Chapter Text
Chapter 9
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“L’appel Du Vide”
(The Call Of The Void)
🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌔🌓🌒🌑
There was no doubt at all that neither Shadwell nor Crowley were in a fit state to be administering first aid.
And yet..
“Aye, that'll do it!” Shadwell held an arm aloft, waggling the crudely bundled wad of cotton side-to-side. Somewhere, deep within the criss-crossing layers of cloth, there was a hand. “Not bad, not bad at all.. Never took you for a medical man!”
“I’m not.” Crowley replied, wrapping the remaining cloth bandage back up and laying it on the table. It was a miracle there was any left, really. “Don't blame me for that.. You did it yourself.”
The mood had taken a sharp turn as night had well and truly fallen, the reality of the situation finally setting in, and the rum swilling in his stomach wasn't helping, not anymore. The comforting swaddle of alcohol was supposed to numb these panicked feelings, not merrily exist alongside them.
Heart racing while his mind drifted along, each fearful thought sluggish and slow and yet still just as bloody scary.
Of course, he'd been lying when he said he'd had a plan, the tavern suggestion as much a surprise to Crowley as it was to Aziraphale, even as the words had fallen from his mouth.
Lying had always come so easily, the less thought he put into it, the better. Once the metaphorical wagon was in motion, once he'd given it a suggestive nudge, it would usually keep rolling along with little effort on his part. But a key thing about being a travelling trader, was that the lies had rarely ever managed to catch him up before now…
He never had to sit and watch what happened when the wheels inevitably fell off, and things started to go off-track.
That part was someone else's problem.
Well, not anymore.
Not this time.
He didn't know when exactly he'd realised it… Perhaps it was mere moments ago, as he'd tried and failed yet again to test Anathema's naive, nonsensical ‘cure’. Or maybe when he'd held Aziraphale against him, frantically fighting the man who seemed determined to bleed out right then and there on the kitchen floor of the goatherd's cabin. He well might have realized at some point throughout that awful night, when he'd checked in on him, and checked again, hovering his hand next to the Aziraphales mouth to be sure he was still breathing, jumping out of his skin whenever he stirred.
Or in their bothy, as the pair grew steadily more drunk, and less distant, coiled against one-another in the guise of some sordid game.
Or in the forest, that day by the riverside…
Fucking hell, who cares when it happened!?
Whenever it was, he had finally realised the truth. Aziraphale was his problem now.
“You alright, lad?”
Crowley blinked, realising he'd been staring into space. Shadwell was frowning towards him, eyes darting from the younger man's face to the hallway behind, peering over his shoulder as if to check for witnesses.
“So.. You're serious, eh? That wee pansy, he's really the beast? Cus, you know, at first I thought you might be pulling my leg.”
God, wouldn't that be nice. If this was all another made up story, some elaborate con?
“Damn, what gave it away?” Crowley replied with a sarcastic drawl and a smile. Then, shaking his head, he immediately dropped the theatrics. “...When’d you realise we weren't lying, huh?”
The furrowed brow furrowed further still, as Shadwell leaned in towards the other man, pointing towards him with his bundled up lump of a hand.
“Fear, lad. In the eyes.. Can't hide it, and can't fake it neither!”
Crowley's hand drifted towards his face, tracing the ghost of his dark spectacles
He'd forgotten he'd taken them off.
Hadn't wanted them to get in the way.
Not that it had made a lick of difference, the pair no closer to crossing that stubborn boundary than ever. It was a dumb idea for a cure anyway, nothing at all scientific about it, terribly trite and childish. But unlike the other (no more sensible) remedies, at least this one would have been fun. A convenient excuse for a little intimité physique, if nothing else. If only Crowley hadn't royally fumbled every opportunity thus far.
“Ah well, whats next then?” Shadwell slumped back in his chair, unwittingly snapping the man from his wistful thinking once again “What's yer plan, once the poor lad goes all ‘skeerie dug’ on us..?”
“He won't. He's not going to change, not in there.”
“Aye…. But if he does?”
Crowley groaned, scowling at the damn drunken fool through narrowed eyes.
And as Shadwell scowled right back, an uncomfortable realization washed over him.
L’Archer de la maréchaussée. A military man, in theory. No stranger to a fight, nor one to shy away from violence when it came down to it.
This inn was his domain, his home…
Tracy's home.
“What do you want, hm?” Crowley asked, lowering his voice, any trace of their new-found amiability fading fast. “Want me to say I'll shoot him? ‘Cause in case you've forgotten, I already bloody well did…
Don't think I won't do it again, if I have to”
There was a pause, a heavy moment of hesitation as Shadwell scoured the younger man's expression. Crowley held his nerve, resisting the urge to look away, desperately wishing he still had his glasses.
“Listen here, devil, if it's between my missus and either of you two… Well. You know who'll be.” The archer warned, glancing down the corridor once more. “I’ve still got a few good shots left in me–”
“-most of its whisky.” Crowley cut in, and Shadwell barked out a harsh laugh.. Before he suddenly lunged forward and grabbed ahold of the younger man's shirt, yanking him close with fury in his eyes.
“Nmgk!”
He thought for a second the drunkard might finally punch him. It was some miracle it hadn’t ever happened yet, the closest Crowley ever got to violence was the odd thrown projectile as he beat a hasty exit out of whichever province he’d last drained dry of good will and naivety. The smell of booze was overwhelming, as Shadwell glared daggers into the merchant, who was trying very hard not to look intimidated.
“You missed, lad. I won't.”
“..Right.”
Crowley couldn't bring himself to meet the man's bloodshot eyes, focusing on the wall just behind. The knots in the wood seemed to move, snaking in circles, his head spinning at the thought of how horribly wrong this could all go–
I should never have taken him here.
“Oh for goodness sake! What on earth is going on?!”
Shadwell immediately unhanded Crowley, like a dog dropping a stolen chicken bone, side-stepping into line as Tracy bustled down the hallway towards the pair.
“Oh, I can't leave you alone for two minutes without you harassing our guests!”
“He’s not a bloody guest–!”
“He is now. You alright dear?” Tracy descended on a dazed Crowley, stroking a hand down his arm. Without waiting for a response, she whipped her head back towards her partner. “You.. Can wind your bloody neck in. Can't you see the poor doves been through enough?”
Crowley sputtered out a noise of protest, batting Tracy's hand away. She didn't seem to notice, still focused on the man ahead, who was shrinking as she spoke, growing meeker with each clipped word.
“The lad deserves fair warning–”
“Oh, enough of this nonsense. I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one night. You and I, dear, are going to bed. We're going to sleep–”
She held up a silencing finger as Shadwell opened his mouth to argue.
“We’re going to sleep. And this nice young man here is going to settle right by the pantry… I've left you an armchair and a cosy wee throw, poppet.”
“Wha- Why'd you do that?! The daft bastard will only fall asleep himself!” Shadwell cut in, motioning to said daft bastard. Who, in fairness, was feeling very tired. “Nope, can't trust him. I should be the one keeping watch.”
“Alright.” Tracy snapped back, surprising the pair by agreeing. “In that case, I suppose young Crowley will just have to bunk in with me.”
“...Eh?!”
“Well I'm hardly spending the night alone dear! Not with a beast on the premises.”
Shadwell's eyes were bulging, realising he'd been backed into a corner, and Crowley couldn't help but grin. The older man's eyes darted between either red-head as if they'd somehow planned this, conspiring against him to some unknown end.
It couldn't be healthy, really, so much bewildered rage mixed with copious amounts of alcohol. If Aziraphale didn't kill him, the man might still drop dead regardless, exploding like a rum-filled grape and making an awful mess all over the hardwood floors..
A hand on his shoulder snapped Crowley out of that morbid fantasy, as Tracy turned him back towards her. He was vaguely aware of Shadwell stumbling off in the opposite direction, complaining loudly to himself in that incoherent, undeniably nostalgic, Scottish diatribe.
“Daft prick” Crowley mumbled to himself, watching the drunkard bump his way along the hallway walls. It was truly an uncanny impersonation of his father if he’d ever seen one, and he couldn't help but wonder if the two old gits had ever crossed paths over the years…
They'd have hated each other, no doubt about it.
“Did you hear what I just said, dear..?” Tracy asked, alerting Crowley to the fact she'd been saying anything at all. “Don't go throwing yourself down on that chair now”
“Right. Yeah.” Crowley had no idea what he'd missed, but it didn't sound terribly important.
It didn't directly involve Aziraphale, anyway.
“..And you know we'll be just down the corridor if you need anything at all…”
“Mhhm.”
“Feel free to join us, if you get a little chilly during the night. It's a big bed.”
Crowley nodded absentmindedly, before his face fell into a grimace, finally turning to face the woman properly. “...I'd rather be disemboweled.”
Tracy grinned.
“Just checking you were listening.”
“You're awful, you know.”
“So I've been told! Now, off you pop..” In that same, no nonsense manner, Tracy physically turned the man away, with such surprising strength that he had to laugh.
“You're tougher than you look–” he said with a chuckle. “Hardly think we need to worry about you at all, actually.”
With those hands still hovering on his shoulders, Crowley felt his smile start to slip away as he stared down the dark corridor towards the pantry.
It felt a bit like facing the gallows.
The pair paused, a moment of silence settling over them, doing nothing to help shake the feeling of impending doom. The grip on Crowley's shoulders tightened—
“He's a good man, you know… Your Aziraphale.”
-And It was a good thing they did, really, as those words flooded the man with an unsettling, overwhelming surge of something, threatening to knock him over at the knees. He nodded mutely, words lost somewhere in the muddle. The comforting hands disappeared, and something cold was pressed into Crowley's open palm.
“You'll be just fine, dearie.”
And with that, Tracy walked away, leaving him alone. For a moment, Crowley simply stood there, listening to her footsteps carrying off down the hall, fumbling with the object she’d handed over, eyes never straying from the cavernous hallway ahead.
Right. He's my problem.
The footsteps died off, the only sound left being the man's own drumming pulse, as his heart tried to escape through his ribcage, hammering fit to burst. The incessant pulling in his chest coaxed him forward, drawing Crowley down the foreboding corridor. He hadn't really realised he was walking, until he was standing right outside the door. Hands tightening into fists, he felt the cold, blunt edges of something metal digging into his palm.
It was a key.
“...Aziraphale?”
He wrapped a knuckle on the door, smiling at the startled exclamation from the other side as Aziraphale recoiled away, from where he'd evidently had his ear pressed flush against the door, attempting to eavesdrop.
“Oh–! Crowley?”
Who else would it be, you idiot?
Before he could think, before he could convince himself this whole thing was a stupid, dangerous, very bad idea, the key was in the lock, and the door was open.
**
Aziraphale barely had time to move back, the half-formed protest still stuck in his throat at the sound of a turning key, before the door was thrown wide. And there stood Crowley, as suspected, leaning a hand against the doorframe, offering the man a languid smile.
How are you so infuriatingly calm?
Perhaps Tracy had slipped him something between now and his hasty retreat from the pantry earlier.
It was nearly pitch black in there, and Crowley blinked as his vision adjusted, amber eyes seeming to glow in the dim light. Those same mesmerizing eyes trailed slowly from Aziraphale's face, down to his hands, and that wholly inappropriate smirk quickly slipped away.
It was as if he'd only just remembered what was actually going on, why they were even there in the first place, at the sight of the thick cord wrapped around the other man's wrists, binding his hands together.
“Uh.. Hi.” Crowley said, his voice flat, the bravado fading alongside the smile. “Just um… Thought I'd better check you were alright.”
Had his hands not been bound, Aziraphale would have shaken him.
“I'm fine, Crowley. Absolutely tickety-boo, so now, if you don't mind–”
He motioned to the door, lips pressed in a firm line. This wasn't the time for joking about.. Whatever time it was. It was late, surely gone midnight. The moon was already bright and full in the night sky, he knew that much despite the boarded-up window.
As hard as he was trying to ignore the awful sensation, he could feel it.
Every inch of him prickling with that same horrible, overbearing warmth, a sensation he'd mistaken before for something far more salacious. And it was an overwhelming urge, no doubt a desire of sorts..
But not quite the kind he was used to.
Although, as Crowley leaned that lithe body against the doorway, running a hand through his hair looking terribly sheepish… Aziraphale was finding it difficult to tell the difference.
“Crowley.” he prompted again, voice wrung out in exasperation “Lock the door.”
“Right! Uhm..” The man shifted from the doorframe, finally stirring from his blank stupor..
Before stepping forward into the room, and closing the door behind him.
Like an idiot.
“Crowley!”
He whipped his head back around, key already in hand. At least, Aziraphale assumed that's what it was, a little glint of silver barely visible in the dim light..
Or maybe it's a bullet.
With the door now closed, it really was ridiculously dark in there.
“You can't be in here.” Aziraphale clarified, wincing as his voice cracked, his body arguing with his more sensible mind, the fog making every attempt to silence him. “Please just.. Get out.”
What an odd byproduct of this whole horrible affliction. A mortifying, and wildly inconvenient side effect. Was it not enough to become some bloodthirsty entity against his will? Did he have to lose control of himself in every sense, before any such transformation had even taken place?
In hindsight.. It explained a whole lot.
“Look, I know, I'm not hanging about, but..” Crowley addressed his words to the door, still facing away. Through the faint slivers of light from the boarded up window, Aziraphale could see his hand tracing the handle, as if toying with the idea of listening to him, and leaving. “There's uh, there's one other thing. A cure, I guess. Doesn't make any sense, of course, guess none of them really do...”
He trailed off, fingers wrapping around the handle of the door in a clear, unspoken signal. If Aziraphale didn't respond, didn't accept, then he'd leave, nothing more said about it, whatever it was–
“And what is it?”
Aziraphale hadn't actually meant to ask. He already knew, after all, if that little display back in the parlor had been any indication. It seemed they'd read the same kind of books.
Crowley didn't answer, no doubt having second thoughts.
The floorboards creaked beneath bare feet as Aziraphale stepped forward, quietly closing the small gap between them. Crowley was still facing away as he reached up with bound hands, covering the merchant's own, pressing his palm into the door handle. He meant to open it, to push the daft man back out into the safety of the hallway, but his mind and body were still warring away silently, no longer on speaking terms.
Moon drunk, as it was, if he remembered the phrase correctly.
“Turn around.” Someone spoke, Aziraphales own voice unrecognisable to his ears, much too low and authoritative. Crowley obliged without hesitation, still crowded against the wood of the door, their bodies practically flush together. “Right… Very good.”
“Christ.” Crowley huffed out inexplicably, not meeting the other man's eye. There was a feverish heartbeat flowing through Aziraphale, seeming to echo and ebb around the cupboard of a room, the current dragging him into action, moving his hands against his will.
Really, he probably should have had Tracy tie them behind his back.
“Uuhh.. Aziraphale?”
The words rumbled deep in Crowley's throat as the man in question leaned in, Aziraphales head slotting perfectly beneath that sharp jaw. Crowley tensed beneath him, stomach twitching under trailing, absent-minded fingers, the ropes doing little to impede the hands now trapped in-between them. The flooding warmth drew him in, impossibly close, eyes closing as he soaked in the glorious scent.
And he could smell everything; The hint of rum on Crowley's breath, the sweet pine clinging to his clothes. A coppery, metallic tang of sweat and blood, possibly his own. The smell of dust and wood and the faint threat of snow in the air, alongside the heady aroma of desire that definitely belonged to him
“Mngk–!”
And then, something else, a scent that began to draw his mind back from the hazy depths. An acrid, sharp smell, bitter in his throat, stinging like soot in his nose. How he recognised it, he'd never quite figure out, but some internal instinct told him exactly what that distinct aroma signified…
Fear.
He stalled, head still buried in the crook of Crowley's neck, forcing the man's head up as Aziraphales mouth brushed his throat. As his moon-addled mind slowly started to shift back into conscious thought, he could feel the erratic rise and fall of Crowley's breathing, and taste man's pulse thundering against his lips, neck flexing and shifting with each subtle swipe of his tongue. Hands fluttered erratically, skimming Aziraphales chest, his side, his hips, not knowing where to settle, each tentative brush sending tiny shockwaves bonedeep. It wasn't clear if the intention was to push him away or draw him in, but Crowley was certainly doing a marvelous job of the latter.
Those same hands suddenly flew to the man's exposed forearm, settling between rolled sleeves and rope, cold fingertips drawing out a shudder, and the merest slither of good sense.
“Ah-angel! I think maybe we shouuhmhmm–!”
At the stuttered, half suppressed moan, Aziraphale drew his head back, brain finally cottoning on to everything his body was doing… To what his own hands had been doing, primarily.
“Oh, shit”
Gasping out the expletive, Aziraphale snatched his hands away and stumbled back, tripping on his own feet in haste. He would have fallen right over, had it not been for the strong grip that wrapped around his elbows, hauling him upright again.
“S-Sorry–!” Aziraphale spluttered, trying not to meet Crowley's eyes. An impossible feat, really, given their proximity. “I didn't mean to, uhm, I don't know what came over memhmf–!”
The garbled apology was cut short, his words mumbled against Crowley's lips, lost in the sudden, unexpected kiss.
Crowley was kissing him.
Aziraphales brain shut down again, mind going entirely blank as soft lips pressed against his own.. Gentle and warm, in direct contrast to the cool, firm fingers that gripped his arms, surely the only thing still holding him together at all.
He'd had every intention of kissing Crowley himself.. Before he'd gotten so thoroughly distracted. It didn't really make sense, as a cure, but there was really no harm in trying.
The hands around his arms tightened, desperately.
Oh… Kiss him back, you idiot!
Aziraphale did just that, melting against Crowley's mouth with a shameful moan, lips parting as he tilted his head, finally returning the kiss.
And the vice-like grip on his arms started to ease.
Thank God for that.
He’d been waiting for this, and a chaste smooch simply wasn’t going to cut it. Aziraphale couldn't help but delight in the soft sigh that escaped the other man, lips easing obligingly with a single, rather demanding, swoop of tongue. Hands travelled from arms to hips, Crowley pulling him close as they deepened the kiss, the pair slotting together seamlessly.
Well, almost seamlessly, Aziraphale’s bound hands now wedged awkwardly between their chests. Feeling the rhythmic beat of both hearts together was intoxicating, even as the ropes dug deep into his wrists. It was probably a good thing, keeping those perverse hands contained, up high, where they could only do so much harm..
Not that Crowley had been complaining.
He'd no sooner had the thought when, with one ill-fated maneuver, those bound hands were forced just a little bit higher, knuckles pressed hard against Crowley's solid sternum…
And even harder against Aziraphale's fresh, and still rather tender, arrow wound.
“Ffphck–!”
Their lips separated with a lewd, wet smack, as he shoved Crowley away, gasping with the sudden sharp, disorientating pain. Unfortunately, the man didn't actually let go of Aziraphale as he stumbled backwards
They both fell, legs giving out beneath them as they collapsed in a messy, tangled heap on the floor.
There was a dull thud, followed by a low groan, as Crowley's head must have collided with the door, Aziraphale landing heavily on top, wincing as his knees hit the floorboards. Through the chorus of pained grumbling and ineffective shuffling, their eyes met, barely an inch apart and only half visible in the dark.
“Eh… Sorry?” Crowley mumbled, a hand pressed to the back of his head.
Poor man was probably concussed.
Or, if nothing else, utterly traumatized.
Dear God, what an unmitigated disaster of a first kiss. Couldn't get any worse, really.
With that single, fate-tempting observation, the door flew open, flooding the pantry with light.
“Oh. Dear.”
Tracy stood in the doorway, a lantern held aloft in one hand.. The other clutching onto her partner's shoulders, as Shadwell gaped down at the disheveled pair, crossbow pointed directly towards the disgraced friar's reddening face, an arrow already locked and loaded.
“Go ahead.. shoot me.” Aziraphale requested flatly, as the shameless demon erupted into laughter beneath him.
**
Crowley had entirely forgotten about Tracy's brief warning; “Don't go throwing yourself down on that chair now...”
In fact, he'd done exactly that, so thoroughly wrung out from everything that had happened in the past few days. Hell, in the past few hours
And he very nearly got to add ‘being stabbed in the arse by a small, but lethally sharp dagger’ to the evening's ever-growing list of mishaps. Seemed Tracy may have been more worried than she'd let on, having left Crowley a suitable, if rather poorly placed, weapon, tucked beneath a folded blanket on the seat of the armchair.
He held the dagger aloft, the short, silvery blade glinting in the lamplight.
“Oh.. This is nice” he mumbled, too fog-brained to think of a less rubbish adjective. The handle was a pale bone, and carved, rather fittingly, in the shape of a single outstretched wing, feathers fanning all the way down the hilt.
Probably some bird of prey. A hawk, or an eagle maybe.
But of course, all Crowley could possibly see was the single soft white wing of an angel.
Ugh. How guimauve!
He'd be keeping this, for sure. Fair payment for having nearly been stabbed in the back by the damn thing.
“You'd love this dagger Tracy left me,” he spoke aloud into the deserted hallway, running a finger over the sharp blade, reveling in the satisfying rasp. “Totally impractical mind you.. More likely to cut your own hand with it than anything else.”
“Don't bloody think about it,” came the clipped reply from behind the pantry door. “...I don't want to see your damned dagger, Crowley. Keep it to yourself.”
Crowley let out another crude laugh, still refusing to believe Aziraphale said these kinds of things entirely by accident. He had a right cheek anyway, daring to act at all shy and contrite after that little display.
“Oh, you can have it if you like, angel! For self defense.”
“Whyever would I need such a thing? Hardly much danger in a.. uhm..”
A monastery?
Aziraphales voice trailed off, slowly coming to the same realization.
It certainly would be dangerous, angel, If you were ever to go back.
It was sheer luck it hadn't happened before, that he hadn't turned in the cloisters and torn the monks to ribbons, like helpless and be-habitted fish in a barrel. He couldn't possibly return to the monastery, not now, not ever. For at least the second time in his life, Aziraphale had been well and truly displaced.
“Well, you know.. Travelling can be pretty hazardous. Bandits, highwaymen. Nasty bunch” Crowley spoke the words quickly, before he could talk himself out of it. “Good to be armed, to be prepared.. On the road, that is.”
The loaded statement was met with a long, toe-curling silence.
Crowley sighed, pressing the tip of the blade into the arm of the chair, worrying it into the wood as the paused stretched on.
And on.
Maybe he hadn't been clear enough.
“Oh… I can't, Crowley.”
For once, it seemed Aziraphale had managed to read between the lines, the weary reply cutting the merchant straight to the bone. Shrugging in the dark, Crowley fought the urge to argue, drawing his lips into his mouth.
He drove the dagger further into the armchair, gouging out tiny splinters of wood as he pondered his next move. He wasn't about to beg–
“I mean how.. How would it even work..?”
The blade, and the shaking hand attached to it, paused, and the tentative voice from behind the door continued, speeding up and creeping higher with each additional word;
“I mean, what with this affliction, I couldn't possibly! I mean, wherever I go, the moon will still be there! I can't.. I shouldn’t…”
Crowley leaned back, listening. Somehow, it didn't sound so much like a rejection at all, not anymore.
“Oh.. I can't just leave, I can't escape it, running away isn't the answer, I wouldn't even know where to go.”
“For God's sake Aziraphale, it's not running away! It's–”
Staying. With me.
I'm asking you to stay with me, angel.
“It's just.. Going off. Together. You can think of it as a little holiday… You and me, what do you say, huh?” Crowley frowned as the garbled sentiment fell from his mouth, not entirely sure anything he'd said even made any sense. Another hideous pause followed, stretching on for far too long. Crowley waited, willing the ground beneath him to open up and swallow him whole, armchair and all.
“Going off.. Together?” Aziraphale finally shot back, the incredulity apparent in his voice.
Maybe he'd said too much.. Was moving too fast.
There was barely a foot of space separating the chair and the entrance to the pantry, but suddenly that distance felt insurmountable.
Crowley swallowed.
It would be so easy to leave. He could go, now, before the sun rose. Beonet was waiting just outside, and the Shadwells were probably asleep by now.
Aziraphale wouldn't stop him. Couldn't.
He should really have left long ago, as soon as this whole sorry mess started. The first moment he'd known the true nature of the beast. Any sane man would have fled.
Not that anyone had ever accused Crowley of being sane before.
“Just.. Just think about it, alright?” he eventually managed to answer, addressing the surrounding darkness. Here he was, deranged as ever, hovering around like a very stupid moth to the most gorgeous of flames. A flame with very big teeth and sharp claws and a seemingly insatiable appetite. A flame that had, only moments before, had him pinned to a wall, hands working their way between his thighs, teeth trailing along his jugular, feeling distinctly more vampire than werewolf–
A flame that probably wanted to eat him, in all honesty.
And a stupid, senseless moth that was more than ready to let him.
God. This analogy sucks.
“Have you ever been to Gévaudan?”
Crowley was jolted from his thoughts by the unexpected question, turning to face the door, as if he could see Aziraphale. At least he knew he was actually still in there. Still conscious, and still sentient.
“I haven't, actually,” he replied, deciding not to dwell on the sudden change of subject. Maybe Aziraphale was choosing to forget the entire stupid suggestion, generously sparing Crowley the embarrassment of a more direct rejection.
“Well I.. I left in rather a hurry, you see, leaving some personal things behind.. Maybe we would be able to–?”
We.
“I mean.. The monks most likely gave my personal effects to the needy. I suppose it might be a waste of your–”
“We can go, Aziraphale. No problem.”
“I-It shouldn't take long! And uh.. And then..”
Crowley closed his eyes, and prayed.
“Maybe.. Paris?” Aziraphales suggested, a cautious smile only just audible in his voice. “..I've always wanted to try crepes.”
Yes. Hallelujah. Wa-fucking-hoo!
By some miracle, Crowley managed to keep his celebration mostly internal, biting back the exclamations, punching the air in a positivity reserved manner, all things considered.
In his daft, muted display, the dagger was flung straight up into the air–
“Oop, shit!”
And for the second time that evening, Crowley just narrowly avoided being impaled, letting out a strangled yelp as he dodged the falling blade.
“Crowley!? Are you alri–?”
“Yes! Uh.. Yeah, I mean.. I'd love that.” Crowley replied, the very picture of composed nonchalance as he struggled to right himself on the armchair. “Uh.. Crepes, that is. Love a crepe, me.”
Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley laughed with him, the sound jarring in that quiet hall.
“Well then.. There's something we can both look forward to,” Aziraphale chuckled, and for the sake of his newly acquired good mood, Crowley told himself he hadn't noticed the telling wobble in the other man's voice. “Sounds like a plan.”
Does it, angel? Does it really?
Crowley forced a wry smile onto his face, as he tried to drown out the suspicion rising in his chest. “Hmm.. Sounds more like a date to me.”
Aziraphale tsked, but notably didn't argue, and Crowley wished he could take that as a positive sign. But really, it felt more like the man didn't trust himself to speak on the matter again, and further give the game away.
Because unfortunately, it seemed despite all that practice…
Aziraphale was still a terrible liar.
**
Crowley was falling asleep.
His words had gotten more weary and garbled as the night dragged on, his replies slow, and far too honest, losing the sharp edges of his prickly facade, his voice soft and sincere as sleep started to take over.
Paris had been well received. He wanted to go to Paris.. He'd love to go.
It seemed he loved a lot of things, that man. Aziraphale couldn't quite remember Crowley ever using such a word before tonight, but it had suddenly become a firm fixture of his vocabulary.
Or perhaps he was only noticing it now, each instance of the word setting a ridiculous flutter alight within.
Loved crepes, apparently. Loved his shiny new dagger, that he’d absentmindedly informed Aziraphale about another three times that evening.
Loved astronomy, going off on an insightful tangent about stars and planets that had Aziraphale's head spinning..
Loved the moon.
Right. That's how we'd gotten into the subject.
“I can feel it, Crowley. It really is bizarre.”
“But you still haven't changed, not even a little?” Crowley's voice came out like syrup, slow and sweet, and Aziraphale could picture his head lolling back in the armchair, eyes already closed. “No claws, fangs… Fur?”
“Not yet.”
“Well then.. Maybe you're cured.”
Aziraphale nodded, as if Crowley could see him. It seemed much easier to lie without actually saying the words. And it would be a lie, to even entertain the suggestion. He knew full well he hadn't been cured, he could feel that too. Every fiber of his being crawling and itching with that insatiable heat, gnawing away beneath the surface.
Fighting the inevitable.
“And uh, I was thinking, if you aren't cured–”
It really was as if Crowley could read his mind sometimes, so smart even in his drunken, semi-conscious state.
“-That maybe you should just let it happen?”
Ah. Perhaps not as smart as I thought.
“Let it happen?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, whipping his head around to face the door. “What are you thinking? I can't just allow myself to–!”
“Listen angel, hear me out.” Crowley yawned, the languid antithesis to Aziraphale's indignant, buzzing energy. “It looked.. It looked really painful when you changed before, when you were fighting it.”
It was. It is painful.
Aziraphale was in pain right now.
“And you're locked up in there. You can't get out, you can't hurt anyone, so maybe.. Maybe, if it starts to happen, you should just go with it.”
Aziraphale stared silently ahead, lost for words.
“Just let it, you know… Let it pass.”
He couldn't answer Crowley, the lump forming in his throat blocking any hope of coherent speech.
Somehow, despite making it through every other peak and trough of this insane, turbulent, never-ending evening, it was that single, soft spoken sentence that finally did it.. That broke the dreaded dam once again. Aziraphale was grateful for the door against his back, and the cloaking darkness all around him, as the tears rolled freely down his face.
“...Angel?”
Oh Crowley.
Pulling his lips into a firm line, Aziraphale silently scrubbed the tears away.
“I'm fine,” he answered, forcing on a smile he hoped would carry in his voice. The last thing he wanted was to worry him.. To give that darling man any conceivable reason to open the bloody door again.
Crowley hummed, not sounding at all convinced.
“Will you think about it, ‘bout what I said?”
“Of course. I'll uh.. I'll do that. If it happens, that is.. And I don't think it will!”
Because I won't let it.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley's voice was low, drawn out and chastising. Perhaps he really was a mind reader. “Look, angel, I can't make you do anything but.. I just think, if you've got this illness, and this is going to keep happening to us, then we need to learn to live with it. I know it hurts, and you want it to go away, but if it won't then– Let it pass”
Aziraphale didn't argue this time, much too caught up on the underlying implication of Crowley's words.
We. Us.
“I'll try, Crowley.. I'll try not to fight it,” he answered, hugging his knees to his chest. It wouldn't happen anyway, not in there, locked safely in the pantry with no moon in sight.
But.. Then what? What about Gévaudan?
What about Paris...?
It sure was a nice idea, going off together.. But Aziraphale knew it was nothing more than that, a wholly unrealistic fantasy.
A story.
Enough to convince Crowley to take him to Gévaudan, where he could finally face the retribution he'd been avoiding all this time. He'd never have agreed otherwise.
“We should try and get some sleep,” Aziraphale said, his own eyes still wide, reddened by tears. “It's been a long day.”
“Mhm. Not even tired.” Crowley mumbled, sounding half-asleep already, shuffling noisily as he lay back in the chair. “..Bonne nuit, mon cher.”
Aziraphale would have loved to take him up on his offer, truly, and honestly. He loved spending time with Crowley, loved talking with the strange man, listening to his stories, taking turns driving one another insane. Had loved kissing him, even if it had never made much sense as a supposed cure. And if love alone really could sooth a savage beast, if it could have possibly made sense, with anybody… He knew it would have been him.
But as suspected, it was all nonsense in the end. It had to be, because despite their best efforts, and all the good will in the world--
“...Goodnight, Crowley.”
It hadn't bloody well worked.
**
The slivers of moonlight shone bright through the gaps between the boards, needle sharp. Despite the colour, the cool blue light hitting his skin was anything but soothing…
It hurt.
Head rolling back against the solid wood of the door, Aziraphale sucked in his lips, pressing them together firmly as he fought against making a sound. He didn't want to wake Crowley.
Drawing his legs in closer, Aziraphale pulled his feet away from the searing light, arms held awkwardly aloft to keep the bare skin of his hands in the safety of the shadows. The rope had been a bad idea, he decided then and there, only making it harder to manoeuvre comfortably, as if that was making any real difference.
Sat on the cold floor, avoiding the burning light, his skin was already on fire, his lungs full of ice, his own body fighting against him, writhing around without moving an inch.
Aziraphale feared he might never feel comfortable again.
He winced against another shaking wave of pain, a wave that caused his heart to race and the panic to rise in his throat. And he thought once again about the man sleeping on the other side of the door..
How he'd lied to him.
Thought about how little he deserved someone like Crowley, someone so patient and clever and funny and fun. How unlikely it seemed, how inconceivable, how completely and utterly ineffable it was for Crowley of all people to want to be around someone like him.
And yet, he'd stayed. He was still here, now, by Aziraphale's side. Weathering out the night together, waiting for the storm to pass.
“Let it pass, angel.”
Aziraphale’s eyes, which had been squeezed shut against another wrack of pain, started to smooth at the edges, his furrowed brows relaxing.. Slightly.
He didn't want to lie to Crowley. Stupid as the idea might be, he’d told him he would at least try it.
So he would.
Aziraphale forced his hands to unclench from their white-knuckle fists, bare wrists pushing against the ropes, which suddenly didn't seem so tight after all. A shaking gasp escaped him as he opened his eyes, willing the tension in his muscles to ease, legs stretching back out, feet barely brushing the light, dipping a toe in to feel the warmth.
Warm.
Not burning.
Before he knew what was happening, he was standing, taking a single shaky step towards the centre of the room, where the light pooled on the floorboards, shifting like a river, washing over him.
And boy, if it didn't still hurt, his pulse starting to race erratically, sweat pricking at his hairline as the room swayed around him, threatening to tip him overboard, into the boiling ocean below..
Into the.. What?
His thoughts were rapidly getting less coherent. But he could still think, and that was something. There was some sense of self still treading water, not quite a mindless animal.
Not yet, anyway.
This glimmer of sense was why he knew what he was doing was a bad idea, but somehow Aziraphale couldn't stop. The panic was still very much there, yet dulled, Crowley's words filling his ears and drowning out the urge to fight; To lash out and scream and claw at his own skin until it came off in shreds.
He was clawing at something, hands shifting and pulling, fingers deftly hooking at the thick cord, until the rope around his wrist went slack, and slipped away completely
Couldn't do that again, not sober anyway.
Not without that all-consuming, intoxicating call from the boarded up window before him, without those taunting slivers of light guiding him onwards, taunting him into action.
Reaching out, those same fingers slotted into the thin cracks between the boards, eyes bright and focused, as the hammering in his chest started to slow, the erratic breathing calmed back into a deep, settled rhythm. There was a peace to it, that dreadful sense of inevitability finally taking over, drowning out any last trace of hesitation.
As quick and effortless as striking a match, Aziraphale ripped the board from the window, and flooded the room with light.
**
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