Happy Holidays, cactus_rabbit!
Title: Sea-change
Recipient: cactus_rabbit
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: G
Warnings: Implied sex with the dreaded fade to black (my apologies).
Wordcount c. 7400
Summary: Ezra Fell travels to the countryside to root through his late great-aunt's books. but finds something else entirely. Aka. In which Crowley is a selkie.
A.N.: Betaed by Miri who doesn't have a tumblr, without whom there would be a lot more unnecessary ellipses. Remaining mistakes are my own.
The London-Sussex Downs train stopped at the small station of High Naffhead and exited a single passenger, accompanied by two suitcases.
"I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep.
Of weary days I thought not to recall;
Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since;
Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas!
In dreaming, all their sunshine seem’d so sad,
as though the current of the dark To‐Be.
Had flow’d, prophetic, through the happy hours."
⁃ Amy Levi, from Xantippe (A Fragment.), 1881.
*
The London-Sussex Downs train stopped at the small station of High Naffhead and exited a single passenger, accompanied by two suitcases.
Ezra Fell cast a somewhat disgruntled look over the tiny village, most of which could be viewed from the station. He picked up his suitcases again and strode purposefully towards two older men who were leaning against the station wall and smoking.
"Excuse me," he said, and the two men turned towards him, having so far affected an aloof mien (though Ezra had noticed they'd been giving him side-eyed glances since he arrived).
"Afternoon," said one man eventually, drawing the word out slightly.
"Yes, good afternoon," Ezra replied, and then continued: "I was wondering if you could give me directions towards Hannah Fell's house?"
The men glanced at each other.
"Hannah Fell?" one said ponderingly. "She died, didn't she? Two weeks back?"
"Nearly three now," the other replied laconically. "Not that we ever saw much of Miss Fell here at High Naffhead. Think she preferred her solitude. More or less." he added, and there was another meaningful glance between the two.
"I know," Ezra replied, by now feeling rather annoyed by all the glances. "She was my great aunt."
The first man's eyebrows rose high, and then he nodded somberly at Ezra.
"Well, my condolences in that case. Here to sort out the house?"
"Something like that," Ezra replied. More accurately, he wanted a look at her books. That this required visiting the countryside was a regrettable necessity.
*
Several hours later, he was cursing the countryside anew, trying and failing to get a fire going in the open fireplace in his great-aunt's house.
To get there, he'd had to wait for a bus for two hours. When it arrived, it was a rattling old monstrosity from before the war, which left him nearly two miles from the house.
He had walked across the heath on narrow roads, hoping against hope the instructions he'd gotten were correct. He had been glared at by a flock of smelly sheep, his shoulders hurt from carrying his suitcases and his feet were thoroughly sore.
Sometime before he'd reached the house, he'd walked into a fog rising from the sea. It was cold and damp, like hovering rain. When he reached the coast, he couldn't even see the sea, only hear the lapping waves.
When he'd looked back from the doorway, all he'd seen was the narrow road going down the hill and disappearing into the fog. The rest of the world might have as well no longer existed.
Ezra sat back on his heels, glaring at the small pile of firewood that was utterly refusing any attempt to light it, and wished he was at home. Electricity was such a wonderful invention, and one he'd not previously appreciated sufficiently.
He glanced at the windows, noting the light, such as it was, was fading. So here he was, in the middle of nowhere, with no fire. All he had was a bloody oil lamp.
Ezra looked around himself, shivering. It was only early autumn, but the house felt deeply chilly. The single oil lamp he'd lighted showed dark wood panels and simple furniture. The sofa in the room was covered in a quilted throw, and crowded on one side by a giant house plant in a jar, miraculously still living.
Bookshelves covered most of the walls in the room, the books arranged in neat rows. Earlier, Ezra had been able to look them over briefly, before the damp chill had reminded him that lighting a fire might have priority. For all the good that had done, he thought with another glare at it.
He'd found a worn copy of Tseno Ureno from late 1700s, that seemed to have been passed down in the family. His aunt might want to have it, for sentimental reasons.
Otherwise, he hadn't yet found much of interest. Some of the collections of poetry in English might sell, he supposed. All in all, he wasn't sure the visit would be worth it, unless there was something else upstairs. He'd rather inspect that in the morning, when it was light and he didn't have to think about how Hannah had probably died in one of the two small rooms up there...
Ezra sat down on the sofa and wrapped his coat tighter around himself. His stomach growled, and he slumped in misery, thinking longingly of the mediocre lunch he'd eaten at the pub in the village. He'd managed to make some purchases at a small grocery store there, and there were cans in the larder, but none of it was much good to him without a fire.
He'd visited here only once before, during a school holiday with his parents.
Even back then he'd thought it strange great-aunt Hannah had exchanged her London apartment for this cottage in the middle of nowhere. They'd been taking a walk along the coast when he'd asked her, and she'd just smiled crookedly and said something about the view.
Mostly Ezra was thinking how far he was from home, and how far from the nearest human being. Not that he was a particularly social person, but it was one thing to choose to avoid meeting people because he didn't find most of them particularly interesting, and another to know there were no people to avoid.
He could die out here and no one would even notice. Suddenly, he wondered how anyone had noticed great-aunt Hannah had passed, anyway, and glanced with new dread at the room around him.
Had she lain there long? But no, his brother had said the message they'd gotten had said she'd passed away only the day before. Apparently whoever had sent it had made the arrangements to have the body sent to London for burial and everything as well. Michael had been complaining about it, because he'd felt that should have been left to the family. Ezra couldn't see the harm, personally, but then he'd always been more laid back.
He jumped as someone knocked on the door. Who would that be here, at this time? Ezra stared at the door, terror crawling up his spine. What if it was a robber? A crazed murderer?
Then he shook himself. What robber would bother to come to this house, especially now someone was there? When they might have taken what little was there any time they wanted during the months the house stood empty? He looked around himself for something to use as a weapon, and spotted a well used walking cane in the umbrella holder by the door.
But how would that look, him opening to the door to an enquiring neighbour with a cane held up like a club? Before he had time to decide, he heard the sound of a key in the lock outside, and then the door was pushed in, the wood catching briefly on the frame.
The young man in the doorway froze as he saw Ezra. They stared at each other for a drawn out moment.
"Oh. Hello. You must be the grand nephew?" the man said. He had dark hair, Ezra noted, and looked a few years younger than he was, perhaps. His clothes seemed rather fancy for a rural type, though even Ezra could see they were a bit old fashioned.
"And who are you?" Ezra asked, perhaps too abruptly, as the man drew back slightly.
"Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, but people call me Crowley, usually." the man replied, and grinned at him roguishly. After a pause, he added, slightly defensively. "She gave me a key. Hannah, that is. And, ah, told me to see that you would get settled in well. If you are staying, that is."
"I see," Ezra replied slowly, still puzzled as to the man's presence. "I suppose I rather must, at least for the night," he replied to the last question.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Crowley shifted in place, clearing his throat before continuing.
"I live nearby." he said, making a vague gesture towards the scenery behind him. "Well, a bit from here really, but relatively nearby. Out here. Met Hannah years ago, when I was younger. Been coming over since then." He smiled winningly at Ezra again.
"Ah," Ezra replied, nonplussed and slightly suspicious. Still, one had to be polite, he supposed.
"Ezra Fell," he said, getting up to shake Crowley's hand.
Crowley nodded, and then peered behind him, his gaze alighting on the unlit fireplace and the spent matches littering the floor in front of it.
"Did you need help with the fireplace or something? It can be a bit tricky to light," he asked nonchalantly, eyebrows raised at Ezra.
"I noticed," Ezra replied, slightly irked. But it was cold. "Would you mind having a try?" he asked reluctantly, and the other man grinned suddenly.
"Certainly! Let me show you how it's done!"
He bustled in, and spent a moment fiddling with the firewood, stacking first smaller pieces of wood and then bigger logs into a vaguely conical formation, and then pulling some newspaper clipping and wood flints from a smaller basket Ezra hadn't even noticed.
In less than a minute, Crowley had the fire started. The flames consumed the smaller pieces of wood rapidly, but by then the larger ones were starting to catch as well.
"Like so," he said with a small flourish, sounding pleased with himself. As he looked up at Ezra, the firelight reflected on his eyes, making them look almost orange.
"Hmph. Well, thank you," Ezra said. Then his stomach growled, loud in the quiet. "Been a while since lunch," he muttered, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment.
Crowley tilted his head, nodding absently.
"I can make scones on a pan," he said slowly.
"Oh no, wouldn't want to trouble you!" Ezra protested, but it was half-hearted even to his own ears. He barely cooked, himself, and the results seldom came out edible.
"It's no trouble, I'll eat half of it anyway," Crowley replied blithely. Then he glanced at Ezra from the corner of one eye. "You wouldn't happen to have butter, would you?"
"I brought some with me?" he replied, and watched as the other man suddenly grinned.
"Good."
*
Crowley's scones were flat and crumbly and resembled a biscuit more than any scone Ezra was familiar with. However, they were rich and filling, with generous amount of butter both in the dough and on the finished pieces.
Ezra sat in an armchair near the fire, while Crowley perched on a kitchen stool. Currently, he'd finished his last piece of scone and was licking his fingers clean of melted butter. He gave a last lick to his thumb, and then gave Ezra a faintly quizzical look.
It was only then he realised he had been staring, and turned away hastily towards the fire.
"Ah, I was wondering," he began, halting as he tried to come up with something to ask. "How did you meet great-aunt Hannah, anyway?"
"Got into an accident when I was a child, hurt my legs, while out on the beach. Might have died out there if she hadn't come across me," he said, more cheerfully than the story warranted. "So I suppose I owed her, to do anything I could to help. Especially lately, when she was ill," he grew somber at the last part, staring pensively at the fire.
"I see. Was it you who did all the arrangements?" Ezra asked, frowning.
Crowley nodded. "There wasn't anyone else to," he said simply, and Ezra bristled.
"One of us would have come over, if we'd known," he protested on his family's behalf.
"She said she didn't want that," Crowley replied quietly, his tone unreadable. "Said she'd already said all she needed."
Ezra let his gaze fall, thinking about the letter he'd received, about a week prior he heard of Hannah's death. It hadn't seemed any different from the others. She'd written about summer on the moor, and the shifting sea. She had asked him to visit, before, but not in the last letter. He supposed she'd known he wouldn't come, anyway.
She'd visited the city occasionally, though not in the last few years.
"It'll be quiet up here, now," Crowley said, waking Ezra from his thoughts. He was staring into the fire, and seemed to have spoken to himself more than anything else, so Ezra didn't reply.
Wind howled outside, and the fire jumped and sparked as a log fell in on itself, casting moving shadows on the walls.
*
He dreamed of a storm, a great swirling darkness like the end of the world. Ropes and sails snapped and creaked above his head, and the wood beneath his feet was tilted and slippery with saltwater. He was shouting, but he couldn't hear his own voice over the din.
The ship tilted again, the floor escaping from under him, even as another wave swept over the ship. He lost his footing, felt something strike his back hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, and then he was falling, far far down, a shock of cold as he hit the black water below.
Quiet, suddenly, except for a distant roaring in his ears. He should swim, he thought distantly, but which way, exactly? He felt strangely calm, despite the burning in his lungs. Drowning was supposed to be easy, wasn't it?
If only it wasn't so cold down here...
He closed his eyes, useless as they were, and right then there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking it.
"Hey, wake up!"
Ezra opened his eyes, blinking. He was on the sofa, where he had settled for the night. Crowley was sitting on the edge of it, peering at him in the low firelight, one hand still on his shoulder. His eyes were wide, for a moment, looking alarmed, and then his expression became sheepish.
"You slept so still, I wasn't sure-- ach," he said, finishing in a frustrated noise, and then shivering, rubbing at his shoulders.
"Fire had gone out too, I woke up to the cold," he said, sounding petulant.
Ezra was feeling sleepy, the details of the dream already growing fuzzy in his mind. "We can share," he muttered. "As long as you don't kick," he added, faintly recalling sharing with his younger brother as a child.
There was a faintly startled silence, which was lost on Ezra, half-asleep as he was. There was a brief gust of cold air as the covers were lifted and Crowley crawled in under them. He wiggled around for a bit before settling down. The sofa should have really been too narrow for the two of them, but Crowley seemed to mold into the space available somehow, one arm thrown over Ezra's waist. Ezra was only faintly aware of any of it, falling back asleep almost immediately. He hadn't shared a bed in years, but it wasn't unpleasant, he thought distantly.
He dreamed of the sea again, but this time he was swimming through calm water, swift and easy. The water was clear and deep blue all around him, with bright bubbles rising towards the surface. Glittering shoals of fish scattered around him. It was like flying, free of constraints.
*
He woke up alone, unsure if he had only dreamed sharing the sofa. The fire had burned out again, and the air was cold and damp once more.
After actually managing to light the fire and a eating a simple breakfast, he explored the rooms upstairs. They hadn't been changed since his childhood. The tiny guest bedroom still contained a bed, a wardrobe and a small dresser. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper that clashed with the overcast and carpet. There was a stack of flowerpots in one corner, and some old magazines in piles under the bed. Nothing of interest.
The main bedroom was only slightly larger. Ezra looked around, and supposed it would have been pleasant enough, if not for the layer of dust.
He frowned as he spotted a book left lying face down on the night table. He walked over to pick it up, absently smoothing a hand over the leather spine. The cover was worn smooth and the gild on the letters was mostly gone, but he could still make out "Xantippe and Other Verses, Amy Levy" by the embossing.
He opened the book. His scanning gaze found it was a first edition from 1881, and then he noticed the handwriting on the flyleaf.
"To dear sweet Hannah. For having listened to my ramblings, I have sent some more refined words from a person we both admire. I hope you will gain enjoyment out of reading them, and that we will have a chance to converse again soon. With love, Aliza."
Ezra blinked at the lines, and then slowly turned to the first page. He sat on the edge of the bed and read. The room was silent, dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight that shone in through the window.
Ezra only looked up as the door creaked and Crowley looked in.
"Do you like fish?" Crowley asked, "I caught some salmon."
"Oh," Ezra replied. "That sounds nice."
The salmon was roasted over the fire with herbs, and they ate it along with potatoes that were cooked in a pot over the small stove in the kitchen.
While Crowley was cooking, Ezra had snooped around and found a mostly full bottle of brandy. They sampled it after eating. Crowley sipped at the drink cautiously, making a face at the first sip, but seeming to enjoy it after a few more.
While they were sitting there, Ezra thought to ask whether Crowley was a fisherman. He shrugged in reply, with a slightly cagey look.
"Not really. I'm good at it, but it's more of a--."
"Hobby?" Ezra supplied, and Crowley smiled.
"Yes! A hobby." Crowley replied, nodding exaggeratedly. He took a too large gulp from his glass of brandy, and coughed, his cheeks growing red.
Ezra waited a moment, letting him settle down from his fluster, and then asked:
"So what do you actually do?"
Crowley gaped at him. Ezra couldn't help it, he began to laugh, and Crowley's expression turned even more disgruntled.
"What? What's so funny?" he asked, sounding nettled, and Ezra giggled a bit more before getting his laugh under control.
"Nothing, nothing! You don't have to tell me what you do, if it's some big secret. Though I probably wouldn't judge, anyway."
Crowley sighed and shook his head, muttering something Ezra didn't catch.
"What was that?" he asked good-naturedly, and Crowley glared at him with no great malice.
"I just said I see now why she gave you the house," he said.
"Hannah? How so?"
"You're both equally annoying!" Crowley snapped, which prompted Ezra into another laughing fit.
"Well, I don't just annoy anyone, you know," he said, not really thinking about it. It was only once he'd said it that he registered it had come out rather... flirty.
But surely not enough to notice, unless. Unless one was looking for it? He glanced at Crowley from the corner of his eye, and found him giving him a similar gauging look. They both turned away, and Ezra cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up slightly.
Had he noticed, then? Ezra's hands shook slightly, and he peered down at his empty glass. How many had he had already? Not enough, that was what.
He took another thoughtful glance at Crowley, who was staring at the fire. He didn't seem upset, at least, or angry. Might have been a bit flushed, but that could also have been the fire.
He had a nice profile, Ezra thought. Bit sharp, but nicely proportioned. And they eyes were striking, in their oddness. But all that wouldn't usually matter. He might notice, but that would be it. But for some reason he felt oddly comfortable, here in this ancient house with someone who was essentially a stranger.
That was unlike him, Ezra thought, frowning at his still empty glass.
"Give me another, will you?" he said, handing it over to Crowley who scoffed at him but did fill the glass.
"I suppose you don't just let anyone climb into your bed either?" Crowley asked, the words too slow and measured to really be flirty, but Ezra choked on his drink anyway.
"Oy," he said accusingly. "I was half asleep!"
Crowley snickered, but he didn't turn away from the fire.
Ezra tsked, but didn't say anything more. There was a tension in the air, a wait for one of them to do something. But it had been a such a long time, and after all, Ezra didn't know him very well. So he simply sipped his drink and waited for the silence grow comfortable again.
Eventually, the tension bled out of Crowley's shoulders, and he sat back, sighing. Ezra wasn't even sure if it was relief or disappointment.
*
Crowley kept turning up, day after day. Sometimes it was with things to eat. Sometimes it was just a vague explanation that he was nearby, or needed to water the plants. He knew where everything was in the house, and often Ezra felt like he was the true guest there.
It turned out Crowley liked literature, though not reading as such. One night, he saw Ezra reading a novel he had brought with him, and interrupted with questions about the book until Ezra countered with an offer to lend it to him later.
At that, Crowley hemmed and hawwed until Ezra got out of him that he was a "slow" reader.
"I read to Hannah, when she was too tired near the end, but it was mostly things I already knew by heart," he said.
Ezra was quiet for a moment, before asking if he'd want to listen.
"Oh. I wouldn't mind," Crowley replied with a shrug, but there was a light in his eyes beneath the affected neutrality. Ezra hid a smile behind his book, before starting to read it aloud at the beginning.
Another day, when even Ezra was starting to feel cooped up in the house, he suggested they go for a walk.
It was a grey day, cloudy. Most days seemed to be, at least this time of the year. He looked towards the sky suspiciously. Crowley chuckled a little and assured him it wouldn't rain. Ezra took an umbrella with him, anyway.
Crowley led him over the heath, to a place where there was a path down to the shore. The tide was low, so the sand stretched far ahead, wet and patterned by absent waves. A line of water lined rocks broke the monotony of the flat sand, like jagged teeth. In the distance, the sea was the same brushed metal grey as the sky.
Crowley had his hands in his pockets, walking along the line where the ground was dry enough to carry, poking at pieces of driftwood with his shoe. Ezra took care to stay a bit further away, not wanting his shoes ruined by the damp.
He was slightly regretting coming out here, or at least not wearing a warmer coat, when Crowley made a sudden noise and picked up something from the ground.
"What's that?" Ezra asked, wrinkling his nose as Crowley shook sand and mud off the small object.
"A ring," Crowley replied, brushing his thumb over the metal, squinting at it. "I think there's text on it."
"Show me?" Ezra asked, and Crowley handed the ring over. Ezra tried to make out the tiny text on the inside of the ring, but it had been worn too much. "No, I can't read it either," he had to admit.
Crowley smiled wryly.
"That's the sea for you," he said quietly, glancing towards the water. "It'll wash away everything, with time."
He seemed very distant, in that moment. As he turned to Ezra again, his eyes reminded him suddenly of amber, seeming somehow ancient.
Without thinking, Ezra closed the few steps between them. He laid a hand on Crowley's cheek, which felt cold from the wind, and leaned in to kiss him.
Crowley made a soft noise of surprise, and then answered the kiss. He wrapped an around Ezra, squeezing tightly as if he was worried he might drift away otherwise.
Eventually, they disengaged, Ezra feeling slightly out of breath. He surveyed the other man anxiously. Crowley looked slightly surprised, but not displeased.
As Ezra was looking at him, he smiled, slightly bashfully.
"Well, that-- I thought you might but I wasn't sure," he trailed off, reddening slightly.
Ezra put a hand on his arm, feeling slightly shaky himself, yet relieved.
"Always something of a risky business, this," he said lightly, and Crowley glanced at him, and then they both laughed.
"We should get going, the tide will return soon. Besides, it's nearing lunchtime," Crowley said, his eyes glittering.
"Fish again?" Ezra asked, and a complaint must have sneaked into his voice, as Crowley looked slightly insulted. "Not that I have anything against that. Oh, but if you ever come to London, we'll have to try the lamb at the Ritz, with these..."
Crowley nodded as he described the dish in detail, and went on to talk about his favourite desserts.
"It sounds nice," he said at some point, sounding slightly wistful. "Hannah talked about London too, but I suppose it must have changed a bit since her time?"
Ezra shrugged. "Well, there was the war," he remarked, and then shook his shoulders, not wanting to think about that. "But things are almost back to how they were. More or less. We're hoping the rationing will be gone soon. It seems about time!"
Crowley made an agreeing noise, but his focus seemed to have wandered somewhat.
Ezra wondered what he'd done during the war, but he wasn't going to ask.
Neither mentioned the kiss once they got back to the house. Instead, the evening progressed along the route that had already become familiar, with food and talk.
It was only when Crowley started to yawn often and blink his eyes slowly in the firelight and Ezra jokingly asked if it was past his bedtime, that they both seemed to simultaneously recall that intentions had been stated.
"Would you, ah, like to stay the night?" Ezra asked, and then felt slightly foolish. Like he hadn't stayed at the house every nights for all this time! "I mean, we could. Share the bed, again. If you want."
And with how awkwardly that had come out he might never have been with another man, Ezra thought, exasperated with himself for a moment.
Crowley seemed to hesitate a moment, and then nodded.
"It wasn't unpleasant, last time," he muttered, and then coughed. "Though I suppose the sofa was a bit narrow."
"Could always fix the guest bed upstairs. With two people it might not be so cold," Ezra said, and Crowley nodded.
Luckily, Crowley knew where there were fresh sheets. They made the bed with them, along with all the blankets they were able to find.
Ezra thought how strange it all seemed. Not at all like the dalliances he barely remembered from his youth. There was none of that fire and urgency here, or the eagerness to affect that, perhaps.
Instead, he felt at once comfortable and yet like he had to be careful. That there was something fragile here that might easily be broken by the wrong step. Which was foolish of him, perhaps.
Eventually, they lay in bed next to each other. The guest bed was only slightly less narrow than the sofa downstairs, so they were lying close. Ezra had left the lamp on the nightstand. By the light he could see Crowley's face, and the faint anxiety lurking there.
He brushed a hand over his chin, as he'd done on the beach, and Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
"Have you ever...?" Ezra asked, quietly in deference to the mood.
Crowley opened his eyes, his expression difficult to read.
"Not really," he replied slowly, and then frowned with a stubborn cast.
"But I'm not afraid, you know."
"Of course not," Ezra agreed softly, and then yawned. "I do feel rather tired, though," he said. "And there will be time, later."
He was glad of saying that at the flash of relief on Crowley's face, before he managed to hide it. He had such an open face, it was rather endearing, Ezra thought, as he leaned over to snuff out the lamp.
They shifted around until both were comfortable, Ezra with his arms around Crowley and chin nestled on his hair. Crowley shifted back a bit, sighing as his back was molded against Ezra.
"Soft," he mumbled, sleepily, sounding too pleased for Ezra to become affronted.
The room was cold, but they were warm under the covers. Ezra lay awake for a while, thinking about travel romances, and the supposedly ephemeral nature of such. That was what people said, wasn't it? Not that he had much experience, previously.
He tried to imagine Crowley walking into his bookshop in London. But then he'd just be a customer to deal with, wouldn't he? They wouldn't have sat in front of the fire and talked for several nights in a row, let alone have shared a bed just to sleep.
Forcibly, he pushed the thoughts away and focused on Crowley's breathing, already settled into sleep. Soon, his own began to mimic it, pulling him into dreams as well.
*
Crowley's eyes reflected the firelight with a fire of their own as he looked up at Ezra. He was breathing fast, almost gasping. His skin was pale against the dark, dappled fur he was laid on. It felt soft where Ezra's knees pressed into it, warmed by the fire.
Ezra was pinning him down, but Crowley was grinning at him anyway, looking smug. He wriggled, as if to free himself, and Ezra had to lean on him harder, make his grip almost bruising. Crowley hissed, but he was still smiling.
"I won't let you go," Ezra said, some part of him distantly startled by how possessive his voice was.
"Don't," Crowley told him, and his eyes were deep enough to drown in.
Ezra woke, suddenly enough to be disoriented by it. There were arms around him, stroking slowly at his back, so he waited for his body to regain movement.
"Good morning," Crowley muttered, stretching against him languidly. Sometime in the night, he had turned and curled around Ezra's front, one leg thrown over his and both arms around him.
"Morning," Ezra replied, slightly sheepishly.
He'd been somewhat affected by the dream, which Crowley couldn't have not noticed, as close as he was...
Crowley snickered, still sounding sleepy, and nuzzled his face against Ezra's. It made an audible rasping sound, as stubbled as they both were, and he laughed again.
"Something funny?" Ezra asked, but Crowley just smiled up at him and then kissed the tip of his nose.
"Nothing," he said, and curled the leg even tighter around Ezra's, in a flowing, sinuous movement. Then he sighed happily and seemed to fall asleep.
Ah well.
Ezra stroked his hair, and Crowley made a soft, sleepy sound. It was even colder that morning, and Ezra could see ice flowers formed on the small window. Luckily their combined body warmth under the heavy covers was enough to stay warm despite it.
*
Crowley had gone to do whatever he did when he wasn't at the house, and with lack of anything better to do, Ezra was exploring again.
He had an unpleasant feeling they were having an argument, or something like it. An argument without words, if that was possible. He'd only been talking about the bookstore, and whether his neigbour could be trusted to look after it. And then Crowley's listening silence had gone noticeably colder, and he'd muttered something about needing to go check some fish traps.
Ezra threw open a trunk in Hannah's room, frowning unseeingly at bunches of yellowed letters. He picked one up absently, fingering at the blue ribbon tied around the bunch.
He had... almost been saying he needed to go back to London soon, hadn't he? Even if he hadn't realised himself, at the time. It was true too, he'd already stayed longer than he'd planned, for reasons he'd refused to think about until now.
Because he'd been comfortable, even in this terrible cold house on the heath, he admitted to himself. But he couldn't live here, not like Hannah. Maybe he could visit, when it was warmer.
As he'd been lost in thought, his fingers had been stroking something soft. Now, he suddenly became aware of it and pulled his hand back, blinking down at the open trunk. Under the letters, there was... a folded coat of fur? No, not a coat, a pelt. The hair on it was short and sleek, lighter at the edges and almost black in the middle. Even without closer observation he recognised it as seal. He'd seen one with Hannah once, hadn't he, even if it had been from afar.
As he lifted the bundle, the tail end slithered away from his grasp, flopping on the floor. The fur there was marred by several long, narrow scars, like the animal had been caught somewhere. Perhaps that had been how it had died. It looked like a painful way to go.
Ezra looked at the bundle of fur, feeling strangely melancholy.
Just then, he heard the door creaking downstairs and Crowley calling for him. He cast the pelt aside on the bed and went to greet him.
Crowley, returned from the shore, was still quiet and distant. Ezra wasn't sure what to say to change it. He thought of the clothes he'd found in a cabinet in the living room earlier. Men's clothes, in a familiar size and style.
"If you'd like to continue looking after the house, I wouldn't mind," he said, evidently too abruptly, as Crowley's shoulders went stiff and his expression became even more closed.
"I don't know. I've been thinking of moving," he muttered, not meeting Ezra's gaze.
"Oh," he said. "That's a pity," Ezra replied, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Something had really gone wrong between them, too suddenly.
"Yes, well, I've been here for a while, feels like the time to move on," Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug.
Ezra frowned at the fire, frustration burning in his stomach. This was beyond foolish. He took a deep breath and gathered his courage.
"If you'd-"
"I-" Crowley began at the same moment, and they both halted, staring at each other awkwardly.
Then Crowley made a frustrated sound and got up suddenly, his hand striking the back of the plush chair Ezra was sitting on. He just looked at him for a moment, looking darkly determined, before kissing him.
This was unlike their previous kisses, harder and almost desperate. Ezra tried to pull back to say... something, because this had the feel of a distraction. But then Crowley's long fingers pushed under his vest and shirt, stroking at his bare skin, and Ezra forgot what he'd been about to say.
Crowley's lips turned up against his, and he whispered: "Let me." and Ezra didn't protest.
After, they fell asleep on the same chair, clothes in disarray if still mostly on. Crowley was curled up on Ezra's lap, his arms around his neck, like a human blanket.
Ezra decided they would talk more the next day. He would ask if Crowley wanted to move to London, tell him to stay with him for as long as it took him to find somewhere else. Or as long as he liked.
Perhaps it was too much too soon. But somehow he felt if he let him go now, they might never meet again. And that would be... not good. Sometimes you had to grasp things before it was too late.
Half asleep as he was, Ezra wrapped his arms tighter around the other man. Tomorrow.
Except he woke up cold, and alone.
*
Ezra told himself there was no reason to panic. Crowley had disappeared before, even if it was usually not in the middle of the night (very early morning, yes, but not this early). It was a thing he did. Ezra sat on the chair, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and staring into the fire.
The wind was practically howling outside, the occasional gust making it's way down the chimney and making the fire spark. It was raining too, he could hear the patter of it.
Crowley hated the cold, and rain. Ezra did too.
He cursed internally and got up to get his coat and raincoat, before venturing into the storm outside.
For lack of better ideas, he followed the path they had taken on their walk before, even though he could barely find it in the dark. The climb down to the beach seemed much steeper and perilous in the wet darkness, the storm lantern he'd picked up only lighting a small circle around him. The waves were loud, though he couldn't see them.
Ezra considered turning back several times. Crowley probably wasn't even here. He'd slip and drown and then where would they be? He cursed himself for a fool and kept going. He had a strange feeling he needed to.
"Crowley!" he shouted, but the sound of water and wind swallowed up the words.
Suddenly, the clouds parted, and moonlight streamed over the landscape. The the sea was right there, black and churning, waves crashing high up on the shore. Ezra found the line of stones, now only the biggest of them sticking out of the waves that crashed over them.
And then he saw Crowley.
He was standing knee deep in the water. He looked tiny against the stormy sea, and didn't even seem to notice the waves that rose as high as his waist. He was as still as the stones, looking out to the sea, with something dark wrapped around his shoulders.
Without thinking of it, Ezra started to wade towards him, stumbling as a particularly big wave crashed against the shore and pulled at his feet on the way back. The ground was slippery and stones turned under him, but he struggled on.
"Crowley! What are you doing!" Ezra shouted, grasping his shoulders to turn him toward himself. Distantly, he registered that there was fur under his hands, and that Crowley was naked apart for that.
The moonlight was behind them, and left his face in shadow, and then even that light disappeared as the clouds moved to cover the moon again.
Crowley was still as if frozen in place for a moment, and then he tried to shrug out of the hold. In an attempt to hold on, Ezra lost his foothold. They both fell into the water, which immediately crashed over their heads.
Surprised, Ezra ended up inhaling the sea water, and flailed in a panic. He was going to drown, in knee deep water...! That was all he had time to think. Then there were strong arms pulling at him, trying to get a good hold despite his flailing.
"Stop fighting!" a voice shouted over the din of the waves, as his head was finally above the water, and Ezra coughed, hardly aware of anything else but the burn in his throat and lungs as he was dragged up further.
He came back to full awareness slumped on the bank, shivering violently. Crowley was holding him and rubbing at his side firmly. Ezra slumped against him, wondering if he was going into shock.
"W-what--" his teeth clattered to hard to get the words out. "What were you..."
"Shhh," Crowley told him.
The sudden fury Ezra felt was almost enough to warm him up.
"Don't hush me!" he snapped, even though it came out slightly slurred, and sent him into a coughing fit. "Were you-- why?!"
"Don't," Crowley said, his voice sounding stricken in the dark, and it was only then Ezra realized he was crying, loud sobs born mostly out of confusion and anger.
Ezra struck him on the chest, weakly, and then slumped against him again, holding on as tightly as he could. Crowley held him back, one hand stroking at his head.
Eventually, he started to move to get up, pulling at Ezra's limp form.
"We have to get back, or you'll freeze to death," Crowley told him, and Ezra wanted to snap back that he was aware of that, and maybe add something about whose fault that was, but he was too cold and tired.
The walk back seemed eternal, and by the end Crowley was almost carrying him. Ezra was vaguely aware of being stripped and put to bed before everything went dark.
He had confused dreams about the war, of trying to find shelter as the air raid sirens screamed all around him, of running endlessly in a maze of streets lined in rubble. Of being stuck somewhere dark and close, unable to even lift his head, with water filling up the small space. He woke up still struggling, held down by something he was too weak and achy to lift.
"Ezra. Ezra!"
It took him a while to recognise the voice, or the weight holding him down as hands, rather than the rubble of a collapsed building. He still couldn't seem to breathe properly, and his throat was achy and swollen.
"Crowley," Ezra croaked, barely knowing his own voice. Everything was a blur without his glasses, and it wasn't helping the headache he already had, so Ezra closed his eyes. Crowley laid a hand on his forehead, and his fingers felt pleasantly cool.
"You're ill," he said, and Ezra smiled despite himself.
"You don't say," he managed to say, before getting a coughing fit.
"Shut up," Crowley muttered, the worry in his tone belying the words. "Just get some rest... I'll get some water. Or maybe tea with honey..."
As Ezra felt his weight lift of the bed, he frowned and opened his bleary eyes, shooting out a hand to grasp Crowley's.
"Don't go," he commanded.
"I'll just be going downstairs," Crowley replied, his voice softer than usual.
Ezra did his best to focus on him and look forbidding, though it probably didn't do much.
"You'd better," he threatened.
"Can't go too far when you're sick, can I?"
"You're not going, period," Ezra told him irritably, and Crowley sat down again suddenly. Ezra closed his eyes again, but didn't let go of his wrist. Not yet.
"Ok. But... we'll have to talk when you're better," Crowley told him quietly, sounding almost bashful.
"We certainly will," Ezra replied. His mouth tasted absolutely terrible, and was as dry as the dessert. "Now go get me something to drink."
"Will as soon as you let me go!" Crowley snapped, his turn to be irritable, and Ezra chuckled a bit as he did.
People had complained in the past that he was a terrible patient. If that was so, Crowley deserved it after that stunt he'd pulled, Ezra thought vindictively.
*
The fever took a couple of days to go down. At some point, when he was particularly feverish, Crowley sat by him, telling him a strange story, of people who could turn into seals.
"I didn't want to go. But I saw the skin, after all that time. I could hear the sea, and I thought of how lonely it'd been, after she died... but the sea is lonely too. And I don't want to forget, again."
Afterwards, Ezra wasn't entirely sure if it really happened or not.
On the third day, Ezra woke up feeling wrung out but much better than before. His voice wasn't quite back to normal, but swallowing no longer hurt.
Crowley seemed relieved, as much as he tried not to show it.
They were idling in bed, the day after that, when Ezra decided it was time for the talk he'd promised Crowley.
"You've been living here, haven't you?" he said, trying to keep it as neutral as possible. "Not that I mind. I'm just not sure why you didn't say anything to start with?"
Crowley shrugged, looking slightly sheepish.
"Wasn't sure how. Too used to keeping secrets, I suppose."
"Not necessarily a bad skill," Ezra replied generously. He thought for a while how to form the next question.
"Did you... have anywhere else to be?" he asked carefully.
Crowley glanced at him, seeming equally uncertain how to reply.
"Do you remember what I told you before?"
"About the... selkies?"
Crowley nodded, and seemed to watch his face for something. Then he pulled his feet from under the blanket. Ezra had noticed they were scarred, before, from the texture, but seeing them properly in daylight was new.
It looked like something thin had been tied around his ankles, tight and long enough to dig into the skin. He'd seen worse scarring, on veterans, but it still looked pretty bad.
Crowley wiggled his toes.
"Fishing line," he remarked laconically. "Glad I don't really remember the details, from the other form. Suppose it's like that the other way around too."
"Like I said, she found me, and looked after me until I was better."
"What about the pelt?" Ezra asked slowly. He couldn't really believe it, but Crowley seemed to think if he changed he'd no longer be himself. Somehow Ezra didn't feel like risking it either.
"I asked her to keep it out of sight," Crowley replied. "It was easier to stay, that way. I didn't plan to stay so long, at first. It just kind of happened," Crowley continued slowly. "Even after I got better, I mean. Not even so much because I felt I owed a debt, I suppose. I just-- got comfortable."
"Maybe it's something about this place," Ezra mumbled, and chuckled weakly. "Though... I don't think I can live here. Not like she did."
He glanced at Crowley, wary of his reaction, but he just smiled wryly.
"I figured," he said.
"You could come with me?" Ezra asked before he lost his nerve, and then reddened as Crowley stared at him. "I know it's rather sudden, but it's-- London, there's always space for one more person," he finished, feeling foolish.
He supposed he should be more concerned about Crowley either being a mythological creature or delusional. But then there were people who'd say he was sick, just for loving a man.
"I've only ever been to the town a few times. I don't think I really fit in," Crowley said, sounding distant.
Ezra clicked his tongue, suddenly irritated.
"That's a rural town! They don't think anyone fits in unless their family has lived off the land for generations! London isn't like that. It's full of strangers, so no one really cares what their neigbour is doing. I like it that way," Ezra finished, and caught Crowley smiling at him.
"What?" he asked, but Crowley just shook his head.
"Nothing," he said, and: "I'll think about it."
"If you mean no just say it," Ezra muttered.
"I would," Crowley replied, but Ezra wasn't sure whether to believe him. It was up to him anyway, he supposed.
*
When he did leave, Crowley walked him to the buss stop, and they sat together to wait for it.
Ezra felt like he should say something meaningful, but he couldn't think of anything.
That morning, he'd taken the pelt out of the chest, and held it for a long moment. Idly, he had considered taking it with him. And then he'd shaken his head and put it back.
As if. Better to be alone than have someone with you because they thought they had to be.
In the end, he didn't say anything in particular until the bus arrived. As it rattled away, he turned to look and saw Crowley, standing alone by the wayside, before the road turned around a hill and he disappeared from view.
High Naffhead seemed busy, after all the weeks at the house. As he sat down on his seat, waiting for the train to leave, Ezra felt as if he'd been gone much longer, and at the same time as if the time had flown by. Things seemed different. Or maybe he was.
He hadn't asked Crowley to come live with him again. Just that he'd be welcome if he ever came to London. He'd said he would keep that in mind, and Ezra had talked about perhaps coming to visit the next summer.
He wasn't sure he would ever see him again. But such was life, wasn't it?
Epilogue:
The bell rung, and Ezra frowned down at the book he'd been reading.
"Welcome, may I help you?" he said dourly, before actually looking up at the customer.
And stared at Crowley, who was looking around himself curiously.
"You have even more books than Hannah did..." he was saying, sounding almost awed.
"Well, I do sell them..." Ezra replied, and then. "You came? I mean, it's good. Good to see you."
Crowley grinned, stepping closer to lean on the counter.
"Good to see you too," he almost purred, and leaned over it to kiss him.
Ezra thought he should remind him they shouldn't do these things in public, lest they wanted to end up in trouble. He would. Later.
*
"Ah, Love, since then have passed away
Long years ; some things are chang’d on earth;
Men say that poet had his worth,
And twine for him the tardy bay.
What care I, so that hand in hand,
And heart in heart we pace the shore ?
My heart desireth nothing more,
We understand,-we understand."
- Amy Levi, from Ralph to Mary, 1881.
Recipient: cactus_rabbit
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: G
Warnings: Implied sex with the dreaded fade to black (my apologies).
Wordcount c. 7400
Summary: Ezra Fell travels to the countryside to root through his late great-aunt's books. but finds something else entirely. Aka. In which Crowley is a selkie.
A.N.: Betaed by Miri who doesn't have a tumblr, without whom there would be a lot more unnecessary ellipses. Remaining mistakes are my own.
The London-Sussex Downs train stopped at the small station of High Naffhead and exited a single passenger, accompanied by two suitcases.
"I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep.
Of weary days I thought not to recall;
Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since;
Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas!
In dreaming, all their sunshine seem’d so sad,
as though the current of the dark To‐Be.
Had flow’d, prophetic, through the happy hours."
⁃ Amy Levi, from Xantippe (A Fragment.), 1881.
*
The London-Sussex Downs train stopped at the small station of High Naffhead and exited a single passenger, accompanied by two suitcases.
Ezra Fell cast a somewhat disgruntled look over the tiny village, most of which could be viewed from the station. He picked up his suitcases again and strode purposefully towards two older men who were leaning against the station wall and smoking.
"Excuse me," he said, and the two men turned towards him, having so far affected an aloof mien (though Ezra had noticed they'd been giving him side-eyed glances since he arrived).
"Afternoon," said one man eventually, drawing the word out slightly.
"Yes, good afternoon," Ezra replied, and then continued: "I was wondering if you could give me directions towards Hannah Fell's house?"
The men glanced at each other.
"Hannah Fell?" one said ponderingly. "She died, didn't she? Two weeks back?"
"Nearly three now," the other replied laconically. "Not that we ever saw much of Miss Fell here at High Naffhead. Think she preferred her solitude. More or less." he added, and there was another meaningful glance between the two.
"I know," Ezra replied, by now feeling rather annoyed by all the glances. "She was my great aunt."
The first man's eyebrows rose high, and then he nodded somberly at Ezra.
"Well, my condolences in that case. Here to sort out the house?"
"Something like that," Ezra replied. More accurately, he wanted a look at her books. That this required visiting the countryside was a regrettable necessity.
*
Several hours later, he was cursing the countryside anew, trying and failing to get a fire going in the open fireplace in his great-aunt's house.
To get there, he'd had to wait for a bus for two hours. When it arrived, it was a rattling old monstrosity from before the war, which left him nearly two miles from the house.
He had walked across the heath on narrow roads, hoping against hope the instructions he'd gotten were correct. He had been glared at by a flock of smelly sheep, his shoulders hurt from carrying his suitcases and his feet were thoroughly sore.
Sometime before he'd reached the house, he'd walked into a fog rising from the sea. It was cold and damp, like hovering rain. When he reached the coast, he couldn't even see the sea, only hear the lapping waves.
When he'd looked back from the doorway, all he'd seen was the narrow road going down the hill and disappearing into the fog. The rest of the world might have as well no longer existed.
Ezra sat back on his heels, glaring at the small pile of firewood that was utterly refusing any attempt to light it, and wished he was at home. Electricity was such a wonderful invention, and one he'd not previously appreciated sufficiently.
He glanced at the windows, noting the light, such as it was, was fading. So here he was, in the middle of nowhere, with no fire. All he had was a bloody oil lamp.
Ezra looked around himself, shivering. It was only early autumn, but the house felt deeply chilly. The single oil lamp he'd lighted showed dark wood panels and simple furniture. The sofa in the room was covered in a quilted throw, and crowded on one side by a giant house plant in a jar, miraculously still living.
Bookshelves covered most of the walls in the room, the books arranged in neat rows. Earlier, Ezra had been able to look them over briefly, before the damp chill had reminded him that lighting a fire might have priority. For all the good that had done, he thought with another glare at it.
He'd found a worn copy of Tseno Ureno from late 1700s, that seemed to have been passed down in the family. His aunt might want to have it, for sentimental reasons.
Otherwise, he hadn't yet found much of interest. Some of the collections of poetry in English might sell, he supposed. All in all, he wasn't sure the visit would be worth it, unless there was something else upstairs. He'd rather inspect that in the morning, when it was light and he didn't have to think about how Hannah had probably died in one of the two small rooms up there...
Ezra sat down on the sofa and wrapped his coat tighter around himself. His stomach growled, and he slumped in misery, thinking longingly of the mediocre lunch he'd eaten at the pub in the village. He'd managed to make some purchases at a small grocery store there, and there were cans in the larder, but none of it was much good to him without a fire.
He'd visited here only once before, during a school holiday with his parents.
Even back then he'd thought it strange great-aunt Hannah had exchanged her London apartment for this cottage in the middle of nowhere. They'd been taking a walk along the coast when he'd asked her, and she'd just smiled crookedly and said something about the view.
Mostly Ezra was thinking how far he was from home, and how far from the nearest human being. Not that he was a particularly social person, but it was one thing to choose to avoid meeting people because he didn't find most of them particularly interesting, and another to know there were no people to avoid.
He could die out here and no one would even notice. Suddenly, he wondered how anyone had noticed great-aunt Hannah had passed, anyway, and glanced with new dread at the room around him.
Had she lain there long? But no, his brother had said the message they'd gotten had said she'd passed away only the day before. Apparently whoever had sent it had made the arrangements to have the body sent to London for burial and everything as well. Michael had been complaining about it, because he'd felt that should have been left to the family. Ezra couldn't see the harm, personally, but then he'd always been more laid back.
He jumped as someone knocked on the door. Who would that be here, at this time? Ezra stared at the door, terror crawling up his spine. What if it was a robber? A crazed murderer?
Then he shook himself. What robber would bother to come to this house, especially now someone was there? When they might have taken what little was there any time they wanted during the months the house stood empty? He looked around himself for something to use as a weapon, and spotted a well used walking cane in the umbrella holder by the door.
But how would that look, him opening to the door to an enquiring neighbour with a cane held up like a club? Before he had time to decide, he heard the sound of a key in the lock outside, and then the door was pushed in, the wood catching briefly on the frame.
The young man in the doorway froze as he saw Ezra. They stared at each other for a drawn out moment.
"Oh. Hello. You must be the grand nephew?" the man said. He had dark hair, Ezra noted, and looked a few years younger than he was, perhaps. His clothes seemed rather fancy for a rural type, though even Ezra could see they were a bit old fashioned.
"And who are you?" Ezra asked, perhaps too abruptly, as the man drew back slightly.
"Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, but people call me Crowley, usually." the man replied, and grinned at him roguishly. After a pause, he added, slightly defensively. "She gave me a key. Hannah, that is. And, ah, told me to see that you would get settled in well. If you are staying, that is."
"I see," Ezra replied slowly, still puzzled as to the man's presence. "I suppose I rather must, at least for the night," he replied to the last question.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Crowley shifted in place, clearing his throat before continuing.
"I live nearby." he said, making a vague gesture towards the scenery behind him. "Well, a bit from here really, but relatively nearby. Out here. Met Hannah years ago, when I was younger. Been coming over since then." He smiled winningly at Ezra again.
"Ah," Ezra replied, nonplussed and slightly suspicious. Still, one had to be polite, he supposed.
"Ezra Fell," he said, getting up to shake Crowley's hand.
Crowley nodded, and then peered behind him, his gaze alighting on the unlit fireplace and the spent matches littering the floor in front of it.
"Did you need help with the fireplace or something? It can be a bit tricky to light," he asked nonchalantly, eyebrows raised at Ezra.
"I noticed," Ezra replied, slightly irked. But it was cold. "Would you mind having a try?" he asked reluctantly, and the other man grinned suddenly.
"Certainly! Let me show you how it's done!"
He bustled in, and spent a moment fiddling with the firewood, stacking first smaller pieces of wood and then bigger logs into a vaguely conical formation, and then pulling some newspaper clipping and wood flints from a smaller basket Ezra hadn't even noticed.
In less than a minute, Crowley had the fire started. The flames consumed the smaller pieces of wood rapidly, but by then the larger ones were starting to catch as well.
"Like so," he said with a small flourish, sounding pleased with himself. As he looked up at Ezra, the firelight reflected on his eyes, making them look almost orange.
"Hmph. Well, thank you," Ezra said. Then his stomach growled, loud in the quiet. "Been a while since lunch," he muttered, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment.
Crowley tilted his head, nodding absently.
"I can make scones on a pan," he said slowly.
"Oh no, wouldn't want to trouble you!" Ezra protested, but it was half-hearted even to his own ears. He barely cooked, himself, and the results seldom came out edible.
"It's no trouble, I'll eat half of it anyway," Crowley replied blithely. Then he glanced at Ezra from the corner of one eye. "You wouldn't happen to have butter, would you?"
"I brought some with me?" he replied, and watched as the other man suddenly grinned.
"Good."
*
Crowley's scones were flat and crumbly and resembled a biscuit more than any scone Ezra was familiar with. However, they were rich and filling, with generous amount of butter both in the dough and on the finished pieces.
Ezra sat in an armchair near the fire, while Crowley perched on a kitchen stool. Currently, he'd finished his last piece of scone and was licking his fingers clean of melted butter. He gave a last lick to his thumb, and then gave Ezra a faintly quizzical look.
It was only then he realised he had been staring, and turned away hastily towards the fire.
"Ah, I was wondering," he began, halting as he tried to come up with something to ask. "How did you meet great-aunt Hannah, anyway?"
"Got into an accident when I was a child, hurt my legs, while out on the beach. Might have died out there if she hadn't come across me," he said, more cheerfully than the story warranted. "So I suppose I owed her, to do anything I could to help. Especially lately, when she was ill," he grew somber at the last part, staring pensively at the fire.
"I see. Was it you who did all the arrangements?" Ezra asked, frowning.
Crowley nodded. "There wasn't anyone else to," he said simply, and Ezra bristled.
"One of us would have come over, if we'd known," he protested on his family's behalf.
"She said she didn't want that," Crowley replied quietly, his tone unreadable. "Said she'd already said all she needed."
Ezra let his gaze fall, thinking about the letter he'd received, about a week prior he heard of Hannah's death. It hadn't seemed any different from the others. She'd written about summer on the moor, and the shifting sea. She had asked him to visit, before, but not in the last letter. He supposed she'd known he wouldn't come, anyway.
She'd visited the city occasionally, though not in the last few years.
"It'll be quiet up here, now," Crowley said, waking Ezra from his thoughts. He was staring into the fire, and seemed to have spoken to himself more than anything else, so Ezra didn't reply.
Wind howled outside, and the fire jumped and sparked as a log fell in on itself, casting moving shadows on the walls.
*
He dreamed of a storm, a great swirling darkness like the end of the world. Ropes and sails snapped and creaked above his head, and the wood beneath his feet was tilted and slippery with saltwater. He was shouting, but he couldn't hear his own voice over the din.
The ship tilted again, the floor escaping from under him, even as another wave swept over the ship. He lost his footing, felt something strike his back hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, and then he was falling, far far down, a shock of cold as he hit the black water below.
Quiet, suddenly, except for a distant roaring in his ears. He should swim, he thought distantly, but which way, exactly? He felt strangely calm, despite the burning in his lungs. Drowning was supposed to be easy, wasn't it?
If only it wasn't so cold down here...
He closed his eyes, useless as they were, and right then there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking it.
"Hey, wake up!"
Ezra opened his eyes, blinking. He was on the sofa, where he had settled for the night. Crowley was sitting on the edge of it, peering at him in the low firelight, one hand still on his shoulder. His eyes were wide, for a moment, looking alarmed, and then his expression became sheepish.
"You slept so still, I wasn't sure-- ach," he said, finishing in a frustrated noise, and then shivering, rubbing at his shoulders.
"Fire had gone out too, I woke up to the cold," he said, sounding petulant.
Ezra was feeling sleepy, the details of the dream already growing fuzzy in his mind. "We can share," he muttered. "As long as you don't kick," he added, faintly recalling sharing with his younger brother as a child.
There was a faintly startled silence, which was lost on Ezra, half-asleep as he was. There was a brief gust of cold air as the covers were lifted and Crowley crawled in under them. He wiggled around for a bit before settling down. The sofa should have really been too narrow for the two of them, but Crowley seemed to mold into the space available somehow, one arm thrown over Ezra's waist. Ezra was only faintly aware of any of it, falling back asleep almost immediately. He hadn't shared a bed in years, but it wasn't unpleasant, he thought distantly.
He dreamed of the sea again, but this time he was swimming through calm water, swift and easy. The water was clear and deep blue all around him, with bright bubbles rising towards the surface. Glittering shoals of fish scattered around him. It was like flying, free of constraints.
*
He woke up alone, unsure if he had only dreamed sharing the sofa. The fire had burned out again, and the air was cold and damp once more.
After actually managing to light the fire and a eating a simple breakfast, he explored the rooms upstairs. They hadn't been changed since his childhood. The tiny guest bedroom still contained a bed, a wardrobe and a small dresser. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper that clashed with the overcast and carpet. There was a stack of flowerpots in one corner, and some old magazines in piles under the bed. Nothing of interest.
The main bedroom was only slightly larger. Ezra looked around, and supposed it would have been pleasant enough, if not for the layer of dust.
He frowned as he spotted a book left lying face down on the night table. He walked over to pick it up, absently smoothing a hand over the leather spine. The cover was worn smooth and the gild on the letters was mostly gone, but he could still make out "Xantippe and Other Verses, Amy Levy" by the embossing.
He opened the book. His scanning gaze found it was a first edition from 1881, and then he noticed the handwriting on the flyleaf.
"To dear sweet Hannah. For having listened to my ramblings, I have sent some more refined words from a person we both admire. I hope you will gain enjoyment out of reading them, and that we will have a chance to converse again soon. With love, Aliza."
Ezra blinked at the lines, and then slowly turned to the first page. He sat on the edge of the bed and read. The room was silent, dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight that shone in through the window.
Ezra only looked up as the door creaked and Crowley looked in.
"Do you like fish?" Crowley asked, "I caught some salmon."
"Oh," Ezra replied. "That sounds nice."
The salmon was roasted over the fire with herbs, and they ate it along with potatoes that were cooked in a pot over the small stove in the kitchen.
While Crowley was cooking, Ezra had snooped around and found a mostly full bottle of brandy. They sampled it after eating. Crowley sipped at the drink cautiously, making a face at the first sip, but seeming to enjoy it after a few more.
While they were sitting there, Ezra thought to ask whether Crowley was a fisherman. He shrugged in reply, with a slightly cagey look.
"Not really. I'm good at it, but it's more of a--."
"Hobby?" Ezra supplied, and Crowley smiled.
"Yes! A hobby." Crowley replied, nodding exaggeratedly. He took a too large gulp from his glass of brandy, and coughed, his cheeks growing red.
Ezra waited a moment, letting him settle down from his fluster, and then asked:
"So what do you actually do?"
Crowley gaped at him. Ezra couldn't help it, he began to laugh, and Crowley's expression turned even more disgruntled.
"What? What's so funny?" he asked, sounding nettled, and Ezra giggled a bit more before getting his laugh under control.
"Nothing, nothing! You don't have to tell me what you do, if it's some big secret. Though I probably wouldn't judge, anyway."
Crowley sighed and shook his head, muttering something Ezra didn't catch.
"What was that?" he asked good-naturedly, and Crowley glared at him with no great malice.
"I just said I see now why she gave you the house," he said.
"Hannah? How so?"
"You're both equally annoying!" Crowley snapped, which prompted Ezra into another laughing fit.
"Well, I don't just annoy anyone, you know," he said, not really thinking about it. It was only once he'd said it that he registered it had come out rather... flirty.
But surely not enough to notice, unless. Unless one was looking for it? He glanced at Crowley from the corner of his eye, and found him giving him a similar gauging look. They both turned away, and Ezra cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up slightly.
Had he noticed, then? Ezra's hands shook slightly, and he peered down at his empty glass. How many had he had already? Not enough, that was what.
He took another thoughtful glance at Crowley, who was staring at the fire. He didn't seem upset, at least, or angry. Might have been a bit flushed, but that could also have been the fire.
He had a nice profile, Ezra thought. Bit sharp, but nicely proportioned. And they eyes were striking, in their oddness. But all that wouldn't usually matter. He might notice, but that would be it. But for some reason he felt oddly comfortable, here in this ancient house with someone who was essentially a stranger.
That was unlike him, Ezra thought, frowning at his still empty glass.
"Give me another, will you?" he said, handing it over to Crowley who scoffed at him but did fill the glass.
"I suppose you don't just let anyone climb into your bed either?" Crowley asked, the words too slow and measured to really be flirty, but Ezra choked on his drink anyway.
"Oy," he said accusingly. "I was half asleep!"
Crowley snickered, but he didn't turn away from the fire.
Ezra tsked, but didn't say anything more. There was a tension in the air, a wait for one of them to do something. But it had been a such a long time, and after all, Ezra didn't know him very well. So he simply sipped his drink and waited for the silence grow comfortable again.
Eventually, the tension bled out of Crowley's shoulders, and he sat back, sighing. Ezra wasn't even sure if it was relief or disappointment.
*
Crowley kept turning up, day after day. Sometimes it was with things to eat. Sometimes it was just a vague explanation that he was nearby, or needed to water the plants. He knew where everything was in the house, and often Ezra felt like he was the true guest there.
It turned out Crowley liked literature, though not reading as such. One night, he saw Ezra reading a novel he had brought with him, and interrupted with questions about the book until Ezra countered with an offer to lend it to him later.
At that, Crowley hemmed and hawwed until Ezra got out of him that he was a "slow" reader.
"I read to Hannah, when she was too tired near the end, but it was mostly things I already knew by heart," he said.
Ezra was quiet for a moment, before asking if he'd want to listen.
"Oh. I wouldn't mind," Crowley replied with a shrug, but there was a light in his eyes beneath the affected neutrality. Ezra hid a smile behind his book, before starting to read it aloud at the beginning.
Another day, when even Ezra was starting to feel cooped up in the house, he suggested they go for a walk.
It was a grey day, cloudy. Most days seemed to be, at least this time of the year. He looked towards the sky suspiciously. Crowley chuckled a little and assured him it wouldn't rain. Ezra took an umbrella with him, anyway.
Crowley led him over the heath, to a place where there was a path down to the shore. The tide was low, so the sand stretched far ahead, wet and patterned by absent waves. A line of water lined rocks broke the monotony of the flat sand, like jagged teeth. In the distance, the sea was the same brushed metal grey as the sky.
Crowley had his hands in his pockets, walking along the line where the ground was dry enough to carry, poking at pieces of driftwood with his shoe. Ezra took care to stay a bit further away, not wanting his shoes ruined by the damp.
He was slightly regretting coming out here, or at least not wearing a warmer coat, when Crowley made a sudden noise and picked up something from the ground.
"What's that?" Ezra asked, wrinkling his nose as Crowley shook sand and mud off the small object.
"A ring," Crowley replied, brushing his thumb over the metal, squinting at it. "I think there's text on it."
"Show me?" Ezra asked, and Crowley handed the ring over. Ezra tried to make out the tiny text on the inside of the ring, but it had been worn too much. "No, I can't read it either," he had to admit.
Crowley smiled wryly.
"That's the sea for you," he said quietly, glancing towards the water. "It'll wash away everything, with time."
He seemed very distant, in that moment. As he turned to Ezra again, his eyes reminded him suddenly of amber, seeming somehow ancient.
Without thinking, Ezra closed the few steps between them. He laid a hand on Crowley's cheek, which felt cold from the wind, and leaned in to kiss him.
Crowley made a soft noise of surprise, and then answered the kiss. He wrapped an around Ezra, squeezing tightly as if he was worried he might drift away otherwise.
Eventually, they disengaged, Ezra feeling slightly out of breath. He surveyed the other man anxiously. Crowley looked slightly surprised, but not displeased.
As Ezra was looking at him, he smiled, slightly bashfully.
"Well, that-- I thought you might but I wasn't sure," he trailed off, reddening slightly.
Ezra put a hand on his arm, feeling slightly shaky himself, yet relieved.
"Always something of a risky business, this," he said lightly, and Crowley glanced at him, and then they both laughed.
"We should get going, the tide will return soon. Besides, it's nearing lunchtime," Crowley said, his eyes glittering.
"Fish again?" Ezra asked, and a complaint must have sneaked into his voice, as Crowley looked slightly insulted. "Not that I have anything against that. Oh, but if you ever come to London, we'll have to try the lamb at the Ritz, with these..."
Crowley nodded as he described the dish in detail, and went on to talk about his favourite desserts.
"It sounds nice," he said at some point, sounding slightly wistful. "Hannah talked about London too, but I suppose it must have changed a bit since her time?"
Ezra shrugged. "Well, there was the war," he remarked, and then shook his shoulders, not wanting to think about that. "But things are almost back to how they were. More or less. We're hoping the rationing will be gone soon. It seems about time!"
Crowley made an agreeing noise, but his focus seemed to have wandered somewhat.
Ezra wondered what he'd done during the war, but he wasn't going to ask.
Neither mentioned the kiss once they got back to the house. Instead, the evening progressed along the route that had already become familiar, with food and talk.
It was only when Crowley started to yawn often and blink his eyes slowly in the firelight and Ezra jokingly asked if it was past his bedtime, that they both seemed to simultaneously recall that intentions had been stated.
"Would you, ah, like to stay the night?" Ezra asked, and then felt slightly foolish. Like he hadn't stayed at the house every nights for all this time! "I mean, we could. Share the bed, again. If you want."
And with how awkwardly that had come out he might never have been with another man, Ezra thought, exasperated with himself for a moment.
Crowley seemed to hesitate a moment, and then nodded.
"It wasn't unpleasant, last time," he muttered, and then coughed. "Though I suppose the sofa was a bit narrow."
"Could always fix the guest bed upstairs. With two people it might not be so cold," Ezra said, and Crowley nodded.
Luckily, Crowley knew where there were fresh sheets. They made the bed with them, along with all the blankets they were able to find.
Ezra thought how strange it all seemed. Not at all like the dalliances he barely remembered from his youth. There was none of that fire and urgency here, or the eagerness to affect that, perhaps.
Instead, he felt at once comfortable and yet like he had to be careful. That there was something fragile here that might easily be broken by the wrong step. Which was foolish of him, perhaps.
Eventually, they lay in bed next to each other. The guest bed was only slightly less narrow than the sofa downstairs, so they were lying close. Ezra had left the lamp on the nightstand. By the light he could see Crowley's face, and the faint anxiety lurking there.
He brushed a hand over his chin, as he'd done on the beach, and Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
"Have you ever...?" Ezra asked, quietly in deference to the mood.
Crowley opened his eyes, his expression difficult to read.
"Not really," he replied slowly, and then frowned with a stubborn cast.
"But I'm not afraid, you know."
"Of course not," Ezra agreed softly, and then yawned. "I do feel rather tired, though," he said. "And there will be time, later."
He was glad of saying that at the flash of relief on Crowley's face, before he managed to hide it. He had such an open face, it was rather endearing, Ezra thought, as he leaned over to snuff out the lamp.
They shifted around until both were comfortable, Ezra with his arms around Crowley and chin nestled on his hair. Crowley shifted back a bit, sighing as his back was molded against Ezra.
"Soft," he mumbled, sleepily, sounding too pleased for Ezra to become affronted.
The room was cold, but they were warm under the covers. Ezra lay awake for a while, thinking about travel romances, and the supposedly ephemeral nature of such. That was what people said, wasn't it? Not that he had much experience, previously.
He tried to imagine Crowley walking into his bookshop in London. But then he'd just be a customer to deal with, wouldn't he? They wouldn't have sat in front of the fire and talked for several nights in a row, let alone have shared a bed just to sleep.
Forcibly, he pushed the thoughts away and focused on Crowley's breathing, already settled into sleep. Soon, his own began to mimic it, pulling him into dreams as well.
*
Crowley's eyes reflected the firelight with a fire of their own as he looked up at Ezra. He was breathing fast, almost gasping. His skin was pale against the dark, dappled fur he was laid on. It felt soft where Ezra's knees pressed into it, warmed by the fire.
Ezra was pinning him down, but Crowley was grinning at him anyway, looking smug. He wriggled, as if to free himself, and Ezra had to lean on him harder, make his grip almost bruising. Crowley hissed, but he was still smiling.
"I won't let you go," Ezra said, some part of him distantly startled by how possessive his voice was.
"Don't," Crowley told him, and his eyes were deep enough to drown in.
Ezra woke, suddenly enough to be disoriented by it. There were arms around him, stroking slowly at his back, so he waited for his body to regain movement.
"Good morning," Crowley muttered, stretching against him languidly. Sometime in the night, he had turned and curled around Ezra's front, one leg thrown over his and both arms around him.
"Morning," Ezra replied, slightly sheepishly.
He'd been somewhat affected by the dream, which Crowley couldn't have not noticed, as close as he was...
Crowley snickered, still sounding sleepy, and nuzzled his face against Ezra's. It made an audible rasping sound, as stubbled as they both were, and he laughed again.
"Something funny?" Ezra asked, but Crowley just smiled up at him and then kissed the tip of his nose.
"Nothing," he said, and curled the leg even tighter around Ezra's, in a flowing, sinuous movement. Then he sighed happily and seemed to fall asleep.
Ah well.
Ezra stroked his hair, and Crowley made a soft, sleepy sound. It was even colder that morning, and Ezra could see ice flowers formed on the small window. Luckily their combined body warmth under the heavy covers was enough to stay warm despite it.
*
Crowley had gone to do whatever he did when he wasn't at the house, and with lack of anything better to do, Ezra was exploring again.
He had an unpleasant feeling they were having an argument, or something like it. An argument without words, if that was possible. He'd only been talking about the bookstore, and whether his neigbour could be trusted to look after it. And then Crowley's listening silence had gone noticeably colder, and he'd muttered something about needing to go check some fish traps.
Ezra threw open a trunk in Hannah's room, frowning unseeingly at bunches of yellowed letters. He picked one up absently, fingering at the blue ribbon tied around the bunch.
He had... almost been saying he needed to go back to London soon, hadn't he? Even if he hadn't realised himself, at the time. It was true too, he'd already stayed longer than he'd planned, for reasons he'd refused to think about until now.
Because he'd been comfortable, even in this terrible cold house on the heath, he admitted to himself. But he couldn't live here, not like Hannah. Maybe he could visit, when it was warmer.
As he'd been lost in thought, his fingers had been stroking something soft. Now, he suddenly became aware of it and pulled his hand back, blinking down at the open trunk. Under the letters, there was... a folded coat of fur? No, not a coat, a pelt. The hair on it was short and sleek, lighter at the edges and almost black in the middle. Even without closer observation he recognised it as seal. He'd seen one with Hannah once, hadn't he, even if it had been from afar.
As he lifted the bundle, the tail end slithered away from his grasp, flopping on the floor. The fur there was marred by several long, narrow scars, like the animal had been caught somewhere. Perhaps that had been how it had died. It looked like a painful way to go.
Ezra looked at the bundle of fur, feeling strangely melancholy.
Just then, he heard the door creaking downstairs and Crowley calling for him. He cast the pelt aside on the bed and went to greet him.
Crowley, returned from the shore, was still quiet and distant. Ezra wasn't sure what to say to change it. He thought of the clothes he'd found in a cabinet in the living room earlier. Men's clothes, in a familiar size and style.
"If you'd like to continue looking after the house, I wouldn't mind," he said, evidently too abruptly, as Crowley's shoulders went stiff and his expression became even more closed.
"I don't know. I've been thinking of moving," he muttered, not meeting Ezra's gaze.
"Oh," he said. "That's a pity," Ezra replied, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Something had really gone wrong between them, too suddenly.
"Yes, well, I've been here for a while, feels like the time to move on," Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug.
Ezra frowned at the fire, frustration burning in his stomach. This was beyond foolish. He took a deep breath and gathered his courage.
"If you'd-"
"I-" Crowley began at the same moment, and they both halted, staring at each other awkwardly.
Then Crowley made a frustrated sound and got up suddenly, his hand striking the back of the plush chair Ezra was sitting on. He just looked at him for a moment, looking darkly determined, before kissing him.
This was unlike their previous kisses, harder and almost desperate. Ezra tried to pull back to say... something, because this had the feel of a distraction. But then Crowley's long fingers pushed under his vest and shirt, stroking at his bare skin, and Ezra forgot what he'd been about to say.
Crowley's lips turned up against his, and he whispered: "Let me." and Ezra didn't protest.
After, they fell asleep on the same chair, clothes in disarray if still mostly on. Crowley was curled up on Ezra's lap, his arms around his neck, like a human blanket.
Ezra decided they would talk more the next day. He would ask if Crowley wanted to move to London, tell him to stay with him for as long as it took him to find somewhere else. Or as long as he liked.
Perhaps it was too much too soon. But somehow he felt if he let him go now, they might never meet again. And that would be... not good. Sometimes you had to grasp things before it was too late.
Half asleep as he was, Ezra wrapped his arms tighter around the other man. Tomorrow.
Except he woke up cold, and alone.
*
Ezra told himself there was no reason to panic. Crowley had disappeared before, even if it was usually not in the middle of the night (very early morning, yes, but not this early). It was a thing he did. Ezra sat on the chair, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and staring into the fire.
The wind was practically howling outside, the occasional gust making it's way down the chimney and making the fire spark. It was raining too, he could hear the patter of it.
Crowley hated the cold, and rain. Ezra did too.
He cursed internally and got up to get his coat and raincoat, before venturing into the storm outside.
For lack of better ideas, he followed the path they had taken on their walk before, even though he could barely find it in the dark. The climb down to the beach seemed much steeper and perilous in the wet darkness, the storm lantern he'd picked up only lighting a small circle around him. The waves were loud, though he couldn't see them.
Ezra considered turning back several times. Crowley probably wasn't even here. He'd slip and drown and then where would they be? He cursed himself for a fool and kept going. He had a strange feeling he needed to.
"Crowley!" he shouted, but the sound of water and wind swallowed up the words.
Suddenly, the clouds parted, and moonlight streamed over the landscape. The the sea was right there, black and churning, waves crashing high up on the shore. Ezra found the line of stones, now only the biggest of them sticking out of the waves that crashed over them.
And then he saw Crowley.
He was standing knee deep in the water. He looked tiny against the stormy sea, and didn't even seem to notice the waves that rose as high as his waist. He was as still as the stones, looking out to the sea, with something dark wrapped around his shoulders.
Without thinking of it, Ezra started to wade towards him, stumbling as a particularly big wave crashed against the shore and pulled at his feet on the way back. The ground was slippery and stones turned under him, but he struggled on.
"Crowley! What are you doing!" Ezra shouted, grasping his shoulders to turn him toward himself. Distantly, he registered that there was fur under his hands, and that Crowley was naked apart for that.
The moonlight was behind them, and left his face in shadow, and then even that light disappeared as the clouds moved to cover the moon again.
Crowley was still as if frozen in place for a moment, and then he tried to shrug out of the hold. In an attempt to hold on, Ezra lost his foothold. They both fell into the water, which immediately crashed over their heads.
Surprised, Ezra ended up inhaling the sea water, and flailed in a panic. He was going to drown, in knee deep water...! That was all he had time to think. Then there were strong arms pulling at him, trying to get a good hold despite his flailing.
"Stop fighting!" a voice shouted over the din of the waves, as his head was finally above the water, and Ezra coughed, hardly aware of anything else but the burn in his throat and lungs as he was dragged up further.
He came back to full awareness slumped on the bank, shivering violently. Crowley was holding him and rubbing at his side firmly. Ezra slumped against him, wondering if he was going into shock.
"W-what--" his teeth clattered to hard to get the words out. "What were you..."
"Shhh," Crowley told him.
The sudden fury Ezra felt was almost enough to warm him up.
"Don't hush me!" he snapped, even though it came out slightly slurred, and sent him into a coughing fit. "Were you-- why?!"
"Don't," Crowley said, his voice sounding stricken in the dark, and it was only then Ezra realized he was crying, loud sobs born mostly out of confusion and anger.
Ezra struck him on the chest, weakly, and then slumped against him again, holding on as tightly as he could. Crowley held him back, one hand stroking at his head.
Eventually, he started to move to get up, pulling at Ezra's limp form.
"We have to get back, or you'll freeze to death," Crowley told him, and Ezra wanted to snap back that he was aware of that, and maybe add something about whose fault that was, but he was too cold and tired.
The walk back seemed eternal, and by the end Crowley was almost carrying him. Ezra was vaguely aware of being stripped and put to bed before everything went dark.
He had confused dreams about the war, of trying to find shelter as the air raid sirens screamed all around him, of running endlessly in a maze of streets lined in rubble. Of being stuck somewhere dark and close, unable to even lift his head, with water filling up the small space. He woke up still struggling, held down by something he was too weak and achy to lift.
"Ezra. Ezra!"
It took him a while to recognise the voice, or the weight holding him down as hands, rather than the rubble of a collapsed building. He still couldn't seem to breathe properly, and his throat was achy and swollen.
"Crowley," Ezra croaked, barely knowing his own voice. Everything was a blur without his glasses, and it wasn't helping the headache he already had, so Ezra closed his eyes. Crowley laid a hand on his forehead, and his fingers felt pleasantly cool.
"You're ill," he said, and Ezra smiled despite himself.
"You don't say," he managed to say, before getting a coughing fit.
"Shut up," Crowley muttered, the worry in his tone belying the words. "Just get some rest... I'll get some water. Or maybe tea with honey..."
As Ezra felt his weight lift of the bed, he frowned and opened his bleary eyes, shooting out a hand to grasp Crowley's.
"Don't go," he commanded.
"I'll just be going downstairs," Crowley replied, his voice softer than usual.
Ezra did his best to focus on him and look forbidding, though it probably didn't do much.
"You'd better," he threatened.
"Can't go too far when you're sick, can I?"
"You're not going, period," Ezra told him irritably, and Crowley sat down again suddenly. Ezra closed his eyes again, but didn't let go of his wrist. Not yet.
"Ok. But... we'll have to talk when you're better," Crowley told him quietly, sounding almost bashful.
"We certainly will," Ezra replied. His mouth tasted absolutely terrible, and was as dry as the dessert. "Now go get me something to drink."
"Will as soon as you let me go!" Crowley snapped, his turn to be irritable, and Ezra chuckled a bit as he did.
People had complained in the past that he was a terrible patient. If that was so, Crowley deserved it after that stunt he'd pulled, Ezra thought vindictively.
*
The fever took a couple of days to go down. At some point, when he was particularly feverish, Crowley sat by him, telling him a strange story, of people who could turn into seals.
"I didn't want to go. But I saw the skin, after all that time. I could hear the sea, and I thought of how lonely it'd been, after she died... but the sea is lonely too. And I don't want to forget, again."
Afterwards, Ezra wasn't entirely sure if it really happened or not.
On the third day, Ezra woke up feeling wrung out but much better than before. His voice wasn't quite back to normal, but swallowing no longer hurt.
Crowley seemed relieved, as much as he tried not to show it.
They were idling in bed, the day after that, when Ezra decided it was time for the talk he'd promised Crowley.
"You've been living here, haven't you?" he said, trying to keep it as neutral as possible. "Not that I mind. I'm just not sure why you didn't say anything to start with?"
Crowley shrugged, looking slightly sheepish.
"Wasn't sure how. Too used to keeping secrets, I suppose."
"Not necessarily a bad skill," Ezra replied generously. He thought for a while how to form the next question.
"Did you... have anywhere else to be?" he asked carefully.
Crowley glanced at him, seeming equally uncertain how to reply.
"Do you remember what I told you before?"
"About the... selkies?"
Crowley nodded, and seemed to watch his face for something. Then he pulled his feet from under the blanket. Ezra had noticed they were scarred, before, from the texture, but seeing them properly in daylight was new.
It looked like something thin had been tied around his ankles, tight and long enough to dig into the skin. He'd seen worse scarring, on veterans, but it still looked pretty bad.
Crowley wiggled his toes.
"Fishing line," he remarked laconically. "Glad I don't really remember the details, from the other form. Suppose it's like that the other way around too."
"Like I said, she found me, and looked after me until I was better."
"What about the pelt?" Ezra asked slowly. He couldn't really believe it, but Crowley seemed to think if he changed he'd no longer be himself. Somehow Ezra didn't feel like risking it either.
"I asked her to keep it out of sight," Crowley replied. "It was easier to stay, that way. I didn't plan to stay so long, at first. It just kind of happened," Crowley continued slowly. "Even after I got better, I mean. Not even so much because I felt I owed a debt, I suppose. I just-- got comfortable."
"Maybe it's something about this place," Ezra mumbled, and chuckled weakly. "Though... I don't think I can live here. Not like she did."
He glanced at Crowley, wary of his reaction, but he just smiled wryly.
"I figured," he said.
"You could come with me?" Ezra asked before he lost his nerve, and then reddened as Crowley stared at him. "I know it's rather sudden, but it's-- London, there's always space for one more person," he finished, feeling foolish.
He supposed he should be more concerned about Crowley either being a mythological creature or delusional. But then there were people who'd say he was sick, just for loving a man.
"I've only ever been to the town a few times. I don't think I really fit in," Crowley said, sounding distant.
Ezra clicked his tongue, suddenly irritated.
"That's a rural town! They don't think anyone fits in unless their family has lived off the land for generations! London isn't like that. It's full of strangers, so no one really cares what their neigbour is doing. I like it that way," Ezra finished, and caught Crowley smiling at him.
"What?" he asked, but Crowley just shook his head.
"Nothing," he said, and: "I'll think about it."
"If you mean no just say it," Ezra muttered.
"I would," Crowley replied, but Ezra wasn't sure whether to believe him. It was up to him anyway, he supposed.
*
When he did leave, Crowley walked him to the buss stop, and they sat together to wait for it.
Ezra felt like he should say something meaningful, but he couldn't think of anything.
That morning, he'd taken the pelt out of the chest, and held it for a long moment. Idly, he had considered taking it with him. And then he'd shaken his head and put it back.
As if. Better to be alone than have someone with you because they thought they had to be.
In the end, he didn't say anything in particular until the bus arrived. As it rattled away, he turned to look and saw Crowley, standing alone by the wayside, before the road turned around a hill and he disappeared from view.
High Naffhead seemed busy, after all the weeks at the house. As he sat down on his seat, waiting for the train to leave, Ezra felt as if he'd been gone much longer, and at the same time as if the time had flown by. Things seemed different. Or maybe he was.
He hadn't asked Crowley to come live with him again. Just that he'd be welcome if he ever came to London. He'd said he would keep that in mind, and Ezra had talked about perhaps coming to visit the next summer.
He wasn't sure he would ever see him again. But such was life, wasn't it?
Epilogue:
The bell rung, and Ezra frowned down at the book he'd been reading.
"Welcome, may I help you?" he said dourly, before actually looking up at the customer.
And stared at Crowley, who was looking around himself curiously.
"You have even more books than Hannah did..." he was saying, sounding almost awed.
"Well, I do sell them..." Ezra replied, and then. "You came? I mean, it's good. Good to see you."
Crowley grinned, stepping closer to lean on the counter.
"Good to see you too," he almost purred, and leaned over it to kiss him.
Ezra thought he should remind him they shouldn't do these things in public, lest they wanted to end up in trouble. He would. Later.
*
"Ah, Love, since then have passed away
Long years ; some things are chang’d on earth;
Men say that poet had his worth,
And twine for him the tardy bay.
What care I, so that hand in hand,
And heart in heart we pace the shore ?
My heart desireth nothing more,
We understand,-we understand."
- Amy Levi, from Ralph to Mary, 1881.