voidtreckerexpress

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Who: Aziraphale and Crowley
Where: Library car
When: during month of Nebula
What: Crowley’s been up to something.
Warnings: none really. they're gross together.

It's been months since Aziraphale first requested that passengers contribute to the library reading material via the network. Months of Crowley sneaking into the library car when the angel is busy to sneak a new page into what is now several books of poetry. The demon never really considered himself a poet, but he had inspired Shakespeare himself at one point, so he figured why not? It would make Aziraphale happy, and it killed the time.

Crowley checked behind him as he moved to the bookcase containing the passenger-filled journals and plucked one with a red cover from the top shelf. He was about to pull a new page from his jacket to paste inside when he heard a familiar shuffling of feet behind him, and spun quickly, tossing the journal aside onto a nearby table, panicking.

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Crowley's shoulders sink, the tension in his posture dissolving with the soft touch of someone he feels like he doesn't deserve. Aziraphale is so good to him, almost too good, and to this day Crowley isn't entirely sure how he's managed to get so lucky.

"I love you, angel." he says almost inaudibly, still in the moment.

Funny enough, the angel could say quite the same. There's still so much he feels he can't quite make up for, and still sometimes finds himself stuck on that past. But, perhaps, something about Crowley's speeding through life helps him live a bit more in the present. They do what they can to ground each other, and, perhaps, that's why like to stay in the middle.

"I love you too, Crowley." He says back, matching his tone, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone, staying in the moment just a bit longer.

"Now," He says, straightening himself up and getting his arm around Crowley's. "I do think we have something to discuss.

There's a lazy blink as Aziraphale straightens up and preps them to head off. Crowley for once had slowed his speed, happy to exist right against Aziraphale’s cheek and within the aura of love that surrounds him. If he could carve out a space for himself there, he'd sleep inside it for a century. And yet, he's not finding himself struggling to regain momentum and make the trek back to their room, particularly because it involves discussing something.

"Mm. Right." he sputters, sounding a bit like a record being sped up on its track as he snaps back to reality. His arm hugs tighter to the angel’s and he pulls his glasses from his pocket with one hand, opening the arms of them with his teeth so that he can get them back on his face. With his shields back up, he's ready to face the rest of the train.

"Onward, then."

It would be somewhat of a site, really, if someone had noticed the two of them going up to the top floor of the library at different times, and coming back down arm in arm, the angel in quite a visible great mood. And perhaps someone does, but the two of them are not paying close enough attention to notice.

"I do wish you would have told me from the beginning. I was quite surprised just how much the mysterious poet was actually writing, when I could hardly find anyone at the desk." The angel starts as they leave the library car, happy as a lark. "I was beginning to think I might have to set up surveillance of some kind..."

Crowley laughs in response, his free hand moving over the angel’s where it sits on his arm. "You wouldn't have had as much fun if you knew..." he teases, "In fact, I'm not sure I would have, either. Watching you run off to check for them alone was worth it."

It is easy to say now, but he was still nervous, even though it was fairly clear that Aziraphale had been enjoying his writings. He wonders now if the angel will come to expect them, and if new poems will have the same effect. He still has quite a few backlogged from his millennia of pining, and the angel is somehow able to inspire new works after all this time. Crowley could continue writing, assuming Aziraphale would still want to read it.

"I wasn't running." Merely walking at a brisk pace, growing more interested and curious by the page. Even after reading every single one several times over, sometimes within the same evening.

"Anyhow...do you, perhaps, have the next one already planned?" He asks, quite subtly.

Goodness, Aziraphale is eager.

"Are you going to pester me for new pages, now?" he asks, a mild hiss on his breath. "I'm not going to write anything at all if you do." he warns him, although his tone is amused.

The angel pouts.

"I was simply asking a question." He responds, in a very particular tone of someone who definitely is probably not telling the truth.

"Surely that wasn't the last of them?"

Crowley gives him an almost mockingly sympathetic look. "I promise you it's not the end just because you've found me out." he says, squeezing at his hand.

As they get closer to their room, Crowley begins to think of how he may continue the writing without the charm being lost. He supposes he could hide them about the little home they'd created for Aziraphale to find on his own, but does worry about that becoming a bit too teasing.

He does smile at the prospect of new poems...whether they're about him or not. The notion makes his cheeks flush again.

"Good. I would hope so." he responds, with a slightly giddy undertone to it. He leans his shoulder against Crowley's a tad. "You really are quite good."

The poems are still cycling through his mind over and over and over, picking at particular words that had stuck out to him before he knew who the enchanting lovesick poet was. It gives him a funny feeling in his chest.

"Is there a chance you could maybe...oh, I don't know..." He ambles, continuously unsubtle. "Read them out loud?"

Somehow, Crowley didn't forsee the possibility that Aziraphale might make such a request. His face lights up in surprise and amusement. His arm slips out of the angel’s as he feels Aziraphale lean into him, instead sliding around his back and waist to hug him to his side as they finish their stroll back to their room.

"Hmmmmmmm..." he hums for a long, teasing moment, playing up the act of really having to think about it. He's already decided that yes, in his mind, reciting a poem to Aziraphale while laying beside him would be the eptiome of romanticism, so clearly it must be done.

"I suppose I could." he says as if it's some sort of concession, his mouth hinting at a smirk that tells otherwise.

One of the things the angel has found out relatively recently is that he does quite enjoy being held. Or, at the very least, held by the demon. It's quite comfortable, actually. He flushes again when he's squeezed against the demon's side.

"You could." He says back, as if it's merely a suggestion, but he way he stays against the demon and reaches a hand over the one at his own side do bring with them a little unnecessary persuasion. "I, for one, would love to know all about the pace and beats and the sort."

Continuing forward with a bemused grin, Crowley miracles their room open so that he doesn't need to fuss with the ticket, his free hand gesturing for Aziraphale to enter first.

"Ah. Yes, you would, wouldn't you?" he teases, happy to be back in the privacy of their own room. Here, he doesn't have to worry about sny other pesky voidtreckers interrupting an intimate conversation.

"I would." He steps into the room, removing his coat and setting it aside.

"You'll have to tell me all about your techniques. Your scansions and your ideas..."

This calls for a drink, either in celebration or just in good taste.

"Technique, angel?" Crowley sputters as he shrugs off his jacket, hanging it up. "I just sort of write what sounds good."

The simplicity of that will probably irritate Aziraphale tremendously, which might have been on purpose, but in reality is probably just Crowley. His glasses are removed next, tossed aside on whatever surface he can find. Crowley runs a hand through his hair and finds a seat, reclining in a space that allows Aziraphale to join him.

Aziraphale looks at him a bit confused for a moment, even though, really, it does sound very much like Crowley to not be too technical about anything that isn't his car or his clothing.

"Well...you must have some sort of way of going about it, surely." he says, adjusting his sweater and his sleeves as he approaches and takes a seat next to the demon. "Have you written poetry before?"

Crowley scoffs, taking a moment to scoot in close, his arm draped across the back of the loveseat. "I've been writing those poems forever... why do you think there are so many?"

He laughs softly, his fingers brushing at the angel’s back from the back of the seat. Crowley’s expression is almost dreamy now that he isn't hiding behind dark glasses and anxiousness, alone with his angel. "I should really attribute them to you, you know. My muse."

"Oh." He stutters. Suddenly, his face feels very warm - again. Maybe even more so now that Crowley's looking at him like that.

His stare lingers for a good handful of seconds before he managed to snap out of it, having to advert his eyes and clear his throat.

"Well, I... I had no idea. That-that you wrote, I mean. At all. "

"That was the point, wasn't it?" he sighs. At least that's done now. It's a relief to not have to hide it anymore, but moreso because Aziraphale is fond of it. Not that he ever thought the angel would make fun of his writing, but well, Crowley felt like he had a lot to live up to. Particularly when Aziraphale was off befriending the likes of Oscar Wilde and other famed poets through the ages.

His hand smooths over Aziraphale’s back and rubs idly at it. Crowley feels a little heat on his own cheeks watching the angel grow flustered... and he does just look darling like that. It makes his heart thrum in his chest.

"Didn't you say you had something to discuss with me?" he asks finally, recalling something Aziraphale had said back in the library, "Or did I catch that wrong?"

One would think that, being timeless immortal beings and being already romantically involved, he wouldn't be finding himself so flustered. But Crowley's speaking his language, so to speak, and this particular situation feels like something out of a romance novel. It does make the angel rather giddy.

"Oh, yes, well. Aren't we? Discussing it, I mean." By means of the definition of what a 'discussion' is. "Your poetry."

"I suppose," he sighs, leaning in, his fingers toying with the longer curls at the back of Aziraphale’s head where he can reach them. He doesn't really want to talk about his poetry, at least not in the way it seems Aziraphale would like to. Patterns and process aren't what interests Crowley. The content, the emotion behind it, that's different.

"I just thought you might have had something else on your mind." he continues, just the hunt of that teasing tone in his voice, "You know, now that we've returned here?"

The light touches against his hair made him shiver for a second, not entirely unpleasantly.

"Oh, I..." He'd been far more lost in fantasies of Crowley reciting poems and singing him sonnets like they would in stories of old. Plus, he really does like to discuss the intricacies of poetry, whether they are technical or emotional. Anyone would assume so if they only glanced at him.

He clears his throat. "Well, that is...I thought we..."

Well, if Aziraphale was going to remain flustered like this, the demon might need to get creative. Crowley makes an amused face at the incomplete sentences, a bit of heat to his cheeks as he searches Aziraphale’s face for an answer.

"Thought what, dove?" he asks softly, meeting the angel’s eyes with his own strange slitted pupils. "Need something to jog your memory?"

Oh, he does so wish Crowley wouldn't look at him like that when he's trying to speak. It makes it rather difficult to remember words.

But he does find himself wanting to actually say something, all flirting and teasing aside. He clears his throat again and tries to straighten up. His hand fidget on his lap.

"I, er... Well, I spent quite some time thinking about what to say when I met the, hum. Mysterius poet, as it were." It wouldn't have been the first time he'd met someone whose writings he enjoyed so earnestly , but the first in this train, and the first since romance became something he could openly dare himself to think about.

" To think, you've... And about... " He stumbles through.

Crowley's lips purse as the angel stutters out a few more words, and then he laughs, because he doesn't think he's ever seen Aziraphale so tongue-tied. His hand cups at the back of Aziraphale’s head and tips him into a soft kiss.

"Relax, angel..." he mutters quietly against his lips before pulling back again and catching his gaze, "I'm still me. That hasn't changed."

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