on the strap of his backpack, sticking out from his palms like the church ruins from the rest of the grass. 

“Crowley?” asks Aziraphale. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he hisses. Really, properly hisses. 

Aziraphale takes a precautionary step backwards. “Um. Right. D’you want-”

“No,” he says flatly. Aziraphale blinks, and Crowley elaborates, through clenched teeth. “I don’t.”

“Okay.”

He sits down gingerly, settles against the bench, and focuses on listening for the train whistle. If Crowley doesn’t want to talk- and Aziraphale's fairly certain that it’s not because of Aziraphale’s comments, mostly because he can remember how soft Crowley’s voice had gotten, and the hand he’d held out to Aziraphale as soon as he realized what Aziraphale was saying, unthinkingly kind- then Aziraphale won’t force him.

But.

Just because he’ll bite his tongue doesn’t mean he’ll forget. And when Crowley’s ready, he’ll confront him, and get the answers he deserves.

...

Even when the train comes, Aziraphale has to chivvy Crowley up into the carriage, and Crowley looks like he’s about one short word from snapping someone in half. Aziraphale takes a chance on dropping his scarf into Crowley’s lap as the conductor arrives- he might use it to dry off if he had some wits about him, and Aziraphale certainly hasn’t missed how much Crowley’d liked the softness of the cashmere before- and also ensures he answers for both of them, shielding Crowley as best he can from the man’s gruff questions as he punches their tickets in.

Then he turns back to their compartment, and Crowley has looped the scarf over his shoulders, peeling off his sweater and depositing it on the seat next to him with a moue of distaste. The conductor makes a breathless sound of protest, but Aziraphale doesn’t bother to look back or address him again as he closes the compartment door behind him.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead, approaching Crowley carefully.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, voice low. He leans back, eyes closed, face white and still taut with some tension. 

Aziraphale debates with himself on his next action. He doesn’t know how Crowley will react, and he’s afraid that he’ll pull away further, especially when he’s in this snappy mood. 

Slowly, very hesitantly, Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley’s wrist, right below the cuff of his long sleeves. Where the veins lie under his pale skin, blue, returning to the lungs to pump more oxygen to his body. The skin is soft and cold, and Aziraphale can feel the faintest thread of a pulse if he presses down. 

Or maybe it’s his own heart, beating harder at this single point of contact.

Crowley twitches a little, eyes slitting open. Aziraphale makes sure his voice is comforting, not confronting.

“Are you sure?”

“I will be,�� says Crowley. But some further tension leaches out of his body. “It’s a- thing. Not the cold. The. Er. Rain.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. 

Crowley turns, wrist nudging further into Aziraphale’s grasp almost by accident. “I didn’t tell you that bit,” he says quietly. “When we were walking down the mountain.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Mmm.” He sighs. “Was a long time ago. After I contacted the police. They sent me to this small village in Ireland once they realized my life was in danger- gave me a new name, new history, told me not to keep in touch with anyone from my old life.”

“Your life was in danger?”

“Sand mafia, angel,” says Crowley wryly. “They didn’t like me going about spilling their secrets. They really didn’t like me being responsible for putting a good portion of them in jail.”

“But you aren’t in that protected persons program anymore, that’s what you said.”

“No. After their bosses got locked up, there was really only one leader that came up- and his only agenda was to get me to pay. And after I got rid of him, the whole mafia imploded on itself, apparently.”

“You got rid of him?” demands Aziraphale, sharply.

Crowley smiles, thin as a blade of grass. “Sent the fucker to jail, yeah.”

“Crowley-”

“Not on purpose. But. Er. When the police’d told me not to keep anyway contacts from my old life, I didn’t listen. Never have been good at that.”

Hair stands up on Aziraphale’s neck. “What did you do?”

“Kept a phone. And I went to check a PO box every couple months.”

“And they figured it out.” Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Of course.”

“They figured out it was in my name,” corrects Crowley. “They started sending letters. Threatening ones. And I was good at ignoring them! But then they told me that they’d blow up my building. Gave full details on their plan, and the date, too, and promised they’d do it if I didn’t go there on the day of the bombing.”

“Tell me you went to the police.”

“I did,” says Crowley wearily. “They told me to ignore it. Said they were investigating. Only, I had a friend on the force, and he said they were all tied up with a murder investigation.”

Yes, Aziraphale vaguely remembers that. The police force had nearly doubled, and they’d warned everyone in Soho not to walk around past midnight, because of...

“The serial killers? From Scotland?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley inclines his head. “Cop killers, too. So they were caught up in that issue. But I had to do something. So I went back to London, and...” He lifts his hand and rubs at the top of his skull very lightly. “I had a plan. A good plan. Then I realized they fuckers had booby-trapped my flat to blow, not remotely, and it’d probably take out my neighbors as well, if they weren’t careful- and like hell was I gonna think the people blowing up my flat would be careful enough for that.”

“Fuck.”

“Believe me, that’s what I said the entire ride back to London.” 

“So what did you do?”

“Got there. And then, I pulled the fire alarm,” he says softly. “Evacuated the entire building. Only thing was that when I tried to take the stairs, those bastards were waiting for me. I couldn’t take the lift, because it stopped working when the fire alarm went, and I was stuck on the thirteenth floor. Sprinklers everywhere, that goddamn alarm- I had to find someplace to hide, and hide, and it was so fucking wet. And loud. And wet.”

Aziraphale can imagine it. The wail of the sirens, the cold water of the sprinklers. How Crowley must have tried to fold himself into the smallest possible space, and prayed that he wouldn’t be found. The terror of it. 

The bravery of it.

Really. Underneath all of Aziraphale’s latent fear- for Crowley, of course, and not of him- runs a ribbon of admiration. No. An ocean of admiration. For so long Aziraphale has accepted that Gabriel knows what is right and wrong; he’s bitten his tongue, he’s looked away. He’s avoided fights, when he thought that Gabriel might not understand why Aziraphale felt certain things, and he’s avoided those fights for a thousand tiny, petty reasons. But here is Crowley, tired, exhausted, frightened five years after the incident and still refusing to suggest anything close to regret.

Aziraphale has a choice now. He can taste it. To speak of that admiration, or to stay silent and speak on it later. To make Crowley more comfortable, or less.

He knows well which he’s going to choose.

“Ah.” He leans a little closer, nudges his shoulder into Crowley’s, and smiles. “Well, that makes sense.”

Crowley rolls his head so he’s peering at Aziraphale through one eye, brows arched. “What makes sense?”

“Why you looked so terrible. I was wondering if a bit of Ireland rain could actually be colder than the Arctic, you know, because it takes half an hour for people to actually start acting like you did in the car. Either the rain was unique to Ireland, or you were cold-blooded.”

“Like a snake,” snorts Crowley.

“Is that the only cold-blooded animal you know?”

“No,” he says. 

“I think it is,” says Aziraphale, nudging Crowley again.

He laughs, once, a high-pitched thing that more breath than sound, and warmth sluices over Aziraphale like a hot sunbeam on his face, heating that part of his body even as the rest of him remains cool. Then Crowley turns and faces Aziraphale, and there’s affection in his gaze, not all-consuming but unconsciously offered up, sweet as honey for it.

“Shut up,” he says.

Aziraphale’s fairly certain that that’s not what what Crowley meant to say, but he doesn’t bother disagreeing with him. Just pats Crowley’s arm, then settles against the plastic seat, shoulders pressing together, a line of warmth even through the layers of clothes. He can’t quite quell the smile or the giddiness bubbling under his skin. He’s not sure if he wants to.

...

...

“Right,” says Aziraphale.

They’ve finally arrived at the lobby of Gabriel’s hotel, and Aziraphale has everything arranged at his feet: his suitcase, his jacket, folded neatly over the handle, a book he’d extracted from his luggage and read while Crowley dozed on the train.

He holds out an envelope. “Your fee. For a true adventure over these past two days.”

Crowley folds his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels. He thinks about everything that he’s told this man, this stranger; things he’s never said aloud before, things he’s never even considered saying aloud before. He thinks about Aziraphale’s face when he looked at the cairns. He thinks about courage, and laughter, and how the truth of his past doesn’t feel quite so heavy when he’s told it to somebody.

“Nah,” he says. “Keep it.”

“What- but I couldn’t possibly-”

“Tell you what.” Crowley nods to his pocket. “D’you remember that coin? The one that we flipped for the bed?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes. But-”

“Hand it over, and I’ll call us even.”

Slowly, Aziraphale’s head drops into a nod. He brings it out- a shining two pounder- and drops it into Crowley’s palm. Then he unwinds the scarf from his neck.

“For you,” says Aziraphale steadily, eyes gleaming like the heart of a flame in a blowtorch, cool and blue and hotter than the casual eye could expect. “To keep warm on the journey back.”

Crowley takes it wordlessly, finger rubbing over the softness of it. The warmth. The way the weave dips between his fingers, like something just a little heavier than air but twice as smooth. 

“I’ll try not to get soaked,” he says, quirking a smile.

Aziraphale pats his hand. “I’ll miss you, dear boy.”

“And I’ll miss your complaints, angel.” Crowley hesitates for a moment, then decides: fuck it. He’s always been very good at being flamboyant, and making grand gestures. He bows, doffing an imaginary hat with a wide, sweeping wave of his arm, and looks up at Aziraphale through his lashes. “I hope he’ll be your Gilgamesh. You deserve that.”

There’s a pleased flush to Aziraphale’s face, at least until someone calls from the vicinity of the lift: “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale turns slowly, and Crowley sees a man approaching them- tall, maybe even taller than Crowley, definitely broader than Crowley, with horse-brown hair and the jovial kind of face that looks good on soap ads for fathers facing midlife crises.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, reaching for Aziraphale. 

There’s a pleased but slightly confused look on his face, and resentment hits Crowley like a piledriver. This man does not deserve Aziraphale’s kindnesses, or his love. Aziraphale all but admitted it to him in that church, but Crowley wouldn’t have needed that to know it now- Gabriel is very different from Aziraphale. Irreconcilably different. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. He sends Crowley a little glance, then turns back to Gabriel. “I, ah, missed you, love. I couldn’t bear the idea of a week without you. And I had some book-tradings in Dublin anyways, so I thought... well. Surprise!”

“Aziraphale,” says Gabriel. He sounds startled, and a little displeased for it; Aziraphale flinches at the tone, muscles in his face pulling taut that Crowley wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been paying such close attention. But then that dark look crumples too, and he reaches out, reels Aziraphale into an easy hug. “I’ve missed you, too. Of course I have.”

Crowley swallows, hard; makes an involuntary motion- some flail of his arms. Gabriel glances at him. 

“Hello,” he says. “Do I know you?”

“This is Crowley!” Aziraphale jumps in. “He, ah, took care of me. Brought me up to Dublin when my flight blew me off course.”

“Well. Nice to meet you.”

Crowley nods, and backs away; it’s clear that Gabriel doesn’t want him there- or thinks he’s intrusive, which is definitely more likely- and Crowley doesn’t want to be there for Aziraphale’s proposal. He’s not entirely certain why his heart is pounding like it is, or the way his muscles are trembling like he’s going to leap into a sprint very soon, or the way his head feels wrapped in white wool. But he does have the feeling that it’ll get better if he walks away.

Or it’ll get worse, but in the long run he’ll be better. Has to be better. He’s been alone for long enough, hasn’t-

Two steps back, then three, almost past the lounge area- and he hears Gabriel say, loudly, “Would you marry me?”

Crowley turns, and sees Aziraphale’s face for one last time. The sweet, round curves of it. The hands, large and warm. Those blasted eyes. He swallows hard, again, and turns on his heel. The door to the hotel lobby hits him, and the wind rushing outside drowns out Aziraphale’s answer before he can hear it. 

...

It takes more than a day to fall in love with someone.

Doesn’t it?

...

On the train ride back to his inn, Crowley can’t help but keep looking at the coin that Aziraphale gave to him. The train’s lights flash off the metal, turn it shining one minute and then normal grey the next. Crowley remembers the calm twist of Aziraphale’s face when he handed it over, and then the lingering warmth of the scarf- the scarf he’s wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. 

The truth is, he has money.

He’d made a good amount with his job, and invested soundly enough that it had only grown in the past few years, even if he hadn’t overseen it closely- or at all. The protection service had told him to move out all his assets- he’d had a few days of warning- but Crowley hadn’t obeyed that either. Instead, he’d maintained an automatic payment transfer of funds for his monthly rent, and taken the opportunity at the bank to set up further accounts. He’s fairly certain that’s how the mafia had traced his flat. 

But then that night had happened. 

The long ride to London, hands white-knuckled over the steering wheel. The damp stick of clothes to his spine as he hunched in the deepest part of his closet, praying the string of locked doors would be enough to discourage them from entering. To this day, Crowley doesn’t know how long he stayed like that- all he remembers is the panic, and the fear, and the certainty he’d die like that: either by the mafia’s guns or by drowning via the sprinklers.

He fled London as soon as he could. Went back to the town the protection service had set up for him, and chased away everyone who came to tell him he could go back to his life. Changed his name back to Crowley, ignored the town’s gossips about who and what he was, and maintained the inn as best he could.

It’s why he wasn’t in town during December: the protection service wanted more information, wanted to know what had happened. It took him a good few days to convince them that he hadn’t wasn’t in league with the mafia, and another few days to calm himself down, and by then New Year’s had come and gone, and with it, the chance to pad his coffers.

But.

Aziraphale’s gaze. His scarf. He hadn’t known how he’d be treated by his shitty boyfriend, but he’d come this far, hadn’t he? He was used to creature comforts, but he hadn’t wept over the cold water in Crowley’s inn or the saltwater on his luggage, and he’d done what he wanted to do. He got what he wanted, even if he wasn’t certain he wanted it.

That means something. Crowley isn’t sure what, exactly, but he was certain that he admired it.

He rubs his thumb over the coin one last time, then draws the scarf up so it rests on his neck instead of looping down his shoulders, and tips his head back so he can sleep. Crowley’s got work to do when he reaches home; he’ll need his energy for it.

...

It takes a couple weeks. He needs to get his car back, and ensure he can leave the inn for a few days, and book a hotel as well. 

But then he returns to his flat in Mayfair, and it doesn’t stink of water like he’d feared- well, anymore than a flat in London can avoid the rain pouring outside- and his breath eases out of him in a rush, and Crowley doesn’t need the hotel after all. 

This is his home, too. He’d just... forgotten that, for a while.

...

As he’s fixing up the plant wall- it’d fallen into disrepair, though surprisingly not dead; new plants had come to roost; the natural sunlight of the room and the drip irrigation he’d installed illegally from the roof to channel the rainfall had helped an astounding amount to survive even in his absence- there’s a ringing at the doorbell.

Crowley takes his time to answer.

He pays enough for the reception desk downstairs to deal with salesmen. But the salesman doesn’t seem to understand that Crowley’s going to ignore him; he keeps ringing away, and the annoying hum of it grates over Crowley’s ears until he finally snarls under his breath and goes to fling the door open.

“I am not interested,” he bites out, only to falter when he realizes who’s at the door.

“Hello Crowley,” says Anathema, hair chopped short and swinging about her shining, large eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

...

...

Aziraphale floats on a cloud of happiness right up until they arrive in London, and he sees his bookstore. 

The glass window’s been shattered. Clearly shattered. It’s taped over now- one of the neighbors must have taken it upon themselves to do that- but the view still leaves his heart pounding, and when he enters, it gets worse: thieves have managed to take off with some of the books he’d promised to an auctioneer from Aberdeen. 

They haven’t managed to steal the most prized possessions; the oldest manuscripts and original, signed editions are still hidden in the backroom, with its heavy number of locks that took even Aziraphale, with his years of practice, more than a half-hour to unlock. But it’s going to be a tough year, because those books- and the auction- would’ve brought good money, money Aziraphale can recoup, but only with more aggressive merchandising. 

And he hates merchandising. 

Sales strategy has never been his forte.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?” he turns, to see Gabriel running a single finger over one of Shakespeare’s leather-bound plays, with a peculiar look on his face. But then, Gabriel has always found Aziraphale’s job odd, and more than a little undesirable. “Yes?”

“Oh. I checked- your neighbor must have swept up the glass, so you don’t have to worry about cutting yourself. The window’s also airtight.”

“It’ll last, I hope,” mutters Aziraphale. “I’ll call the plumber. See if he can’t help out.”

“The plumber?” asks Gabriel, the look on his face deepening. “You don’t have a handyman?”

“He’s taken off for a week while his missus gives birth,” Aziraphale tells him patiently. “But the plumber should have the seals, I think, and-”

“-if you’d just move out of here, you wouldn’t have these problems, you know that-”

“-do you really want to have that conversation now?” Aziraphale asks levelly.

Gabriel pauses, looking taken aback. It’s an ongoing disagreement between them, and Aziraphale usually lets him rant about it for at least a few minutes before cutting him off. But he isn’t in the mood right now. At all.

“I have a meeting in Trafalgar,” says Gabriel stiffly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Gabriel’s back as he walks away. Only Gabriel could find something to be offended by when it’s Aziraphale’s shop that’s been robbed. Only Gabriel could simply... not offer any comforting words, just the barest practicalities of the situation, and turn it all back into an old argument.

You chose him, Aziraphale reminds himself.

He lets himself have a long minute of weakness, though, one hand pressing against the book spines, the scratchy texture strangely comforting, and the other balled up in the fabric of his coat, his mind remembering Crowley’s grand, chivalric gesture in the hotel lobby, arm sweeping up and out, dipping into a princely bow, and the shivering sensation in his belly as he saw it.

Then Aziraphale shakes his head, and goes back to cataloging everything that’s been taken.

...

It’s a quicker job than Aziraphale had expected; he finishes almost an hour before he’d thought he would, so he decides to go to Gabriel’s flat a little earlier than he’d hinted he would and surprise him. He even buys a bottle of wine as an apology, though Gabriel isn’t likely to be too impressed; Gabriel doesn’t like alcohol, doesn’t like anything with extra- or unhealthy- calories in it. Still. Aziraphale isn’t going to buy him an energy drink for an apology. Now that, he muses, would be ridiculous.

Still lost in his thoughts, he nods to the doorman. Aziraphale’s come by often enough that they all know him and don’t bother ringing up any longer, either. He lets himself in- Gabriel gave him a key years ago- and can hear Gabriel talking in his study, most likely on a conference call. He heads to the kitchen to store the wine.

Only to pause when he hears his name.

Frowning, Aziraphale cuts back across the living room, to the balcony that neighbors Gabriel’s study. Gabriel always leaves the window open, no matter how cold it gets, and always stands beside it to talk, because he thinks that’s the only position he’ll get a clear signal.

And, of course, he’s always had a loud voice.

“-think so,” he hears Gabriel saying. “I mean, I’ve tried.” A pause, where the other person must be talking, and then he continues: “I’ve explained it to you already! He just won’t listen. Doesn’t matter how nicely I tell him, he’s so careless!”

Me? Aziraphale swallows through a dry mouth. What is he talking about?

“I warned him before I left. I told him. I keep telling Aziraphale, over and over and over again, Soho isn’t safe, there’s robbers around, he needs to be careful- and he’ll nod and pretend he’ll listen, and then he’ll do shit like this!”

Like what? Like coming to Dublin to see you?

The first part of the sentence filters through then, and Aziraphale feels anger burst into life in his belly, like wind stoking over hot embers. He cannot be blaming me for getting robbed. Gabriel isn’t that insensitive. Surely not.

Somebody says something- Aziraphale can hear the tinny hum of the phone’s microphone- and then Gabriel says, quietly, “I had to, Michael. I don’t know why. Four years is a long time, isn’t it? And Aziraphale’s a good man. Maybe it’ll get better when-”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to hear anything else. 

Doesn’t wait to hear anything else.

He puts the wine down gently, on the coffee table, and his key besides it, so there’s no noise when the metal hits the glass. There’s a small part of him that’s very cold, but another part of him feels strangely light, like he’s a bear that’s shed its winter coat a few days too early, and doesn’t know how to handle the chill of spring apart from bearing through it.

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” he whispers at the door, hand resting on the doorknob. 

He remembers Crowley’s gaze, golden and shimmering, as he said, You deserve that. A Gilgamesh. Someone who loved him, and would mourn his loss to the world, and care.

Aziraphale turns the doorknob, and doesn’t look behind him as he walks away.

...

It hurts.

It’s hard work.

Aziraphale has to fix up his shop those first few months, and work to make up for the loss of those books. Which means more aggressive discussions with people to sell his books and get others at cheaper prices, and better merchandising, and not leaving London for a little Irish village, no matter how much he’d like to. And then, of course, it’s summer, which is the busiest time of year for him- and for Crowley, too, certainly- so Aziraphale lets himself get sucked into chasing sticky-fingered children away from his books and welcoming potential clients with a smile and ignoring the heat.

But September does, eventually, roll around. 

It’s raining again, when Aziraphale charters the boat from Aberporth, but not the wild storms of February. Just gentle sheets, catching on his lapels and sliding down his oiled raincoat and tamping his hair to his skull. His luggage is the same luggage, dented and mud-stained as it is, but it holds memory now. And he has a new scarf, of the lightest blue, keeping him warm.

He makes his way up the main road, luggage bumping behind him. Screeches to a halt when the inn comes into view.

It’s new. 

There’s fresh paint gleaming on the face, and what looks like an awning stretched out over low tables, perfect for a cafe; the vines threading through the roof and the flowers that had both lent it a cottage air and posed a threat to its Health and Safety certifications have been ripped out; when Aziraphale finally steps inside, he sees that the wooden floorboards have been ripped up and replaced with new ones, a shining chestnut. But what’s most startling is how much he has to fight to get inside, because there’s a crowd around the cafe, inside and out, bustling about, more people than Aziraphale had ever thought lived inside the town.

“Can I help you?” asks a woman. 

She’s got dark hair, mostly straight but with the faintest hint of a wave to it, and eyes like burnished copper. She’s very beautiful. 

“Is- is Crowley around?” Aziraphale asks, just managing to keep his voice even.

“Yes.” Her face shifts, looking grumpy, before she calls out, loudly: “Crowley, darling, there’s someone here who wants to meet you!”

Darling. 

The word feels like a slap to the face. He’s too late. Had this been how Crowley felt, when Gabriel proposed to Aziraphale? Of course Crowley would fall in love, would find someone. Of course Aziraphale would be cowardly enough to wait, and wait just a little too long.

He turns, dazed, chest airless, and stumbles outside.  

Aziraphale isn’t certain where he ends up, or how he gets there; he finds himself grinding his palms against a low stone wall, waist-high, and trying, desperately, not to gasp under the weight of disappointment.

And shame, and anger. Name what you feel, Aziraphale. Don’t let that take you by surprise.

So fine then. Disappointment that this future was taken from him. Shame at his procrastination. And anger, at his weakness. He’d known this was a possibility from the start, and he’d discounted it because... 

Because he’d thought that he could rely on Crowley.

Then: “Aziraphale!”

No. But as if in a dream, Aziraphale turns, and he sees Crowley running up to him. No, no, no.

“When’d you come?” asks Crowley, looking delighted. “You could’ve sent me an email! I had no idea you were planning a vacation!”

“I,” says Aziraphale, helpless.

“How long are you here for?”

“Not... long. But I wanted to see you.”

A shadow crosses over Crowley’s face. “To invite me to your wedding?”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “Er. That isn’t going to happen. I broke it off. Months ago.”

“Oh. But-”

“I wanted to see you,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “You’re doing so well! The inn looks like you rebuilt it from the foundations.”

“Does it?” Crowley asks. He sounds pleased. “I was planning on it for a while, but then Anathema came last week to help, and she’s been so good at it- bringing people in, and being a good hostess- I’m dreading when she goes back to London.”

“She’s going back to London?”

“She’s my neighbor,” explains Crowley. “I, ah, decided to go back to see my flat in London after I left Dublin. I mean. Five years is a long time. And Anathema met me there.” He rolls hie eyes. “I’ll tell you, her husband’s been a blessing with the murals inside- but the funny part’s when I had him doing the bulbs, but he broke four of them in ten minutes. I have no idea how he did it.”

Her husband.

“Four bulbs?” asks Aziraphale, amusement replacing the despair like sunlight following clouds. “Surely he understood he should stop at the second one.”

“Ah, but not everyone can be as quick on the take as you, angel.”

Aziraphale darts him a look and sees the smile; quick, there-and-gone, like moonlight flashing off raindrops. The rainstorm has stopped, he sees, entirely, and the clouds have lifted to reveal the sunset, and the splendid red of the light throws Crowley’s face into sharp relief.

Slowly, he reaches up, and presses a palm to Crowley’s face. Slots his fingers against Crowley’s temple, and the base of his palm against his jawbone. Crowley closes his eyes, canting into the touch the faintest bit.

“I missed you,” whispers Aziraphale. “All these months. I missed you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes open, and he steps closer, presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, one arm coming up to rest on his shoulders. Aziraphale lets his own eyes slit with the pleasure of it, of Crowley’s warmth, of Crowley’s goodness. 

“So did I,” he says, so quietly it’s a puff of breath against Aziraphale’s lips. “More than you’ll ever know.”

He leans down, then, and kisses Aziraphale. 

And for all of Aziraphale’s plotting, for all of Aziraphale’s plans and debates and discussions- he doesn’t think any longer. He just leans up, like a sunflower to the sun, and lets himself drown in the sweet, singing joy.