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todisturbtheuniverse · 5 years

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FIC: How Strong the Habit of Idle Speech [2/2]

Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Tags: Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Mutual Pining, Fluff Word Count: 8,700 Summary: Part 1 here. Eleven years should not make any difference to an eternal being. It shouldn't even be long enough to establish a habit. But it has been, and he has gotten into the habit of Aziraphale, and breaking it will be about as easy as breaking the wings from his very essence. He can admit this much to himself: he very much does not want to be alone. More to the point, he does not want to be without Aziraphale. Also on AO3. Notes: This part begins right near the end of Episode 6. And promptly gets away from me.

Crowley has a Plan A and a Plan B, and that is all he needs.

Plan A is simple: he is not going to tempt or coerce or even accidentally guilt Aziraphale into anything at all. He is going to stand back and let Aziraphale come to him, and it seems like Aziraphale actually might do just that. He's not going to set up any more meetings with flimsy excuses, or bargain for lunch out, or stop off at the bookshop just because. He is not going to go too fast. He is going to stand still.

This runs counter to his very nature, which has a deep love of fast cars, but some level of compromise has always been necessary in his association with Aziraphale. This is just an extension of everything that has come before.

This will be fine. He can do this. Easy. He can see that some change is coming—maybe slowly, maybe not, time is a tricky thing—and he can cool his heels until it arrives.

But there is a part of him—a wretched and hideous part, that lives in the same place where broken faith resides—that just doesn't trust this. Not even after the previous night. Not even after everything that's been said and also carefully not said these last few days.

So he builds a single exception into Plan A: he asks Aziraphale to lunch, to see if things are going to be as they were, if the angel is going to fall back on token protests even now that the threat of annihilation has been removed.

He doesn't.

Prior conversations about being tired of the script aside, this is still unnerving. Crowley knows, logically, that he should expect as much from Aziraphale after these last twenty-four hours. There has been a declaration, of sorts. He should rely on it.

But whatever part of him still bleeds from Falling—well. It's hard to reason with that bit of himself. It has all the instincts of a wounded animal.

This, maybe, is why there is a Plan B at all. An acknowledgment of these instincts so that he can know his own equivalent of peace, fragile as it is.

Plan B is also simple: if Aziraphale does not come to him, he will let the angel go. He will eke out some other existence, somehow, in the years between the moments when they cross paths—which will surely be long, with neither of them orchestrating said path-crossing. Maybe in another six thousand years it will feel perfectly natural. Good, even. Inasmuch as Crowley ever feels good.

There have been times these last six thousand years that he spent alone. Plenty of them. The majority, by a long shot.1 He can get used to that solitude again.

Eleven years should not make any difference to an eternal being. It shouldn't even be long enough to establish a habit. But it has been, and he has gotten into the habit of Aziraphale, and breaking it will be about as easy as breaking the wings from his very essence. He can admit this much to himself: he very much does not want to be alone.

Some level of this is inevitable, however. Armageddon is averted. There is no need to live in one another's pockets anymore, not even the centuries-old Arrangement to maintain. Some distance must re-establish itself, and Crowley expects it to come down like a guillotine as they step out of the Ritz and into the fading light. They've drunk most of the afternoon away, and some of the evening besides.

"Lift home?" he asks, forcibly casual, and grits his teeth against anything more. Even this might be in violation of Plan A. He's going to have to consider it.

Aziraphale gives him one of those brief glances, eyes cutting over and away and back again. "Thank you."

This is familiar territory, at least. Adam even remembered to put back the window transfers, which Aziraphale gives a funny look—the same funny look he often gives them—as he ducks into the car. Crowley considers driving at a more reasonable speed before tossing that thought aside; his earlier planning was all metaphor, anyway, and London is hell to navigate at speed limit.

And life without Aziraphale's protests about how he drives...he likes the bickering, the admonishments. He listens to them with relish. It reminds him that they're alive.

They reach the bookshop without any incident at all. Crowley doesn't turn the engine off; he waits for Aziraphale to get out. He wonders, even as he tries to shove down the obsessive worry: When will he even see the angel next? And why? Theirs has been a connection built heavily on convenience; with the structure of that removed, why would they ever need to see one another again?

Aziraphale isn't getting out, though. He's giving the bookshop a long, hard look, as if trying to determine whether it's still as it was.

"Seemed fine this morning," Crowley offers. "Same weird smell and everything. Few additions, though."

"Weird smell," Aziraphale repeats at a mutter, giving a little shake of his head. "It's not got a weird smell."

Crowley bites back a retort—so get going, check for yourself—and merely drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

Aziraphale looks back at him, one hand on the door. "What if we're wrong?" he asks; there is some small trepidation in his face. "What if they don't leave us alone? What if they're just waiting for an opportune moment?"

Crowley leans back in his seat. "And if they are? What are we going to do about it?"

"Well," Aziraphale says, "I thought…" He clears his throat. "Why don't you come in? For a drink. In case."

Crowley looks at him, damn near squints at him: Aziraphale, tentative and hopeful, looking at him like he's asking an entirely different question. Something in Crowley's very essence tries to crawl out of his skin, tries to reach out to whatever's being offered.

"In case a horde of demons turns up at your door?" Crowley asks finally.

Aziraphale's face hardens. "Or yours," he says, quiet but with steel.

Most of the time, Crowley thinks the real ineffability in Her plan was handing a flaming sword to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who miracles doves back to life with grief and guilt in his face; Aziraphale, who couldn't even bring himself to kill the Antichrist; Aziraphale, who seemed mildly horrified at the way Adam—the first Adam—had chopped a lion's head off with that same sword, as if it had just occurred to him that that was the weapon's purpose.

But right now, the sword wouldn't look out of place in his hand. Not at all. A shield would make just as much sense, though, maybe more. Like a wing, lifted against the rain.

So many years of Aziraphale's profoundly irritating literacy are really rubbing off on him.

"Besides," Aziraphale says, and the looming presence of thunder abates, just enough for Crowley to realize that the thick intent of it had filled the entire car. "Better odds, with two of us, right?"

Crowley doesn't think that this is really what Aziraphale's asking. It's hard to forget how many there are in those Head Offices, true. How if they really put their minds to it, they could come up with some way to deal with the pair of them, despite the lies they've now been told. It's worth being a little alert, keeping an eye out.

He knows what he saw in Heaven, though, and he's heard what Aziraphale saw in Hell. They're not coming. They're scared. He knows that, and he thinks Aziraphale does, too.

But if Aziraphale needs a pretense to invite him in, it's better than not inviting him in at all.

Crowley jerks his chin in a nod, twists the key in the ignition, and pulls the Bentley into the nearest convenient alley, where it will at least not immediately announce his presence, if they're bowing a little to pretense. He scans the shadows before they get out, searching for the buckling ground, the rotten soil that will spill forth an enemy.

There is nothing. No holy light; no evil glare.

"Right," he says, and follows Aziraphale to the bookshop.

Aziraphale bustles past the door like it's nothing, like it wasn't just all on a lot of fire a day ago; he goes through the usual motions, double-checking that the sign is flipped firmly to Closed, casting around to make sure everything is generally in the right place, and then hurrying off to the back to make cocoa or maybe open a bottle of wine so that they can really work on this buzz they've been cultivating slowly all afternoon.

Crowley finds it a little harder to fall into routine. Usually he'd be in his spot in the back room by now, the chair that he's never seen Aziraphale sit in once, and heckling as Aziraphale prepares drinks, but he gets stuck halfway through this room he remembers burning. He doesn't shake, or tremble, Heaven forbid, but he does stop, with the claws of memory digging into his chest like they're intent on cracking his ribcage wide open.

He's still standing there, trying to force down the echo of his dramatics and his despair and all the other emotions those imply, trying to collect himself, when Aziraphale comes back, frowning. "What is it?" he asks, from across the room, and Crowley rolls his shoulders and tries to behave normally with a great force of will.

"Nothing," he says. "Just." He flaps a hand around, makes one of those garbled noises that he figures sounds very devil-may-care and entirely covers the fact that he doesn't know what to say until after it's done. "Checking it still smells weird, I guess."

Aziraphale approaches, still that little frown on his face, which is tipping dangerously toward concern. "Are you all right?"

Plan A, Crowley reminds himself, a touch frantically, Plan A, Plan A, Plan A. No guilting. Act naturally.

"Fine," he says, and has to despair at how unnatural it sounds. Lie better. Lie better, Crowley. "Just...weird day. Strange to see it all exactly how it was."

"Well," Aziraphale says dryly, "the William books are new. God knows what else." He's only about a foot away now, and he looks at Crowley with an understanding in his eyes that Crowley needs to shrink away from. Needs to shield himself from. "It's all right," he says, softly now. "I'm fine. See?"

And he picks up Crowley's hand, an action so startling that Crowley doesn't react at all, and tucks it between both of his own, holding it tightly between them.

Lie better, Crowley thinks, the scream of it repeating but fading back, back, back; Aziraphale knows, Aziraphale has seen through him, this is in violation of Plan A, this counts as guilting, even if he doesn't see any guilt in Aziraphale's face, just compassion. Nothing but that, in the touch of his hands.

The body is just that—a body, something that carries them around, irrelevant to the truth of them—but it is representative all the same. Aziraphale might call Velvet Underground bebop but he knows what a gesture like this means. He must know. It is hopeless to think that he knows.

Crowley cannot think of a single thing to say, cannot think of anything but his own agony on his knees on this floor, on the impossibility of Aziraphale returned to him, on his sharp and grasping greed. He could bury this like he has buried so many other things, create a distance enforced by barbed words, whatever it takes.

He opens his mouth to give it a try, and nothing worth saying materializes; he thinks of what he could say, the venom he could spit, and he's deterred by the memory of Aziraphale's arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and safe.

"Come have a drink," Aziraphale says, with the awful, patient kindness of millennia in his eyes, and leads Crowley to the back.

"What do we do now, exactly?" Crowley blurts out, when they've finished off two bottles of wine between them. They are well into the third; Aziraphale had fussed over choosing each of them until Crowley had threatened to break into the really old stuff if he didn't just decide, and Aziraphale had smiled and gotten into the dustiest bottles himself.

"It suits the occasion, I think," he'd said.

Now this—this feels old and comforting and familiar. As long as Aziraphale has owned this ridiculous bookshop, there has been reason to close it for a drink. There has been a late night with too much wine, here and there. Whenever one of them could think up an excuse for such an event, anyway, which Crowley has recently decided was not often enough at all.

"What do we do," Aziraphale repeats from where he's sunk down in the lumpiest chair in this hemisphere, posture finally forgotten. He makes it sound like he's comprehended neither the individual words nor the question they form together.

"Yeah," Crowley says. He leans forward, edge of his chair, almost far enough that his elbows are at risk of going right off his knees and he is at risk of ending up on the floor. "Whatever...whatever breathing space we've got, if we've got it...what do we do with it?"

Aziraphale looks across at him, blue eyes vague and puzzled.

"No one's going to tell you to go do a blessing in Edinburgh, is what I'm saying," Crowley says, forcefully, swimming through the murk of drunkenness with great effort. "Not after warning them off like that."

He tries not to let on what he's really asking. Whatever we're doing, are we doing it together? Asking that outright is a clear violation of Plan A.

Aziraphale snorts. "I wish I could have seen it," he says, a touch dreamily. "You said Gabriel started. He's never jumped at anything before. Certainly not at me."

"Angel," Crowley says; it sounds a great deal more endeared, and a great deal less exasperated, than he intended. "Focus."

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut for a long few seconds. When he opens them again, he says, "Did they even really need that blessing in Edinburgh, though?"

Crowley flops back in his seat. "You're not focusing."

"No, really," Aziraphale insists, and by contrast, he straightens up, pulling himself out of the very un-Aziraphale-like slouch he cultivates after this amount of wine. "Did they? And what about your people—your former people, I should say. They hardly ever told you to do anything at all, they just...pointed in a general direction, and then assumed."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that humanity seems clever enough," Aziraphale says. "They don't need us looking after them."

"So you've ticked one off the list of things we won't do," Crowley says, an old acid rising with the words, familiar and affectionate scorn. "Well done. How about the actual question, then?"

"Are you at loose ends already?" Aziraphale asks, amusement touching his eyes, his smile. He seems a good deal less worried than he seemed earlier, like that brief anxiety in the Bentley has all blown away, dust in the wind. Like it was pretense, as Crowley guessed—knew. "I always thought you had a great deal to do, and work was just getting in the way."

The truth is much less glamorous-sounding, so Crowley keeps it to himself, lest he find himself inviting pity.2 "Oh, yeah," he says. "Loads." He gives his head a little shake, trying to rattle an example loose, something that will sound very legitimate and also very interesting. Threatening the plants probably doesn't count.

"Well," Aziraphale says, apparently not noticing that Crowley's grasping not so much at straws as air, "if you can fit me into your schedule, there's an auction I mean to go to tomorrow. Supposedly there will be a few first editions—maybe even annotated by the author—for sale." His lips purse, a great deal more severely than they would if he weren't drunk. "Though where they found them...well, let's say I have some doubts about their authenticity."

Crowley examines that invitation backwards and forwards, trying to find anything purposeful about it. Anything that means something other than, I'm doing this thing and I'd like you to come along so we might spend time together, in a venue that doesn't involve a great deal of duck excrement.

"So you intend to work," he says at last, because he can't accept anything gracefully—whole problem from the very beginning, wasn't it. "Not Work, but work. You don't even like selling the books."

"I might sell a few," Aziraphale protests. "I have sold a few. Before. Last summer? Maybe it was a few years ago." He subsides into mumbles. "You never know. The right buyer…"

"It'd be a weird human that meets your standards for what constitutes worthy of buying this book." Crowley flings a hand around, encompassing the whole room. Doesn't matter which book. All of them are Special to Aziraphale, and not just anyone gets to walk out with one.

Aziraphale doesn't argue. Perhaps he sees there would be no point. "Yes, I intend to work," he says, more firmly. "Watch after them—the humans, that is—when I notice any trouble, maybe. Keep my ear to the ground. This shop…" He looks around, perhaps unconsciously following the route of Crowley's hand, though more slowly. "I like it very much, you know." His eyes sharpen, and they fix on Crowley. "So will you come along? There's bound to be some kind of bidding war."

He extends that tidbit like a temptation. He hasn't forgotten that incident in 1593, then, when they'd been chased from the premises by someone or other Crowley had outbid: Crowley cackling the whole way, Aziraphale muttering laments under his breath about the Chaucer incunable he'd missed out on.3 There was so much mayhem to stir up in a place where multiple people wanted the same unique item very badly. Crowley adored it, and Aziraphale had never invited him along to another auction since.

"I can make room, I suppose," Crowley says, as nonchalantly as possible.

Aziraphale gives him a beatific smile. The entire insides of his chest—who knows what's in there at the moment, really, could be any old organ at all—wrench around painfully.

"Excellent. Well." Aziraphale pats his knees. "I'm going to sober up. Got to crack into those new books."

Crowley looks around, a little blearily, for the clock. Half-past one. "Just go to bed, angel. Sleep it off." He eyes the third bottle, considering the wisdom of finishing it off.

Aziraphale shudders. "I'd rather get it over with, thank you."

Crowley feels the loss of it when Aziraphale snaps back to sober. Left alone in his own swimming brain, knowing that the night is over, now. Aziraphale has made many such hints before, all polite, but they still add up to it's getting rather late, hadn't you better leave?

"Suppose I'd better, too," Crowley mutters, and if he sounds resentful, it's all perfectly above-board. It's how he usually sounds, in this sort of situation. He wonders if Aziraphale's ever caught on to why he acts like such a wretch when he's getting kicked out.

"Oh, not at all." Aziraphale gets briskly to his feet, brushing some invisible dust from his waistcoat. "You're welcome to sleep here. I have it on good authority that the sofa is very comfortable."

He nods in that direction, a particular look on his face, and Crowley—eternal optimist, maybe, tempered only with a recent dose of realism—knows it for what it is. Aziraphale is allowing him to stay. Asking him to stay.

And surely the only good authority who ever told Aziraphale that his sofa is comfortable is Crowley, and only because Crowley himself made it that way, on a night not unlike this, when he'd bullied his way into camping out on it, somehow. It's not even a sofa, not really. More a loveseat. But Crowley does not speak the inane names of furniture out loud, and besides, he likes to let his legs dangle over one of the armrests, which Aziraphale always complains about in the way he has when he doesn't actually mind.

"Well," he says. He cannot resist the lure of warmth. "All right, then." He bites back if it won't be a bother, because that is a very un-Crowley-like thing to say, and he's just coherent enough to know it.

He manages to cross the room without falling down, flops to the sofa without bashing his head on the arm rest, and wiggles to get comfortable. At some distance, he thinks he hears Aziraphale laugh—quiet, more a rhythmic expulsion of air than anything—and ignores it. Well, he doesn't react to it, at least. It's hard to ignore the sound of Aziraphale moving about his bookshop like a shepherd tending his flock; the creak of the floorboards and rustle of pages and clinking of spoon in a cup of cocoa all has a pattern, a familiarity, that does its fair share of lulling Crowley into a comfortable doze.

Even so, he's not quite asleep when Aziraphale's footsteps pass close and stop, the scent of cocoa hitting Crowley's nose right before Aziraphale's hand runs slowly, lightly over his hair. He's not quite asleep, but he pretends to be, afraid that whatever is happening will stop if he's seen to be awake, and he remembers something strange and faraway: the way that Aziraphale's eyes had lingered on his shorn hair over oysters in Rome with something like remorse.

He often worries at these little memories—the drift of Aziraphale's eyes, the flex of his fingers, and something harder to describe, a knowledge of turbulence in his very essence that defies language—but it's been a long time since he's gone that far back for something to obsess over.

And then Aziraphale's hand drifts, the backs of his fingers just barely grazing Crowley's cheek, passing over the inked snake with something like tenderness. Crowley thinks he can identify that much. Probably. And holding himself still, rather than pushing blindly toward it, is the hardest thing he's ever done.

"Dear boy," Aziraphale murmurs. "Sleep well."

He takes himself off to his desk, humming very low under his breath, and Crowley tries to take the gift for what it is, rather than a burning memory that might scar someday soon.

Crowley usually does sleep well, as a rule. He adores sleep. The laziness of it—the pointlessness of it, for him of all creatures. He doesn't need it.

But his brain is somewhat pickled, and his essence does inhabit said brain, to an extent, and even if the first thing was not true, still. Sometimes, he dreams. Brains do this without the explicit permission of their owners, even if their owners are very frightening demons.

They're the inane, garbled dreams of a human. That's what comes of inhabiting a body. Limitations of the flesh, and all that. Which is to say that they convey a sense of Crowley's general anxiety about recent events—hard to escape, that—but in a roundabout kind of way. He's driving the Bentley right over the lake in St. James Park, knocking ducks this way and that, and someone is sitting in the back who shouldn't be, someone he doesn't recognize but who smiles the way that asshole Gabriel smiles, and he feels certain that if he just drives faster they'll be forced to get out, but then a hand closes on his shoulder and—

He wakes up still half-drunk. He breathes through the confusion, which takes only an instant to sort out. He doesn't have to gasp for air or wrangle his own beating heart; if he can put the fear of Crowley into some bullheaded ferns, he can very well put it into this body's own organs, and he decides he's had enough of being drunk at this point.

It never quite works the same, but his head is clear, at least. Clear enough to note—with exasperation and, all right, a little delight—the knit blanket once again draped over his person. His mouth and throat are profoundly dry. The weird gray pre-dawn light is creeping into the shop from the east; it alights on Aziraphale at his desk. He hasn't moved at all, settled down with one of those new books he'd scoffed about, and his back is to Crowley, so it's safe to turn over on the couch and stare at him, the better to shake off the nightmare. His cocoa has gone cold; Crowley can sense it, the sad sedimented separation of the liquid.

Drinking cocoa in the dead heat of summer. Only Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, here. Still here, in his still-here bookshop, all present and accounted for. Now that there's been a little sleep, disturbed or not, and the inevitable relaxing of the guard after a whole night without angelic or demonic interference, Crowley feels some kind of elation at that. Some relief.

"Tea's on the side table," Aziraphale says, absentmindedly, and Crowley tries to pretend he wasn't staring, or that if he was, it was perfectly normal, and anyway, it's not like Aziraphale's looked up and caught him at it.

He stretches a hand out to scoop up the tea, turning a little to do it, and that's when he notices the plant.

He was too sauced to even glance at it last night. He doesn't notice his cast-offs; he ignores them, pointedly, and they tremble even so when he shadows Aziraphale's doorstep. But he can't help but give it a terrible, threatening look now, because it's gone and sprouted flowers.

Not even the flowers you'd expect a plant to put out around Aziraphale. You'd expect something white or golden or maybe even pink or blue—nice, delicate colors, and nice delicate petals. These are far too rich, deep crimson that goes even deeper at the heart, distinguishable even though each of the dozen flowers is very small.

"When did it start doing that?" Crowley asks, glaring daggers at the plant.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale reaches for his cocoa. Crowley breaks off glaring at the plant—which has remembered its maker and begun to tremble—in order to give Aziraphale's stupid little winged mug a pointed look. The cocoa re-combines and heats up, a pleasant curl of warmth issuing from its surface, just as Aziraphale picks it up. He makes a pleased little sound in his throat and shoots a grateful glance over at Crowley, who's gone back to staring at the plant.

"Oh, that," Aziraphale says, lightly. "I like them, actually. Really brightens the place up."

The plant's shaking eases a little. A war between masters is occurring. It's not yet sure which way the battle will go.

"It's the wrong season for flowers," Crowley says, by which he means, there is no right season for this plant to flower. It does not flower. I picked it for that reason, when at first I thought it could properly contribute to the aesthetic, which I see now was a foolish assumption.

"It's summer," Aziraphale says, "surely that's close enough."

"It's not," Crowley mutters, but there's nothing for it; if Aziraphale can't be persuaded to properly maintain his plants, that's not Crowley's business. "Is the auction early?"

"We have time for breakfast," Aziraphale says, and snaps the book decisively shut. "Well, these don't really fit the collection I've cultivated here, but...they are pristine first editions."

"So you're planning to hoard them instead of selling them?" Crowley says, a smile threatening at his mouth that he has to keep down, for the sake of needling.

"They were practically a gift. Poor form to sell a gift."

"Convenient," Crowley says, and yawns, pushing the blanket off and into a tangled heap at the end of the sofa. He pushes his sunglasses back onto his face. "What's for breakfast, then?"

Aziraphale leads the way to one of his favorite cafes, where the chef himself comes out to greet them. Crowley stays well out of the interaction, but he doesn't miss the relief quietly radiating from Aziraphale, the gratitude that all is still right with the world if Chez Corentin is still standing and serving crêpes. Crowley only orders coffee and steals bites of Aziraphale's crêpes when he's not paying attention, too busy listing off the merits and pitfalls of the book he spent the night reading, and this, too, feels right.

Aziraphale is still talking, and Crowley is still mildly heckling him, when they arrive at the auction. Crowley takes a single glance around the crowded room—with people, yes, but so much stuff, too—and snorts.

"First editions, you said? Not bloody likely."

But Aziraphale is peering around in ill-disguised interest. Crowley notes the style of the various furnishings and knick-knacks with dismay. "There must be something of value here. Look at that, isn't that nice?"

He nods at a dresser, one of those early nineteenth century pieces that's far too heavy to bother with. The style's always looked odd to Crowley, though maybe that's because of how quickly the 1800s passed for him, being asleep for the majority of it, and all.

"No," he says. Aziraphale casts him an exasperated look.

"Maybe I'll tidy up the flat a bit. Make it more...livable."

"The thing above your shop isn't a flat, it's a storage room. When was the last time you went up there?"

"I keep meaning to do inventory, but. You know. There's always something else to do. My point is," Aziraphale says, as if sensing that Crowley's just about to hit his stride as far as mocking goes, "there's all the time in the world now, and not much else to do with it. Maybe I'll have a go at living like humans do."

"What, are you going to take up sleeping, too?" Crowley can't imagine it.

"Take up seems like awfully strong language. Implies a habit. I'd give it a fair shot, maybe."

Crowley follows Aziraphale through the narrow aisles, feeling vaguely disconcerted by this and not really sure why. When Aziraphale pauses by one of those awful little uncomfortable chairs, though—beautifully upholstered, of course, the craftsmanship can't be denied—he puts his foot down.

"Listen, angel, if you're going in for a remodel, at least buy some comfortable furniture," he says. "Give it a fair shot, as you say."

"You're just trying to get me to go to IKEA."

"No, no, I wouldn't call that furniture comfortable. And it's very stylish, and all, but damn pain to put together. Flat-packed boxes were one of mine. No, there are other stores, and they have chairs that were built sometime in the last ten years with comfort in mind."

Aziraphale glances again at the chair. "Perhaps I'll just get it for the shop, then," he says. "Discourage customers from lingering."

"Fine, yes, good."

"You know, I don't really know anything about shopping for furniture," Aziraphale says, with a sidelong look at Crowley. "Not functional things, anyway. Your flat is very nice, if a little…" He casts around for the word. "Austere."

Here is the trouble with Plan A: their long acquaintance has relied very heavily on Aziraphale hinting powerfully at things that he'd like to do, and trusting Crowley to take the final step of indulging him. And Crowley finds himself doing exactly this, like he always has, before he knows what's happened.

"It's meant to be," he says, and then, "I know a few places."

Aziraphale beams at him, which does the same funny thing to his stomach that it's done for a very long time. "We'll go after lunch, then."

There is a bidding war—over the chair, of all things. Crowley manages to swipe the only thing of value from a knocked-over pile of books before the looks turn too murderous, and without being spotted by Aziraphale, who's too busy trying to smooth over the mood with the other bidders.

"You wanted the chair, I was going to get you the chair," Crowley says, unable to help his grin as they hurry away, the very slender book tucked safely into his jacket.

Aziraphale huffs out a sigh. "I rather think you orchestrated all that so I wouldn't get the chair. Your point is taken."

They stop back at the bookshop to take a look at the space in the flat above. Crowley nearly trips over the pile of books right inside the kitchen. Every available surface—and there are few enough of them, besides the floor—is piled with books. The smell of them slowly decomposing is overpowering. Crowley doesn't even want to guess at the last time Aziraphale opened a window up here.

"How do you live like this," he mutters, picking his way more carefully across the battered old floorboards. What he can see of them, anyway.

"It's worse than I remember," Aziraphale admits. "I forgot that I'd been just sending things up here when I ran out of space. Or rearranged."

Crowley bites his tongue on a comment about how mad Aziraphale's attempts at rearranging are. His organization system makes sense to him, and no one else, and that is almost certainly by design, even if he won't admit it.

And Crowley won't admit that he finds the chaos of it stupidly, wonderfully endearing.

"You're going to have to move them to put any furniture in here. Even a dowdy old chair."

"Oh, I expect there's space somewhere," Aziraphale says vaguely, which Crowley takes to mean that he's already miracling up a new room for the bookshop downstairs, one which somehow occupies less square footage than it seems to, and doesn't encroach at all on his neighbors. "Here."

The books all vanish, leaving the flat very, very empty. There's a long-neglected kitchen with a halfhearted table where some of the books had been recently piled, but otherwise, the place is a completely blank slate.

Aziraphale sighs. "I don't even know where to start."

"Lunch," Crowley reminds him, "and then we'll look around."

By the end of the day, Crowley has a new appreciation for how shell-shocked humans look when they emerge from IKEA. It had been easier to stock his own flat, to make adjustments over the years; he has taste, he understands what aesthetic he's cultivating, even if he dimly recognizes that he's always about ten years behind.

Aziraphale, though. Aziraphale's knee-jerk reaction to something newer than 1950 is always no, and after a few hours, might only work its way up to maybe.

The sun is going down by the time the delivery people leave. Crowley might have suggested to the sales associate that they'd paid for same-day delivery when they hadn't at all, but Aziraphale tips the workers heavily, so the scales balance.

Crowley throws himself down on the new couch, which for the moment, sits against a blank wall; they hadn't really gotten as far as strategically-placed decoration, let alone a television, in the hours available to them. But it's a comfortable couch, if not to his own taste, a kind of warm ivory in color with a tartan blanket somehow already draped over the back of it. There's a pleasant little coffee table in front of it with room for plenty of books on the lower shelf. It's all very Aziraphale.

"Well?" he asks, folding his arms behind his head.

Aziraphale looks around the flat, wary but mildly appreciative. His eyes light on the plant—the stupid one putting out flowers when it definitely shouldn't—which has moved upstairs, onto the coffee table, and the wariness melts entirely into fondness.

"It's a start." He settles on the couch, too, not directly beside Crowley, but not far. "Perhaps we should do something less productive tomorrow, though. I don't know how humans manage." He makes a face. "If I am tired, after all that, the poor dears must be exhausted."

We, Crowley thinks. We should do something less productive tomorrow.

Crowley tries not to think about the last couch they sat on together, two nights ago now. But really, he can be neurotic by nature, a hellhound with demon gristle in its teeth, and this reminds him very powerfully of it. It reminds him how well, in that moment, that he thought they'd understood one another.

But maybe it was just a moment at the end of the world. Not the end of the world—just the end of theirs, judgment looming on the horizon. That makes people do funny things. He only has to think about his own ridiculous declarations over the last week to remember that.

Even if he meant those ridiculous declarations.

"I think they usually lay around and watch telly for a day or so, after so much exertion," Crowley says, forcefully shelving all of this. "Order takeout. Laze."

Aziraphale actually yawns. Maybe he's really going to give sleeping a go, after all. "Yours, then? I'm not having one of those things in my flat."

Like it's a given. Like whatever they do, they will do together. How many days will it last? How much time can Crowley steal?

"Yeah," he says, stretching his legs out. "I bet we can find something you like."

Aziraphale makes a face that suggests he doesn't believe this, but he doesn't argue directly. "I'll bring a book."

Crowley does go home that night, inasmuch as the Mayfair flat is home. It would be too easy to overstay his welcome, to cling. Heaven and Hell aren't coming after them. There's no reason to take up full occupation of Aziraphale's couch, much as he wants to creep back in after Aziraphale's fallen asleep and burrow himself under that stupid tartan blanket. He even briefly considers parking himself on the doorstep, which is how he knows that things have gotten really out of hand.

On his way out, he hunts down the Chaucer incunable that's been hiding in the bookshop and leaves it on Aziraphale's desk to find in the morning. After a moment's hesitation, he takes the other volume out of his jacket, a printing not even a century old yet, and thumbs it open, reminding himself of the words.4

"'Teach us to care and not to care,'" he mutters. "'Teach us to sit still.'" And he scoffs—aggravation welling up inside him—because sitting still feels unnatural, and one day of practice has not made him an expert, and he wants to march back up those stairs and demand answers of Aziraphale, tangible answers, whether he's ready to give them or not.

He almost leaves the book out, beneath the Chaucer, but in the end, the narrow printing of Ash Wednesday goes in the old hiding spot, well-buried within the bookshop. Maybe in a hundred years, Aziraphale will take him to another auction, and the cycle can repeat itself, indefinitely, across centuries. Maybe they really do have that much time.

Maybe, by then, they'll have figured one another out.

Aziraphale turns up to his door the next day with takeout and a plant.

"What's this?" Crowley asks, giving the thing a perplexed look. It's a Ceropegia wood, practically glowing with health, leaves already tumbling down around the rim of the pot.

"A gift," Aziraphale says, like he's talking to someone very slow, "obviously."

He holds it out, and his brief exasperation doesn't last. There's this thing that happens when Aziraphale is very happy—in particular, very happy with Crowley—that causes him to sort of...glow. People can't see it, obviously. Maybe witches could. It's more like a peek into another plane of existence, though, a place where the greater matter of Aziraphale exists, all bright golden light.

Crowley used to think looking too close at that light would probably burn his eyes out, or something. It's just like sunning on a rock on a summer day, though. Just barely too hot to be entirely comfortable, and for a snake, that's very comfortable indeed.

Crowley takes it and stands aside to let Aziraphale in. "What for?" he asks, also like he is talking to someone very slow.

"Well, I was admiring your plants the other night, and I thought this one might fit in. It's paltry in comparison, really. Where on earth did you find that incunable?"

Crowley doesn't bother pretending ignorance; it's not like Aziraphale lets just anyone wander unobserved in his bookshop. "In your shop, where it's been hiding for oh, I don't know—a hundred and thirty years or so? Thought you'd have found it by now."

"A hundred and…" Aziraphale frowns, clearly piecing things together. "Why, we weren't even speaking, then."

Crowley manages not to squirm, holding his new plant, which is getting entirely the wrong idea about the kind of gardener he is.

Aziraphale takes his silence for something, clearly, because he says, "Oh, Crowley," in a tone of voice that is far too soft and understanding. "I'm sorry I didn't find it."

He looks it, too, like he's feeling the absence of those long years between 1862 and 1941 just as keenly as Crowley.

"Forget it," Crowley says; the sun has become unbearably bright. "It's nothing."

Aziraphale seems like he might argue, but wisely desists. "What did you steal from the auction yesterday, then?"

Crowley shrugs. "Maybe you'll find it in a hundred years."

"You wily old serpent," Aziraphale says, horribly fond; he pats Crowley's shoulder as he passes by, fingers lingering so briefly, and hard as Crowley looks, he can find no trace of admonishment in the words at all.

They retreat to the sitting room, where the television is already going on one of those insipid reality shows that Crowley finds so entertaining and Aziraphale finds so irritating. They bicker about it over the takeout, a well-trod old argument. Crowley goes to hang up the new plant and give it a stern talking-to about expectations. By the time he returns, Aziraphale's worked out how to use the remote and has found something that isn't reality TV. He actually seems quite engrossed, admiring the costume design aloud. He would; it mimics the early 1800s very well.

Crowley complains, but he makes no real effort to steal back the remote. There's something about Aziraphale making himself comfortable in Crowley's flat that he wouldn't interrupt for the world.

The days pass like that, fading into weeks.

Aziraphale wheedles Crowley into helping decorate the flat above the bookshop. He invites him to lunches, dinners, walks in the park. And other things, things they've only done when rigorous pretense was firmly in place: attending plays, concerts; going sightseeing, inasmuch as there are any sights left that they haven't seen and actually want to see; lingering at one or the other's flat, late into the night, well past the time when Aziraphale would usually hint that Crowley ought to go away.

That new plant has started to put out flowers that it shouldn't, either, and the others are clearly thinking about it. They're not like the ones at the bookshop, which would have been bad enough; these are delicate, soft blooms, white and pale gold and traces of pink. Crowley can't decide what would be worse: that it's Aziraphale's continued presence that's encouraging them, or it's something in his own essence that's changed, and they're reacting to it.

What will happen if Aziraphale decides to go, then? Will the plants go back to the way they were? Will he?

"Listen," he says, one night early in September when they get back to the bookshop after Pericles.

He says it before he can think better of it. It slips out of his mouth like a plea, interrupting Aziraphale's chattering analysis of how this version differed from the original showing.

Aziraphale hangs his coat up on the rack. Stupid thing, wearing a coat this time of year, with how many layers he has already. Really stupid thing. But Crowley watches him brush the lines of his jacket straight with pained fondness, because it is so very Aziraphale, and he loves Aziraphale.

"I'm listening," Aziraphale says, though a little absently.

He could back out. Stick to Plan A. Let all this play out without hurrying things along, trying to see where the end of the road is.

But he's still scrambled from the way they stood in the theater, so similar and so different to how they'd stood in a technically different building centuries before. How there had been no attempt through body language or warning looks on Aziraphale's part to keep any distance from Crowley at all. In fact, maybe with the excuse of how packed the playhouse was, Aziraphale had spent much of it pressed lightly against Crowley's side, arm to arm, the backs of their hands occasionally brushing.

"Why are you doing all this?" Crowley asks, barreling onward, because the uncertainty of it is more than he can endure. He thought he could be patient, stand still. But it's so blessed hard to stand still when Aziraphale's running at him at ninety miles an hour. He'd anticipated less of an assault, more of a meandering.

"All what?" Aziraphale asks, but his eyes have sharpened, taken notice; he's not absent now.

"The outings, the food, the...plant." Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and does not look down at the floor. He doesn't need to; the sunglasses conceal his eyes just fine, and he's not taking them off. Not for this.

"You don't like it?" Aziraphale asks, very much like he already knows the answer to that.

"That's not what I...that's not the point."

Aziraphale looks at him, too keenly for Crowley's comfort. "What is, then?"

It feels like Aziraphale has already seen through him, already knows everything Crowley could say, and the injustice of that wells up in him, threatening to spill over. Because, after all this time and all that's happened, he still doesn't know Aziraphale the way Aziraphale seems to know him; he still isn't sure of anything. Not sure enough, anyway.

"You weren't like this before," he says, and it comes out more accusatory than intended. "I had to bend your arm backwards sometimes just to get you to talk to me out of the side of your mouth. So the point is, what's changed?"

He half-expects Aziraphale to argue, to protest, but he doesn't. He deflates a little, though he doesn't fall to the mannerisms he usually does when he's uncomfortable; he stays where he is, and he meets Crowley's eyes.

"I wanted to be," he says, quietly, but not quietly enough to mishear.

"What?" Crowley says anyway. It's outlandish enough to demand clarification.

Aziraphale offers up a small, sad smile. "I wanted to be," he repeats. "If you can believe it. I didn't want to wait for you to hunt me down and give me an excuse to…" Here he hesitates, just briefly. "To be with you."

This is really more than Crowley bargained for. He never imagined that Aziraphale would just say it like that, out loud and plainly, revealing the answer to something that Crowley has wondered for so long—certain of it most of the time and uncertain the rest.

Aziraphale steps toward him. There's only a little distance left between them; there's something tentative in the motion, but Aziraphale still lifts a hand, still places it on Crowley's cheek. He can't move under the weight of it. Aziraphale's thumb runs over the serpent, tattooed into borrowed skin.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, fingers touching the stem of the sunglasses.

Crowley hesitates. Well, not really. He has to make a great, monumental effort to react at all, to move at all, which he tells himself is hesitation instead of paralyzing fear. But he nods, a tiny jerk of the chin, and Aziraphale gently takes the sunglasses and folds them and tucks them into a pocket in Crowley's jacket. His hand lingers there now instead, against Crowley's chest, and Crowley hopes he's not reading anything into the body's racing heartbeat, which he can't seem to control at this time.

"I was a coward," Aziraphale says, matter-of-factly. Crowley opens his mouth to argue—actually argue—but Aziraphale gives him a stern look and he shuts it again. "In some ways, I was. But I worried about your well-being, too, lest you think me entirely self-preserving. If anything happened to you, because we were...fraternizing." He makes a face, as if mocking his past self for word choice.

They would destroy you. How many variations of those words, repeated over the centuries, always when Aziraphale was trying to re-establish space between them—and usually succeeding?

"So I never could do enough." Aziraphale's fingers tense briefly against Crowley's shirt, and relax again. Stupid, the things the human body he merely inhabits does in reaction to that. The heart pumping like it's running out of time, the lungs trying to strangle him. "Never could match you. Always had to be reluctant, had to go along, at best." His features soften, just a little more, and there is that light. That glow. The sun shining on Crowley's scales instead of falling just wide. "I thought I...well, now I can. Do enough, I mean. Make up for it." Aziraphale's certainty finally falters here. "If you'll let me, that is, if you want..."

"Of course I want," Crowley says, holding down a despairing laugh. "That's the whole problem."

Aziraphale smiles, his whole face—his whole person—lighting up with the strength of it, just as Crowley leans in and kisses him. Somewhat clumsily, unfortunately; it's been a while since he bothered with this kind of thing. But Aziraphale's breath comes out in a rush against his face, and Aziraphale kisses him back, proving that he hasn't horribly misread a conversation that was actually about what good friends they are.

Which. They are. They're just also something else.

This goes on for a minute. Maybe two. Aziraphale keeps making these delighted noises, and Crowley doesn't want to pull away from the warmth of Aziraphale's hand on his chest, doesn't want to release the handful of crumpled jacket beneath his fingers, doesn't want to let go of Aziraphale, ever, ever again. They are not, strictly speaking, creatures of flesh, but they have been of the world for long enough to be so close as to make no difference, and this feels excruciatingly good, to be so physically close to someone he is already so close to, in so many other ways.

But at some point, Aziraphale does pull back, just enough to say, "That's not a problem. Not a problem at all. That's wonderful, really."

He sounds breathy in an entirely new way Crowley's never heard him sound before, and it punches him in the stomach, a little.

Crowley manages, "You could've just said. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"I'm afraid it's still hard to say things," Aziraphale says. "I'm in the habit of trying to make myself understood through my actions. Heavily-veiled actions, at that. And besides, words seemed inadequate, after everything." A darkness passes over his face that doesn't belong there; Crowley lifts a hand to smooth it away, and Aziraphale turns into it, lips brushing his palm without any hesitation at all. Something like static shock passes over his skin in reaction. "I've said many untrue things, recently. I thought you might not believe me. I'm sorry, my dear. I know I've taxed your patience greatly, but please let me intrude on it a little while longer."

"I forgive you," Crowley says, easy as breathing, and means it.5

Aziraphale looks a little astonished at that. Not offended, even. Just grateful. Like he wanted, needed, that forgiveness. Not something that the Serpent of Eden should really have the right to hand out.

But he's not the Serpent with Aziraphale. This is not a Temptation. This is his own feeling, maybe vice and maybe virtue but really, maybe just something that falls in the middle of all that, the way that they do. And it's no less good, or right, or powerful, for falling in the middle of things.

Aziraphale kisses him this time, and Crowley gets lost in the feeling even as he's trying desperately to memorize it. All of his confused, hopeful-but-guilty imaginings pale in comparison to this, to having Aziraphale enthusiastic and demanding in his arms.

When they pause for not-strictly-needed breath again, he says, with the awful grin that he knows Aziraphale half-hates, half-adores, "You've been courting me. Like a proper gentleman. You gave me a plant."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, somewhat pink in the face. "Oh, shut up."

"You watched television with me."

"Just the one programme—"

"You took me on dates."

Aziraphale stares at him, half-infuriated, half-adoring. Crowley will remember this look for his entire existence. Forever.

"Please stop talking," Aziraphale says, and Crowley indulges him.

Footnotes

1. Yes, he had once told Aziraphale that he had plenty of people to fraternize with. And he did. Just no one he liked fraternizing with so much as Aziraphale.

2. It's nice that Aziraphale managed to catch on to the image Crowley's been going for all these years, but really, this is an inconvenient time for him to notice it out loud.

3. Crowley had it, of course. Stole it later that day, hung onto it for centuries, and slipped it somewhere Aziraphale would find it, preferably after a decade or so when their middish-1800s irritation with one another had cooled off. But he still hadn't found it. World's longest game of hide-and-seek.

4. He doesn't read, no. But on occasion Aziraphale, in the process of pontificating, will read to him. And this one came back to Crowley awfully powerfully in 1967.

5. He is the same person who kept trying to get Aziraphale to run away with him even when Aziraphale said no over and over again, in varied and hurtful ways. He will keep coming back, he realizes. And this time, it sounds like he won't even have to go away again.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale/crowley #universe writes #A LOT MORE OF ME TALKING HUH #well i've had a good time

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animes-trash · 6 years

Text

LawLicht - Medieval AU

Hellooooow~ Here’s the fic I wrote with @karmakitty’s help (aka @kavourikarma) for the Event in the SL Discord Server~ (Long Post /!\)

Enjoy !

"Wait for me, Lichtan !" Hyde said, chasing after Licht who was walking too fast for Hyde's legs. During his tour, Licht had a weekend off. Kranz, Gil and Hyde took hours to persuade him not to practice for these two days. Licht, being as stubborn as always, protested but they ended up finding a kind of compromise: a medieval festival.

Hyde was the one who proposed this idea and explained that music had a big place in Medieval times and that there are inevitably activities or things to see in connection with the piano, and there were surely stables with horses, and Licht loved them. Even though Licht didn't say it, he really loved this idea. His father showed him a lot of hero movies, some taking places in the Middle Ages with knights, princesses and beautiful white horses. Certainly it was a bit cliché now, but Licht didn't care. He was also happy to go with Hyde, but he'd never admit it, let alone to this Demon.

"Walk faster, Shit Rat." They woke up early in the morning, on Licht's demand. Kranz drove them there and would pick them up later in the evening. "Hurry up. I want to feed Mr. Horse, " Licht said as Hyde managed to follow his brisk walk.

"I know you want to see the horses, but you could at least wait for your poor hedgehog!" Hyde whined as Licht rolled his eyes. They finally arrived at the entrance. It was a well-known festival that moves from city to city, they were lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

The venue was originally an old castle with a very large park, today it was filled with different stands related to Medieval times. Fake weapons, fancy clothes, replicas of old books and other stands for eating or drinking. Other places reconstructed Middle Age moments or facilities such as a pillory, a guillotine, a system for pumping water from a well and more. Places in the castle were also used for the festival, tours were organized and stalls were set up.

Most of the people were costumed. Licht, having no idea how to dress, kept his usual sweatshirt. Hyde, meanwhile, put on a typical villager costume of the time, although he kept complaining that these clothes were not true to reality. Sometimes he regretted not having kept his clothes from that time.

Once at the festival, Licht was already looking for the stables. They had a program but no map of area, so Hyde went to ask for one at the info booth. Licht took it from his hands and made a beeline for the animals. Hyde stood in front of him to prevent him from moving forward. "Lichtan, what’s the rush? The stables are at the other end of the park! Come on, let's do things in order. We can start by seeing the castle, a visit just to start. " Licht agreed and followed Hyde toward the big castle. A guide was ready to start the tour and there were just a few places left. They signed up and waited with the other people.

It was a large castle that was renovated not long ago, but still kept its old decorations, explained the guide. Most of the secret passages have been condemned but some of them are always accessible. Once the last latecomers arrived, the tour began. The group entered the castle with the guide's comments.

Licht had to admit that he was impressed by all these paintings and antique furnitures. "Things were really like that before?" Hyde wore a bored head "Basically, yes, even if this one has been modernized almost everywhere, if you like the old castles, I'll show you much bigger and more beautiful." He winked at Licht . Licht was always amazed by all the things Hyde had to show him. Whether it was places or others, he always finds a way to surprise him.

"On your left, the ballroom." says the guide. Licht turned his head and saw a magnificent period piano, obviously very well maintained. He imagined himself playing it in the Middle Ages, during a party filled with people dancing. He approached it but had to stop when he saw a barrier with "do not touch the instrument" written on it.

"Looks like we aren’t allowed to play it." Hyde said as he glanced at Licht, who looked upset.

"That’s stupid. As an Angel, I should have the right to play whenever I want." He tried to cross the barrier, but Hyde stopped him before the guide brought them back to order.

"Angel-Chan, I'm sure there's a piano to play outside. Maybe that one's too old to be played ?"

"A piano is never too old." Licht said to himself. But before he could reply, their guide called them.

"Gentlemen, here please, the visit will continue."

Licht reluctantly left the piano. Hyde wanted to find a way to make Licht happier, and he thought the horses would surely cheer him up. Continuing the visit, Hyde was lost in his thoughts. But when he returned to reality, when the guide announced that they were going upstairs, he realized that Licht had disappeared. He blinked to make sure he was not dreaming. How could Licht have disappeared ?!

He started to panic, maybe he'd been kidnapped by one of Tsubaki's subclass hidden in the group? When the guide had his back turned, Hyde snuck away from the group. Maybe Licht had just gotten lost? He prayed that was the case. He ran, looking everywhere he could, then heard a noise coming from the wall.

Intrigued, he knocked against the wall. "Hum, is there anyone in there ?" A silence ensued, then a blow was heard, followed by a voice.

"Shit Rat, is that you?! Where the hell am I?!"

Hyde was surprised and relieved at the same time. "Y-you're in the wall, Licht ! What did you do ?" He searched for a way to open the wall, or anything to get Licht out.

"Nothing !" He stopped, and after thinking, continued. "Well, I found an open closet and wanted to know what was inside, but it wasn’t a closet. I went in and the door closed, and now I'm stuck in this weird dark passage."

Hyde sighed. "You must have fallen into one of those old, secret, condemned passages that the guide was talking about earlier ... Wait, I'll get you out of there! Where is the closet you found?" Licht told him where it was, a few feet to the right. Hyde found it and tried to open it, but it was securely shut. He returned to the part of the wall where Licht was stuck. "Lichtan, the door doesn't open ... Stay there, I'm going to search another entry!" He began to look for logical places where a passage could be hidden.

"There's no way I'm waiting here, Shit Rat. I, as a pure and true Angel, am going to find the exit by myself." Hyde would have bet that Licht was doing one of his angelic poses. But he refused to leave Licht alone in a place like this without protection.

"No! It's too dangerous, Licht ! This passage has probably not been used for centuries! Everything is decrepit inside. Without light, you could hurt yourself, or worse, something could collapse on your head." He began to imagine the worst scenarios. He could hear Licht sigh.

"If you don't find a way in 5 minutes, I'm searching for the exit alone."

Fine, Hyde thought. It's always better than nothing. He recalled the times when he lived in such places and where these passages were generally hidden. Maybe pulling one of the candlesticks on the walls ? No, he wouldn't have the time to try them all. He remembered that hatches were often used and rather easy to spot, if we knew how to find them. He ran to the top floor, taking care to turn himself into a hedgehog to go unnoticed by the group, who was still visiting.

Once he was where the passage was supposed to be, he searched the corners of the rooms on the floor. He was relieved to find a latch that he pulled. Without having the time to understand what he was going through, the floor opened under his feet and he fell. "Ouch!" He yelped, rubbing his back. Even Licht's kicks were less painful than that. He shook his head to regain his senses and got up. He grunted, there really was no light here. He got up and hurried to join Licht. He called his name, paying attention to the volume of his voice. They could get in trouble if they find him there. He was careful not to break anything.

"Lichtan? Where are you ?" Hearing no answer, he was afraid that Licht had left by himself. But his fears stopped when he felt a kick in the back.

"I'm here." Hyde reached out and grabbed Licht's shoulders to make sure he didn't leave.

"Why did you hit me?! I'm already hurt here!" He whined.

"Oh, so the big noise was you."

"Yeah ! I came here to save you~ I deserve at least a kiss, don't I ?" They were still in the dark, but Hyde could easily guess that Licht was rolling his eyes.

"First of all, let's get out of here, where is the exit ?" Hyde took Licht's hand in his to make sure they were not separated.

Surely thanks to the fact of being a hedgehog, Hyde was able to see well enough in the darkness.. But when he was back to the hatch, it had closed. "Wait, the hatch was there !" He searched for a way to re-open it, but found nothing.

"You idiot rat, you knew the doors were closing behind you but you didn't do anything to keep it open ?" Licht tried to hit him, but given of the lack of light, it was the wall that took the hit. Licht groaned in pain.

"Hey there, Angel-Chan, you'll hit me as much as you want outside, but be careful here, please. I don't want any risk for you to be hurt." Hyde took a minute to think. They were in a hidden passage, and a passage inevitably leads to a place, it only remains to hope that it is not catacombs or dungeons, he thought. He took Licht's hand again and started walking.

"Wait, where are you going ? If I take a wall in the face, I kill you right here." Licht said.

"Let's follow the passage. With a bit of luck, it'll take us out of here." Licht nodded and they followed the path. Without realizing it, Licht grabbed Hyde's arm, who smiled. "Be careful here Lichtan, there are stairs."

He obviously warned him too late, because Licht missed the first step and slid forward. Luckily, he was holding Hyde's arm which, after a mini heart attack as he felt Licht fall, grabbed him by the waist. "What did I tell you? If you wanted me to grab you, you should just have said it~." Licht could tell how close Hyde was, because he could feel his breath on his lips. His teasing tone did not help his blush going away.

"Shut up, Demon! Let me go!" He said a bit too loudly.

"There's no way I let you fall again." Hyde smirked as he lifted Licht into his arms.

"H-hey put me down !"

Hyde went down the rest of the stairs. It must surely lead to the ground floor. "Mmmh, let me think about it... no."

"I'll kill you if you don't !" Hyde had to be careful because Licht was moving a lot, and he wanted to avoid a fall.

"Come on, we both know you won't kill me, you love you too much~." Licht wanted to answer but didn't know what to say. He just groaned and swore to hit Hyde the second they'll come out of here.

After a few minutes of walking, Hyde still refused to put Licht down, even if they were no longer on the stairs. They finally arrived in a dead end. "Great ! And now, we're stuck." Licht complained. Hyde put him down.

"No, we're not, watch this." He scanned the wall and found what looked like a door handle. In texture, Hyde guessed that it was very rusty. He had to break the door so that it opens, looking out to the back of the castle. They both took great breaths of oxygen, happy to breathe fresh air again.

Visitors to the festival saw them coming out of this old door, astonished. But they quickly traced their paths. "So, can the brave knight have a kiss from the princess, n-" a kick cut off Hyde's question. He ended up on the ground. "Why so much hate, Lichtan ?" He whimpered again, but got up quickly when Licht started to leave without him. They went back to the entrance of the castle and saw their guide, visibly panicked.

He ran to them, asking where they have been. Licht hesitated to tell them to watch their doors but withdrew. He ended by saying that they were lost and had to find the exit all alone. Now, to the delight of Licht, they went to see the stables. But before that, they stopped at a few booths on the way. They had different games related to the Middle Ages. But Licht turned his head when he heard music.

"Shit Rat, where is that music coming from?" Hyde looked at the festival schedule and saw that it was time for a small concert of about an hour of music with old instruments. Licht decided that they would go see the horses later, so they headed for the concert. Although it was nice to hear, Hyde had to admit that he spent more time looking at Licht's adorable expression when he listens to the music he likes rather than watching the musicians themselves. Hyde even caught a smile as he looked at Licht's eyes and the childish glow that shone inside.

At the end of the concert, they decided to go for a drink before going to see the stables. Licht even bought food to give the horses. On the way, Licht asked "Was the music really like that in those times ?" He really liked it, it was very different and the same at the same time. In addition, there were instruments he had never heard of.

Hyde took a moment to answer. "Kinda, yes. I have to admit that I'm surprised they still have these old instruments. I used to play one of them but I stopped when it became old-fashioned." Licht stopped walking, surprised. Hyde raised a bow in confusion. "You can play an instrument ?" He chuckled, amused by Licht's surprise. They started walking again as Hyde answered. "Yeah, even more than one. I was quite versatile back then. But now these instruments doesn't exist anymore, or are only played at festivals like here. I guess the only one who remains is the violin now." Licht's heartbeat fastened as he heard that Hyde played.

"You can play violin? You? A demon can play such an angelic instrument?"

Hyde laughed. "Well, yeah. I was a pretty good player. Even though I surely wasn't as good as you." He winked at him. "But I haven't played in ages. I'm kinda rusty now."

"Why did you stop ?" Licht asked him, still confused.

"Well..." he paused, as if he was searching for the right words. "I guess that, after Ophelia's death, I lost taste in pretty much everything, music included." Licht suddenly felt dumb for making him remember those painful memories. When he looked at Hyde, he saw his empty eyes. Not knowing what to say, he took Hyde's hand in his and held it tight as he interlaced their fingers. Hyde's heartbeat quickened, surprised but happy by this sudden gesture of affection from Licht.

They continued their way to the stable in silence, holding hands. They finally arrived in the stable. The horses were hitched with the equipment of the Middle Ages, there were also small ponies, here for the tourist attraction and the children could take a ride. Licht was amazed by these horses, which had nothing to envy to the proud steed of yesteryear.

He went to feed the horses after asking permission from the manager, then stopped in front of a big white horse. "Hello, Mr. Horse. There, eat this food. You are as white as an Angel. You could be a horse of Heaven." Hyde giggled as he watched him pet the horse. Licht glared at him. "Don't listen to this rat, Mr. Horse. He's dumb."

Hyde faked an offended look. "Hey ! I'm not dumb !" This time, Licht was the one laughing.

They saw people arrive on horses, and others leave. Hyde went to ask the manager if it was possible to go for a ride. He answered that yes, the horses knew the route and made a tour of the festival returning to the stables. "What do you think, Angel-Chan ? Wanna ride on a horse ?" Expecting Licht to be happy, he was surprised to see him pale, with fear on his face.

"Er, no, I’ll pass." He stuttered.

"What? Don't you love horses? It could be fun!" Hyde insisted.

"No, thanks. It... scares me."

A blush appeared on his face as he said the last two words, whispering them, almost as if he was ashamed. Hyde had his eyes wide open. Licht? Scared of something? He stared at him, as if waiting for an explanation. After a little while, Licht started. "When I was around 10, my parents took me to a riding stable. Riding a horse seemed fun to me, but when I was on it, it moved a lot and I fell. I had my helmet but I still ended up with a broken arm. I haven’t rode a horse since then."

Hyde understood, as a pianist, breaking an arm must be really terrible. He didn't want Licht to be scared but he still wanted to do the horseback riding. He had an idea and went to ask the manager, after he agreed, Hyde came back to Licht. "Well, if you're scared of riding a horse alone, then you'll ride it with me !" Licht raised a brow. "The manager said we could be two on one horse. You can go behind me ! I swear I won't let you fall."

After hesitating, and being influenced by Hyde's incitement, he agreed. The manager wanted to help them get on the big horse, but seeing the ease that Hyde had, he withdrew and told them that the ride lasted about half an hour, then he left to take care of the other horses. "How do you even climb up there ?" Licht asked, impressed by the size of the horse that passed him.

"It's like riding a bike, hard to forget." Hyde answered as he reached out his hand to Licht, to help him up. A small stepladder was also placed beside the horse for assistance. He finally managed to get behind Hyde, with his help. Hyde took the reins and, as the horse started to walk, Licht became frightened and wrapped his arms around Hyde's back. "Don't worry, Angel-chan." said Hyde, as he turned his head to smile at Licht.

"Look at the road, Shit Rat. Of course I can't get hurt. I'm an angel, after all." Hyde chuckled and nodded.

The horse trotted and Licht was surprised. It wasn’t as scary as he would have thought. He rested his head on Hyde's shoulder. With the slow pace of the horse, he found it kind of relaxing. He also found the ride interesting. To tour the festival on horseback, it doesn't happen every day ! After about 45 minutes, they were back in the stable.

"Mr. Horse, don't get me wrong, I love you, but why are you so tall?" Licht asked the horse as he was trying to climb down. Hyde had a devilish grin as he held Licht in a "princess style" before setting him back on the ground. Licht blushed as he yelled. "Will you stop taking me in your arms?!" He struggled, but Hyde had a too strong a grip on him.

"We'll see, maybe if you stop moving." he grinned at him. Licht sighed and stopped, but Hyde was having way too much fun to put him down. He waved at the manager as they were leaving the stable.

Licht gave Hyde a death glare that almost made him shiver. "Fine, fine. I'm letting your down. But you must admit that you would make a perfect miss in distress and me a perfect knight~ !" Hyde set him on the ground or else he knew Licht would murder him. They spent a moment looking at the different stands and the different activities the festival had to offer. The end of the day arrived fairly quickly. "Is there anything else to see now ?" Licht asked Hyde, who looked at the planning. "Well yeah, it's written 'Surprise Event : reconstruction of a Middle Ages scene by a troupe of actors', it could be cool, what do you think?" They agreed and made their way to the place indicated on the map.

A small crowd surrounded the square, which made Licht and Hyde sneak between people. Once they were able to see the scene properly, Licht was surprised. "Looks like it's an execution." He turned to Hyde and did not expect to see his face as it was. He was stiff and his face was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were wide open and visibly filled with tears that were obviously waiting to roll down his face. His expression was panicked.

Licht became very worried for half a second. "Hyde? Are you okay? Why are you like that?" His first question was stupid, obviously he wasn't okay. Hyde stuttered a few incomprehensible words and was shaking with tremors as his tears began to roll down his cheeks. Licht didn't know what to do, but he did not have time to think anymore. Hyde took his hand and ran as fast as he could, knocking people over, probably without noticing.

But at the moment, he didn't care at all. His gestures were directed only by two thoughts: to flee and to protect Licht. Once out and far enough away from the festival, Licht ran out of breath and stopped, forcing Hyde to do the same. "Hyde! What happened?! Why are we running?!" Hyde didn't answer and, still in panic, summoned his rapier. He held Licht tight against him in a protective way with one hand, and held his rapier on the defensive with the other.

Licht tried to say something but was soon cut off by Hyde's voice, broken by sobs and panic. "Are they still here?! Where are they?! Stay close to me, Licht. I can't-- I won’t let them get you!" Licht, deciding that he had to do something quickly, grabbed Hyde by the shoulders and slapped him hard enough to shake him.

"Hyde! There's no one here ! We're alone and far away from the festival! I am not in danger and neither are you! Now, breathe. There's a bench near us. You'll sit, take deep breaths and tell me what happened."

Hyde stared into Licht's eyes, he looked frightened now, but he seemed to have regained his senses. After a few seconds, he burst into tears. He took Licht in his arms as hard as he could and buried his head in his neck, shedding all the tears he had. Licht wheezed, due to the force with which Hyde hugged him. Surprised at first, he quickly wrapped his arms around him.

As carefully as possible, Licht made sure to sit on the bench next to them. He ran a hand through Hyde's hair to try to calm him down a bit. "Shhh, everything is going to be okay. We're safe here and there's nothing to worry about." He whispered in his ear in the softest voice he could manage..

As he spoke, Hyde hugged him tighter. A few minutes passed like that. Hyde crying and Licht stroking his back and running his hand through his hair. After a little while, his crying became sobs, and his sobs grew smaller, until it became a mere sniffle. When Licht felt that his breathing was calm, he asked him the question, still in a soft, calm voice. "So, you want to tell me what happened ?"

Hyde took a moment to think, and then began. "When I saw the guillotine, it reminded me of Ophelia's death and how I was so... powerless. I had the flashbacks of her head rolling to the ground..." His voice broke as he spoke the last sentence. Licht took his hand and held it tight. After a few breaths, Hyde continued. "And then, instead of seeing her, I saw you. Being the one who'll get your head cut off. I saw those people, who're only actors, killing you. It scared the hell out of me. Because I don't want to be powerless like that ever again. I want to move forward and be able the protect the one I love. And I-" His voice broke again and he began to sobs again. He buried his head in Licht's neck again, mostly because it was warm and reassuring but also because he was a bit ashamed of being seen like that.

He tried to speak again stammering but Licht cut him off. "Hey, Hyde, listen. I won't get hurt. I won't get killed. If something tries to attack me, I can beat it because I am strong enough to protect myself." He paused, breathed and then continued. "And think, if things gets more complicated and it appears that I can't handle it myself, I know you'll always be here to protect me just in case. Think of how strong you and I are. Together, we can beat anything. From the most dangerous subclasses to the old demons of the past. You don't have to worry about me, I am safe and I will stay safe, because you're by my side."

Hyde looked up to look Licht in the eyes. To his surprise, he was smiling at hi . One of those smiles he used to give him when he still thought he was a hedgehog. A small smile that, coming from Licht, represented a lot more. Licht wiped Hyde's tears away with his sleeve. He left his hands on Hyde's cheeks, causing Hyde to smile weakly. "I love you, Licht."

There was no need to say more. Although both of them had realized their feelings ages ago, Hyde was now the first to say them out loud. In a natural tone, Licht answered him. "I love you too, Hyde." With a blush on his cheeks, Hyde leaned toward Licht and, seeing he wasn't backing away and that he was blushing too, placed a kiss on his lips. A kiss that became longer than he expected, given that Licht was kissing back.

It was as if the kiss was the last thing they would do in their life. They put as much of their passion and love for each other as they could into the kiss. Hyde placed one of his hand behind Licht's neck, deepening the kiss.Their tongues met. Hyde knew one thing, he’d only tasted Licht's lips for a few seconds but he was already addicted.

They had to separate when they ran out of breath. They looked into each other's eyes, smiling. But that moment did not last long, a flash of light stopping him. Surprised, they turned and saw Kranz with a camera in his hand with Gil behind him.

"HA! I KNEW IT ! SEE GIL, I WAS RIGHT! AWWW YOU TOO ARE TOO CUTE. GIL WE SHOULD HAVE COME EARLIER I'M SURE WE MISSED IMPORTANT THINGS." Licht retreated at least three meters away because of his embarrassment.

"What are you two doing here ?!" Licht yelled.

"Well it's time. We came to pick you up. We're a bit late, though. We didn't find you at the festival so we searched for you and found you two here." Said Gil, in his usual calm voice.

"Oh... yeah, makes sense." Licht said, still embarrassed and red as hell.

"Anyway, let's get going, I'm hungry," said Hyde, who was almost as embarrassed as Licht. He grabbed Licht's hand and began walking toward the car, followed by Gil and Kranz who didn't forget to take pictures of them holding hands. "Wait, I'll be right back." Said Licht quickly as he went toward the festival again, though it had already ended. They watched him, confused. While waiting, Hyde asked Kranz, blushing. "Don't tell Licht I said that but could you... send me the pictures ?" Kranz had a wide smile. "Of course ! I can even send you more if you give more things to photograph." He winked at Hyde, who was definitely embarrassed to the max.

He turned to Gil, who had been staring at him for a while. He did not need to ask him what he was thinking. He has been with him for hundreds of years, after all. He just smiled. After a little while, Licht came back with something in his hand, which he gave to Hyde. It was a sandwich with ham and cheese.

Hyde had his eyes wide open. "What ? You like that, right ? Stop making that face. And could the three of you stop watching me like that? Kranz, for the love of God, please put that camera away!" He blushed and got in the car, followed by Kranz and Gil, and finally Hyde, who gave a last look at the festival. "Well, even if it wasn't always good, that day was kinda awesome." He thought as he bit in the sandwich and got in the car, next to Licht.

Fin~

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