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nyxdelanuit · 4 years

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How Close is Too Close (Mammon x Reader)

Part 2 to How Far is Too Far

I did it, I wrote the fluff @miiyaatsumu

You laid in Mammon’s bed as he rearranged some things in his room. Neither of you had thought ahead to bring any of your belongings, so you were dressed in whatever of Mammon’s he thought would fit you.

“What if they don’t let me stay?” Your voice barely cut through the silence, but you knew Mammon heard.

"They have ta, how can I protect ya if you're so far away." His voice was soft, but he wouldn't turn to face you. He was scared too. "If they really don't let ya stay, I'll just have ta come with ya. You're such a weak lil human, ya need the Great Mammon to protect ya." A bit of his ego finally bled into his voice, and he stopped fiddling with his possessions long enough to slip into bed next to you. "You're still tremblin', so the Great Mammon is gonna do ya a favor and hold ya. So you better get some sleep." A ghost of a smile lit your face as he let you nuzzle into his chest.

You were decidedly colder when you awoke. Your swollen eyes protested their opening, so you simply laid, buried in the sheets that smelled of rich amber and Mammon. Consciousness brought with it the awareness of two hushed voices, near enough that you could hear.

“And what is your excuse for her not being in her own bed?” The only other voice in the house that could be that stern was Satan, but you could tell it was Lucifer by the overwhelming disappointment laced in his tone. You wanted to protest, tell Lucifer that you couldn’t bear sleeping by yourself for a moment longer, but Mammon cut in first.

“I brought ‘em here. Lucifer, I- I messed it up. When I went to get ‘em, the pact mark was hurting em. It only stopped when I was holding her. I couldn’t risk it. It’s my fault, I think I missed her so much that it was hurtin’ her.” You cracked your eyes open far enough to see the anger on Lucifer’s face melt into something softer.

You were lucky that Asmo had hidden away part of your wardrobe before you had left, or maybe that had just been an excuse for him to buy more during his weekly Majolish sprees. Still, you were dressed nicely enough to show your face in front of Diavolo.

It was intimidating standing in front of him and Barbatos while they were talking about you. Even worse when they were discussing how to punish Mammon for breaking the rules to go get you.

“You left without permission from me or Lucifer, not to mention you weren’t even called-” Diavolo was uncharacteristically serious, but you couldn’t help but cut in.

"I was calling him. I don't know how to summon my pacts, but I wanted him to come." Your voice was shakier than you had intended, but the vaulted ceiling amplified it to be much louder than you expected. Mammon shifted uncomfortably next to you.

“It’s my fault, my pact was hurting her for bein’ so far from me. I was bein’ greedy.” Mammon looked to the ground, resembling a kicked puppy, and all you wanted to do was reassure him. It wasn’t his fault, not entirely. You had missed them all just as much. Before you could act on those feelings, Beel stood next to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve all felt it. Me and Belphie especially. She hasn’t been eating enough,”

“Or sleeping well,” Belphie blurted out, rubbing his drowsy eyes at Beel’s side.

“We’ve all felt her pull at the pacts. Mammon was the only one bull-headed enough to do something about it.” Satan sighed, appalled he had to side with his scummy brother. The brothers gathered around you one-by-one, until only Lucifer stood aside.

“Please don’t make me leave.” Your voice was thick with unshed tears, and that was the final straw for Lucifer. He took measured steps to your side, brushing a tear off of your cheek.

“It would look particularly bad on our part if anything were to happen to a transfer student after they left our realm.” He conceded, looking to Diavolo. All the poise seemed to deflate from Diavolo.

“You did want to unite the realms, my lord.” Barbatos and Diavolo seemed to have a conversation between themselves with no words, but after a few moments of silence, he spoke again. “This union will only strengthen our path to that goal.” Barbatos finished, to which Diavolo let out a great guffaw.

"Then so be it, if your brothers are willing to take her under your protection, then she is welcome to stay." He cheered, and the brothers wasted no time in smiling and pulling you into their grasp in celebration—all except for Lucifer, who turned his worried gaze to you and Mammon.

“Union…” The whispered word fell from Lucifer’s lips, lost among his brother’s voices. Lucifer knew Barbatos would never use his words so lightly.

You felt yourself come alive that night, spirits lifted by the brother's presence. Diavolo had told you not to worry about your previous life now, they would take care of all of that for you. So now, you just needed to adjust to your future.

After the exciting night you had catching up with the brothers and soaking in their presence, it felt a bit odd to stand in the doorway of your room. It looked exactly as you left it except for the messy sheets on your bed. Belphie must have used it as an emergency nap place.

“Hey…” Mammon’s voice floated in from behind you, “Just wanted to make sure ya didn’t need anything… ya know cause it’s my job to take care of ya.” He scratched at his neck, the faint blush creeping up over his cheeks. “Sorry ‘bout your bed, I didn’t think ta fix it up when I left.”

Oh… Oh… Mammon had been sleeping in your bed. You let him into your room, closing the door behind him. He flopped down on your bed, and you scurried over to fill the empty space. The sheets did carry his scent, and you hoped it wasn't too weird of you to be burying your face into them.

“Mammon… why’d you come get me?” He scoffed, staring up at the ceiling.

“You heard me. It was my fault, so I had ta make up for my mess. Besides, I’m your first man, and ya called, so I came.”

“Why’d you miss me so much?” His eyes drifted to yours, but he didn’t move.

“I don’t know. You’re just a puny lil human, I shoulda just let you live your life in the human realm…” You could see the pout on his lips, but you weren’t content with his answer.

“Mammoney,” you whined, and he finally pulled you in to rest against his side. “I missed you so much, it felt like I was suffocating.” You spoke hushed whispers into his chest, trailing your fingers over where you remembered the white lines to be.

“I missed you too, my human.” It was easier for him to confess into your hair, away from your prying eyes. Soft sighs fell from his lips as your touches lingered, and he was quick to reciprocate by drawing circles and nonsensical shapes into your back.

“Don’t leave me again.”

“Never. You’re mine now. One of my treasures. No one is getting their grubby hands on ya, or they’ll have to deal with the Great Mammon.”

“No one? Not even one of your brothers?” You had meant it to be a joke, but Mammon stopped tracing shapes on your back to hold you closer.

“Not even them.”

“Not even for all the grimm in the Devildom?”

“Don’t push it, human.” His voice was strained, and you angled to look up at him.

“Answer the question, Mammon.”

“Fine,” he looked away with a blush, “Not for all the grimm in the world. Just don’t leave again.”

"I love you, Mammon." You hadn't meant to say it, not really. But the way he was desperately holding you close while trying to make sure you couldn't see his face, plus his admission, you couldn't hold it back. He crushed you to his chest, pulling you on top of him.

"Is that what this is? Is that why I couldn't get ya outta my head? Why I couldn't sleep unless I was in your bed. Even then, it hurt. I missed you so bad when ya were gone." You could feel him shake under your touch, and you pressed up off of his chest to look in his eyes.

“I thought maybe it’d be better with ya here… but it still hurt. Thinkin ya would spend all your time with someone else. But ya love me? Really?” Tears slipped from his eyes like the diamonds he coveted, and you let them fall in favor of winding your arms around his neck.

“I love my first man, the one who brought me home. How couldn’t I? Remember what happened before I left?”

“I told ya not to leave,”

“I didn’t want to,”

“And you kissed me…” his fingers traced his lips.

“And you kissed me too… but then you didn’t say anything. And I had to leave… I- I thought that meant you didn’t want me.” As soon as the words left your mouth, Mammon’s was on yours. It was soft and desperate and tasted salty from his tears.

"I always wanted ya. I'm greedy like that. I always want you next ta me, lookin' at me, hell, even making fun of me. If that meant ya weren't leaving my side, I'd be okay with you makin' fun of me too." You brought a hand to his face, tracing his lips.

“Looks like you’re lucky then, cause you’re stuck with me now, Mammoney.” You giggled as you pressed kisses to his throat.

“You’re the lucky one, my lil human, having the Great Mammon by your side.” He ran his fingers down your sides, increasing the giggles pouring from you. “Now you’re never gettin’ away from me. You’re my human, and I’m your Mammon.” He pressed a chase kiss to your lips. “A deal is a deal, sealed with a kiss.” He smirked at you as you blushed.

“Do you seal a lot of deals this way?”

“Only the important ones.”

“I’m not sure… it didn’t feel like a deal-sealing kiss.”

“Oi, don’t make me do it again.” He placed another kiss to your lips anyways, spreading out to pepper your face with kisses now that he could. The two of you laid in bed until the early morning hours, Mammon taking his time getting comfortable with you.

He spent his time running his hands down your arms, laying kisses on your intertwined hands, writing his name in your palm. You found out he blushed from the shoulders up if you kissed his cheek, or when your fingers drew the familiar white lines on his bare chest, or if you whispered ‘I love you,’ in his ear. His new favorite sound was the content sigh you let out as you laid on his chest with your ear over his thrumming heart, or the way you tried to hold back your laughter as his fingers hit a ticklish spot on your side.

But his favorite moment by far is when you finally decided to give in to sleep, curling in on your side. He thought he was meant to leave, but you pulled his arm over your waist. You fit perfectly against him, legs tangled, laying just right so that he could lay kisses across your shoulders. For once, he was grateful for his sin; no one would dare steal away his treasure while they laid in bed with him. He could be as greedy as he wanted, now that he had you.TAGLIST:

@say-my-name-assbut @animefandomally @gokm1023 @verdandi24-blog @moonsaye @zbops @beatific-drabbles

#mammon x reader #mammon x mc #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #nyx writes

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sailorgreywolf-german · 3 years

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Warning Shots

Characters: Prussia, Germany

Summary: Prussia attempts to prepare his brother to go to Versailles to sign the armistice after the disastrous war.

Word Count: 5.5K

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The room was deliberately silent, the intense kind of silence that could only be described as oppressive. Prussia was keenly aware of it, but it was difficult to find the words to break it. His brother was sitting by the dying fire, his demeanor deflated. His blonde hair was unkempt and his arm was still bound beneath his coat, the damage from the mortar not healing as quickly as it should. His eyes were glazed over as he contemplated the patch of the rug in front of him.

The sight of the young man so broken rendered Prussia speechless. He had not intended any of this and there was no way for him to remedy it. The feeling of impotence and the rage that accompanied it was boiling in his blood. For all his effort, all his care and training, he had failed yet another brother. The spark of optimism and nationalism that had lit his brother's eyes when the war had begun was gone, replaced with the cold, distant grey of resignation.

Prussia was pacing the room, and the sharp sound of his boot heels against the floor were the only accompaniment to the scene. Even the fire did not have the energy to crackle or pop as it slowly ebbed into embers. Each of them were alone within their own regrets, their own recollections of what had happened. Prussia had gone East and been able to break through the front. He had been able, through a stroke of genius, to topple Russia's precious tsarist regime and expose the man to the agony of Civil war. He had assumed himself victorious when he returned with the treaty of Brest-Litovsk in hand. One part of the war had been easily won and their territory had been extended, which was all they had sought from this war.

But, the situation he had returned to was nothing more than a war of attrition, both sides wearying of the constant fighting. It was his brother's responsibility to handle the Western Front, and that front had turned into nothing but carnage. Prussia, in all his years of war, had never seen anything comparable. Those trenches were not the way that war should be fought. They were the stuff of Dante's inferno, like the never-ending purgatory of the ambitious country. Only fatigue had ended it all.

Now, even the victory that Prussia had won in the East was at risk and he could do nothing. He was not even privy to the decision. Finally, the frustration seized his voice and he gave expression to his thoughts, "This is an insult. We deserve a say in the peace, but they make us wait here while they talk in Versailles."

Germany looked up slowly at his older brother, pain and the fatigue of the years of war clear on his face. There was a tinge of red that stained the whites of his eyes. It looked as though he had been crying, but Prussia had not seen it. Was he hiding it for fear that his brother would think him weak? His voice was that of a broken young man as he spoke, "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm so sorry. I lost the war, and now the allies can punish us."

There was an unbearable weight in each word that Prussia wished he could alleviate. He would do what he had to as a brother to comfort him. He walked over to the couch and stood right in front of the blonde. He said, his voice ringing of the confidence he didn't not truly possess, "Don't apologize to me. You've done nothing wrong."

Those deep blue eyes, still slightly red, looked up at him unbelieving. The unmistakable sound of restrained tears permeated Germany's voice as he responded, "Yes I did! I wanted so badly to win glory like you did. But, I'm not you. No matter how hard you tried to teach me, I lost without you." He paused for only a moment to pull in a deep shuttering breath. Then, he continued, "You were wrong. I'm not ready to be a country on my own."

This final painful realization seemed to break the last of his discipline and glassy tears started to roll down his cheeks. A physical pain was growing in the middle of Prussia's chest. He couldn't watch this; he couldn't hear these words. The boy he had raised to be a strong military country was crying in front of him, trying to wipe away the tears with his single good hand.

The albino took a firm step forward and reached out. He put both of his hands firmly on his brother's face and tilted it back up so that they were looking directly at each other. He spoke deliberately and slowly so that Germany could understand every word he said, "Listen to me, Ludwig. You did not lose. We still had troops on French soil. We still have all the land Russia gave up to us. This was an armistice, not a capitulation. If I ever hear you say you are not ready to be a country again, I'm going to make you run laps until you collapse."

His own voice could no remain calm and even as he spoke words of comfort. On the last sentence, he could hear a break in his own decidedly stern tone. But, it was worth it when he saw a small smile appear on his younger brother's face. It faded quickly, but there was hope in it all the same. There was also a degree of wit in his response, "You know how many laps that would be, right?"

Prussia decided that it was enough progress to release his brother's face and sit down next to him. It was always disorienting how he had to look up at his younger brother. Since Germany had become a country, he had grown out of an adolescent body. Prussia could only infer that he had inherited his mother's height and build, because he was far shorter than his brother. He could see the clear shadow of his father in Germany's broad shoulders and towering height, there was a striking similarity in the face as well.

He responded to the question with a small smile of his own, "I know, and I also know that I've brought stronger soldiers than you to their knees." But, this levity could not last. The first comment the albino had made was still hanging in the air, not yet properly addressed. Germany's face fell again as he said, "When I agreed to the armistice, France said this was how it was done. He said that the victor always decides the term of the peace."

This information was certainly new to Prussia, and it was blatantly untrue. He understood, with a sense of revulsion, what exactly had happened. France had used his brother's inexperience to enact his own vendetta. Prussia had no doubt that the man still held a grudge for the peace that Prussia had forced upon him the last time they had fought. Trying to hide how angry this news made him, the albino said, "That is completely untrue. The idea that he won is a farce. If he wants to say he beat us, I suggest he have troop in Berlin first. But ask him if I made him sit on the sidelines when his emperor was defeated."

He gritted his teeth so that nothing more caustic could spill out. But, Prussia was raging on the inside. He had had the honor to give Talleyrand a spot at the table at the Congress of Vienna, despite the fact that the coalition had soundly crushed Napoleon. Now, Francis didn't have the decency to do the same. If the Frenchman thought that he could expect Prussia to passively sit by during this insult, then he was completely wrong. Both of the albino's hands curled into fists. Germany noticed the action and put his own hand on top of one of his brother's fists. He said, apparently deciding that he should not be the one doing the comforting, "Please just be calm, Gilbert. I made my own decision. Now we just have to wait for the terms. I'm sure they will be fair."

The albino responded with an incredulous scoff and stood back up. There was too much warring inside of him right now to be still. He said, explaining his initial reaction, "How little you know about European politics, little brother. Without us there to defend ourselves, they will pick our bones clean like vultures." Germany blinked at him, disbelief clear in his eyes. Then he said, "But why would England and America let France take advantage of this?"

The naiveté in his eyes was painful to Prussia. He knew how wrong his little brother was. He had been at far to many peace conferences to believe in such fantasies. A blind eye could be bought with the promise of land or power. It would be too easy for France to sweep the others aside and take whatever revenge he wanted to. Prussia's hands remained clenched in tight fists as he thought about what his former friend was probably doing at this very moment. France's grudge over the ostentatious way Germany had been crowned an empire was enough for him to want to bleed them dry. It was the typical, vicious, vindictive nature of European politics to demand more flesh than was owed.

Prussia finally spoke once the thoughts stopped rushing in his head, telling his brother the sad truth, "They probably have no interest in restraining him. It's best that you learn now: None of Europe will defend you." The albino had looked away to continue pacing as he spoke. It was a nervous habit that was better suited to a military encampment. In this setting, it seemed strange. At least his brother was used to it. He turned back to Germany to see how the words had impacted him. These were the truths that Prussia had hoped his brother need never experience. Now, it was his fault for not preparing his brother to face them. But, there was a light in the blue eyes as Prussia met them.

Then the younger spoke, and it explained his expression, "But you've always been here. Even when I don't deserve it." Prussia was torn between the urge to smile or shake his little brother. Instead, he forced himself to sit back down on the couch and put his arm around his brother. This was the best thing to do for now, for Germany's sake. He said, "Of course, Ludwig. What kind of awesome brother would I be if I left you alone?"

He meant to lighten the mood, but the words still sounded bitter to his own ears. He had failed in his duties as a brother once, he wouldn't make the same mistake. Germany still seemed to be struggling to express himself. He finally just said, "I'm sorry for everything. I made so many mistakes." Prussia tightened his hold on his brother's shoulder, wishing that this would actually be comforting. He just wanted his brother to stop apologizing, This war wasn't his fault, and whatever was coming was not either. But it was easy to see how Germany blamed himself, it was natural that a young country should take his first draw hard.

Prussia spoke again, trying to calm the blonde like he had used to when Germany had been little, "No matter what happens next, I am still proud of you. You fought as hard as you could; it's not your fault that war has become so ignoble." It was difficult to make the words sound completely sincere when Prussia was still seething. But, it was more painful to watch Germany break down. It wasn't Germany's nature to be so emotional; Prussia hadn't had to comfort him like this since he was very young.

This was supposed to have been a glorious war to help Germany really establish himself as a country, but now it was all falling apart. Germany leaned over so that some of his weight was resting on his brother. It was a familiar gesture from when he was a young child, he seemed to find physical contact comforting. The tension of the moment was broken when a door behind them opened. A third person, who was just a mortal, entered the room and spoke immediately, "We just received a phone call from Versailles. It is time for you to sign the treaty."

Prussia gritted his teeth, trying not to say what he would prefer the others do with their treaty. This was farce, revoltingly unfair farce. Considering what the outcome of this would probably, Prussia wished he could leave his brother here. It would hurt him to see the injustice that was coming. The albino got to his feet anyway, resigning himself to the Sisyphean task of shielding his brother from whatever was to come.

The trip to Versailles was marked by the same uneasy silence that had pervaded since the mortars had fallen silent. In the car, as the gleaming garish palaces of Versailles became visible on the horizon, Prussia reached over and put his hand on top of his brother's hand, which had clenched itself into a fist. He worked small circles on the back of Germany's fist, trying to relax the muscles. He said, trying to hide the edge in his own voice, "Everything is going to be fine."

Germany turned his head and his blue eyes met Prussia's red. There was a certain shine to his eyes that spoke of tears threatening to spill out again. His reply was curt, most likely because he was trying to keep his voice from breaking again, "I hope so." Prussia could hear the fear beneath the facade. He had taught Germany how to hide emotion behind a disciplined military front, and that technique did not fool him. But, he would let his brother act strong now. It would be better to show an unaffected face to France, England, and America. They did not need to see how much their mockery of a treaty affected Germany; it would only make them take further advantage of the situation.

As the manicured lawns came into view on either side, Prussia felt a rising sense of disgust. He had never liked this place. It wreaked of pretension and a false superiority. Why did France think he had the right to exert control over nature the same way he tried to control the rest of Europe? Both of them were lies. Sanssouci was far more beautiful because it understood its own restrictions. It also had the discipline and grace of the man who had built it. Versailles was an ugly, sprawling, ostentatious metropolis by comparison. It always caused an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He had only chosen to crown Germany an empire here as a gesture to wound France's pride.

Coming back to this place was a sick twist of fate that could be nothing but intentional. France knew what he was doing, and he knew what this would symbolize. Prussia stepped out of the car, and fought back the urge to walk on the grass to ruin the artifice. He glanced over at his brother, and saw that the muscles in the blonde's jaws were tense as they held a firm clench. It was clear that he was channeling all of his emotions into keeping himself silent and stoic. It was better like this for now. Prussia promised himself that he would do the same.

It did not take them long to find the hall of mirrors. The way was far too familiar. They had both walked it before, not so long ago. The atmosphere had been different, but the place was the same. Prussia noticed that his brother kept glancing at his as though he was expecting emotion of some kind. But, Prussia would not show it. If he broke, then Germany certainly would. Regardless, the emotion he was repressing was not sadness, it was anger and outrage. It was a soldiers skill to be able to act against his own rage. Losing your head in the middle of battle would only lead to loses.

France's voice carried into the hallway, his arrogance dripping from every word. There was a light hearted laugh in his voice that he had no right to. Did he really think he had won something? Prussia's knuckles turned white as he grabbed the golden doorknob and turned it. It was all he could do to keep himself calm. Germany walked past him into the room. The blonde's footsteps carried unmistakable heaviness. Prussia felt himself recoil a little. How had he failed again? Why hadn't he protected Germany the way he had promised to? If France stepped over the line again, he would pay for it.

The albino followed his brother into the room. It was brightly lit, and the mirrors on the wall reflected the light back in all directions. France was sitting in a chair speaking to England, who seemed to be bored of the conversation. There were a smattering of other smaller countries seated near the walls. Like scavengers, they wanted to gain from the scraps of the confrontation. None of them were actually important.

The Frenchman was speaking in his native language, but Prussia understood the words perfectly. Fritz had spoken beautiful, eloquent French and it had not been a chore to learn the language to understand him. France seemed to have forgotten that the albino spoke the language, because even as he turned to look at Prussia, he said, "I bet I can get the boy to beg my forgiveness before we're done."

The albino's jaw muscles were beginning to ache from how much he was attempting to hold back his passion. He could not respond to France's inflammatory comment. There was a slight comfort when England responded, in English, "Just do your job Francis, you've gotten enough out of this already." Their bickering was exceptionally usual, and did little to help the situation.

Prussia decided that it would be better to interrupt them, "Where is your third? Has your bickering finally driven your bastard child away?" The absence of America was interesting though. If the boy had stormed out, then Prussia felt a slight sense of respect for the boy. At least he held to his loudly proclaimed ideals. England threw a glare at France before turning back to Germany and saying, "It's not important. We have finalized the treaty and you two just need to sign it."

Germany took a solemn step forward, as though walking to his own execution. But, Prussia said sharply, "No, Ludwig." He turned back to the pair of blondes facing them, "We will sign nothing until we get a chance to read it." France grimaced and said, "Why do you have to read it? It's your punishment and you don't get a say!" England snapped at him, "They have every right to read what they're agreeing to. Give them the document, frog."

The Frenchman's eyes were daggers as they fell first on the Englishman, and then on Prussia. He was making it perfectly clear that he knew who his enemy really was. He paid no mind to Germany, because he knew the man was young and naive enough to accept anything. It had been a mistake for Prussia to leave his brother alone to negotiate the armistice, but he was going to rectify that now. If France wanted a fight, he was going to get one.

France deliberately stood slowly, making Prussia wait for him. It was an old trick of diplomacy. The one who could control the speed of the conversation had the power over the negotiations. But, this trick was cheep, and the Prussian would not let it fluster him. He tapped his foot impatiently on the ground as France leisurely walked over to hand him a copy of the treaty to the albino. The sound echoed off the walls, and more than one of the leaches in the room winced at the sound.

The Frenchman finally reached Prussia and fixed his gaze directly on the other's face. His expression was meant to be a clear warning, but the albino met it unwaveringly. He had sacked Paris more than once and seen France on his knees; he did not fear this man. What seemed like an eternity ago, they had been friends. Those days were long gone, and the pair now stood in a cold, tense silence. They were close enough that either of them could have drawn a knife and plunged it into the other's flesh.

The blonde finally broke the tension when he thrust the paper into the albino's hands. His voice was devoid of all levity when he spat, "Here. Read it all you want. It's no worse than what you did to me." Prussia snatched away the document so quickly that the paper almost tore. Out of the corner of his eye, the albino could see his brother's look of utter shock. Prussia could not turn back now; he could not let France intimidate him. A warrior, a knight never backed down from an inferior opponent.

He looked down at the document and read over it quickly as France looked on, a small smirk on his face. Prussia got through the majority of it quickly. It was far from standard, but it was what Prussia had been expecting. With each article rage crept its way up the albino's throat. He could taste it hard and metallic on his tongue. This was an more than an affront, it was an attack. Who was France to reduce the size of the army? The army that had made Prussia great, that had allowed Germany to be unified.

It only got worse as he read. He was struggling to keep his face blank. If France knew how much this hurt, he would glory in it. But, as he flipped through page after page, the treaty took even more that it had no right to. The lands Prussia had won against Russia were not up for debate. The reparations were far more than he had asked of France. But, as he reached Article 231, all the rage he had been feeling overwhelmed him. This simple insult, written as though it was innocuous, broke through the dam of discipline. The anger washed over him in curiously cold waves. The rage that animated him in battle was hot, but this was cold and remarkably certain. Prussia said, his voice flatter than it had been all day, "You want us to admit guilt for the war? That's low, even for you."

He looked directly at France, the sight of the man's face brought back hundreds of years of affronts and insults. One stood out among all the rest. Prussia remembered in sharp detail what France's rapier had done to his little brother. He remembered the stink of the quagmire of blood and wet earth Holy Rome had been left in. He remembered brushing back pieces of blonde hair off of his little brother's cold forehead as he realized the devastating truth.

The Frenchman seemed to detect the shift in Prussia's manner, but he did not seem to know what to make of it. Yet, his arrogance continued to rule him, and he said, "You are guilty. You goaded Roderich into war." Prussia took a small step forward, and he spoke, "If you want a reason for this war, look in the mirror."

Then, he dropped the stack of papers that constituted the treaty. They hit the floor and the loosely bound pages flew in every direction. Gasps echoed around the room as the onlookers realized what was happening. No one looked more throughly appalled than Germany, who looked like he couldn't quite comprehend his brother's action. But, Prussia knew he was speaking out to protect his brother's honor. He would never let his brother sign a document that took the blame for the entire war.

Prussia took a side step and walked around France, who was looking dumbfounded. He then addressed the entire room, "Do any of you really believe that I started this? We are all guilty, and you know it." He turned slightly so that he was able to hurl more words at France, "If that was the case, Francis, why did you have fortifications on your border? You wanted an excuse for a fight as much as I did."

The albino could hear his blood pumping in his ears. He could feel every eye on him. He continued, "You all wanted a chance to fight. We all have our ambitions for power or land. All of us had the weapons ready to fight. I doubt any of us were actually fighting for Serbia." The feeling of finally laying bare the truth that had existed in European politics for centuries was intoxicating. These were the words that no one dare speak.

Prussia continued to speak, even though he could hear the whispers and gasps of the assembled countries, "I wish I was the belligerent tyrant you want to paint me as. You would all be kissing my boots by now. If you want to find the reason for this war, look to your own actions."

He caught the eyes of England, and the look in the green eyes was judgmental. Without a word, the British man condemned this entire speech. But, he would not escape scrutiny either. The albino turned his attention to him next, "Oh, but you hide your intentions behind pretty words like neutrality and self determination. If you want countries to determine their own fates, then ask India what he actually wants. But you wouldn't dare risk your precious empire for your professed ideals. You are both terrible hypocrites."

Another round of gasps went around the room, although there were some slight smiles from some of the colonies. They were glad to hear their precious, thwarted ambition spoken. That was enough to make Prussia smile and say, "You don't hate me because I'm different than the rest of you. You hate me because I'm honest about what I want. I'm your mirror and you hate seeing what you all really are. We are all thirsty for each other's blood."

Having finally, apparently recovered from Prussia's flippant refusal, France rounded on Prussia. His blue eyes were alight with a rage that seemed to match the albino's in strength. He said, "Don't you dare play the victim, Gilbert. You have attacked me over and over again to satisfy your own ambition. I tried to be your friend and you took advantage of it."

The albino could scarcely believe that France could lay the failing of their friendship at his feet. He was not the one who had rend the bond between them with the chaos of war. Prussia squared his stance in front of the blonde and met his condemning gaze unflinchingly. He wanted France to see his eyes and know exactly who he was dealing with. This blonde peacock could not possibly understand what Prussia had given up for the power he had now. It was easy for a man who had been handed an easy life by Rome and Charlemagne to condemn ambition. And yet, France had always stomped his feet like a petulant child when he lost.

Prussia smirked, "Tell me, Francis, when did you stop wanting my friendship? Was it when I became a threat instead of someone to pitied?" France snarled back at once, "I should have stopped you from walking over the rest of this continent decades ago!" The albino took a step forward, and sneered, "Do you really think you could have?"

England could no longer sit back with idle judgment. He appeared in Prussia's field of vision at France's side, his usually pasty white face bright red. Prussia didn't fear him either. England was a small man with a very large navy. Attempting to reassert order, the Englishman said, "You are both being childish! Just sign the treaty so we can put this entire unfortunate business behind us."

Prussia scoffed again; it was so predictable that England would make himself look like the perfect gentleman. He said, voicing his contempt, "You know I'm right, Arthur. Or are you that deluded?" The scowl deepened on the Briton's face. There was some satisfaction in seeing both France and England frustrated with his resistance.

But, the soft touch of a hand on Prussia's shoulder stopped him from elaborating. He turned to look at the source of the touch. His brother had put his hand on his shoulder. Germany's eyes were painfully pleading, the blue was begging for understanding. Prussia bit his tongue immediately, unwilling to continue if he was hurting his little brother. There was an ache in his chest as he met his brother's eyes, and it hurt enough to silence him. The younger spoke, using German to make sure they only understood each other, "Please stop, Bruder. I can't fight anymore."

Prussia's eyes passed over his brother's bound, injured arm and his worn face. All this European fighting was hurting him, and Prussia had been doing more of it to defend him. No matter how angry the albino was, this was not worth it. Germany continued to speak, "I'm not as strong as you. I wish I could be."

Prussia took a deep breath to calm himself. His duty was to be a good brother, so he would shelve his grudge for now. When he had given Germany the title of empire, he had trusted him. So, he nodded and said, "Do what you think is right." He glanced back at France, who was glancing from him to Germany, waiting for one of them to speak. Prussia fought back the urge to hit France. It would not be productive, but it would make him feel better. But, he would let Germany speak for them both.

The younger said, "We will sign the treaty." A sickeningly triumphant smile spread across Frances face, while England let out a relieved sigh. The Frenchman, unable to contain his smugness, said, "It's good to see that one of you has sense."

Prussia clenched his hands again, channeling all his anger into them. He wanted to snap back, but he was restraining himself for his brother's sake. France walked over to where the treaty was laying on the floor, and he looked as though he was about to bend and pick it up. But, then he stopped himself. Prussia had a sinking feeling as France turned to look at him with that same triumphant smile. His playful lilt sounded incredibly out of place when France said, "Ludwig, you should pick this up so you can sign it."

Germany looked uncertainly at Prussia. He was clearly confused, but Prussia understood perfectly. France wanted Germany to submit to further humiliation. But, England stepped in. The Briton stormed over to the scattered pile of papers and said, "Bloody hell, Francis. I have had enough of your games."

With that, he angrily bent down and picked up the entire document. He stomped over to a table that had apparently been set up for the formal signing. There were fine pens, still completely untouched, sitting on the table. England turned again and with the air of a school master chastising his students, said, "Now, sign the damn treaty. No more petty arguments from anyone."

Germany took the pen and put his signature on the last page of the offensive document, all in complete obedient silence. Prussia knew he must do the same, but he hated it all the same. France was making a mistake that history would undoubtedly repudiate. Prussia would not let himself forget this, and the next time he invaded Paris he would not be kind.

The albino's steps were dignified and measured as he approached the repugnant document. He did not dare look at France, lest he lose his temper again. The pen was smooth against the callouses of his sword hand. A tiny crack showing in his soldier's discipline, Prussia looked directly at his French rival and said, "You should be careful who you call a monster." He flicked his wrist casually and finished his signature, the ink looking like the blood of Judas on the page. Then he said, "Because, someday you might find they've actually become one. Then you'll be the one begging for mercy."

#hws prussia #hws germany

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jemej3m · 5 years

Note

The fake exes AU is INCREDIBLE!!! You captured all the characters so well. Are you planning on continuing it (no pressure if not but !!! if so)

when am i planning on continuing it…. how about now?

smile and wave boys p1 here

Neil bashed against the flat’s door with his fist, knocking continuously even when the door handle turned.

“Jesus Christ,” The Andrew look-alike snapped, giving Neil a once-over. “The fuck do you want?”

“You’re not Andrew.” He remarked. They were identical in every sense of the word, same hair, same eyes, both with glasses and a firm set to their frowns. But this was decidedly not the man Neil had slipped into routine with at Sweeties, and Neil didn’t have the time to be dealing with clones. “Where’s Andrew?”

The doppelganger looked over his shoulder. “The fuck have you done this time?” Turning back to give Neil another derisive glare, he walked away from the door. Andrew quickly took his place, dressed in sweats and distinctly unimpressed.

“How the fuck did you figure out where I live?” He crossed his arms and was still wearing those sheathed armbands, even within the confines of his own flat.

“Everyone living on campus’ addresses are in the logbooks.” Neil said.

“And those are confidential.” Andrew pointed out, stepping back. “Goodbye.”

“That’s not the main concern here,” Neil insisted, sticking out his hand to stop Andrew from closing the door. “Will you just please -”

“Don’t.” He said, deceptively calm. “I hate that word.”

Neil took a deep breath. “Alright. Fine. Come with me. To Sweeties. I’ll shout you a coffee.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a breath before resting the most unimpressed glare Neil had ever witnessed upon him. It didn’t matter. Andrew muttered out “Fine.” and disappeared within his flat once more. Five minutes later he appeared in jeans and a black sweater, wallet tucked into his back pocket.

Christ. Neil had no idea how the fuck he was supposed to explain this to a man who was probably the definition of an antagonist. How was he supposed to justify any of this?

If Andrew noticed Neil’s anxiety as they walked to the cafe, he elected to ignore it, instead hooking his thumbs into his pockets and dawdling like he had nothing better to do. He truly was the definition of infuriating.

When they’d finally sat down - in their corner, nonetheless - Andrew crossed his legs at the ankle and opened his hands. “Well, Josten? I assume you didn’t invite me out for my company.”

“No,” He admitted, fingers tracing the circular scars on the back of his hand. “I seem to have found myself in a bit of a situation.”

“Is that so.”

“I misjudged many things.”

“As you often do.”

“And then I may have accidentally involved you way more intricately than initially intended.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “What.”

“Well -” Neil grit his teeth. “I mean, really, it started because I was - am - friends with Allison and that lot, and they know a lot of people, but I don’t. So someone walks up to me and asks if he knows me: We realise we have friends in common, all is fine and well, he talks a lot but he’s fine. But he one day decides to ask about my love life, and asks specifically what I did on my last date.” Andrew hadn’t zoned out yet, which was more than what Neil expected.

He continued on. “I don’t really want to tell him that I’ve never dated or been particularly interested because it’s apparently too complex for anyone to understand, so I lied. I told him that my last date hadn’t really worked out, but then…” He sucked in a deep breath. “He asked who it was and I gave him the name of someone I was so sure he wouldn’t know, so that he couldn’t hassle them for the truth. That was you.”

Andrew’s eyes were two judgemental slits. Like a snake waiting to eat but having to wait for the poison to work first. Neil soldiered on regardless.

“Except -” He grimaced. “The man just happened to be your cousin, and I had no idea he was your cousin till he told me. After I’d told him we went on a date. So - yeah.” He deflated into the cushion.

“You told Nicky we went on a date.” Andrew said, flatly.

Neil nodded, miserable.

Andrew looked him up and down, made a scathing sound and said “Fine. I won’t say anything.”

Neil let out a indistinguishable noise of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. We should probably figure out what to tell Nicky if he asks, right? Because he will ask.”

“No need.” Andrew flicked his fingers dismissively. “Saturday morning coffee at Sweeties. I vaguely know enough about you that it should be convincing.”

“I never thought I’d have to rely on you to save my ass.” Neil remarked, standing up as he drained his coffee. Andrew followed him silently out the door of the cafe, where he immediately turned and walked in the opposite direction to Neil’s walk home.

“Andrew, wait.” He walked briskly after the man and reached out to grab his arm: When Andrew moved out of his reach, he pulled back, and waited for the man to turn around instead.

Andrew arched a delicate brow.

“We’ll still do Saturdays, won’t we?” He rocked back onto his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I mean, we’re technically fake exes but it won’t change anything, right?”

Andrew exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes briefly, before pulling out a lighter and fiddling with it, occasionally sparking the flame. When he looked at Neil again it was from beneath hooded eyes, peering up through his lashes.

“No. It won’t.” He promised.

Neil smiled, jogging backwards. “Okay. Oh, and thanks.” He swivelled on his heel to run home, and only looked back once: Andrew was staring pointedly at his lighter, leant against Sweeties’ brick exterior.

Neil shook his head to himself. He always found himself in these odd situations that he just barely was able to wriggle out of. Maybe one day he’d learn, and his life would become less…ridiculous.

Until then, he’d deal with the consequences.

aah hahahh hahh aaaa

#andreil #fake exes au #andrew minyard #neil josten #hipster minyard #nerd josten #why do yall do this to me every time i try to write a one shot #i love you guys but wow #andrew is a big gay mood #all for the game #jem writes

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fandomsnerd · 4 years

Text

Fighting words

(Cross posted with AO3)

There was blood on his knuckles. He watched it soak off, slowly diffusing into the bowl of water, tinging it a dirty red. He flexed the hand, wanting to disturb the swirling red tendrils, promptly wincing at the sharp jolt of pain running up his arm the moment had caused. Hardly his first stupid decision of the evening.

“You’re supposed to be cleaning the hand, not just staring at it.”

Jaskier’s flicked over to the Witcher, stood, arms folded across the room, frown tattooed across his brows as he watched Jaskier waste time playing with the water meant to clean him.

“I am…” He trailed off, there was no point turning this into another unnecessary fight. Swallowing down the pain Jaskier set to work scrubbing off as much of the blood as he could. It felt almost futile a task, the open cuts on his knuckles just sluggishly continuing to bleed when he removed his hand. At least he will have gotten rid of the blood that wasn’t his. The fucking bastard. His mind snapped back, remembering the crack of fist meeting flesh, the crunch of broken cartilage -

The sharp pain of someone touching his hand snapping him out of the trance. Jaskier yanking the hand against his chest, cradling it. He felt tears, hot in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. Fuck. Geralt merely grunted in response, reaching gently for the hand again. Jaskier batted him away weakly, keeping the hand firmly guarded against him.

Geralt sighed, “We need to wrap it Jaskier.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s broken.”

Jaskier sucked in a breath. It was broken, he knew that, still, something about hearing Geralt actually say it made it so much more real. As carefully as he could he unravelled, letting Geralt take hold of the hand. Jaskier hissed at initial contact, uncommittedly attempting to tug it back, but this time Geralt had grasped his wrist, holding him in place. He grunted irritably, and got started on cleaning each of the cuts, forcefully scrubbing out the grime Jaskier had missed. The bard swore quietly, trying, but failing, to remain composed as the Witcher tended to his wounds.

Geralt sighed again, letting go of Jaskier to grab the bandages he had on hand. “It may need a splint.” He shook his head in annoyance, looking at the bard. “It was stupid.”

Jaskier looked away, avoiding Geralt’s gaze, “I don’t regret it.”

“You will. Tomorrow, or next week. When it still hurts, and you can’t play that damned instrument of yours.”

Jaskier let out a surprised laugh, “is that what you think? That once I realise the consequences of my actions, I’ll, what, regret defending you?”

“Dammit Jaskier you shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.” Geralt growled, tugging slightly harder than intended on the bandages he was wrapping around the bard’s hand. “I don’t need anyone protecting me, me or my honour.”

Jaskier winced at the pressure on his hand, bones protesting as they where pushed back into place. “Maybe…maybe sometimes it is less about what you need and more about what you deserve.”

Geralt snorted, “What I deserve is to have travel companions smart enough not to start bar fights over petty name calling.”

“Geralt…”

“It was stupid, you shouldn’t have done anything”

“Oh, so you would have me just- sit idly by as that man- that self-important pompous asshole struts around making a- a- mockery of you- of us both! Tarnishing the very reputations, I have worked so hard to maintain, is that it Geralt?!” Jaskier spat the final words out, feeling the heat of rage restoking itself within him. He tugged his now bandaged hand free from the Witcher’s grasp and set to angrily pacing the room.

Geralt sighed, again. “You can’t go punching every villager we meet who takes a disliking to us Jaskier.”

“Oh hhoh you’re just saying that because you didn’t hear what he said, the rat nosed bastard! He deserved exactly what he got, thinking he can just go around calling you a- a- a—”

“A monster?” Geralt calmly finished for him.

“Yes! You- oh.” Jaskier deflated slightly, realising Geralt evidently was already aware of exactly what had transpired earlier. “Ah, you heard that then.”

“Yes Jaskier.”

“And you’re not- you don’t mind?”

“It’s fine, Jaskier, it doesn’t matter.”

“It- it doesn’t matter?” Jaskier spluttered, hands flailing as he searched for a suitable response. He considered simply throwing something at the Witcher, beat some sense into him.

Geralt shrugged. “I’ve long made peace with the name, I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either.”

“But I do.”

“Why?”

“Because- because you’re not one!”

Geralt fell silent, “I’m… not a man-“

Jaskier lobbed the nearest object at him, Geralt grunting in surprise as the thick book slammed directly into his face “Jaskier-“

“You’re not a monster!”

Geralt held up his hands, hoping to in some way placate the bard, “Jaskier-“

“You’re not- I – can’t stand them thinking it, let alone- You! about yourself!”

“Dammit Jaskier, calm down.”

Jaskier paused, staring at the Witcher in clear unhidden rage. He could feel his hand throbbing in pain, waving it around so soon after breaking it should probably be added to the list of stupid things he’d done that night. “I can’t just- you’re not a monster Geralt.”

Geralt rubbed his temples, this was decidedly not how he had imagined the evening unfolding. “Alright.”

“Al-alright?!”

“I know… I know I’m not a monster in the way that they mean the word, and that is enough for me.” He moved, slowly, closing the distance between him and Jaskier in the hopes of coaxing the dammed bard to sit down. Stop damaging the already broken hand he had just reset.

Jaskier spluttered at him, eyes flicking away to once again the Witcher’s gaze. “that’s not- you shouldn’t have to deal with being called- Geralt you’re not a monster.”

Geralt placed a hand on the bard’s shoulder, to shift him over, towards the bed. “It’s okay, Jaskier, really.”

“It’s not-“

“it is.” They where so close together now, foreheads almost brushing, Geralt wanted to take a hand, curl it under Jaskier’s chin, raise his head. He wanted to thank him, for being so… ridiculously fierce and… stupid. Thank him for caring, when so many others didn’t. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. take the bard’s trust, friendship, loyalty, and taint it with his feelings.

Jaskier finally looked up at him, staring back. For a second Geralt worried that he somehow knew what the Witcher had been thinking, knew what Geralt had been feeling. Instead Jaskier just sighed, shook his head at the entire situation, “it’s not fair Geralt, you- you deserve better.”

Geralt chuckled, humourlessly, “it doesn’t matter what I deserve-“

“It should.” Geralt almost gasped at the statement, as clear and concise as it was. There was no question in the bard’s voice, to him this was a definite fact.

He’s not sure who moved first, perhaps they moved at the same time, both leaning in, covering the small gap between them, lips meeting. A chaste peck quickly turning into more as they pressed their mouths together, Geralt risking a nip at the bard’s lips, reaching out, grabbing him by the hips and yanking him against Geralt and-

“OH FUCK!” Jaskier stumbled back, clutching his broken hand, the jostling too much for it.

Geralt let out a dry chuckle, watching the bard jump around in pain, “here, Jaskier, let me see.”

Jaskier held out the offending arm, letting Geralt tug the bandages back into place, wincing at each touch. He watched the Witcher, nervously, “I- Geralt-“

Geralt looked up from his task, pausing in it to rest a hand against Jaskier’s cheek and pull him in for a single, simple kiss, hoping the action would answer any and all of the bard’s current questions. Judging from Jaskier’s smile, it had. Geralt finished with the bandages quickly enough, this time allowing for no protests as he pushed the bard down, onto the bed, “rest, Jaskier. And don’t move that hand.” He paused, “and no more bar fights.”

Jaskier bounced back onto the bed with a huff, “I make no promises.”

Geralt grunted in reply, not thrilled but also unsurprised by the response. He moved to tidy away the rest of his medical supplies when Jaskier caught hold of him with his good hand. “lay with me?”

He had no chance of hiding the smile tugging at the corner of his lips at hearing the question. Careful, so as not to disturb Jaskier’s hand any further, Geralt lay down beside Jaskier, smile creeping larger when the bard shifted to press himself against Geralt. He turned, tucking his chin down to see the bard staring back at him.

Lying there, Geralt found himself thinking that he simply didn’t know how he was supposed to care about what the tiny backwater villagers thought of him, what they called him, when it was clear, to the one person who mattered, he was not a monster.

#The Witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt/jaskier #gaskier #my fics

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mostfacinorous · 4 years

Text

GO Whumptober Day 20: Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore... [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19]

They’d been on a stroll, like so many others, around the lake in St. James’, when it happened.

It wasn’t the first time, exactly; Aziraphale knew of several other accounts, most of them dismissed as fiction or poppycock, but it had never happened to him before, and, judging by Crowley’s alarmed sounding squawk, which he would certainly not admit to emitting, later-- he was surprised as well.

One moment, they had been in present day, Aziraphale’s hand in a bag of crumbs, on the lookout for any hungry or friendly looking wildlife, the next, they had taken a step forward and found themselves in a populated square, the grounds paved in wood and stone and dirt, the people decidedly confused by their appearances.

“Well!” Aziraphale exclaimed, albeit under his breath.

Crowley took a step backwards, as though he expected to be able to reverse his way into the future.

For the place they were was instantly familiar; they’d been here, only not for hundreds of years. Well, they’d been here the entire time, but the when was hundreds of years prior to the moment they’d just been in.

Aziraphale couldn’t explain how he could tell. It was like a taste, almost. The Earth hadn’t aged yet. He couldn’t pin down the exact year, but the vintage was younger than the one he was used to.

“It’s so long ago!” Aziraphale said, then clapped delightedly, bouncing on his toes. “Oh, Crowley, our own Moberly-Jourdain incident! Oh, we shall call it the Crowley-Fell Adventure.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale huffed.

“Well it sounds better in alphabetical order, but if you insist we can call it the Fell-Crowley Incident. It does have a certain ring to it.”

“Aziraphale, one- Crowley-Fell sounds better, yeah. Two, you can’t write about this at all, we’re keeping a low profile, and three, which side do you suppose is responsible for this, and why do they want us now instead of back home?”

That did serve to deflate Aziraphale’s glee a bit.

“Well.” He said. “I suppose perhaps to make a point. They mightn’t have succeeded in their hopes of killing us or forcing me to fall, but they still have power over our lives.”

“Right. But why now, of all times? And when is now, anyway?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I imagine it was Heaven’s doing. They can’t conceive of a worse time than a dirty one. Let’s just hope we’ve landed between plagues.”

Aziraphale looked around.

“Pardon me,” He said to the first person he saw who didn’t avert their eyes and hurry past. It was a boy, probably close to being thought of as a man in these days, likely only beginning to breach teen-hood.

“Milord?” The boy asked, eyeing his clothing uncomfortably and doing a half bob of a bow, clearly unsure what to make of him.

“Oh none of that,” Aziraphale said, waving off the formality. “My apologies, I think we’ve gotten a little lost. Ah-- our ship, you see, a rough voyage. What year is it? And who is King?”

The boy looked a good deal more suspicious, of a sudden, and responded with the same incredulous snideness of teenagers everywhere. “It is 1204 in the year of our Lord, and King John rules England.” Aziraphale could almost hear the duh that would not be forthcoming for some time yet.

“1204, Crowley!” He exclaimed. “We have been away far longer than I thought!” He shook his head. “Thank you, lad, and if you can, start saving grains for your family now. The… uh… church says it is to be an especially cold winter.”

The boy looked, if anything, even more distrusting, but knuckled his brow and took off, glancing back at them as he went.

“Come on Angel, let’s go get some clothes that won’t stand out so much. We need to blend in til we can figure out how to get back.”

“You know… it mightn’t be so bad, if we can’t ‘get back’.” Aziraphale said ponderously as they walked.

“What are you talking about?” Crowley sounded disgruntled, to say the least.

“Well, you see, in all the fictitious accounts of time travel, the people doing the traveling have finite lifespans. They all want to go back for their families, their loved ones, to be with them. We don’t have that problem.”

Crowley looked askance at him.

“Sure, but do you really want to live through all this all over again? And isn’t there the fear of running into ourselves? I don’t know about you, but if I ran into me, I wouldn’t wait to ask questions.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightened at that. “I should quite like to have a cup of tea with myself, actually-- what a grand way to catch up on the goings on of the time.”

“Aziraphale, focus.” Crowley snapped. “There is a reason we have been sent back here and I suspect it’s to do with what’s coming in the future-- near to when we’re from. We need to find a way to get abc and stop whatever it is from happening.”

“But if we don’t hurry the process, we’ll have an awful lot more time to stop whatever it is,” Aziraphale pointed out, sensibly, he thought.

Crowley was silent for a long moment.

“We won’t have your books to reference about it, though.” He said finally. “And no lovely takeout to eat while we work. No private plumbing, or gas lines, no central heating and cooling…”

Aziraphale felt his face fall.

“I have grown… accustomed, I suppose, to those little creature comforts.”

“Like you said, that cold winter’s coming… food shortages and famine to follow. And all the sickness that’s to come-- 1204, we were at war with France, weren’t we? And England will be re-seizing church land soon, when John fights with the pope. You want to go through all of that nonsense again? You remember how conflicted you were about all of it, the first go round.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Yes, of course, you’re right. The romance of it really is all in the nostalgia, isn’t it?”

“It really is.” Crowley agreed. “Now come on, if I recall there’s a tailor up here somewhere.”

It was odd, the echoes of familiarity and the utter strangeness existing together in this place. They found the tailor that Crowley remembered-- and he was, as Crowley remembered, really rather good. They left looking much more with the times, though Crowley insisted on keeping their other clothes with them, just in case.

“So what’s next?” Aziraphale asked, actually privately enjoying letting Crowley be the hero of this little misadventure.

“Next, we find somewhere to stay; a home base.” Crowley spoke authoritatively, as if he’d had a plan for a while now. And, given how long it’d taken to get hose made for his incredibly long legs, perhaps he’d done his planning then.

“Did you make enough money for it?” Aziraphale asked, more than willing to pull his own weight, but Crowley reached down and nudged his coin purse, the currency within clinking softly together.

“We’ll have enough for a while. Don’t want to attract too much attention.”

He’d said that frequently at the tailor’s, even as Aziraphale recalled the fashions of a mere few hundred years into the future with great fondness.

He’d ended up with a loose fitting long tabard-like-thing over a longer linen robe-- comfortable enough, and stylish enough, though he couldn’t for the life of him recall the actual names of this style. No matter; it did its job well enough.

They found an inn, fortunately located near several food stalls and a proper bar, insomuch as such a thing existed these days.

But there was wine, and ale, and water that looked mostly clear, and Aziraphale counted himself grateful.

“So, what is your plan from here?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, once they were settled in their single shared room. Wouldn’t want to attract attention by spending too much, nor risk being separated into different lodgings. And so they had their wine bottle and the honeyed figs Crowley had bought, despite his admonitions of being careful with their coin, for Aziraphale to enjoy.

“Now… we figure out how we got here, and why, if possible, and most importantly, how to get back.”

“It’s been a very long time since I was lost.” Aziraphale mused, speaking to the fig he was considering in his hand. “In fact, when I have been, usually I would simply pop up to heaven, and come back down where I intended to be.”

He bit into the treat, and Crowley stared at him.

“You mean we’ve spent the entire day in 1204, and we could have just… gone home at any time?”

Aziraphale shrugged and swallowed his mouthful.

“Well, I don’t know that it will work, based on your fear that it’s heaven who’s sent us here-- and if it does, then we can do it at any time. Think of it as a… a work sponsored holiday.”

“A work spons-- Aziraphale are you mad? We’re in the medieval times! One look at my eyes, and I’m up on a flaming stake or off with my head, or--”

Aziraphale blotted at his mouth with a napkin.

“Do you honestly think I’d let them do that to you?”

“Well you sure didn’t stop Gabriel doing it, did you?” Crowley snapped back, and then his expression shifted, and Aziraphale could tell he regretted it as soon as it was said. Even so, he recoiled.

“Alright. I’m sorry. Let’s… let’s go home.” He stood and made his way to a clear spot on the floor to begin drawing the correct sigils he’d need for transport.

“Aziraphale, I’m sorry.” Crowley had stood and followed him, but Aziraphale ignored him in favor of his work.

“So what, you aren’t talking to me now?”

“I am trying to concentrate, Crowley. Certainly wouldn’t want to keep you where you don’t feel safe any longer than necessary.” He kept his tone even and his eyes on the symbols on the floor.

“It’s not that-- I-- I have been so scared, all day, that they did this as a way to try and force us apart, or keep us away, and you… I don’t know how you can be so calm about all of this.”

At that, Aziraphale did look up at him. “I can be calm because you seemed to have a plan, and I trust you and feel safe around you. I’m sorry that I can’t do the same for you, but I understand.”

Crowley stared down at him for a moment. “That’s not what you mean to say at all, is it?” He asked. “You sound like them, shifting the blame, making it about-- about loyalty and faith. Why didn’t you tell me about your plan til just now?”

Aziraphale stopped drawing and sat back on his heels, dropping his head til his chin hit his chest. “Ever since the arrangement began…” He started, then paused to lick his lips. “I have been growing more and more afraid to use miracles for the things that matter. Useless miracles, frivolous ones-- making tea and the like? That’s not a problem, but… The important ones. I’m always afraid they’ll find out, about us, about me, and they’ll find a way to cut me off, with or without me falling, and… and so I avoid it.”

Crowley tilted his head, then looked down at the floor, at Aziraphale’s half finished sigil.

“But you would, because you realized how scared I am. You care about me more than you care about your own fear.”

“Well, at least I can do one tiny angelic thing right.” Aziraphale spat back bitterly. “Now please-- let me finish this, and we will be on our way.”

Crowley opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and sat back down to wait.

Aziraphale nodded and got back to work.

It was several silent minutes later when he heard, faintly, Crowley say, “Thank you.”

He pretended he hadn’t.

#GO Whumptober2020 #Whumptober #good omens #good omens fic #crowley #aziraphale #Ineffable Idiots #That writing thing I do

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bombasticplastic · 4 years

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fic: Snow Day

fandom: Hyouka characters: Oreki Houtarou, Fukube Satoshi, Ibara Mayaka, Chitanda Eru summary: Winter has come to Kamiyama and Satoshi is determined that the Classics Club make the most of it. read: on ao3

Winter had arrived in Kamiyama. The snow, which had been falling nonstop for two days, had transformed the town into a veritable winter wonderland, the kind used for photos in calendars and as stock desktop backgrounds.

Houtarou sniffed, snuggling deeper under the kotatsu. The picturesque scene outside was wasted on him. Why anyone would want to leave a perfectly warm kotatsu to mess around outside was beyond his comprehension. It was winter break now, and he was quite content to stay inside for the remainder of the holidays. Of course, things don’t always go as planned…

Across the room, the phone began to ring. Houtarou frowned, deliberating. On the one hand, it could be a completely normal phone call for someone else in the household; on the other, it could be a trap to lure him out from the safety and comfort of the kotatsu. Deciding the risk was worth it in case the call was legitimate, Houtarou slid out from under the table, crossing the room and catching the phone just before it rang off.

“Oreki residence.”

“Hey, Houtarou,” the overly-cheerful voice of his best friend answered. Damn, he’d gambled wrong. There was no way Satoshi didn’t have something planned. “You busy today?”

“Yes,” he lied without hesitation. Whatever Satoshi wanted, Houtarou was sure it would involve going outside, which was exactly what he didn’t want to do today.

“Sitting under the kotatsu doesn’t count.” Ah, his friend knew him well. “Are you intending to stay under there all break? What are you, a bear?” Hibernating until spring sounded like an excellent idea, actually.

“And if I am?” Houtarou asked, shifting from foot to foot. The floor was cold on his bare feet. “Cut to the chase, Satoshi.”

“Alright then, if that’s how you want to be,” Satoshi said, undaunted by Houtarou’s curtness. “I just wanted to invite you out to enjoy the winter bounty that is this recent snowfall.”

“Wrapping it up in flowery language doesn’t make it any more appealing.”

“C’mon, we haven’t had a snow day this perfect in ages. We’ve gotta take advantage of it! Mayaka and Chitanda are already on their way too, we need the whole Classics club! Don’t make me send Chitanda-san over there to get you!”

Houtarou grimaced. That was playing dirty. What was worse is that the threat was completely serious. Satoshi would send Chitanda over, and then she would look into his eyes and ask so earnestly for him to join them that he’d of course be unable to say no. It looked like there was no getting out of this, so better to just agree and get it over with.

He heaved a resigned sigh, wishing he’d never answered the phone. “Where and when?”

“Hah! I knew you’d come around! Meet us at Shiroyama park in half an hour! There’ll be a penalty if you’re late~” Satoshi hung up on that ominous note, not bothering to wait for a reply. Houtarou looked wistfully over at the kotatsu, then through the sliding doors facing outside. Oh well, he thought, setting the phone back in its cradle. At least it had finally stopped snowing.

~~~

Snow crunched under foot as Houtarou made his way through the transformed town, stepping carefully so he wouldn’t slip. The fresh snow was a pristine white, a soft blanket thoroughly covering every tree, street, and building. Despite the weather, the streets were full of people, some shoveling snow off of the sidewalk, some going about their business, others obviously taking advantage of the chance to play. Snowy winters were the norm in Kamiyama, but it didn’t usually happen so early in the season, or accumulate so much in so short a time.

The park wasn’t far from his house, but gearing up for the outdoors had taken more time than he had anticipated. Houtarou found himself walking quickly to make it on time, not keen to find out what kind of “punishment” Satoshi had in mind for being late. He sniffled, nose already pink with cold, and looked around. Not unexpectedly, the park was full of people, mostly kids making snowmen or having impromptu snowball fights. Wondering if he’d somehow wound up getting to the park first, he followed the path to the designated rendezvous spot.

“Oreki-san!” A familiar voice called out to him. He spotted a warmly bundled Chitanda waving him at him with a mittened hand. She and a similarly clothed Ibara were crouched in front of a waist-high wall of snow. Ibara looked up from where she was reinforcing the base and waved in acknowledgment.

“‘Bout time you got here,” she said, unable to resist giving him a hard time. Par for the course with her. Houtarou shrugged, unbothered.

“I’m not that late. And it’s not like I’m the last one if Satoshi’s not here.”

Chitanda tilted her head in confusion.“Fukube-san? He’s right over…” she trailed off, looking over his shoulder. Houtarou turned to follow her gaze.

“What-”

“Hey Houtarou, think fast!”

Arrested in mid-motion, Houtarou flinched, unable to avoid the snowball sailing towards him. It him in the face with a powdery “poof”. Satoshi stood from where he’d been concealed behind a snow wall similar to the one Chitanda and Ibara were building. He grinned, juggling another snowball between his hands. “Penalty for being the last one here!”

Houtarou wiped the residual snow from his face, ignoring Ibara’s laughter and Chitanda’s sounds of concern. Alright then, if that’s how Satoshi wanted to play it. The gauntlet had been thrown: this meant War.

A little bit of energy expenditure was in order.

Satoshi was distracted, too busy laughing to pay attention to Houtarou’s intentions. Perfect. Moving swiftly, he crossed the space between himself and his target in a few quick strides, using his momentum, superior height and weight, and the element of surprise to tackle his friend into a nearby snowbank. Satoshi squawked as Houtarou collided with him, struggling to get his bearings while being pushed face-first into the snow. With one hand on the back of Satoshi’s head holding him in place, Houtarou scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it down the back of Satoshi’s puffy winter jacket.

“Ah! Cold, cold!” Satoshi yelped, struggling to reach behind at the icy intrusion. Houtarou rolled to the side, watching in satisfaction as Satoshi wriggled in discomfort.

“It’s the best way to serve revenge, after all,” Houtarou said, lips quirked in the tiniest of smirks.

Ibara sighed, shaking her head. “Boys.” Chitanda looked caught between laughter and concern.

Concern won out. “Are you alright, Fukube-san?”

Rolling to his feet, Satoshi shrugged the last of the snow from his jacket and laughed. “I’m fine Chitanda-san, it’s all part of the game after all. And I can’t say I didn’t kind of deserve that,” he said with a wry smile and a shrug. He turned to Houtarou, the smile on his face turning decidedly evil, “but it’d be better if you conserve your energy for the main event. Alright! Now that everyone’s here, it’s time for the First Annual Classics Club Snowball War!”

Houtarou sighed, not surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d expected (and dreaded) Satoshi to have planned.

“With four people?”

“Yup! Two teams of two. Even numbers are always better for this kind of thing, hence inviting you!”

“Thank you so much for the kind invitation then.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Houtarou,” Satoshi said, Houtarou’s sarcasm sliding off him like melted snow. “You’re already out, so you may as well make the most of it!”

“He’s right, Oreki-san!” Chitanda said. “We’re all together, so we should have fun! And I promise not to throw any snowballs at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Satoshi deflated a little at that. “Chitanda-san, the point of a snowball fight is to throw them at people.”

Chitanda blushed. “Oh, I know, it just seems a little unkind, especially if someone doesn’t want to be hit.” Houtarou had a hard time imagining throwing a snowball at Chitanda; it’d be like throwing one at a puppy.

Satoshi stepped forward, arms spread. “Here Chitanda-san, practice on me. I promise I won’t get mad if you hit me in the face.” Houtarou’s eyes narrowed. Was that a thinly veiled dig at him? “It doesn’t hurt, right Houtarou?” At that Houtarou had to nod; the snow was powdery enough to not hurt on impact, it was just cold and mildly ticklish.

Chitanda still looked unconvinced. Coming to stand next to her, Ibara knelt, picking up a handful of snow and forming into a ball. She held it out to Chitanda, gesturing for her to take it. “C’mon Chi-chan, just give it a try.” Ah, the power of peer pressure. Reluctantly, Chitanda accepted the snowball. With an uncertain glance a Satoshi, she positioned herself into a throwing stance. Winding her arm back, she released the snowball with an energetic cry.

The snowball sailed in a high arc; Houtarou and Ibara followed its path with their eyes, watching as it fell to the ground at Satoshi’s feet with a wet plop.

The group fell silent. Chitanda blushed again. Ibara patted her on the shoulder consolingly.

Satoshi clapped his hands “So! Teams!” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “How should we pair up?”

“Hmm, boys vs. girls is kinda boring, but you and me would clobber Oreki and Chi-chan,” Ibara wrinkled her nose at this dilemma. With the air of one making a huge sacrifice, she sighed and said, “We’ll each take a handicap then. You take Chi-chan, and I’ll take Oreki.” Houtarou frowned at her. Was he supposed to be the bigger handicap in this situation? Well, whatever. Satoshi had started explaining the rules so he should probably pay attention.

“These are our bases,” Satoshi said, indicating the two snow walls spaced about 10 meters apart. “Rules! You can’t go more than a step beyond your base. Dodging only! No catching or whacking out of the air or it counts as a hit! First team to hit the other 10 times wins! This is a marathon death match, so no timeouts or breaks until one team is defeated! Each team will get two minutes before we start to build up a cache of snowballs, but after that you’re on your own! Let’s have a good match, and may the best team win!” He punctuated the end of his speech with a fist in the air. “Teams, to your bases!”

“You’ll be in charge of ammunition, Chitanda-san,” Houtarou heard Satoshi say to Chitanda, an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “I’m counting on you to make some super-awesome snowballs!”

Chitanda clenched her fists and nodded sharply. “I’ll do my best, Fukube-san!”

Well, weren’t they all fired up. Houtarou looked down at his partner. Ibara was fiddling with her scarf, making sure it was securely wrapped around her neck. A good idea; it wouldn’t do to have it get in the way. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked back up at him, a hand on her hip and a frown her face. Not that that was an unusual expression for her to make when looking at him.

“Look Oreki, I know this isn’t your kind of thing,” she said. “But if you can handle the snowballs, I’ll take care of the throwing. You’re a pretty big target anyway, so it’d be better for you to stay down and out of the way. Just watch my back, okay?” Houtarou appreciated that she was taking his energy conservation into account without being her usual snarky self about it, and decided to meet her halfway. He was already involved; he may as well go all out for once. He could spend the rest of the break recovering.

He nodded. “Deal.”

Mayaka grinned. “Alright, let’s kick Fuku-chan’s and Chi-chan’s butts.”

Each team made their way over to their respective bases. Once situated, Satoshi started the 2-minute countdown. Houtarou and Ibara’s hands moved fast, trying to make as many snowballs as possible. Houtarou could feel the cold soaking through his gloves as he formed ball after ball. The snow was too powdery to just scoop and pack, so it took time to form a stable ball. All too soon, the timer on Satoshi’s watch beeped shrilly.

“Time’s up!” he called across the soon to be battlefield. “On the count of three we start for real!”

“One…” “Two…” “Three!”

The battle had begun. A flurry of snowballs sailed through the air, each team unleashing a barrage of missiles on the other.

Satoshi was tireless, lobbing snowballs as fast as Chitanda could make them. He paid for this in accuracy though, as most of his missiles landed well away from his intended targets. Ibara, to Houtarou’s surprise, made up for a lack of speed with almost pinpoint accuracy. It was only due to Satoshi’s quick reflexes that he hadn’t been tagged multiple times. For his part, Houtarou was content to hunker behind the wall, keeping up a steady supply of snowballs and occasionally tossing one out as cover.

“Take that!”

“Hya!”

“Chitanda-san, watch the left!”

“Oreki, I need more ammo!”

Mingled cries of surprise and laughter filled the air as each side took hits or dove to avoid them. Chitanda, in a move worthy of play of the game, slipped while making a rare offensive attack, thereby avoiding the snowball Ibara had aimed at her unprotected head, while still managing to hit Ibara’s outstretched arm. On one occasion, Satoshi contorted into an almost perfect back-bend to avoid a powerful attack, landing with a whumph and a peal of laughter from both sides.

As the afternoon wore on, the battle continued. The higher the hit count rose, the more each team began to play defensively. But it couldn’t go on like this forever. Houtarou’s hands were going numb inside his gloves, and he could tell Ibara was beginning to tire. On the other side, he could just see the tops of Satoshi and Chitanda’s heads, presumably taking a short rest. The volleys between teams were becoming more and more interspersed. And yet, neither side would give in. Even Houtarou found himself reluctant to throw in the towel. After spending so much energy, it seemed a waste to give up now, sunk cost fallacy be damned.

Houtarou counted over their cache of snowballs, a plan forming in his mind. It was time to end this. Better to go out in a blaze of glory than this slow dwindling. Gathering as many snowballs in his arms as he could, he moved to kneel next to where Ibara leaned against the wall. She looked at the load in his arms and then up at him, a question in her eyes.

“Cover me,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the other team. Ibara pursed her lips, held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. No more words were necessary. In that moment, perhaps for the first time in their long acquaintance, they were in complete understanding. Taking the remaining snowballs for herself, Ibara knelt in position, arm cocked and ready.

Houtarou took a deep breath to steady himself. If he could get in position quickly, his height should enable him to have a clear line of fire over the other team’s wall. He’d only have a few seconds to get as many shots off as he could before he became a big target.This was it; do or die.

Now!

He charged over the wall, the armload of snowballs tucked securely against his chest. Planting his feet firmly, he stood to his full height and sought his target. He froze in surprise. Across the field, the other team must have had a similar idea; at the same moment as Houtarou’s charge, Chitanda had stood up from behind her wall, her arms empty of ammo, eyes wide with nervous determination. Houtarou’s moment of hesitation was his undoing; off-balance and his momentum destroyed, he couldn’t react fast enough when Satoshi popped up from behind the wall and started pelting snowballs in his direction. The first couple swung wide, but the third hit him square in the chest, and another on his leg. Ibara rallied as best she could, sending a fastball to smack Satoshi’s arm, but it was too late. With a triumphant shout, Satoshi jumped up, pointing excitedly at Houtarou.

“Ten! That’s ten hits! We win!” Satoshi high-fived his slightly bewildered partner in victory, jumping up and down in joy.

Houtarou’s shoulders slumped, his arms dropping to his sides and releasing the now unneeded snowballs. All that effort, just to wind up losing… it was a bitter feeling indeed.

Ibara slumped to the ground, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Argh, we were so close!” Houtarou tried not to wince. He knew how competitive she could be, and it was his fault they’d lost. Picking herself up, she walked over to where Houtarou still stood. Unexpectedly, instead of the tirade he assumed she was dying to unleash on him, she patted him on the back, brushing away some of the snow that clung to him. “It was a good try,” she said, her expression a mix of annoyance and commiseration. “Fuku-chan was playing dirty sending Chi-chan out as bait. I don’t think I could have hit her either.” She patted him once more for good measure. No hard feelings.

Well, at least Ibara wasn’t mad at him.

Satoshi came bounding up, Chitanda just behind him. “Good game you guys! What a battle! You almost had us there at the end!” His face was lit with the glow of victory. Looking at such honest good cheer, and when compared to what Satoshi used to be like when he won, it was hard to feel bitter. Houtarou decided to let him have his gloat.

Chitanda’s eyes sparkled. “Good game, Oreki-san, Mayaka-san!”

“You did great, Chi-chan,” Ibara said, taking her friend by the hands and smiling. “That was a lot of fun, even if we lost in the end.”

“And you, Oreki-san? Did you have fun?” Three pairs of expectant eyes looked up at him.

Had he had fun? Well, his fingers and toes were frozen, his knees ached from crouching, his nose felt like it’d never stop running... Houtarou opened his mouth to answer, and sneezed instead.

“It is getting pretty cold, huh,” Satoshi said, rubbing his hands together. He smiled suddenly. “C’mon, there’s a pretty good cafe not far from here where we can warm up. Losing team buys the winning team a drink!”

“What? No way Fuku-chan, that wasn’t part of the rules!”

Houtarou followed behind as they bickered out of the park and down the street, Chitanda doing her best to play peacekeeper. It wasn’t until they reached the cafe that he realized just how cold he’d been, stepping through the door to be greeted by an enveloping warmth. He allowed Chitanda to shepherd him to the booth Satoshi had claimed. He was treating them all to a play-by-play of the snowball fight interspersed with his own commentary. Ibara and Chitanda laughed at his colorful interpretation of events, chiming in with their own versions. Houtarou let the conversation carry him along, his chilled hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, interjecting every now and then to defend himself from teasing about his performance or to deflate Satoshi’s ego. He sipped his tea.

Outside, it began to snow.

#hyouka #classics club cuties #written for a secret santa gift exchange on discord #happy slightly belated holidays!#fic posting format shamelessly copied from jen

29 notes · View notes

thewritewolf · 4 years

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Eating Habits Chapter 4: The Calm

Adrien has relaxing morning before going out into town with an old friend. Marinette overworks herself.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 (Final)

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3. My ko-fi.

Adrien stretched out, the pleasantly warm beams of the morning sun bringing an unconscious smile to his face. While he’d always been a morning person, his childhood schedule often had him getting up well before the sun, never getting to enjoy the first rays of dawn. That wasn’t something he intended to take for granted any time soon.

The sunlight seeped into his bones and warmed his heart as he rolled out of bed, taking extra care to avoid disturbing Plagg as he lay sprawled on his back on Adrien’s pillow. He tucked his feet into a pair of cute black slippers Marinette had made. Their floppy cat ears and green googly eyes never failed to put him in a good mood. Or in this case, an even better mood.

His morning routine went by in a serene blur. He crooned love songs in the shower. Took a little extra time messing with his hair. Danced while he dug through his closet for an outfit to wear today. He gently picked up his still-sleeping kwami and tucked him into his shirt pocket. Today was going to be a great day, he already knew it. As he stepped into his kitchen, it felt like nothing could ruin his good mood.

Except perhaps for the appearance of an envelope on his countertop.

His smile quickly melted from his face as he recognized the familiar handwriting. He vaguely remembered bringing it in yesterday after a long shift at the bakery. Wednesdays were always pretty busy for some reason or another. His fingers traced the edge of the envelope. Deciding that he’d better get it over with, he carefully and methodically opened it and pulled out the letter.

Before he could subject himself to reading the thing, there was a loud knock at his door that nearly had him drop it in surprise. He cracked open the door, which was all the invitation Chloe needed to strut inside. She lowered her sunglasses as she peered around his apartment and sniffed dismissively.

“A little quaint, but better than that damn cavern you grew up in.”

“Good morning to you too, Chlo.” He shook his head.

“Oh, lighten up, Adrikins. It’s a lovely place. Maybe not the Grand Paris, but...” They exchanged cheek kisses. She raised an eyebrow at the letter he was holding, snatching it from his hand. There was a teasing lilt to her voice as she said, “Oh? What’s this? Love letters, maybe? You’re certainly enough of a romantic to insist on something as ancient as these.” Her eyes narrowed as she skimmed. “I see.” She crumpled it up and threw it into the garbage.

“Hey! I hadn’t-”

“Trust me. He didn’t have anything of value to say, the rotten bastard.” She clapped her hands together and gave him a gleaming smile. “Now! Are you ready to start our day out, Adrikins?”

Feeling a little miffed at her brashness, Adrien played dumb. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve got a girlfriend, you know.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and so do I.” She crossed her arms. “I’m here to hang out with my friend, you ridiculous boy. I’d hope you’d at least remember that much, since this was your plan.” She walked towards the door. “Let’s get moving, I’m not going to be in Paris forever.”

He chuckled as he followed her out. Adrien usually preferred taking the stairs, but unsurprisingly Chloe lead him into the elevator.

To fill the silence, Adrien asked, “Girlfriend, huh? So you and Kagami are back together again? Or is it someone I don’t know about?”

“Like anyone else could handle me, Adrikins.” She snorted, a faint smile on her lips. “You and Marinette becoming a thing turned out to be a blessing in disguise. If that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have found Kagami tearing up in the girls’ locker room.”

“Should I say it just like that when I give a speech at your inevitable wedding?”

“Maybe. Two girls brought together when their mutual beard got taken away from them. A classic love story.”

The two of them shared a laugh and just like that, it was like old times again. The conversation, mostly gentle barbs and jabs traded between them, carried on through their walk through several shops. Naturally, with Chloe present they had to stop at a few boutiques to update her wardrobe. Several years in New York with her mother had left her fashion decidedly American rather than French. After a few hours of shopping and a brief stop for lunch, they arrived at the main focus of their excursion.

Adrien’s cooking class. He’d made the arrangements to join the class after he had gotten back from Marinette’s earlier that week. It was just good fortune that placed Chloe in town just as he was about to go into his first class.

“So… why the sudden interest in cooking, Adrikins?” Chloe asked as she tied her apron strings behind her.

“...It’s a useful skill to have. I love cooking.”

“Ah, you’re being sneaky. Got it.”

They were quiet for a few minutes as they listened with the rest of the class to the instructor. With the wide smile the teacher wore as she looked into each of their faces, Adrien could already feel his nerves relaxing. This wasn’t like the instructors he’d been provided as a child, always seeking flaws and failings. He reassured himself that he was going to a good time.

While they were in the middle of preparing the sauce, Adrien asked, “So… New York. Missing it already?”

Chloe paused. She sighed. “Not as much as I was missing Paris.”

“Really?” Adrien frowned. “I guess it’s easier to meet up with Kagami if you don’t have to take a flight every time you want to date, but…”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Chloe waved her hand impatiently. “It’s just… it’s been hard, you know? Trying to be a better person. For you. For Kagami. For all my friends. And it hasn’t been any easier spending all that time with mom.”

Adrien winced. It wasn’t hard to believe - Audrey was about as awful as they came, outside of supervillain circles. “Does that have anything to do with this visit? And why you and Kagami just got back together?”

“...Yeah. I was thinking… maybe this didn’t just have to be a visit.”

“You want to move back to Paris?” Adrien failed to keep the shock out of his voice. “You were so excited for New York, though.”

“It’s alright, but it’s not home.” Chloe sighed. “You know?”

He thought about the bakery and all the happy memories he’d made there. All the patrols that had devolved into late night cuddles on the Eiffel Tower. Games of tag across the rooftops of Paris. Deep conversations held in the towers of Notre Dame. The city was his home; he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be away from it for so long.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I get what you mean completely.”

The conversation petered out as they turned their focus towards finishing the class. A few more details slipped past, though - while she would be living there for a while, she wouldn’t be moving back to the Grand Paris Hotel. She wouldn’t be moving in with Kagami either. After having her mother’s assistants breathing down her neck for a few years, some time to herself was just what she needed. Taking things slow never came easily to Chloe, but she was trying her best this time.

Once class finished, they said their goodbyes. Adrien headed back to his apartment having recaptured some of that positivity that he’d woken up with. It was still early in the afternoon by the time he’d gotten home, on a day he didn’t work, but his usual means of passing the time wouldn’t be getting out of class for a few more hours. As he puzzled out what he’d do until then, his stomach growled. That dish he’d made in class smelled wonderful…

A few plates of homemade lasagna and a few movies later, and the sun was beginning to set. He’d had a beautifully unproductive day, which was just what he needed.

“Well, look at you,” Plagg said with a grin, slowly eating through his own plate of lasagna. “Finally get some time off to yourself and what do you do with it?” He took a huge bite, devouring the last of his slice. “Absolutely nothing!” He sniffed, as if holding back tears. “I’m so proud!”

With a faint smile, Adrien replied, “Coming from anyone else, I’d think you were being sarcastic. But thanks, Plagg.” He set his plate on the table and Plagg pounced on it, devouring the remainder of it. “Its relaxing not to be led by the nose across Paris. Always glancing at my phone to make sure I’m on time. Always doing something, never a moment of downtime.”

Plagg’s ears twitched and he tilted his head at Adrien. “You’re stressing out, aren’t you?”

“Was it that obvious?” Adrien deflated a little. “It just… it feels wrong. Not doing anything for a whole day.”

“Get used to it, young man. We spent all that time getting your task masters to put down that whip, I’m not about to let you pick it up yourself.” He floated up to Adrien’s face. “But hey! Don’t worry, you’ve got the king of naps and relaxation here to teach you everything you need to know, kid!”

Adrien smiled and rolled his eyes. “Sure, Plagg. I’ll defer to your expertise in this.”

“I’m glad-”

“Your much greater, wider breadth of experience.”

“Yes, thank-”

“Your unbelievably vast knowledge of the lazy arts.”

“I prefer the ‘way of ultimate relaxing’.”

Adrien chuckled and scratched Plagg between the ears with one finger. “I’m sure you do, little guy. Although, now that you’ve mentioned taking it easy…” Adrien pulled out his phone and scrolled down to the contact, ‘Mari’, surrounded by cutesy emojis. The phone began to ring…

-------------

Marinette’s eyes were burning from how long she’d kept them open today. Little sleep last night and it was looking like little sleep again tonight. But she needed to get this dress ready in time for the critique next week. No matter what she did, though, she couldn’t enter the right state of mind to just zone out and let the art flow through her. It came as a welcome relief when her phone rang. She even let out an affectionate sigh when she saw who it was that was calling her.

“Hey, kitty. What’s up?” She stood up, taking this break as an excuse to stretch her legs a little.

“Nothing much. Spent the day hanging out with Chloe while she was in town.”

“Chloe, huh?” Marinette had mixed feelings about Chloe, but it had definitely improved after they all rallied together for Adrien’s sake. She’d been beyond helpful during that terrible month, but it was only one step toward making amends for the years and years of torment.

“I know, I know. But she’s been doing good. That time in America really helped her. Or, at least, it helped her decide what she didn’t want to be.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow. “You say that like she’s done living in the States.”

“From what she was saying, it sounds like she is. Don’t worry, I won’t try to get you two to get along. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Glad to know I can still teach cats new tricks,” she said teasingly. “But if that’s the case, then you probably didn’t call me to chat about that. What’s on your mind, hot stuff?” She stretched out on the couch. “Knowing you, I’m sure it's something romantic or something ridiculous. Probably both.”

“You know me so well, bugaboo.” His laugh came through, clear as a summer sky. “Well, we’re getting pretty close to our six year anniversary…”

“Six years…” Marinette whispered in awe. “Doesn’t feel nearly that long, but at the same time feels like our entire lives.”

“I understand completely. Hard to imagine a time before we were together, love bug.”

“Still, we’re a little under three months away from it. What did you want to talk about?” There was a silence on the other end. “...Adrien. You weren’t thinking of making plans already were you?”

Silence. “...No.”

Marinette laughed. “Sunshine, you’re ridiculous.”

“Mhm. And, if I were planning our anniversary date, which classy restaurant would you like to go to?”

“Do we really need to go somewhere?” Marinette asked as she sat up on the couch, elbows on her knees. Tikki glanced over her cookie at Marinette, tilting her head in a silent question. “What about just staying home and cuddling? Movies and junk food and a big, warm blanket?”

“Hm…”

“What?”

“Just trying to decide if that is ‘Marinette the exhausted student’ or ‘Marinette who hates the cold’ talking here.”

“It’s ‘Marinette who just wants to spend quality time alone with her boyfriend’, actually.” Tikki snickered silently and returned to eating her cookie.

“ I love spending time with you, but you also refuse to let me spoil you except on special occasions. What’s more special than our anniversary?”

“I’m just saying, I’ll probably be exhausted with finals and want to just stay in by that point.”

“Speaking of which,” Adrien said as he blatantly changed the subject, “how have you been doing on sleep?”

Marinette bit her lower lip as she debated whether or not she should downplay just how little sleep she’d been getting. Before she could respond, she heard Adrien sigh.

“That bad, huh? Listen, can you do me a favor?”

Always willing to help out others, Marinette replied without thinking, “Of course!”

“Go to bed early tonight.”

“But-”

“I know you probably have things to do, and I know you think you absolutely have to get them done tonight. But I promise, you don’t. And we both know the quality will be better anyway if you can get in the zone and not fall asleep halfway through.”

She pouted in silence. There wasn’t anything she could really argue - he’d got her pegged there. A downside to him knowing her so well.

“Mari? I need you to promise me you’ll go to bed early tonight. Please?”

She finally broke down. “Okay, okay. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Marinette stood up to run her hand over her latest piece while Adrien continued talking. “So how has this week been going? Anything new to tell?”

As Marinette began to fill him in on what she’d been going over in her classes, she resumed work on her dress. If she was going to live up to this promise, she’d need to get plenty of work done right now. No matter how exhausted she was.

----------------

It was a couple hours after Adrien had gotten off the phone with Marinette, getting close to midnight. Normally, he knew that Marinette was as good as her word. She’d bend over backwards if it meant fulfilling all her obligations to people.

Unfortunately, she often didn’t take herself into consideration there.

Adrien trusted Marinette. He’d trusted her with his life more times than he cared to remember. But even so, he didn’t hold out hope for how well his little loophole worked out. Getting her to take care of herself and painting it as a personal favor was a little sneaky of him, but if it worked then it would be worth it.

“Sorry, Plagg.”

His kwami looked up from where he was laying, caught in a kwami-sized food coma. “Wha-?”

“Claws out!”

A flash of green light later and he was crawling out his window. Soon enough his feet were on the rooftops, the crisp autumn air in his lungs as he ran across the city. Less than ten minutes later, he was crawling into another window. As his boots hit the ground, Marinette jolted from where she was standing over her project.

She whipped around, eyes wide. “Adrien!” She tried to put herself between her and the dress. Given how small the love of his life was, it didn’t do anything to conceal what she’d been up to just moments before. “I can explain, I promise!”

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Um…” She wrung her hands and visibly struggled to come up with anything before hunching over in defeat. “Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like. I just need to finish this piece before I go to bed.” She moved as if to turn around. A small smile tugged at his lips as he caught her wrist.

“Mari, it’s time for bed,” he said gently.

“I’m not tired,” she replied while trying to stifle a yawn.

“I’m sure you aren’t.” He pulled her towards himself and swept her off her feet.

She immediately melted into his arms, leaning her head against his chest as he carried her. Even so, she blearily looked up at him and pouted.

“Hey! I need to finish my…” She yawned again and made a motion with her hand as she tried to think of the right word, “...thing.”

“Your ‘thing’ will be waiting for you when you’re awake and perky tomorrow.” He entered her bedroom and set her down in her bed. He tucked her in and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, lovebug.”

He tried to walk away, but she snatched his hand. “Stay with me? Until I fall asleep, at least.” She stretched as she got comfortable. “It’ll be a while though. Since I’m not tired.”

Fighting down a smile, he laid down on the sheets next to her. Immediately she draped an arm over him and rested her ear against his heart. She sighed in contentment as he began purring.

They chatted for a little while, but contrary to Marinette’s blatant lies, she was exhausted. Hardly a few minutes had passed before she was soundly asleep and he was able to slip away. As much as he’d love to spend the night here, her bed was too small for the both of them. Prying himself away, he rushed back home.

After he dropped his transformation and Plagg floated away grumbling, Adrien started getting ready for bed himself. He settled into his too large bed and opened his phone as he waited for exhaustion to hit. Which is when he noticed that Alya was active on discord. Remembering his brush with her in the halls of Marinette’s apartment a few days ago, he sent her a message.

------------------

Direct message from Adrien

Adrien: You awake?

Alya: The truth never sleeps, blondie

Alya: Although... The truth IS feeling a little tired though

Adrien: lol, that’s fine I was about to head to bed myself Sorry to bother you

Alya: Nah, that’s fine Get back here centerfold What’d you want to talk about?

Adrien: Well… Marinette

Alya: Our favorite topic, lol I take it this is about how she’s running herself ragged?

Adrien: Yeah We’ve seen it before A lot I’m just worried Like always

Alya: I hear you I’d love to say homegirl can handle herself but Shes great at taking care of everyone BUT herself Which is where we come in

Adrien: Glad we’re on the same page So what’s the plan?

Alya: Well You know how she gets If we don’t pay attention she’ll end up starving herself Too focused on what shes doing to care about How SHE is doing

Adrien: yeah I had to go over and put her to bed myself today

Alya: Lol sounds aobut right Between the two of us we can watch out for her She’ll need lots of extra tlc But I’m sure you don’t mind that, huh lover boy?

Adrien: You caught me I love my girlfriend to pieces And this is a good excuse to dote on her

Alya: Attaboy I’ll do my part too

Adrien: Thanks, Alya

Alya: Don’t sweat it, blondie Just do right by my girl and we’ll be square

#Miraculous Ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Adrienette #Marichat #Chloe Bourgeois #Chloegami #Tikki #Alya #ml fanfiction #my writing #Eating Habits #The Lucky One series

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moiraineswife · 5 years

Text

Snitten - A Crowley Fic

Ty to my discord goblin squad for helping me get through this!!! <3 And esp to @flootzavut for helping me beta/giving me a lil confidence boost when I needed it. Who knows if the footnotes will work #ITried

Title: Snitten

Summary: A cat starts hanging out outside Crowley's London flat, he takes a bit of an interest in. But he doesn't care about it. Absolutely not. (spoiler: he does).

Teaser:

Link: Ao3

Yawning, Crowley slouched towards his flat, not bothering to grope in his jacket for his keys. Fumbling was for mortals, not for demons who could just use a simple miracle to achieve the same thing.

With a casual wave of his hand, he unlocked the door –then promptly ricocheted off it, having tried to push into the wrong one.

Glancing around to see if anyone had spotted him, he caught sight of a pair of small yellow eyes fixed on him, judging his mess up.

He hissed threateningly at it, intending to terrify it directly into Hell.

The eyes blinked back at him.

He frowned slightly and took a step back to better view the ballsiest little fucker he’d come across since leaving Aziraphale’s place earlier.

It shrunk back slightly into the shadows, but he managed to clap eyes on a tiny scrap of fur and bones that somewhat resembled a cat. It wasn’t any particular colour or pattern. It looked like a white cat that had rolled around in a patch of cat-coloured paint.

He stared at if for a minute longer, then flicked a scrap of chicken from the wrap Aziraphale had bought him at the park at it. He figured it had earned that much. It darted out, seized it in its mouth, then launched itself back to the shadows, chewing it up, eyes still fixed on Crowley, as though afraid he might take it away again.

Crowley gave it a vague salute, then shoved into his building through the right door and disappeared upstairs for a nice nap.

******************************************************************************

Though he was a demon, Crowley had relatively few genuine full-blown weaknesses. It just so happened that two of them collided on Sunday afternoons, with the flower market, and a little pop-up street vendor stall that made the world’s best (Crowley-verified) fish and chips.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, Crowley was feeling rather pleased with himself. He’d acquired a lovely little rare bromeliad to add to his collection, as well as the last special fish supper of the day. Life was good.

He returned to his building and, as he pushed into the door, he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see the eyes of the vaguely-cat-shaped scrap from before watching him again. It seemed to have crept out of its hiding place at the sight of him.

“You really are a ballsy little shit, aren’t you?” he muttered to it.

It gave a tiny mew, as if in answer.

Glancing down at the grease-soaked newspaper in his hands, he tossed it down towards the corner. He was nearly finished, anyway. And it was litter! He was littering like a good demon should. If the cat-like-thing happened to eat it afterwards, that wasn’t down to him.

As he wandered into his building, holding the door open for the little old lady that lived in the apartment underneath him on impulse as he did so [1], he heard a quiet little rumbling purr start up behind him.

******************************************************************************

“I mostly find that Adam’s taste is quite fascinating, not to mention refreshing, the take of the youth, you know, but there are quite a few new novels I’ve found that don’t really make much sense to me at all,” Aziraphale babbled, trotting along at Crowley’s side as they wandered back to his flat for some wine, followed by more wine, followed by still more wine.

As They had decided that, in the wake of the apocalypse that never went off, they might change some of their age old traditions. This included Aziraphale sometimes coming over to Crowley’s flat for post-Ritz wine, rather than always retreating to Aziraphale’s shop[2].

“Like what?” Crowley said, frowning.

“Well there’s quite a lot of romance novels,” Aziraphale said, frowning and, to Crowley’s mingled surprise and delight, blushing, “Along with some that are decidedly, well, inappropriate,” he said, delicately.

Crowley’s smirk broadened at that, “Find a little Fifty Shades squirreled away in the back where the customers aren’t allowed to go, did you?”

“I most certainly did not!” Aziraphale blustered, looking affronted at the very idea, “I would never have anything so crude in my collection, thank you very much.”

“Too much of a prude, are we angel?” Crowley said, tilting his head to one side and favouring Aziraphale with an angelic smile on the lips of a demon.

“Certainly not!” Aziraphale said, looking surprised, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with sex in literature, or in life, when it’s well done.” Crowley choked on his milkshake. “That book however, not that it rates the name, is both atrociously written, grossly misogynistic, and woefully inaccurate on all of its subject matter.” He sniffed, delicately, apparently oblivious to Crowley’s bug-eyed scare of amazement, “Immortal I may be, but I don’t have time for such things.”

Crowley was still trying to recover from the shock of....All of that when Aziraphale turned to him, rather sharply, and said, “Why? You haven’t read it, have you?”

“Nope,” said Crowley quickly, and truthfully. He’d been vaguely curious about all the fuss, but it had never appealed to him.

His building appeared a second later, fortunately. As they stepped inside, he casually tossed the little bag of uneaten extras he’d brought with them from lunch into the alleyway over his shoulder.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, shocked, eyes boggling as though he’d just tossed the second antichrist into the side street.

“What?” he said vaguely, holding the door opening and trying to gesture the angel inside, to no avail.

Aziraphale remained rooted to the spot, staring at him with shock written across his face.

“You can’t just throw your litter in the street like that!” the angel chided him.

Crowley made a show of peering around the angel to the dropped bag, “Huh, look at that. I did! Okay, now that’s settled can we-“ he tried to usher them inside again but Aziraphale refused to budge.

“You see, it’s people-“

“Demons,” he corrected.

Aziraphale gave him the kind of look that left him with frostbite for the next week and continued, “It’s demons like you that make this world a worse place to live in for everyone!”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, angel, but that’s kinda my job description,” Crowley replied with typical snark, “Now can we-“ he swept his hands with something close to desperation towards the door of the building.

“No! We certainly cannot!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley deflated with exasperated irritation. “Not while your litter is lying in the streets, polluting the environment.”

He strode pompously forwards and bent to pick up the papers. Crowley grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, “Okay, okay! I give up, you win,” he dragged a hand through his hair, which was starting to get a little length to it again, “I’m feeding a cat-thing,” he mumbled, all in a rush.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale said, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s some little cat thing that lives there,” he said, jerking his head towards the alley, “If I have food wrappers when I come home,” which, of late, had been every time he came home, “I just sort of,” he gestured vaguely towards the dropped papers.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, in that excruciating way that told him he’d just done something the angel approved of, “That’s really rather sweet of you, you know,” he said, smiling.

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned, taking Aziraphale by the shoulders and attempting to steer him into the building to escape the agony of this conversation, “Okay, okay, I’m a terrible demon, you knew there was good in me all along, blah, blah, blah. Let’s go! Wine! Now!”

Aziraphale, with surprising strength, resisted him, still peering into the alley, “Where is the little creature?” he said.

“How should I know?” Crowley growled. You better fucking enjoy this, you little beast, given how much I’ve suffered for it. “I’m not its minder!”

He finally succeeded in shunting Aziraphale bodily through the door.

“I didn’t even think you liked animals,” Crowley said, as he used a miracle to cause the lift to simply be there on the ground floor waiting for them.

“Well ordinarily I’m not too fussed, I will admit. All God’s creatures are beautiful and worthy of love, of course, but that doesn’t necessarily mean by me at all times,” Aziraphale said, stepping neatly into the lift and holding the doors open for Crowley. “But I rather wanted to take a look at this one, since it’s managed to capture your eye.”

“It hasn’t captured anything,” Crowley growled.

Aziraphale just twinkled knowingly.

Blessed angel was insufferable.

“I do have one question, though,” Aziraphale said, shrugging off his coat as they stepped into Crowley’s flat.

Crowley made an exaggerated motion of hanging himself behind Aziraphale’s back then replaced it with a sickeningly saccharine smile when he turned to face him again.

“Just the one?” he drawled.

“Why don’t you just feed it tins of fish, rather than this convoluted sharing of your supper?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“First of all,” Crowley said, raising a long finger, irritably, “I’m not sharing with it. I’m throwing my fully completed, finished, and done wrappings in its general direction, and it’s scavenging from them. Secondly, I’m not doing that.”

Because then I’d have to acknowledge I’m actively looking after this thing and that is definitely not what’s happening here. I’m littering. ‘S not my fault it wants to tidy up after me.

Aziraphale just gave him another one of his knowing looks.

Crowley wondered two things simultaneously in that moment. The first was why he kept associating with this blessed idiot after all these years. The second was, if he threw Aziraphale out of the window in the plant room, would he be able to snap his wings into being fast enough to save himself from discorporation?

Rather than attempting to divine the answer to either of these questions, Crowley instead opened the first of many bottles of wine.

******************************************************************************

Supermarkets were definitely one of Crowley’s finer ideas.

Not only did they work to damage the souls of most of the population of the world over time with a slowly forming layer of plaque-like bitterness and irritation with the state of the universe, they functioned as an excellent microcosm of said universe.

Humans all reacted in a variety of strange but intriguing ways to supermarkets.

Some of them drifted around them like ghosts in a cemetery, part of them, but not really, without any idea of what they were doing, or why, they just did.

Some of them treated a trip to the supermarket like a military operation, complete with their lists, and pens, and dedicated ‘search and destroy’ method.

Some of them, meanwhile, took out their general anger and frustration with the state of their miserable lives on the rest of humanity that could be found on the unwashed aisles of Asda with an excellent display of yelling, gesticulating, and requests to speak with managers.

Then there were the poor sods that actually had to work there and deal with all this nonsense. Them Crowley almost felt sorry for. In fact, on more than one occasion, he’d slipped them the odd miracle, to help drag them through the day...And further infuriate those who saw the chilled section as their own person battleground against humanity.

Every now and then, there was an extra, hidden category of shopper in a supermarket: Crowley.

Technically he didn’t need to visit them. He didn’t have to buy anything, and generally didn’t bother to, either. Every now and then, though, he liked to grab a basket, wander up and down the aisles, soak in his terrible, terrible work, and see what interesting new things toppled into it along the way.

As When he returned home today, bags sitting neatly on the shelf in his kitchen with all the things that had dropped into his basket[3] he discovered something rather unwelcome.

As Cursing Aziraphale seven ways to Heaven and back, he realised there were several tins of sardines sitting innocently amongst the mix of old favourites[4]and strange new highly processed, deeply unhealthy, too cheap to be acceptable, things since last he’d been there.

Crowley couldn’t stand sardines. Aziraphale had put them on everything a few decades back, and it had driven him to distraction. For one thing the smell was disgusting. For another, there was just something distinctly...Unnatural about them. Squashed together, with their heads cut off, and their organs removed, but a variety of bones still in their bodies when they had no right to be there anymore.

“They’re soft, dear boy, you won’t even notice them!” Azirapahle had insisted, airily.

Crowley had.

It had put him off eating anything for almost a year afterwards, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin.

No. No part of his subconscious had bought this for him. That meant it must have bought it for...

“Fuck, shit, balls, no,” he growled at thin air, snatching up the tins and striding over the bin, with the full intention of throwing them out and pretending they’d never existed.

But. No. He couldn’t bring himself to do that either.

He almost hurled the tin through the window in the plant room, then, thought better of it.

Gnashing his teeth with every step, he stormed downstairs, wrenched open the door, peeled the lid from the can with the sheer force of his irritation, and dumped it into the alley without looking at it.

As the door closed behind him, he heard a purring as loud as the Bentley’s engine when she greeted him first thing in the morning, and had to work hard to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his lips.

******************************************************************************

Humans were terrible.

Crowley had long since decided on this.

Or, to be fair, (damn Aziraphale was bad fucking influence, no doubt about that), humans had the immense capacity to be terrible. More so than any other being he had ever come across.

As of Sunday the 6th of January 2019, at precisely 5.46pm, in London, he decided they’d officially outdone themselves on the terrible scale.

Crowley had seen some shit in his time on Earth. He’d seen, and been credited for, the Spanish Inquisition. He’d seen the world war. Both of them. He’d seen every war that had ever taken place in this world.

But this, this surpassed it all. Because in all those cases, he’d seen humans taking out their cruelty and twisted imagination on each other. That was one thing. This was something else. Something utterly unforgivable.

He’d gone to the flower show, as usual, though he hadn’t picked anything up. A truly shocking display of leaf spots, white fly, and a combination of over and under-watering, had put him off making any purchases.

He had stopped off at his usual fish and chip vendor, though, because the fish and chips was always top quality.

Then he’d sauntered back home. Since losing her, he’d found himself much more appreciative of the Bentley, and so he let her rest on Sundays, and walked to and from the market.

Reflexively, as he reached the alleyway, he tossed the remnants of his fish supper into the usual spot before moving automatically towards the door.

Then he stopped.

From down the alley came the sound of loud, high-pitched yowling, and drunken shouts and laughter.

His eyesight easily pierced the puddle of darkness down the alley and saw a group of three large, drunk, twenty-something guys with hand-held fireworks they were throwing against the wall, terrifying the small cat-shaped-lump he’d been covertly feeding for the past couple of months.

With a low growl starting in the pit of his chest, quickly rising to his throat, he transformed himself into a snarling, black-scaled beast that truly deserved the title of demon.

Crowley was typically quite reserved. He preferred his human form, went out of his way to cover his serpent’s eyes to prevent alarming anyone. He disliked taking any other form, felt unlike himself, and afraid he might get stuck like that, which would be the worst.

But sometimes, sometimes, he relished it. Sometimes he sank into this form and relished every inch of it.

This was one of those times.

Stalking down the alley, he let the growl in his chest rise until it resembled thunder. His eyes glowed an evil red, and he licked his curved fangs as he advanced.

The guys took one look at him, screamed, and then, as one, bolted down the alley. To be quite sure, and also for a bit of devilish fun, he sent the remainder of the fireworks after them, smacking into them as they ran.

He cracked his neck out as he returned to his human form and crouched down to check on the kittenish-thing. There was a slight burn on its side, which he healed with a quick miracle. Other than that it seemed okay, just scared shitless. The little thing was still trembling, sides heaving, eyes bulging.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled to it.

It seemed too panicked to let him touch it, skittering away from him each time he tried, which he figured was fair. “Here,” he said, nudging his leftovers towards it, using a miracle to increase the quantity just a bit. “Those shits won’t bother you again. Promise,” he told it firmly.

It tentatively started poking at the newspapers, and he decided that was good enough, and slouched upstairs, cursing humanity as he went.

******************************************************************************

Crowley stretched and decided that he’d earned his monthly nap with all the evil he’d combated today.

Not that he was in the business of thwarting evil, kind of went against his whole thing as a demon, but, well, sometimes the humans went to places even a demon couldn’t condone. On these occasions, he figured it was his duty to step in, show them there were right kinds of evil, and wrong kinds of evil, and remind them of their place.

As He expected himself to be dressed in his black silk pyjamas[5]when he entered the bedroom for his nap, and so he was.

Yawning, he collapsed down onto the bedsheets which, by demonic miracle, were freshly washed and tumble dried, and smelled of jasmine and...Something else he couldn’t remember the name of but liked a lot.

As he settled himself down to sleep, there was a loud rumble of thunder in the distance, and the rain started outside, lashing against the walls of the flat.

Perfect.

A quarter of an hour passed and Crowley remained awake.

Half an hour passed, and still he hadn’t found himself in the comfortable embrace of sleep.

With nearly an hour gone into his attempt at sleeping, he sat up, frowning, and decided he needed to probe his feelings to understand why the fuck he was still conscious.

After a painful five minutes spent examining his own emotions, Crowley realised, to his mild horror and disgust, that he was feeling concern and something that felt an awful lot like guilt.

Groaning, the vague cocktail in his brain solidified into the image of a single scrawny, scrappy, dumb-coloured kitten shaped thing, soaked to the skin, cowering in some corner at the deafening rolls of thunder that were sweeping through the sky beyond.

No he told himself, firmly, he had already gone too far with the stupid thing. Scraps had turned into routine, had turned into tins of tuna, had turned into fully transforming himself in order to protect it. This was a line he wasn’t going to cross. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances, and for no reason would he ever-

He was already halfway to his bedroom door.

You he chided himself, as he miracled some shoes onto his feet, and a coat to protect his favourite pyjamas from the near-hurricane outside, are a pathetic excuse for a demon. The absolute worst demon that this planet, or any planet, for that matter, has ever seen.

He nudged his way out of the door of his flat, and took the stairs instead of the lift to punish himself for this hideous act of charity. Ugh. The word felt foul in his brain.

Turn around. Go back upstairs. Be worse than this. You can be worse than this. You should be worse than this. Stop this now before you do something that can’t be undone.

The door nearly threw him into the middle of next week with the force of it battering from his hand as he opened it.

He stumbled vaguely outside, instantly hissing in irritation as the wind slapped a wall of rain against his face.

Fortunately, within seconds, the cat-shaped thing had enough sense to emerge from its corner and trot as quickly as possible towards him.

If it hadn’t been quite so wet, and windy, and blessedly miserable, he might have paused to note how strange it was that this tiny, vulnerable, near helpless little scrap of life immediately associated him with safety. To the point that it ventured out in the middle of a brutal thunderstorm to run to him.

But it was wet, and windy, and blessedly miserable, so all he did was scoop it up and carry it inside.

The lift was waiting for them, and the doors opened as soon as he approached them. On the way up, he used another miracle to dry the vaguely kitten-like thing, because it was sodden, and disgusting, and he didn’t want it touching him like that, thank you very much.

Once they were inside the flat, he dumped it on the countertop in the kitchen and stared down at it. It stared right back at him.

It also looked as though he’d just stuffed it into an active socket. All its fur was standing on end, thanks to its miracle drying, which it didn’t seem too concerned by.

Frowning down at it, he miracled up a small box in the corner where it could go to relieve itself, then dumped two bowls on the counter. One he filled with water, the other he poured some more blessed sardines into.

The now much more cat-like thing stared at him with big yellow eyes, that were starting to look more and more like this own, as though it couldn’t quite fathom what was happening in this moment.

“Me neither,” he told it, flatly.

It crawled forwards and began to lap noisily at the water, sneezing a few times as it inhaled it up its nose. Apparently it hadn’t quite gotten the hang of drinking out of bowls.

Stupid little creature he thought, vaguely, patting it on the head.

It purred at him.

“Don’t get used to this,” he told it sternly, waggling a finger in its face, “This is not a permanent arrangement. One night only, so you don’t drown in that storm and that’s it, understand?”

It continued to drink, placidly.

Crowley was fairly certain that no other creature on Earth had half the disdain built in to its DNA as a natural fact of its existence quite like the cat.

He could have transformed himself into the demonic equivalent of Medusa and cursed its family for the next nine generations and he doubted whether it would so much as flick its tail at him.

All the same, he went on with setting his ground rules, “You eat, and drink, and shit, and sleep, and stay here,” he instructed, “You don’t go anywhere else in the flat. You so much as look at any of my plants, and I’ll drown you in the sink myself, save the thunderstorm the trouble. You stay here. All night. No exceptions.”

He considered for a moment, then miracle up a small folded blanket onto the countertop beside its bowls.

“Right here,” he said, pointing. Then, for good measure, he picked it up and placed it on the blanket to illustrate his point, “You got me?”

It blinked at him.

“Good,” he said, thinking he was doing pretty well at this whole one-night pet owner thing. “I’ll see you in the morning when I wake up and you’ve followed all those rules to a t. Make the most of this night, cat, you’re not getting another one.”

With that, he turned and sloped off to bed again, thinking that if he couldn’t sleep now he might scream.

Less than five minutes later, there was a small squeaking sound, followed by a soft flump, then loud purring.

The kitten, smelling faintly of sardines, crawled from the foot of his bed to the empty pillow beside him and curled up, the noise of its purrs now rivalling the thunderstorm outside.

Mashing his hand around vaguely, like a man who’s slept for a century and is trying to find the alarm clock that’s just woken him in the haze of grief, confusion, and deep hatred for the world and everything in it in that moment, Crowley found its small fuzzy body and patted it.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to call up the roiling fires of Hell to damn you for disobedience right now,” he muttered thickly to it.

The cat head-butted his hand and increased the intensity of its purrs.

“You’re leaving in the morning,” he told it, firmly.

He almost managed to convince himself of that.

He was certain he didn’t manage to convince the cat for a second.

Blessed creature, he thought irritably, before he passed out at last.

******************************************************************************

Crowley’s flat had a kitchen because it had come with one, and because he’d never bothered to get rid of it.

A few months ago, though, he had accidentally sauntered into a cookery class at a local university. He’d found he’d enjoyed it, and had since accidentally sauntered into a few more.

Ever since, Aziraphale had been sceptical in the extreme that Crowley would cook, and then, even more so, that he could.

So, striving as ever to combat any and all notions of the adversary on Earth, Crowley had invited him over for lasagne followed by an Eton mess, all homemade by him.

As Going out of his way to look professional, he had invested in a new apron for the occasion[6]and had sat Aziraphale down in the dining room with a cup of tea and a new book he’d picked up at a Camden market to encourage him to stay out of the way. Crowley couldn’t work his magic with an audience, bless it.

He had just started rolling out the pasta sheets, when there was an interruption from next door.

“Ah, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s uncertain voice drifted through to him.

As “What, angel?” he replied, tersely, not pausing what he was doing, “If there’s a typo on your book, it wasn’t me this time, I swear[7].”

“No, no, it’s not that, the book is excellent, I do actually admire your taste on this one, it’s-” the angel babbled.

“Then what is it?” Crowley interrupted, exasperated.

“Well, it’s just that there’s something drinking my tea that isn’t me.”

Crowley cursed, abandoned his pasta, and strode out of the kitchen, hissing softly.

Aziraphale was sitting primly up in his seat, staring down at a small, furry creature, whose adorable little pink tongue was currently dipping in and out of his teacup.

Crowley marched forwards, scooped the offending little beast up and said, threateningly, “I will feed you to a hellhound.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, indignant.

“Not a big one, either, a little runty one, that’ll take its time with you,” he added.

It had the audacity to purr at him.

“So it’s supposed to be here?” Aziraphale said, peering interestedly at the little bundle in his arms, “I thought perhaps it had sneaked in without you noticing.” He awkwardly patted its head. It purred more loudly. “Oh!” he said, obviously charmed, “Sweet little thing, isn’t she?”

“D’you want it?” Crowley demanded, thrusting it at him.

“Oh no, no,” Aziraphale said, a soft little smile on his face, “I think she belongs here. So you took her in, then?” he said.

“No I didn’t,” Crowley growled, “I took pity on it, stopped it drowning in a thunderstorm one night, and the ungrateful little shit has refused to leave ever since.”

“Oddly enough,” Aziraphale said, using a quick miracle to clean the essence of cat from his tea and take a prim sip, surveying Crowley over the rim, “That’s rather how I feel about you after all these years, dear boy.”

The angel looked rather pleased with himself at this little bit of verbal sparring. Crowley just glowered.

“You need to be punished,” he informed it darkly.

“Oh no, please!” Aziraphale protested at once, “Not on my account. The poor little creature didn’t do any harm.”

“No,” Crowley interrupted, “It has to learn its place.”

He carried it out of the kitchen and dumped it into a cot with high barred sides, meant for small human children. The conversation he’d had when purchasing it (since the one’s he’d miracled into existence himself hadn’t held it for more than the time it took to sneeze) had been truly nauseating.

Pointing a finger threateningly down at it he commanded, “You stay there and think about what you’ve done.”

It mewed softly at him.

Crowley returned to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, it had escaped its plastic prison, and climbed onto his shoulder to peer interestedly at the sauce he was making.

“You’re a demon,” he told it, conversationally, as it head-butted his ear in a gesture he’d come to interpret as affection.

Crowley checked his watch, “Huh, faster than last time,” he observed, feeding it scraps of meat from the pot in front of him, “Going to need to reinforce Alcatraz.”

It purred and nibbled his ear in a gesture he’d interpreted as ‘give me more food, I’m always hungry, if you were mortal I’d have no qualms whatsoever about eating your corpse if you died before me. If you don’t feed me right now, that will happen’. He kinda appreciated its moral outlook on life.

He gave it another scrap of meat.

As “Not a word to the angel,” he growled, “Got a reputation to uphold,” he said, starting to chop onions, “Can’t have it getting back to Heaven I’ve gone soft in my old age,” he sniffled[8].

“Ah, hello there little one,” Crowley jumped, and four sets of claws dug deeply into his shoulder to prevent their lasagne becoming distinctly more cat-flavoured.

Aziraphale had apparently drifted in from the dining area and was now tickling the little creature under the chin. It was uncertain, but not fleeing or trying to gnaw the angel’s fingers off, so that was an improvement.

“So what have you decided to name the little thing?” he asked evenly.

“It doesn’t have a name,” Crowley insisted, dumping his shredded onions into the pot and miracling his eyes back to normal, “I just call it ‘cat’ if I have to call it anything.”

“Cat is a very nice name,” Aziraphale said, blandly, plainly not listening to a word Crowley was saying.

“No, not ‘Cat’,” Crowley said, irritably, emphasising the first letter, “Just ‘cat’. No capital.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, in a tone of voice that meant he was agreeing with Crowley to avoid an argument but was going to carry on believing his stupid, wrong, angelic opinion anyway.

Crowley glared at him.

“First day of Spring on Wednesday,” he said, now hacking tomatoes into bloody red chunks, “Soon as that comes, it’s gone. That means you,” he added firmly to cat, still perched on his shoulder, poking it in its little furry chest to make sure it got the message.

“Just so,” Aziraphale said. Then he sighed and added, in a very long-suffering tone, which Crowley thought was pretty rich for someone about to eat the best thing they’d ever tasted, “Crowley, would it be so terrible to just admit that you’ve adopted this cat? It’s not the end of the world if you have, you know.”

“Yes, it would be,” Crowley said, scraping the tomatoes into the pot with unnecessary violence, “Because I haven’t.”

“Clearly,” Aziraphale deadpanned, watching the cat eagerly licking the juice from his fingers.

“Shut up and make yourself useful, angel,” Crowley growled, impatiently, “Set the table.”

“I’m your guest, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him, primly, “I think that means you’re supposed to-“

Crowley flicked his hand towards a drawer that shot open, nudging the angel smartly on the hip, “Cutlery’s in there.” Azirapahle opened his mouth to protest, but a cabinet door nearly hit him on the head and cut him off. Crowley snickered. “Glasses are in there. Figure you know where the wine is by now.”

Grumbling under his breath, Aziraphale trotted off to set the table.

Two stunning courses and a lot of wine later, Crowley and Aziraphale were sprawled on the couch. Crowley was sprawled properly¸ lanky body spread across two chairs, foot dangling off the end, jiggling vaguely in time to the music. Aziraphale was sprawled Aziraphale-y, slouching in an armchair the way Queen Elizabeth I with an over-tightened corset might have sprawled in it.

Cat was curled on Crowley’s chest, rising up and down gently in time with his breathing.

“Well, I suppose I’d best- Oh” Aziraphale hiccupped and broke off, “Excuse me. I’d best get back to the bookshop.”

“Want me to sober up and drive you?” Crowley asked, vaguely, making no move to begin the process of doing either.

“No, no, don’t worry yourself, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand, “The walk will do me good.”

As “You’re going to walk to the end of the street then miracle yourself right back into the shop, aren’t you?” Crowley said, shrewdly[9].

“Of course I am. Who do you take me for?”

Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale tottered, a little unsteadily, but impressively so, over to Crowley, and patted cat on the head. “Now you be good,” he told it, in his best approximation of drunken sternness, “And look after Crowley for me, alright?” She blinked at him. Crowley glared at her, since she never got anything like that level of acceptance from his requests.

Aziraphale patted her on the head again then, for good measure, patted Crowley’s head too, and bobbed towards the door.

Cat yawned, stretched, flexed her claws, then comfortably began to knead at Crowley’s apron. He hadn’t taken it off all night, feeling it was only right he have a constant reminder to Aziraphale just where his dinner had come from.

“Wednesday,” he told it, sleepily, “You’re gone. Enjoy this while you’ve got it, it won’t last.”

Cat purred, somehow insolently.

Crowley stroked her vaguely behind the ear in that place she liked, and fell asleep.

******************************************************************************

Cat did not leave on Wednesday.

******************************************************************************

Footnotes:

11- Crowley did not, as a rule, make a habit of holding the door open for people. He figured that he had to at least try to be demonic some of the time, and he did this, by and large, by refraining from the many little trappings that contributed to what society deemed ‘polite’. In doing so, he raised the general irritation levels wherever he happened to be.

An exception was made for Mrs Coal.

For a start she was ancient, Crowley was at a 50/50 toss up right now that she pre-dated him. And she’d been ancient when he moved into the building.

For another thing, he was almost certain that if he ever let the door close on her face, something would smite his existence from the face of the Earth faster than he could blink.

And finally, demon he might be, but he had some standards, contrary to Aziraphale’s typical belief. Even demons like Hastur or Ligur would have flinched at the idea of closing the door on Mrs Coal.

There was a power to little old ladies Crowley had long ago decided not to trifle with.[return to text]

2- On the strict condition that Aziraphale said nothing to his plants, since it had been proven with time he couldn’t limit himself to simply saying nothing nice. [return to text]

3- Except for the small bag of groceries sitting on Mrs Coal’s doorstep. [return to text]

4- Tetley teabags, Digestive biscuits, and a six pack of irn bru. This is not typically found in supermarkets in England, but present with his shopping all the same. [return to text]

5- They were trimmed with a fine edge of red lace, and had been a Christmas present from Mrs Coal some years ago. Crowley had never, in his life, received a gift and felt the compulsion to buy the other person something in return. He figured if they wanted to buy him a gift, good for them, didn’t mean he wanted to buy them something in return. Mrs Coal had found new slippers, a thick woollen blanket, and a hand-knitted hot water bottle under her tree from him that year, however. [return to text]

6- It was black with fire licking up the edges, and had ‘Hot as Hell’ printed on the front, which Crowley had found amusing. [return to text]

7- There had been a time when Aziraphale had refused to accept books from Crowley, owing to the frequency of, typically inappropriate, typos that didn’t exist in any copy the demon hadn’t gotten his hands on. [return to text]

8- Crowley had been distinctly aggrieved to discover that being a demon did not mean he was immune to the plague of onion tears that he had unleashed upon humanity several centuries earlier. He’d thought it would be really funny to give humans a foodstuff they couldn’t prepare without crying all over it. He’d thought right. Until he had to prepare it himself. Onions were in fucking everything, there was no escaping the little buggers. [return to text]

9- As shrewd as one could be after three bottles of wine. [return to text]

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #goodomensedit #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrowley #good omens fic #ineffable fic #fluff #i took out a lot of my domestic nonsense in this fic #also Crowley is Soft i will FIGHT abt this #he won't accept this but he IS #my fic #mine

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mandysimo13 · 5 years

Note

hey! you wanted those prompts. how about: "i don't want to be just friends"? (good omens/ineffable husbands, pls)

Ooooooooh yesssssssssss, @ina-k, you speakin’ my language! This is now also a fic on AO3, so please be sure to pop a kudos or comment on it, lovelies!

///~\\\

Two weeks after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t, the Nope-pocalypse, the Armaged-dud, the Ragnar-Went-Wrong, two celestial beings found themselves in a familiar setting, in familiar bodies, feeling decidedly unfamiliar with a variety of new feelings.

First and foremost was relief - relief that the world was, in fact, not over. Relief that there were still ducks to feed, crepes to eat, and plants to spritz and terrorize.

Secondly there was a feeling of directionless. They had not so much mislaid their intended purposes as much as they yeeted them into the heavens whilst flipping the bird for good measure. For the first time, since the dawn of time, neither of them could feel the little niggling tug that told them to cause mischief and to spread grace. Doing either seemed to them like going through the well oiled and practiced motions of blessing and tempting and it made them wonder what the point of it all was.

Third, and most surprisingly considering their shared aimlessness, was a sense of urgency. Like there would be another Gotcha! moment and that the armies they had pissed off would be back with a vengeance and that there wouldn’t be enough time.

“Enough time for what” is a perfectly acceptable question and one that both angel and demon would rather not have to answer, though both answers would be the same. They both wanted desperately to find their courage and scream I love you, I chose you, stay with me, pick our side every day for the rest of existence, all you need to do is speak and your will be done by my hands. But, you see, courage is a tricky thing. It comes and goes unexpectedly, even though it comes in times when all the signs and motifs and themes and histories tell you to expect it. Courage came for them when they faced down Gabriel, Beelzebub, and Satan. It filled their ribcages with fire and moved their hands, making them feel about as powerful as when Herself created the whole world. But then it seeped out of them, slowly and then all at once, leaving them deflated, tired, and with an irony flavor in the back of their throats.

Now, when courage was needed most sorely, it sat back with a glass of wine watching the scene unfold and wishing for popcorn.

The scene, in question, was Aziraphale and Crowley sitting in the intimate and well loved back room of Aziraphale’s “bookshop”. More parlour than back room, it contained the things it had always contained, plus a few extras thanks to Adam and his reshuffling of the universe. Before the End-Times-that-Wasn’t, the angel and demon would sit close but separate, always on separate pieces of furniture but close enough to touch should the occasion call for it. But in the After the pair decided that since they had shared bodies perhaps they could share a couch. Backs leant up against the armrests, knees turned towards each other as they lounged thoroughly drunk on the choice wine of the evening, they conversed as they ever did.

“I’m telling you, koalas are the most useless lump of fur on the damn planet,” Crowley exclaimed, gesticulating with his glass.

Aziraphale tutted and made a swishy swat motion in the air to bat away the, to him, unfair comment. “They’re adorable creatures! What with their big noses and their soft fur-”

“Their rampant chlamydia, their toxic bodies from eating toxic leaves-”

“They don’t all have chlamydia,” Aziraphale, defended.

Crowley scoffed, “enough of them do. And ya know, nothing eats them either!”

“Why would you want to eat a koala?”

“Exactly my point!”

Aziraphale began to laugh at that, slinking further into the couch as his body shook with ridiculous mirth. His knees slid along the couch until they bumped up against Crowley’s (not that that meant anything, it was a rather small couch). Joy and drink making him comfortable, he was reluctant to remove himself from Crowley’s space. A quick glance saw that Crowley had relaxed further as well, joining him in laughter, and looked to be in no hurry to part their small connection.

Giggles eventually turned into happy silence, renewed glasses of wine, and lingering looks over the tops of said glasses.

Crowley, glasses firmly placed upon the bridge of his nose, looked his fill without exposure. He watched as Aziraphale’s face creased with his smile, perfectly angelic in appearance, radiating love and happiness in such amounts that even Crowley could feel it.

It was said that demons were not meant to feel love, that they had lost the ability to feel love when they fell. The truth of it was that they were able to feel love but it was often drowned out by the forced feeling of the absence of love. Her love. The love of her creations. Her love permeated everything from the grass, the oceans, the people, even the fucking koalas - though they had a funny way of showing it by literally showering one with chlamydia. Crowley could feel the Absence so acutely in every stare from a human who could feel somewhere in their primordial makeup that he was meant to be unforgivable, unfathomable, unlovable. Since the invention of sunglasses things had been a bit better, he could sometimes shrug off that feeling for a time. When the one real tell of demonic-ness was hidden, it took longer for people to catch on. He knew the other demons mocked him for his glasses, for hiding away his traits, but he figured they were just jealous because it was easier to hide snake eyes than it was to hide a persistent cloud of flies and the inherent smell of poo.

But when he looked at Aziraphale, especially after the End Times ended, love radiated so strongly that he thought that, maybe, he could be forgiven and thought and loved. But even with the evidence wafting about his being like waves on a shore, he second guessed it. Aziraphale was a being of love, he loved everyone and everything regardless of their deserving of it. Unlike his counterparts who got caught up in the bureaucracy of it all, all the “who’s what’s where’s when’s why’s and how’s”, Aziraphale did everything just because he knew that somewhere along the line his actions would give pleasure and happiness, and not just for himself. What may seem gluttonous in a plate of crepes was actually a desire to make sure a local creperie, run by a Senegalese couple, would stay in business despite the hike in rent. What may seem prideful in buying an extensive wardrobe was really a way to ensure that the true art of tailoring never died, that there was always someone ready to pass down the knowledge of the old traditions, even if the tone changed with the times. He knew that Aziraphale felt bad occasionally for his indulgences but, even if it wasn’t obviously to himself, Crowley could see the angelic intent behind it all.

Which is why he couldn’t read too much into anything Aziraphale said or did around him. Sure, he was often prickly with him and had often insisted they weren’t friends, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He had been unfailingly kind to Crowley from the very beginning, raising his own wing to shield them both from the rain as they watched the first two humans trudge away from paradise. He knew that Aziraphale loved him but what did that really mean when he loved everything?

So, instead of gathering courage to speak, to declare, to move towards something, he sat and watched the angel giggle to himself, cheeks red with joy and wine.

He could watch that face forever.

Aziraphale finally caught him staring, his glasses slipped down his nose without his permission or notice, and his expression changed to something unbearably fond and concerned. “Is everything alright, dear?”

Dear, his heart clenched at the old endearment. Slowly, hand shaking slightly, Crowley pushed his glasses up to where they belonged. “Why would it not be,” he asked.

“You just...you seemed lost.”

Lost in you, he didn’t say. Instead, he shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Seems like we’re both a little lost. Having no bosses, no one to answer to, no agendas, having freedom. It all seems to be a little overwhelming, no?”

Understanding filled Aziraphale’s face and he sat up a little straighter. He scooted just a bit closer, unwilling to part their knees from each other for the time being. “It does, doesn’t it. I’ve never really considered the consequences of freedom. Always seemed like something for only Her mortal creations and not for us.” He looked at him openly, questioningly, “what does one do with freedom?”

Crowley licked his lips, eyes cast down towards his glass and missing how Aziraphale tracked the movement of his tongue. “I suppose it’s up to us to make our own agenda.” He looked up and smiled at him, hoping to bring back their easy, happy glow from before. “Can’t be harder than making our Own Side, can it?” He chuckled, hoping that would sell it and make Aziraphale smile once more.

Instead, it made Aziraphale lean closer in curiosity. “What...what’s on your agenda, Crowley?”

Blinking, immediately uncomfortable with the direction they were headed, Crowley leaned back as casually as he could. “What makes you think I have one?

Aziraphale smiled, then. “My dear boy, I have known you for over 6000 years. And if there’s one thing I do know about you is that you always have an agenda.” He huffed a brief chuckle and added, “even if you don’t have a plan for it yet.”

If Crowley were being honest he would tell Aziraphale how his agenda included nothing other than walks through parks, holidays to wherever was warm and sunny and abundant with good food, talks of books and plants and frivolous topics, and doing all he could to make the angel keep choosing him, them, until God Herself chose to end the world. But he wasn’t planning on being honest so instead he asked him, “what is your agenda, then?”

“To live,” Aziraphale said simply. “To really, truly live and enjoy all the things I’ve done, have yet to do, and yearn to do.” He smiled shyly then, shifting back a bit, and added, “I’d love for you to be there, too, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered against the glasses pressed close to his face as his blinked rapidly in surprise. He hoped he wasn’t too drunk and unable to keep his face cool. “Really? You’d want me there with you on all your post-heaven adventures?”

Aziraphale’s voice was full of excitement meaning to assure him. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends!” Then he said softer, love dripping from him, “the best of friends. Of course I would want you there.”

Despite himself, Crowley’s eyes became wet with an unasked for wave of emotion. He felt a lump in his throat at that threatened to choke him, if breathing was at all necessary for him. Without stopping to think he said, “what if...” He hesitated, feeling that creep of something monumental happening between them. He felt that same creep when something told him to wake up the 18th century because Aziraphale was lonely. He felt it when Aziraphale had taken a leap he didn’t want to make, for his sake, and handed over that thermos full to the brim with his “insurance policy” and he had asked the angel to tell him how to repay the favor. He felt it when Aziraphale threatened to never speak to him again.

Courage was back. Most rudely and inopportunely. There was no way to sober and restart the conversation and not lose the...something that was there and bubbling between them. Fuck.

Aziraphale swallowed, his throat bobbing. Hesitantly, he repeated, prompting Crowley to finish his thought, “what if?”

Fuck it. All or nothing, Anthony J. Crowley. Both feet, nose closed, hope for the best. “What if I don’t want to be just friends.”

Aziraphale sucked in gasp, shock on his face and Crowley couldn’t help feel like he had fucked up royally. That he had ruined everything beyond repair and that he would spent the rest of damned eternity alone. His tears finally spilled over and ran down his cheeks and Aziraphale said a soft, gentle “oh” and Crowley felt like death would be less painful.

Aziraphale reached out to his cheek and Crowley ducked his head, trying to avoid the contact. But backed against the couch and heavy with the weight of his confession, he was unable to move and Aziraphale closed a gap between them, palm coming to rest on Crowley’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the salt of his tears.

He opened his mouth to say forget it, it’s stupid, I know I moved to fast, I’ll stop it, I’ll be good, good for you, I’ll give you all the room and space you need, just don’t forsake me, don’t leave me alone, but was stopped by a finger pressed to his lips. He opened his eyes to see the one being in 6000 years who had ever given a damn about him looking at him with awe and such overwhelming love that he physically hurt. Beneath his ribs his vestigial heart beat faster and he braced himself. For what, he couldn’t say.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice shaky. The angel’s eyes watered as well, tears shining in the dim light and it made Crowley hurt even more to see what his words had done.

He tried to lessen the pain for them both, “just-”

“No! Don’t say anything. Unless it’s to tell me only good. Don’t,” Aziraphale choked on his plea. He physically swallowed around the lump in his throat and begged, “don’t take it back.”

“W-what?”

Aziraphale sighed and gently placed his forehead against Crowley’s. “I thought that I was too slow. That I had made you wait so long you could not possibly ever want me that way. That my own cowardice, my pride, had gotten in the way of the one thing I want most in this world.”

Crowley dropped the wine glass in his hands, caring not a whit for a stain that could be miracled away later, and clutched Aziraphale’s hands in his own. Trembling, not daring to believe, he asked, “what is it you want, Aziraphale?”

“You,” he said confidently and without shame. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. To acknowledge it. To feel its rightness.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead, lips lingering. “I can’t undo all the hurt I’ve caused but...let me try?”

Crowley tipped his head up to look at him and whispered, “oh, angel.” He pulled his glasses off, willfully sharing vulnerability, and said, “you have me. You always have. You could never lose me. Even if I had buggered off to Alpha Centuri all it would take is a snap of your fingers to bring me back. You have to know.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed. Then he chuckled wetly, “look at us. Blubbering like old fools.”

Crowley’s low laugh joined him. “We have been for a long time, angel.”

“May I...” Aziraphale hesitated, though logically he needn’t have. “May I do something I’ve been wanting to do since approximately 1941?”

“Anything.”

“May I kiss you?”

“You’d better,” Crowley said, barely getting the words out before he had a lapful of angel and lips pressed blessedly to his own.

Their first kiss was tinged with the salt of tears, first of sorrow then of relief. It was full of joy, thankfulness, and above all love. It seemed to go on forever, as if they were making up for lost time all at once.

When it finally ended Crowley said, breathlessly, “I love you, angel.”

“I love you too, Crowley.”

Somehow they had ended up laying stretched out on the couch, Aziraphale atop Crowley while he snaked his arms around the angel’s middle like a vice. He stroked Aziraphale’s hair and asked, thinking of their previous conversation with a smile, “what else was on your agenda, angel?”

Aziraphale giggled, nuzzling his face into Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, indeed. Whatever you like, whenever you like, however you like. And,” he paused, tipping Aziraphale’s face up with a finger under his chin, “we can even start with dinner.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “That is an excellent place to start.”

Slowly, they detangled themselves from the couch and each other, never moving too far out of reach. They righted their creased clothes, sobered themselves and made their way to the Ritz which, incidentally, had a miraculous cancellation. Much like their first meal together after they both quit their respective sides, the meal was delicious and the conversation easy. Only this time, it was filled with plans that included the pair of them.

And for the second time in history, and this time heard by one lonely bum on a park bench, a nightingale sang in Berkley Square.

#ineffable husbands #aziracrow #i can't even with these two!#love confessions #fic #tumblr prompts #thanks for this!#ina-k

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feynites · 6 years

Text

*furtively sneaks this into @selenelavellan’s pocket*

Kel learns a lot of things about ancient elves, as she struggles to come to grips with the reality of being a baby living in ancient times. A baby who has been adopted by Da’Selene, and also it would seem by Des’din, and by Dirthamen. Dirthamen who is real, and who would probably fascinate a great many clan Firsts and Keepers if they got a chance to see all of this. If they weren’t all gone, anyway.

One thing that Kel learns for certain about ancient elves, though, is that they lose their minds around babies.

Case in point - Kel is currently lying on the floor of her decidedly fancy nursery, on the softest blanket she has ever touched in living memory, working determinedly at the task of getting her stupid baby body to actually move. So far, she has succeeded in rolling over, and lifting up her own head. Which feels unspeakably heavy, and which she cannot keep up for very long.

Des’din, Lord Eternal of Death and Desire, the Great Seducer, Shadow of the Moon and Tamer of the Tides, is lying on the carpet across from her.

Watching.

With rapt interest, as if Kel is somehow doing something fascinating by internally swearing and externally babbling, and trying to shove her way into some kind of mobility. She knows how crawling is supposed to work, after all. She’s at least got that much of a headstart on an actual baby. But her muscle development apparently just isn’t there. Des’din watches, wearing his glittering eyeshadow, seemingly unconcerned about messing up his fancy hairstyle - there are pins that look like starlight in there. And he keeps watching as Kel heaves a tremendous sigh, and finally gives up.

For now.

Only at that point does Des’din sit up himself, and frown at her a little bit.

“I cannot tell what you want,” he says.

Kel blinks at him.

“Buh?” she manages to reply.

Des’din hums, and then hefts her up. He is a very tactile sort of person, Kel has learned. Which fits. It caused some problems earlier on, given that he’s also a very magical sort of person, and there was a learning curve issue with how much magic was too much magic, even if it was just in his clothing. But once he and Selene and Dirthamen had managed to sort out what was ‘upsetting’ her, Des’din had toned it down, and now she finds she doesn’t mind it so much when he just randomly scoops her up and demands cuddles.

“I mean, obviously I know you want to move,” Des carries on, as she slumps her head against his chest. “But most babies want to move because they want to get to something. A toy or a person or a place. Where are you trying to go, Little Des Junior? Why do you want to move so badly, when you do not want your destination?”

Kel lets loose a somewhat grumpier noise than usual. That’s another problem with ancient gods, she decides. They are nosy. Not that she can really blame them, when they think she’s a baby. But still. She’s been trying to work on not spilling her emotions out everywhere, too, though that quest seems even more fruitless than her mobility issues. And besides which, she thinks she’s gleaned enough to know that someone like Des’din would probably still be able to tell ‘things’ about her, even if she wasn’t always projecting her feelings into the air.

The question reminds her of her current frustrations, which, of course, spill outwards amidst her grumbling.

Des’din pats her back.

“I know it is frustrating,” he soothes. “But if I knew what you were trying to get to, then I could get it for you, and then you would not feel so badly. Only I cannot tell. Am I losing my touch?”

Kel sighs.

Not another existential crisis. Dirthamen had one last week, although that had mostly just manifested as him getting all quiet and soul-searchy. But Kel seems to provoke a lot of worry. Probably because she’s… well. Uncommonly grief-stricken and traumatized for a baby.

There isn’t much helping that, though. And thinking about it just serves to remind her of it, and then the next thing she knows her mood is plummeting, and Des’din is fussing and then trying to distract her, pulling out toys and starting in on some sing-song story, until he finally gives up and settles for cuddling her some more while she just sort of flops morosely against him.

Why, of course, is still a pressing question for her. Why she is here. What Solas was trying to accomplish. Did he intend to send himself back in time as a baby? To be raised by Selene and Des and Dirthamen? She can hardly imagine him stomaching this, though. Being so inept at everything. Being left to deal with all the internal dilemmas and memories and guilt, with no immediate way to take action against any of it. But if this wasn’t his plan, then what was it?

And what chances are passing by, as she is forced to waste time on being incapacitated like this?

Eventually, Des gets frustrated enough with his inability to pinpoint her desires - and Kel can’t blame him for struggling, when she doesn’t even know what she wants anymore, either - and gets up, and takes her to Dirthamen. Selene is in meetings, by the sounds of the talk around her. Des is probably supposed to be there, too, but he has a habit of sending representatives and coming to steal her from the nursery if he thinks the meetings aren’t important enough.

Dirthamen readily takes her from Des’din’s grasp, and shifts the cloak he is wearing around himself so that it blocks some of the light. Kel’s not sure how he does it, but he has this way of drowning out the world, and making her thoughts slow down. Easing things, until all she has to do is focus on her breathing, and her own heartbeats, and even her thoughts cannot quite seem to reach her as keenly.

She settles down.

“Good baby,” Dirthamen says. Patting her back.

“Do not look at me like that,” Des complains. Whining a little, even. Kel wonders what look Dirthamen has on; she can’t currently see anything. “I was just watching her in the nursery. Nothing happened, I swear it. She just had a mood.”

“I would not accuse you of anything,” Dirthamen replies, in his calm and even voice. “I am well aware of how these things happen. Guilt is likely unmerited, and I was not attempting to assign blame with my stare.”

Des’din sighs.

“Well, maybe you should assign a little blame,” he counters. “What kind of person cannot figure out his own child?”

“Elgar’nan does not seem to understand you at all times,” Dirthamen points out.

Des makes a sound like a deflating balloon.

“Please do not say I am that bad at it,” he pleads. “Even Elgar’nan understands babies. And so do I! Usually. With usual babies. Obviously Kel is a special baby, being our baby, so exceptional circumstances are to be expected. But still. One would think that would mean more understanding, not less. Especially considering that she likes me best!”

Kel would roll her eyes, but she can’t, currently. So instead she settles for drooling onto Dirthamen a little bit, and unthinkingly stuffing one of her fists up to her mouth.

It’s not that she wants to cause this kind of alarm. Des’din and Da’Selene were, on balance, not as bad as some of the other evanuris. But the other evanuris set a very low bar, and it puts her mostly in mind of Solas’ esteem for Mythal. All of it being judged on a sloping scale of awfulness, to be honest. Even Solas himself had fit into that design. And on the one hand, it might be easy to think that these versions of the Creators are closer to what they should be. Closer to right. But… Elvhenan is still a terrible place, and Kel thinks that would be a mistake, too.

Still. She cannot help her growing attachment to these people, either. Nor the undeniable spark of hope. That maybe the reason why Solas sent her here, and sent her now, is because… because there is something here that can stop things.

Someone.

Maybe even several someones. Maybe not just Kel, alone.

She squirms and worries and finds the darkness less calming, and misses some of the conversation between Dirthamen and Des, until Dirthamen determines that the cover of his cloak is no longer helping. Then he slides her up to his shoulder instead, and pats her back some more, while Des gestures dramatically towards her.

“See?” he declares. “What are we doing wrong?”

“I do not know,” Dirthamen replies. “Perhaps it is me?”

“It is not you,” Des dismisses, immediately.

Dirthamen opts not to argue the point.

“Then it is probably whatever happened to her before we found her,” he reasons. “Babies are very sensitive. Kel is especially so.”

“But that part of her life is over. How long does it take for babies to forget things?” Des presses, and Kel manages to move around enough to attempt a stern look at him. If he suggests finding a way to wipe her memories again, she is going to have to burst into tears again, and really nobody likes that. Although Selene had made it pretty clear that she was not at all in favour of using mind-altering magic on a baby. Her argument mostly seemed to be that it might damage her cognitive functions somehow, and not that Kel should be allowed to keep her traumatic memories.

But they can’t take them. However much it hurts. Kel is the only one who still remembers.

It’s all she can do, until she finds a way to do more again.

“I do not know,” Dirthamen says, and then looks down at her. Locking gazes with her, as he shifts his hold on her somewhat. “Are you going to forget things soon?” he asks.

Kel huffs, and then dutifully pats his chest twice for no.

“She says she will not forget,” he informs Des.

“Well ask her why not!” Des whines.

“We can only manage ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, currently,” Dirthamen reminds him.

He sighs, dramatically. Then he seems to decide that he’s had enough of letting Dirthamen hold her, and reaches over to take her back. Kel doesn’t fuss, so Dirthamen permits it. Des holds her so that they two of them can look at one another, face-to-face, for a moment. Before he sighs again, and kisses her nose, and then tucks her under his chin.

“Once she can speak, she will be able to tell you what she wants herself,” Dirthamen says, consolingly.

Des is quiet for a moment. Kel can somewhat gather that he’s considering the matter.

“Well, then, we will just have to work on speaking first,” he decides, determinedly. And then seems set on getting back onto that topic, as he shifts her to one arm, and then starts patting his chest.

“Des,” he declares. “Say ‘Des’? Dessie? Des’din? Desire?”

“Da,” Kel manages, in an effort to be sporting. Her mouth is about as reluctant to cooperate with her brain as her body is, truth be told.

Des is nothing if not enthusiastic over her efforts, though.

“Good job!” he gushes. “How close you are, my little chickadee! Let’s try again. Des. Ddddeeeessss.”

“Daaaaaz,” Kel imitates, inaccurately. Her tongue doesn’t quite like to make the right shape for an e-before-ess type sound, yet. Or anything excessively complicated, really. Dirthamen is currently also ‘Da’, despite his efforts to veer her more towards ‘Pa’, and Selene is ‘Za’ or ‘Za-la-na’, which is entirely wrong and Kel is well aware that it’s miles off and much harder to attempt than ‘mama’, but there are a lot of confusing and complicated factors going on here.

“Progress!” Des’din decides. “I think it merits a candy reward!”

Kel pats at him, and doesn’t object. Ancient elven candies are, admittedly, really good. Weird and sometimes unsettling, in a ‘that looks too good’ kind of a way, but so far that hasn’t overcome her baby-impulse to shove it all straight into her mouth, either. The only bad experience so far had featured a sour candy that a confused attendant hadn’t realized would taste way too strong on a baby’s tongue, and even that hadn’t really been awful. Just mildly unpleasant.

Des carts her off to Selene’s chambers, which are adjacent to the nursery, and retrieves the candy bowl from a cabinet in the parlour. First he lets Kel pick one, which she does by way of baby-reflex, mostly; grabbing a juicy-looking orb near to her hand, and barely resisting the urge to stuff it in her mouth before the wrapper is off. Des rescues her quickly, though, and gets it free of its filmy casing, and smiles as she stuffs it awkwardly into her face. Then he takes a few more like it from the bowl, before he puts it away again.

He settles with her onto the carpet. Putting her down near one of the tables, and then sitting a few steps across from her.

“Do you want another candy, Kel?” he asks.

Her mouth still feels sticky-sweet from the last one. But… she kind of does, she supposes. On a few levels, anyway. She lies on the floor, and blinks at Des, as he holds the wrapped treat up - just out of her reach.

“Say ‘candy’?” he suggests.

“Uhhhh…” Kel replies, and tries to focus. “Caaa-daaa?”

“Oh, good job!” Des enthuses again, and when she manages to repeat a few attempts, gives her the candy. Then he holds up another one; and this time, tries to encourage her to move closer in order to get at it.

It takes her a while to figure out what he’s doing.

Can’t tell what the baby wants?

Well, why not simplify things by giving the baby something specific to want - and something which is easy to provide. It doesn’t escape her notice that some of the tension in Des’ shoulders seems to relax whenever he is able to provide her with a candy.

She feels vaguely guilty about the whole thing, then. Whatever might come, it’s not, at the moment, actually Des’ fault that he can’t possibly tell what she wants. He’s not a bad parent, so far as she can tell. And his alignments with desire seem to also have the backwards effect of making him even more uncomfortable with her frustration and sense of denial than she is.

So she finds herself kind of appreciating the gesture, too. Candy is simple. It is, in the grand scheme of things, fairly harmless. And she can admit… it’s nice to feel like she can actually accomplish something, when she manages to make an approximate sound, or roll her way closer across the carpet, and succeed. It may only be the most petty and meagre of successes, but Des celebrates them eagerly. Until her face and hands are sticky, and her tongue is tingling with the telltale sign of too many sweets.

Far too many sweets.

…It’s possible, she muses, the some of the good feelings are also the result of a sugar rush.

It’s as she’s drawing this conclusion that Selene apparently gets out of her meeting. The woman comes into the parlour, and takes in the sight of the empty candy wrappers, and of Kel - who is currently kicking at the air, for reasons even she isn’t quite clear on - and then rounds on Des.

“Please,” she says, solemnly. “Des’din. Half of my soul. Please tell me you did not give Kel a dozen candies.”

“You should have seen it,” Des says, rather than answering the question. “We made so much progress! She wanted the candies, and I gave her the tasks, and she did them, and she got them! It was marvelous. She hasn’t been frustrated for more than a moment before we started!”

“Des’din,” Selene snaps. “That is too much sugar! She is going to be bouncing off the walls and then she is going to crash, and feel awful. Did you even read the book I gave you about infant diets?!”

“Of course I did,” Des replies. “I didn’t give her enough to hurt her. And, I think you are failing to appreciate the importance of this - she wanted something, and she got it. How is that not vital to her health, too? There is a tiny spirit trapped inside her tiny body, and after all this, it must be starving!”

Selene runs a hand down her face.

“That is all well and good, Des, but did you have to pick candy?” she counters.

Des just shrugs.

“She likes it,” he reasons.

“Ya,” Kel admits, not wanting the situation to cause any more dilemmas than it already has. After all, she played her own part in this fiasco.

Selene’s worry eases, just a little, as she looks at her. And then she reaches down, and picks her up. Taking stock of the smears of sugar and colouring sticking to her fingers. Kel feels a little jittery and weirdly energetic, and better than usual in a way that’s making her almost giddy. So her normal reservations fail her, and soon as she’s in range, she reaches out to grab one of the crescent moon earrings dangling from Selene’s head.

Selene, who doesn’t expect her to move so quickly - usually Kel offers more warning time - doesn’t catch her in time, and ends up wincing as Kel yanks the earring down. Not as hard as she might have, because she recollects herself before that point, but enough to earn an ‘ow’ from Selene, and an amused snort from Des.

“Those are nice earrings,” he says, in a tone of agreement.

“Thank you. I would prefer to keep them in my ears, though,” Selene wryly replies, as she closes a hand over Kel’s, and gets her to let go.

Kel mumbles something vaguely apologetic, and gets a kiss for her troubles.

“You are a sticky mess,” Selene informs her.

She will concede that.

“Caaa-deee,” she dutifully explains. It earns her a smile, and despite her - reasonable - concerns, Selene seems… happy, about this. Kel supposes that for all his odd behaviours, Des might not be entirely wrong, either. She’s been kept safe and cared for here, has felt affection and attachment and been comforted, but finding any kind of satisfaction, any sense of accomplishment… well, it’s probably a testament to how little she’s managed, that even such small, silly things have eased some of the tension inside her.

“Candy. Well… let’s just not make a habit of it,” Selene decides. “And get you cleaned up!”

“Bath time!” Des exclaims, happily.

“Not for you. You need to go and manage your followers; they are having dramatics,” Selene informs him.

Des attempts to wave this off.

“They always are,” he insists.

“Des.”

“Oh, fine. Go and have adorable family bonding time without me. Leave me to wither, alone-”

“Des there are fifty people in your retinue,” Selene dryly reminds him. “Go take a bath with some of them, if you want.”

The man pouts.

“But they don’t have our baby with them,” he protests.

“You sound like Father.”

“Ugh, no, what does everyone keep telling me that?”

“There may be an obvious reason…”

“How cruel,” Des complains, folding his arms as Selene begins to carry Kel towards the bathing chamber. She settles Kel onto her shoulder, which gives her a good look at Des, in all his sparkly, disappointed glory. The man isn’t quite muttering about how much he hates having any kind of responsibility, but he’s definitely giving off the vibe of it anyway.

Mustering up some sympathy, Kel wriggles a hand at him in a solid approximation of a farewell wave.

“Bye Dee!” she manages.

He beams at her, and dutifully returns the wave.

“Bye bye, baby!” he replies; at least a little bit mollified.

Ancient elves. Really.

Who knew they were so ridiculous?

#reverse evanuris au #dirthalene

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