"Crowley."
Crowley froze, every atom of his body coming to a complete standstill. Aziraphale had appeared out of nowhere, just like that, and he felt like a fly in a spider's web, like he had just run against a glass door that he could not have seen. Oh, this was cruel. He did not turn around.
"Don't even use doors anymore?" He tried to keep his voice level, cold, unaffected. He failed considerably, but the message got across anyways.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, immediately flinching at the words. The first time they were seeing each other again, after-- after that, and his first words were I'm sorry and he was apologizing for not using a door? Aziraphale felt like swearing, but could not. "I thought you wouldn't open if I-- well. I thought this was easier. Like a bandaid."
"Well, you were right. I wouldn't have." Steel was creeping into Crowley's voice, steel around his heart. With a forcing of limbs, he spun around, his gaze piercing through the armor of his sunglasses. Facing him.
"I need your help" Aziraphale said.
"What," Crowley said. He had possibly never put as much meaning into a single word. The glass door turned into a Great Wall. Aziraphale understood. But he was willing to climb.
The angel (oh, a true angel now, wasn't he--not his angel) fumbled, talking with his hands before his mouth even opened. Talking with his eyes, too, but they got lost in translation. Repelled by a black mirror.
"I know this is untoward. I know it's-- But Crowley, I don't have a lot of time."
"Nothing lasts forever, yeah," Crowley spat, hating himself the second the words left his lips. Unnecessary cruelty. Demonic, huh? Worse yet, Aziraphale accepted the verbal lashing. Don't forgive me, Crowley thought.
Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all.
"Why are you here?"
Aziraphale glanced upwards. Then he looked intently at Crowley. I don't have much time. Right. He couldn't speak freely, Crowley realized. Of course he couldn't. This was exactly what he had been afraid of, what he had known would happen. His angel in chains. (Yet here he was. Here he was.)
"They don't know I'm here," Aziraphale mumbled, gesticulating weakly between them and Up. "I guess I can divert their attention now, for a bit. Comes with the new powers"--he shrugged helplessly--"but not for long. Crowley, do you know about-- about the-- what they're--"
"Armageddon 2.0? Sure."
There was an undecipherable look in Aziraphale's eyes. "Why didn't you-- well. It's not just. I mean it kind of is--it's. More than that. Crowley, I need you to do something for me."
"No."
"This is important." (This isn't about us.)
"I don't care." (There is no us anymore.)
"You do! You always have."
"Oh not this again," Crowley hissed. "You were an angel once. You can be forgiven. Shut up."
"That's not what I meant."
With two long, angry strides, Crowley closed the space between them. Menace, anger, hurt-- "Then what did you mean?" He spat the words. Like a weapon. (Then why was it a question?)
Aziraphale's face crumbled. He stood his ground nonetheless, not backing away. The angel's anger was less spiky, but it rose to meet Crowley's. It made his next words hit like bricks. "I mean that you love. I mean that you, Crowley, are the best person I know. I mean that I love you."
The words dropped like a lead balloon.
There was utter silence between them.
Why were they so close?
Why were his sunglasses so dark? Aziraphale saw only his own reflection. He couldn't bear that, and dropped his gaze. Oh, worse. There was his mouth, mere inches away.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley's lips, really really looked, and there was nothing more, now that he knew about the feeling of Crowley's lips and of his heart, there was nothing more he wanted to do than to kiss him. But he couldn't, he couldn't. Not like this. He needed the next time (he had to believe in a next time, in a time with Crowley, again)--the next time they kissed he needed it to be good and happy and an affirmation. He couldn't bear it otherwise. He would break entirely. He was sure of it.
But still, still-- Crowley was so close. He could smell nothing but him. Think of nothing but him. That weakness again, that soft spot inside him he had never known how to hold down. And with it, Want reared its greedy head. Aziraphal leaned in ever so slightly, felt their noses touch-- and then used all his strength to move away, to pull back. It was not the right time. Not yet.
He looked past Crowley, who might have as well turned to a pillar of salt. Crowley, whose face was a mask he couldn't let slip. The air flickered between them.
There were tears in his eyes when he finally forced his gaze towards Crowley's face, a silent plead to not misunderstand. Please, please. But he couldn't expect that of him. He was pulling away again. But not because he wanted to. No, there was nothing he wanted more than to pull closer. There was nothing more he wanted than to talk to him, to truly talk, to explain and apologize and make amends, but he was bound by Duty and Rules and Watching Eyes more than he ever had been.
This was his rebellion: he lifted a hand, the ghost of a touch, fingertips against cheekbone. The memory of holding on. Of never wanting to let go. Crowley flinched without moving, a shiver of his lips. Aziraphale let his hand drop, briefly, to Crowley's chest, holding it over his human heart. It was beating just like his.
This was his successful magic trick, when it counted: he drew away, leaving a crack in Crowley's steel-clad heart, and a note in his chest pocket.
"I'm sorry. I need to go."
"Of course you do."
"Oh, Crowley. I--" But he did not finish the sentence, knew there was no proper way how. So he said, quietly, softly, "Trust me, please."
And he did. Crowley hated it, hated it so much, but he did, he did trust him despite it all. But it did not erase the hurt. The festering wound. Now what was he supposed to do with that?
With one last pointed look, Aziraphale vanished.
Crowley was alone.
His defenses lay shattered at his feet, and he slowly gathered them back up. He did not mend the cracks. (That's where the light had gotten in.) He cleared his throat. Tried to banish from his mind the look in Aziraphale's eyes, the memory of his lips and of his tears.
And failed considerably.
I love you.
(Touched his cheek, and then his chest, and faltered.)
[this fic is now also on ao3 and being continued there]
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limitless (satoru gojo x reader)
notes: uh. should be working on my halloween fic lmaoo. but uh. thought i'd bang this out. inspired by a conversation with @shotorus about the names we use to refer to certain characters in narration. lmao.
contains: fem! reader (the only physical trait is that reader is shorter than gojo, gojo almost uses a gendered term for reader, but is cut off), established relationship (me: coughs up blood), typical gojo antics, nickname usage (darling, honey, sweetheart, babe), part of the infinite loop fic verse
wc: around 720
"...I have a question."
You look at Gojo expectantly. Normally, he just says whatever is on his mind without pause, without filter, so you don't get why he's standing on ceremony right now. "Yeah?"
"We're dating, aren't we?" he asks.
You nearly spit out your drink. He's not wrong; for better or worse, he is your boyfriend now. The fact of it is actually kind of unbelievable when you think about it. Not just you dating Satoru Gojo. But you dating Satoru Gojo. If you had told yourself that it would have come to this ten years ago, even five years ago, you would have thought yourself a liar.
Now he's the one giving you the expectant look, his lips curved upward that little smile that always manages to get your blood boiling. The cocky bastard probably just wants you to admit it.
You consider saying 'no' just for the hell of it.
You decide not to. It feels almost as if you’re pulling teeth when you respond, “...we…are.”
Gojo’s mouth puckers and you brace yourself knowing full well that he’s about to start whining about something. There’s always something with this guy…"If we’re dating, then why am I still just 'Gojo' to you? I call you by your first name!"
"You've always called me by my first name," you dead pan.
"That's because I've always loved you!"
You roll your eyes. You know that's a lie, but you don't intend to argue with him— at least not head on because you know that it’s just going to lead to a dead end. "No, you love disregarding proper social etiquette. Or rather, you don't see the point in it."
"Oh, darling, you know me so well!" Gojo gives you a saccharine smile and you almost gag.
"Don't call me that."
He pouts. "Well, if you say I always call you by name, shouldn't I call you something else to show how special you are to me?"
"...no, actually, just my name is fine." A nickname from Gojo sounds dangerous. The thought of being called some cutesy nickname in front of everyone you know is mortifying. In fact, Gojo would do it solely to embarrass you.
So, naturally, he ignores you. "If darling is no good, what about... babe? Honey?"
"Gojo, really, you don't—"
"Sweetheart? My love? Oh, I know, I bet you'd love to be called pr—"
"Satoru."
He immediately stops talking, his mouth hanging open in stunned silence. You didn't think that that would have that much of an effect to be honest. For once, it feels like you have the upper hand. You make sure to savor the moment because you know they are far and few in between.
"Just my name is fine," you repeat. "...okay?"
He gulps and answers, "...okay."
You try not to let your mind linger on the fact that his voice just now was lower than usual. "Good. So—"
"Say it again."
You blink. "Huh."
"My name," Gojo says, his voice thick with emotion. "Say it again."
When you don't say anything he takes a step toward you, the infinite cosmos in his eyes staring you down. You feel defiant. It's not fair of him to ask you anything when he looks and sounds like this. Gojo takes another step closer and you think that if you're adamant about not giving in to him you better do it before he gets too close.
"You've... " you start and hate how breathless you sound. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to you. "You've hit your daily limit."
Gojo pouts and takes another step. "Well, that's not fair."
"You're not fair," you retort.
He doesn't argue and you take that as Gojo admitting that he's playing dirty. "I think you should up the limit."
You hold your ground as he takes one more step closer.. "No. You think there shouldn't be a limit."
Gojo chuckles and leans down to bridge the rest of the distance between you. He cups your cheek, bringing your face closer to him. Your breath stills as you feel his own on you and it’s damn near intoxicating. His mouth is barely touching yours and your thoughts shift from trying to keep the banter going to how the slightest movement from either of you will result in a kiss.
“You’re right,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours. “There shouldn’t.”
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