(Untitled)

[aj_crawley]

It's a picture-postcard sunrise as Crowley ghosts back through the streets of L.A., headed towards Raguel's apartment, and it gives his face a little colour. He feels strange - flattened and insubstantial, like nighttime in the desert has eroded something out of him, worn it away with cold and dust, from right around the time when he found that it

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[a_fell]

The furniture inhabiting Raguel's apartment is improbably stylish, but the contrast between the owner and the place's understated elegance isn't as jarring as Aziraphael might have expected. It's all rather tasteful, in fact, and he's more than a little certain that Crowley had a hand in it - if for no other reason than that he can't imagine Raguel taking the time to pick it out, any more than he can imagine Crowley suffering Raguel to decorate his pet project with worn but serviceable charity rejects

[aj_crawley]

(because in that moment you'll have gone so far)
By contrast, all traces of humour (disbelieving or not) have dropped sharply away from Crowley's expression; the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

"No," he says. "No, you're making this up."

It's not an accusation. The absurdity of it - the sheer, dangerous impossibility of it makes him dizzy. Aziraphael has to be making this up.

[a_fell]

It's just - it's too ridiculous, laid out plain and sudden like that, absent the months of creeping certainty, of gradually convincing himself that this will help, and damn the cost. The hand not gripping the cushion twitches, lifts, reaches out, drops again in a restless gesture.

"I know. I know it was a ridiculous thing to do," he says, beseeching. "It's just that I thought I could see a way to help and I wanted to, so very much."

[aj_crawley]

At the sight of it - of Aziraphael's hand so very nearly reaching out to him - something in Crowley's chest contracts so suddenly and so sharply that his breath almost stutters from it.
(why will the whole of love come on me suddenly)
(He can still feel the warmth of the angel's hand on his cheek, tracing over his ear and through his hair; the soft Stay with me, and the sound of his own breath catching on the watch around Aziraphael's wrist. It had been -
(when I am sad and feel you are far away?)
He'd given him it. The watch. It had been a Christmas present. There's even an inscription on the reverse. Nothing you'd call poetic; nothing like what Aziraphael used to say to him, back then. Just two names, in simple script - To one and From the other - and a date.
(because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long)
Stay with me, Aziraphael'd said, looking up at Crowley from Crowley's pillows that always smell of Aziraphael's hair. Reaching out.)
(I do not love you except because I love you)"You wouldn't," Crowley wrestles out. "Tell

[a_fell]

"I'm afraid I did," he says, fighting the urge to look away. Crowley's glasses are on, he's fully dressed, he's even wearing his coat - and still there's a helplessness about him that somehow makes him almost as naked and open as Aziraphael can remember.

(Almost.)

He makes an effort to pull himself together. It won't do to shuffle over to the couch just now.

"My dear, I'm absolutely certain they didn't suspect a thing. Naturally, I was rather vague on the subject of how I intended to use the extra, but I suppose they were happy enough to assume the usual." A weary sigh.

"Of course, bureaucracy being what it is, they expected to see corresponding results."

[aj_crawley]

It's pleased him, in a secret sort of way, to have Aziraphael walking around, doing Works and simply working, wearing Crowley's name hidden against his skin.

A timepiece seemed - fitting. Right. It couldn't have been anything but a watch.

They didn't suspect a thing.

Crowley, nauseous, doesn't reply.

[a_fell]

He stumbles a little over his next words; Crowley has very suddenly gone extremely pale.

"Are you all right?" he says instead, reaching out all the way this time, unthinking.

[aj_crawley]

"How could you be so stupid," he whispers.

(He knows the answer: because of him.)

It's not as though they haven't both done as much before - been a little over-generous in their reports, been a little creative with their assignments; bent rules and cut corners. But they don't have as much leeway, anymore. These days, they need to tread more carefully.

These last few years. Because of them, the two of them, together.

(Because of him.)

[a_fell]

"I wasn't stupid," he says, then reconsiders. "Well, I was, but not about that. About that I was very, very careful. And at least on that front, I knew what I was doing. I did some more work here and there to make up for the extra that I'd borrowed, and then a bit more. And then a bit more."

He's allowed his hand to drop back to his lap, but he's still on the edge of the cushion, eyes scanning the hunched figure in front of him.

"On some level, I did see that what I was doing wasn't having the intended effect; the very worst of last winter couldn't even compare. So... I worked harder. I was convinced that it needed to be warmer."

[aj_crawley]

"But to even, to even consider, angel - "

His voice is still hushed, horrified, as though afraid some too-righteous ear is already listening at the window; as though at any moment,   vengeance might be exacted for what Aziraphael is not permitted - can never be permitted.

"Never mind doing it for a year."

(And there again: this is it. This is what's   made the past year the way it's been. This, this stupidity - )

[a_fell]

"If it had worked, I'd do it--" he begins fervently, then stops.

"No," he continues in a much smaller voice. "If it had worked, and you'd been warm and relaxed for one season, I'd have counted it a success and found a different way next year. Honestly, my dear, I can't be away from you like that again."

[aj_crawley]

"That's your reasoning? Me?"

The irony is so bitter he can almost taste it, sharp and acrid on his tongue.

He has - he has felt Aziraphael's absence along the insides of his arms; felt it in narrow welts of longing across his back, the places where Aziraphael would curl his arm tighter and pull Crowley closer, on those mornings when they were all that existed in the world, together.

"That's your reason for not wanting to do it again?"

This is it. This is what he wanted, and he's never wanted it less.

[a_fell]

"No," he replies. It's said simply, and without hesitation. "It's part of it, of course, but that sort of deception

[aj_crawley]

And there: something easing in his chest, thawing out a little of the numb horror of Aziraphael's revelation. The relief is -

It comes in little pieces; the only shred of self-preservation Crowley's got left. He feels lightheaded.

"Okay," he says, and thinks stupidly: I need to sit down.

(It's all he can process. One thing at a time.)

[a_fell]

His hands are in his lap again (when did that happen?) but he's still hunched forward a little.

He doesn't feel better, as he'd expected, after his confession. Perhaps he does feel lighter, but it's counterbalanced - overbalanced - when he looks at the demon's face. He glances around to have somewhere else to land his gaze but the mugs scattered about contain only cold and half-forgotten apologies; they won't help him, though he wants something to do with his hands.

"Crowley, I." He shakes his head, waiting; it's entirely inadequate and the words won't come.

[aj_crawley]

There's so much. How Aziraphael could have thought he'd want this, that he'd want anything like; how Aziraphael could have done it without asking him; how Aziraphael could have done this to him for a year. For a whole year.

This time, it's Crowley who digs his hands into his hair; they fist for a moment, frighteningly stark, then drag streaks of dust through the black as Crowley laces his fingers behind his head.

There's an obstruction in his throat. Crowley wouldn't be surprised if it was dust, filling him up. One breath gets past, thick and heavy.

It might be relief.

(One thing at a time.)