Who Among You
Title: Who Among You
Pairings: dub-con!Crowley/Morpheus, Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG
A/N: Sandman crossover fanfic, mainly based off of when Morpheus (King of Dreams, Prince of Stories, etc.) goes down to Hell to visit Lucifer and he says something along the lines of 'What power would you have in Hell if souls could not dream of Heaven?'. I meant to post this a long time ago but never got around to it.
Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, Morpheus and The Dreaming are sole property of Neil Gaiman.
Warnings: Wordy crack!fic. I'm not very good at crack!fic, unfortunately.
Crowley didn't used to dream. He used to fall asleep for decades and wake up with nothing more than a mild headache and a need to feed some ducks. He'd call Aziraphale and the two would do the Ritz, where Crowley would make suggestive comments about Oscar Wilde until both were too drunk to care. That was how sleep for Crowley went, like a holiday only with dust the whole way through, and no Aziraphale.
}:-|
Late one night, he dreams. The Host flies overhead in a sky of robin's egg blue, and the avenues of the City shine with the glory of God. His reflection on the stones catches his eye, and he pauses at the sight of green eyes, soft tousled dark hair and pure white robes beneath pure white wings. It's more than he ever dared to hope. It makes him angry, to be standing here without an explanation.
"What's going on here?" he demands as he grabs the nearest angel.
"What do you mean, Crowley?" asks the angel with a smile, and Crowley knows what love feels like, for the first time in millennia. Crowley doubles over as if he's been punched in the gut, and as he blinks, he sees a dark figure out of the corner of his eye, lurking.
"Oh my dear, are you all right?" the angel asks again as Crowley turns, but the dark shadow is gone. The atmosphere shimmers with the chattering of angels and the cherubim practising their hosannas at the local amphitheatre, and it makes Crowley's head hurt. He knows this fellow can't help him, and he walks bitterly away, feeling like God has betrayed him a second time.
The pavement shatters beneath every angry step, revealing the interminable blackness of the Fall, and before he goes over the edge he thinks he sees a parchment-white face and black eyes older than anything he's known, gazing down at him.
Then the face speaks, and says, "Barcelona."
|-:0
When he woke up it was in a sweat, his wings spread out and sore. Hands scrambling for the phone, he called Aziraphale and demanded a trip to Spain, under the pretense of getting wine the 'honest' way. The angel was more than compliant.
They took their time across the peninsula, stopping by towns they once knew as a struggling collection of tents and storage pits. It was all so flattering, so sentimental, that the angel thought he even saw Crowley smile, once, without anger or bitterness, just relief and maybe happiness. Aziraphale wondered at Crowley's energy, staying up every single night to talk, never leaving his side, hardly ever blinking even without the help of alcohol.
Once they arrived in Barcelona, however, Crowley unexpectedly fell asleep in the back of their taxi, and Aziraphale couldn't wake him up.
}:-|
"Um...I'm here," Crowley says helplessly into the darkness, fear broiling in him, and before he's even begun to form the words a path rolls away from him, on which the most remarkable man appears. His robes hang on a body that is whiter than anything Crowley's seen. His eyes are dark the way night can sometimes seem eternal, and they have no whites. His hair...Aziraphale could does a better job, because it sticks out all over the place.
For some reason he's also one of the most alluringly beautiful men Crowley's ever seen, and he asks the obvious, though he knows already, "who are you?"
The young man hesitates, and Crowley realises, with a shock, that he's shy. Dream, Lord Morpheus, Shaper of Dreams, Prince of Stories, third of the Endless, is fumbling for words like a young schoolgirl.
"You know who I am," he says after a pause. He seems to have gotten his step back, and he walks a little closer to Crowley. A table appears beside them, with two chairs and some white wine. "Please, will you join me for dinner in my realm?"
It's good wine, the company is interesting and beautiful, and if it all goes terribly wrong he could just get dream-drunk. Crowley sits down just as a bow-legged waiter from someone else's dream comes and takes their orders. Morpheus looks so pleased with himself Crowley is almost worried for him. He knows what happens when someone is so innocently and blissfully happy--they Fall.
"Um," Crowley says, as Morpheus fails to volunteer anything other than an appraising look and an occasional chewing motion as they eat. "This is an honour," he ventures, because being impolite to the Shaper of Dreams can guarantee you some very bad nightmares, though Crowley would be willing to bet they're not as bad as Hell. Morpheus is known to have better imagination. "Very, uh, excellent wine. Good stuff."
"It comes from the Dreaming," says Morpheus, with that steady, infinite look. "You only need ask. I can offer you anything you desire."
Another shock hits Crowley when he realizes what all this has amounted to: Morpheus is courting him!
"Er, look," Crowley begins, but in his mind's eye he sees Morpheus' pride hurt, his dreams collapsing, and Crowley suddenly in a very bad place. "This is all very very flattering. All this attention from such a very important, er, individual like you. I never dreamed before you mentioned Barcelona."
"Yes. What does a demon dream of?" Morpheus says. "Unique as Hell's field agent, and yet you still dreamed of Heaven your first time. You dwell on your abandonment. You know what it's like to..." he pauses, shielding his eyes with his hand in an infinitely human gesture.
Crowley doesn't know what to say. He drinks his wine woodenly, hoping his hands aren't shaking.
"To lose someone you loved with all your being. You gave Him everything, and yet He rejected you," Morpheus finishes, looking at Crowley again. His hands are surprisingly strong as they take Crowley's, and the skin rubbing the back of Crowley's hand is silky and cool. It sends shivers down Crowley's spine to look into those eyes and feel those fingers touching him.
Though his throat is dry and he feels far away with the pain of remembering the Fall after so long, Crowley asks, "Why Barcelona?"
Morpheus considers this for a moment and releases him. "Wake."
|-:0
It's raining in Barcelona, the road slick with moisture as hundreds of people head to a late-night dinner. Nobody notices a demon and the Prince of Stories walking down the street. Not even Crowley, holding tightly to his hat, notices where they are going until he gets a distinct headache. Gaudi's enormous cathedral greets him, looming up against the darkened sky.
The drama of the building is not lost on him, nor the holiness resonating off the stone. He has to sit down, dizzy with allergies.
Morpheus joins him, and says, "You cannot enter a holy space, you are without His Presence, and you cannot feel His love for you. I know what that feels like, Crowley. I know you would not do that to someone you love."
Crowley looks up at him miserably, the first years of his Fall now fresh in his mind and just as painful as before. "I can give you everything you've ever longed for," comes the velvet whisper against Crowley's ear, and he nods. "I...am in love with you." When Morpheus leans down and kisses away the tears fresh against his cheeks, Crowley feels how gentle he is, those lips like fire burning his skin in the cool night rain. They, and he too, evaporate into dreams before he even thinks to say 'yes'.
* * *
"Crowley, please wake up!" Aziraphale urged for the tenth time. There was no going to the show now; the angel wasn't even sure Crowley was alive. Was it a stroke? A sudden heart attack? He circled the prone body on the bed, jostling it impatiently every so often, finally deciding that since it was warm and--now that he'd stopped shouting, snoring--he could only wait.
"This had better not be a joke, because..." he trailed off. "This was such a wonderful holiday. Where have you gone?" He felt lost, and very much alone.
And because he was Aziraphale, he took out a book, and sat down to wait.
}:-(
Time is irrelevant in The Dreaming, Crowley knows, though Morpheus sometimes lets night and day happen, even if night lasts twenty-three hours and day only six, and sometimes the stars turn into star-shaped light bulbs that burn each other out in desperate, pointless battles. The wine is always perfect not because he's miracled it as such, but because it's the perfect wine dreamed by the finest gourmands. He's got everything he could want.
He tells himself that he's happy, that he can feel the one thing he really missed about Heaven, that he's not lonely. But it's been two weeks now, Lucien the librarian-who-isn't-an-angel tells him, and Morpheus is no longer spending every second drowning Crowley in his words and his creations and his power. It's getting almost embarrassing to pass him in the hall and try to return his mooning smile after days of not seeing him. The other dreams who live here don't trust him, don't respect him, and don't fear him. It would probably be a bad idea to visit Eve or Cain or Abel. Mostly Crowley buries himself in the library, the musty smell of dreamed-of-books surrounding him.
It feels strange, being around books that do not make him weak and sneezy the way holy books of prophecy and neglected back rooms do. He goes looking for dust but only ever finds sand. He wonders why he likes the library so much, and why none of it is enough to fill a new, bigger hole inside him.
)-:0
The seventh book landed with a thunk on the stack. He had had enough. It was quite obvious what was going on now. With a sigh, Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves, lay down on the bed beside Crowley, and very angrily dreamed.
}:-o
It's a short walk up to the castle, because the Dream King is feeling like he's got everything he needs and would welcome any visitors. Aziraphale goes straight up to the guardians.
"Aziraphael, Principality of the Eastern Gate, desires an audience with your master," he says, noticing his words rising up in curlicues.
"My master welcomes you, Aziraphael, Son of Heaven, and bids you continue on the path into the throne room. He is not responsible for what happens should you stray," the wyvern says, and bows his head, as do the griffin and the hippogriff.
As he walks forth, he tries to ignore their whispered gossip.
"His feet touch the ground. I have never seen an angel whose feet touch the ground, save the ones called Duma and Remiel."
"What do you suppose it means?"
"It means nothing. He is Earth-bound."
"Shush, he might hear you."
Aziraphale keeps walking, his wings out and nervous, no longer quite so sure. It seems hours before he reaches the throne room. The anger that almost faded into fear flares up again when he sees Crowley sitting to the right of Lord Morpheus, deep into a book.
Aziraphale bites his tongue and intones in a voice he hasn't used for millennia, "Greetings, Lord."
The sound of the book slamming into the floor echoes loudly around the room, but Morpheus looks as poised as ever, watching Crowley run to greet him. Crowley's wearing a robe and Aziraphale wants to wrench it off him and stuff him in his suit and shake him and shout at him until he cries out. Here in the Dreaming, Aziraphale actually wants to hurt Crowley for hurting him. It makes him take a faltering step forward, wanting to apologize guiltily for something he hadn't done.
"You are welcome, Angel of the Eastern Gate," Morpheus replies courteously, and smiles. The power the Endless doesn't display is frightening.
"Angel, I--"
"Lord Shaper, I have come to collect my companion. He has been remiss in his...companionship duties, and abandoned me before this year's sole performance of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo."
"Your companion?" Morpheus asks, finally surprised. "I believed you were unengaged, Crowley. I had been confident." He looks faintly embarrassed.
"We've known each other for four thousand years" Aziraphale says huffily. He turns on Crowley, who's picked up his book and is wielding it like a shield. "And you. You look ridiculous, Crowley. When did you start reading for fun?"
"Nice to see you too, angel," Crowley says, hoping the sarcasm comes across. Crowley was never the fighting type, though he can be incredibly petulant. "I missed the bookshop, but there's a library here that would make even you weep. I meant to tell you--"
"Crowley, this is quite unseemly!" It amazes Crowley that even here, when they can be at their purest, Aziraphale can sound like the oldest of British school matrons. "A demon being kept by one of the Endless? Do you realize what you're doing here?" It finally occurs to him that the angel really truly is angry.
"I'm not being kept," Crowley hisses. "I've got something here I couldn't have before." But it's a lie, because even Morpheus is starting to notice Crowley's loneliness, his boredom, his discontent.
"Crowley, you can be so stupid," Aziraphale says, who seems to understand everything, and takes Crowley by the hand quite firmly. "I have always loved you, and you never get drunk with anyone but me. Come home right now."
"I don't need to be rescued! I'm not some--angel, stop it!" Absolutely bewildered by the angel's uncharacteristic actions, Crowley looks to Morpheus. "I can...go? No, er, nightmares for the rest of my existence or..."
Morpheus bows his head.
"We were both of us deceived," he says curtly. "I was not enough and you cannot give me what I want. You already have someone who is willing to risk my wrath to gain you back. You may go."
o-:0
"I didn't need to be ressscued," Crowley said on the flight back to Heathrow.
"Yes, dear," Aziraphale replied, pretending not to notice the hiss of relief. He filled in "dream" on his crossword puzzle.
"Don't think this means we're going to hold hands or anything either," the demon added, changing the airline safety manual pictures to show screaming cartoon people.
"Of course not."
"But...you know, we can, if uh, we want to. Right?"
"Yes, dear."
Their plane flies on, chasing a sunrise that never seems to end.
Pairings: dub-con!Crowley/Morpheus, Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG
A/N: Sandman crossover fanfic, mainly based off of when Morpheus (King of Dreams, Prince of Stories, etc.) goes down to Hell to visit Lucifer and he says something along the lines of 'What power would you have in Hell if souls could not dream of Heaven?'. I meant to post this a long time ago but never got around to it.
Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, Morpheus and The Dreaming are sole property of Neil Gaiman.
Warnings: Wordy crack!fic. I'm not very good at crack!fic, unfortunately.
Crowley didn't used to dream. He used to fall asleep for decades and wake up with nothing more than a mild headache and a need to feed some ducks. He'd call Aziraphale and the two would do the Ritz, where Crowley would make suggestive comments about Oscar Wilde until both were too drunk to care. That was how sleep for Crowley went, like a holiday only with dust the whole way through, and no Aziraphale.
}:-|
Late one night, he dreams. The Host flies overhead in a sky of robin's egg blue, and the avenues of the City shine with the glory of God. His reflection on the stones catches his eye, and he pauses at the sight of green eyes, soft tousled dark hair and pure white robes beneath pure white wings. It's more than he ever dared to hope. It makes him angry, to be standing here without an explanation.
"What's going on here?" he demands as he grabs the nearest angel.
"What do you mean, Crowley?" asks the angel with a smile, and Crowley knows what love feels like, for the first time in millennia. Crowley doubles over as if he's been punched in the gut, and as he blinks, he sees a dark figure out of the corner of his eye, lurking.
"Oh my dear, are you all right?" the angel asks again as Crowley turns, but the dark shadow is gone. The atmosphere shimmers with the chattering of angels and the cherubim practising their hosannas at the local amphitheatre, and it makes Crowley's head hurt. He knows this fellow can't help him, and he walks bitterly away, feeling like God has betrayed him a second time.
The pavement shatters beneath every angry step, revealing the interminable blackness of the Fall, and before he goes over the edge he thinks he sees a parchment-white face and black eyes older than anything he's known, gazing down at him.
Then the face speaks, and says, "Barcelona."
|-:0
When he woke up it was in a sweat, his wings spread out and sore. Hands scrambling for the phone, he called Aziraphale and demanded a trip to Spain, under the pretense of getting wine the 'honest' way. The angel was more than compliant.
They took their time across the peninsula, stopping by towns they once knew as a struggling collection of tents and storage pits. It was all so flattering, so sentimental, that the angel thought he even saw Crowley smile, once, without anger or bitterness, just relief and maybe happiness. Aziraphale wondered at Crowley's energy, staying up every single night to talk, never leaving his side, hardly ever blinking even without the help of alcohol.
Once they arrived in Barcelona, however, Crowley unexpectedly fell asleep in the back of their taxi, and Aziraphale couldn't wake him up.
}:-|
"Um...I'm here," Crowley says helplessly into the darkness, fear broiling in him, and before he's even begun to form the words a path rolls away from him, on which the most remarkable man appears. His robes hang on a body that is whiter than anything Crowley's seen. His eyes are dark the way night can sometimes seem eternal, and they have no whites. His hair...Aziraphale could does a better job, because it sticks out all over the place.
For some reason he's also one of the most alluringly beautiful men Crowley's ever seen, and he asks the obvious, though he knows already, "who are you?"
The young man hesitates, and Crowley realises, with a shock, that he's shy. Dream, Lord Morpheus, Shaper of Dreams, Prince of Stories, third of the Endless, is fumbling for words like a young schoolgirl.
"You know who I am," he says after a pause. He seems to have gotten his step back, and he walks a little closer to Crowley. A table appears beside them, with two chairs and some white wine. "Please, will you join me for dinner in my realm?"
It's good wine, the company is interesting and beautiful, and if it all goes terribly wrong he could just get dream-drunk. Crowley sits down just as a bow-legged waiter from someone else's dream comes and takes their orders. Morpheus looks so pleased with himself Crowley is almost worried for him. He knows what happens when someone is so innocently and blissfully happy--they Fall.
"Um," Crowley says, as Morpheus fails to volunteer anything other than an appraising look and an occasional chewing motion as they eat. "This is an honour," he ventures, because being impolite to the Shaper of Dreams can guarantee you some very bad nightmares, though Crowley would be willing to bet they're not as bad as Hell. Morpheus is known to have better imagination. "Very, uh, excellent wine. Good stuff."
"It comes from the Dreaming," says Morpheus, with that steady, infinite look. "You only need ask. I can offer you anything you desire."
Another shock hits Crowley when he realizes what all this has amounted to: Morpheus is courting him!
"Er, look," Crowley begins, but in his mind's eye he sees Morpheus' pride hurt, his dreams collapsing, and Crowley suddenly in a very bad place. "This is all very very flattering. All this attention from such a very important, er, individual like you. I never dreamed before you mentioned Barcelona."
"Yes. What does a demon dream of?" Morpheus says. "Unique as Hell's field agent, and yet you still dreamed of Heaven your first time. You dwell on your abandonment. You know what it's like to..." he pauses, shielding his eyes with his hand in an infinitely human gesture.
Crowley doesn't know what to say. He drinks his wine woodenly, hoping his hands aren't shaking.
"To lose someone you loved with all your being. You gave Him everything, and yet He rejected you," Morpheus finishes, looking at Crowley again. His hands are surprisingly strong as they take Crowley's, and the skin rubbing the back of Crowley's hand is silky and cool. It sends shivers down Crowley's spine to look into those eyes and feel those fingers touching him.
Though his throat is dry and he feels far away with the pain of remembering the Fall after so long, Crowley asks, "Why Barcelona?"
Morpheus considers this for a moment and releases him. "Wake."
|-:0
It's raining in Barcelona, the road slick with moisture as hundreds of people head to a late-night dinner. Nobody notices a demon and the Prince of Stories walking down the street. Not even Crowley, holding tightly to his hat, notices where they are going until he gets a distinct headache. Gaudi's enormous cathedral greets him, looming up against the darkened sky.
The drama of the building is not lost on him, nor the holiness resonating off the stone. He has to sit down, dizzy with allergies.
Morpheus joins him, and says, "You cannot enter a holy space, you are without His Presence, and you cannot feel His love for you. I know what that feels like, Crowley. I know you would not do that to someone you love."
Crowley looks up at him miserably, the first years of his Fall now fresh in his mind and just as painful as before. "I can give you everything you've ever longed for," comes the velvet whisper against Crowley's ear, and he nods. "I...am in love with you." When Morpheus leans down and kisses away the tears fresh against his cheeks, Crowley feels how gentle he is, those lips like fire burning his skin in the cool night rain. They, and he too, evaporate into dreams before he even thinks to say 'yes'.
* * *
"Crowley, please wake up!" Aziraphale urged for the tenth time. There was no going to the show now; the angel wasn't even sure Crowley was alive. Was it a stroke? A sudden heart attack? He circled the prone body on the bed, jostling it impatiently every so often, finally deciding that since it was warm and--now that he'd stopped shouting, snoring--he could only wait.
"This had better not be a joke, because..." he trailed off. "This was such a wonderful holiday. Where have you gone?" He felt lost, and very much alone.
And because he was Aziraphale, he took out a book, and sat down to wait.
}:-(
Time is irrelevant in The Dreaming, Crowley knows, though Morpheus sometimes lets night and day happen, even if night lasts twenty-three hours and day only six, and sometimes the stars turn into star-shaped light bulbs that burn each other out in desperate, pointless battles. The wine is always perfect not because he's miracled it as such, but because it's the perfect wine dreamed by the finest gourmands. He's got everything he could want.
He tells himself that he's happy, that he can feel the one thing he really missed about Heaven, that he's not lonely. But it's been two weeks now, Lucien the librarian-who-isn't-an-angel tells him, and Morpheus is no longer spending every second drowning Crowley in his words and his creations and his power. It's getting almost embarrassing to pass him in the hall and try to return his mooning smile after days of not seeing him. The other dreams who live here don't trust him, don't respect him, and don't fear him. It would probably be a bad idea to visit Eve or Cain or Abel. Mostly Crowley buries himself in the library, the musty smell of dreamed-of-books surrounding him.
It feels strange, being around books that do not make him weak and sneezy the way holy books of prophecy and neglected back rooms do. He goes looking for dust but only ever finds sand. He wonders why he likes the library so much, and why none of it is enough to fill a new, bigger hole inside him.
)-:0
The seventh book landed with a thunk on the stack. He had had enough. It was quite obvious what was going on now. With a sigh, Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves, lay down on the bed beside Crowley, and very angrily dreamed.
}:-o
It's a short walk up to the castle, because the Dream King is feeling like he's got everything he needs and would welcome any visitors. Aziraphale goes straight up to the guardians.
"Aziraphael, Principality of the Eastern Gate, desires an audience with your master," he says, noticing his words rising up in curlicues.
"My master welcomes you, Aziraphael, Son of Heaven, and bids you continue on the path into the throne room. He is not responsible for what happens should you stray," the wyvern says, and bows his head, as do the griffin and the hippogriff.
As he walks forth, he tries to ignore their whispered gossip.
"His feet touch the ground. I have never seen an angel whose feet touch the ground, save the ones called Duma and Remiel."
"What do you suppose it means?"
"It means nothing. He is Earth-bound."
"Shush, he might hear you."
Aziraphale keeps walking, his wings out and nervous, no longer quite so sure. It seems hours before he reaches the throne room. The anger that almost faded into fear flares up again when he sees Crowley sitting to the right of Lord Morpheus, deep into a book.
Aziraphale bites his tongue and intones in a voice he hasn't used for millennia, "Greetings, Lord."
The sound of the book slamming into the floor echoes loudly around the room, but Morpheus looks as poised as ever, watching Crowley run to greet him. Crowley's wearing a robe and Aziraphale wants to wrench it off him and stuff him in his suit and shake him and shout at him until he cries out. Here in the Dreaming, Aziraphale actually wants to hurt Crowley for hurting him. It makes him take a faltering step forward, wanting to apologize guiltily for something he hadn't done.
"You are welcome, Angel of the Eastern Gate," Morpheus replies courteously, and smiles. The power the Endless doesn't display is frightening.
"Angel, I--"
"Lord Shaper, I have come to collect my companion. He has been remiss in his...companionship duties, and abandoned me before this year's sole performance of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo."
"Your companion?" Morpheus asks, finally surprised. "I believed you were unengaged, Crowley. I had been confident." He looks faintly embarrassed.
"We've known each other for four thousand years" Aziraphale says huffily. He turns on Crowley, who's picked up his book and is wielding it like a shield. "And you. You look ridiculous, Crowley. When did you start reading for fun?"
"Nice to see you too, angel," Crowley says, hoping the sarcasm comes across. Crowley was never the fighting type, though he can be incredibly petulant. "I missed the bookshop, but there's a library here that would make even you weep. I meant to tell you--"
"Crowley, this is quite unseemly!" It amazes Crowley that even here, when they can be at their purest, Aziraphale can sound like the oldest of British school matrons. "A demon being kept by one of the Endless? Do you realize what you're doing here?" It finally occurs to him that the angel really truly is angry.
"I'm not being kept," Crowley hisses. "I've got something here I couldn't have before." But it's a lie, because even Morpheus is starting to notice Crowley's loneliness, his boredom, his discontent.
"Crowley, you can be so stupid," Aziraphale says, who seems to understand everything, and takes Crowley by the hand quite firmly. "I have always loved you, and you never get drunk with anyone but me. Come home right now."
"I don't need to be rescued! I'm not some--angel, stop it!" Absolutely bewildered by the angel's uncharacteristic actions, Crowley looks to Morpheus. "I can...go? No, er, nightmares for the rest of my existence or..."
Morpheus bows his head.
"We were both of us deceived," he says curtly. "I was not enough and you cannot give me what I want. You already have someone who is willing to risk my wrath to gain you back. You may go."
o-:0
"I didn't need to be ressscued," Crowley said on the flight back to Heathrow.
"Yes, dear," Aziraphale replied, pretending not to notice the hiss of relief. He filled in "dream" on his crossword puzzle.
"Don't think this means we're going to hold hands or anything either," the demon added, changing the airline safety manual pictures to show screaming cartoon people.
"Of course not."
"But...you know, we can, if uh, we want to. Right?"
"Yes, dear."
Their plane flies on, chasing a sunrise that never seems to end.