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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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It's been months since he's first given people the opportunity to contribute to the library, while offering his services not only in bookbinding, but also providing the moving of notebooks all the way to the top floor of the library and plenty of writing materials.

The additions are scarce, and rarely something he would admit to be in the kind of quality he's looking for, but he's happy enough that a few of the passengers have found themselves inspired and confident enough to participate.

There's one case, however, that has stood out to him ever since he first laid his eyes upon it. Poetic writings, lovely and intricate and passionate like the best of them, that still brought with them this sense of comfortable familiarity, somehow. They were never signed, and the angel hadn't had the chance to meet this mysterious poet. After a few entries, he thought it might as well be that way - the air of mystery did nothing if not add to the whole experience. He'd taken those books out to the cabin room a few times, but never too long if they were incomplete, for fear of interrupting the author's work.

On this day, he's just doing his normal check, and bringing with him a couple of books with fresh new leather covers, but he stops when he notices the last person he'd expect to be in the library on their own.

"Crowley? What are you doing here?"

Crowley didn’t have a very good poker face. There was a reason he was always seen wearing sunglasses, and it had almost nothing to do with the shape and color of his eyes. When Aziraphale approaches, he's extremely thankful he's wearing them now, biting at his lower lip nervously.

"Uhhhh..." he drags on with a shrug, shaking his head. What possibly could he say to explain why he's there...

"Mmn-- uh--- misplaced something." he manages, then takes an enormous breath, not quite relieved yet, he holds it in until he's certain the angel has bought the lie.

The angel eyes him with a confused look.

"Misplaced something? Whatever could you have lost here?"

The one eyebrow raises at the demon in a rather suspicious manner - or perhaps that's just what it looks like -, at the sight of Crowley and books. It's not that the visage of the demon among them was rare, what with all the times he's been at the bookshop, but he scarcely was ever seen interacting with them.

He approaches the table to set down the freshly dressed books he brought with him. He takes notice of the red cover quickly enough, albeit with a bit of a snobbish frown.

"Oh, I wish people would brush up on their manners and tidy up after themselves. Can't just leave everything strewn about.*"

* This, of course, is not applicable to his bookshop. One's mess is not really a mess unless it bothers those that live with it, and he, as the sole resident and owner, was never bothered at all. In fact, he refused to ever call it a mess - he prides himself in knowing where everything is, even if memory leads him to forget entire category sections every couple of decades.

What could he have lost here? Clearly that was the wrong answer. Crowley exhales, low and long, prolonging his moment to think, and then as if a lightbulb had turned on over his head, he grins, moving closer to the angel as he reaches the table with arms wide.

"You of course." he replies teasingly, a charming little smile remaining on his lips while his hands slide over the angel’s biceps from behind. Should be easy to snake his way out of this with affection, right? A hug from behind and a little peck on the cheek, and perhaps Aziraphale won't even register how little sense it makes.

At the comment about the book, Crowley scoffs, "It's just another book, angel." he sighs, "I wouldn't worry about it."

"Oh." Finding himself suddenly in the arms of the demon in a smooth motion does successfully pull a smile out of him, easily enough, with a cherubic red tint to his cheeks to spare."Well. I hardly think you'd ever lose me, my dear."

And Crowley would maybe have gotten away with it, had it not been for the last part.

"It's not just another book." The angel quips back, albeit with no real bite. He holds the book quite carefully. "Everything has a place. And, to be quite honest, this is one of the best words someones bothered to add to this library. It does deserve some respect."

While his intent was always to write for his love's pleasure, he had never considered that Aziraphale would like it that much. Hell knows Crowley kept it anonymous in case it was utter trash, but to hear Aziraphale speak about his poetry in such a way has him blushing the color of the book itself.

Good thing he was behind Aziraphale... Crowley's face pulls back, tucking out of the angel’s sight.

"Oh, really?" he asks, ever curious, "What makes it the best?"

"Well, for starters," The angel begins, keeping the book in his hand while he busied himself going through the ones he brought, moving around the table to put them away on the shelf, next to other similarly nicely dressed notebooks-turned-books.

"It's one of the few that shows any proper skill in writing at all. I didn't quite expect anyone here to be a writer - happy enough to encourage anyone to take a crack at the art -, but this kind of artistry could well rival some of the romantics."

The book stays in his hand as he shelves the others. The poetry collection, Crowley may well notice, seem to have their own spot, neatly organized in their own shelf by order.

" Unfortunately, the author hasn't made themselves known. Can't say I've ever seen them here, and it doesn't look like they take the notebooks with themselves either, but transplant their writings here."

His voice is riddled with interest and intrigue, the kind that has been carefully fostered for a while. With the books back on the shelf, he turns his attention to the book and leafs through it, with barely masked curiosity for a new page.

" Mysterious, isn't it?"

"Artistry." he gulps in disbelief, echoing Aziraphale’s words with a little crack in his voice. "Romatics... right."

He clears his throat as he watches Aziraphale look busy, sticking nearby the table to the side. Crowley may not always look it, but he's an extremely anxious being, and right now, his knees feel weak. Crowley leans on the table, nearly sitting on it, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Mysterious. Yes." he manages, watching Aziraphale flip through the book with an ache in his chest.

"Ah. Curious." He says quietly, mostly to himself, as he inspects the book somewhat copiously. "Usually, by now, there would be..."

His voice drifts off into gentle and subtle dissapointment, and the closes the book. "Well. No matter." He places the book on the appropriate shelf before he turns.

"There's a tenderness to their words. Passionate yet delicate." He moves towards the table, right by the demon, but reaches past him to tidy up the writing materials set on it. "Wise, but sensitive. The kind of vulnerability not many let themselves show. If they even can."

Right now, Crowley's senses are lighting up in a panic. In other situations, he may not notice the quiet disappointment that Aziraphale had just shown, but right now every small change of expression is noted, no matter how minute. The disappointment that there isn't a new work in the book alone would be sweet... but here's here because he's caught onto the patterns, eagerly awaiting a new page like Crowley used to await a new episode of a television show. His sweet, clever angel has him almost figured out... almost.

Crowley scoffs again, squinting at Aziraphale curiously. "You sound like you idolize them." or love them even, which he doesn't say. Crowley feels himself getting jealous of this mysterious person for a moment and then has to remind himself that it's literally him.

"I mean... you really like it?"

"Well, I do. Like it, I mean." It could well be the starvation for anything vaguely mentally stimulating, which, for the angel, is a high bar to get over - but there's so much he enjoys about the words he's read. Over and over. And over. And a few times.

"There's just something about it, something so..." He taps the notebooks straight on the table, and pauses while he looks for the right word. "Striking about it. I can't quite put my finger on it." It certainly had nothing to do with the new perspective he's gained on poems that read like letters between lovers, when one pours their heart and soul out just to tell someone everything they appreciate about them.

Another pause, and he straightens up, hands folded, polite smile on his face. "I'd reccomend the read, but we both know how it goes."

Crowley's features go soft. He'd really hoped Aziraphale would like it... but he is his own worst critic. Is it possible the angel had picked up on a few clues that various poems were written about him? Certainly that's why he liked them so much.

He looks almost sad when Aziraphale makes not-quite an accusation. His head tilts to the side with a frown, "You think I wouldn't enjoy poetry?" he asks quietly, the inner corners of his eyebrows peeking above his glasses.

That's almost heartbreaking, because if Aziraphale thinks that, he also must think Crowley incapable of writing those words. He wants to tell him, but would the angel even believe him? The pit in his stomach tells him that he wouldn't.

"I thought you didn't like reading." The angel corrects, albeit looking somewhat confused about it. He'd watched many a play with Crowley (and remembered the demon preferred the funny ones, at least those of the Shakespearean variety), as well as concerts, and poetry was all the rage at different points in time. He's sure Crowley enjoys it, one way or the other, but the demon seemed to prefer it spoken, or sung.

But he perks up as a chance presents itself before him. "Would you like to read it? There's quite the collection already. Several notebooks full, actually. So, if you'd like-"

He turns towards the shelf again to pick them out. The excitement of having a reading partner - Crowley, specifically - is quite palpable. Even if the angel isn't telling the whole story - how the words are not only everything he's said, but how there's a strange sense of familiarity that goes beyond the artistry he's seen through the centuries. There's something about it that feels...a certain way. Something that makes him, now as things stand, able to imagine himself as the recipient of such words. A new feeling, he would admit, if he admitted anything at all - but he's kept that part to himself. A tad bit embarrassing, you see, acting like young maiden swooning in wait for her betrothed.

"I read, angel." he replies in an annoyed tone, "Just not books. Not usually."

He slumps a bit on the table he's sat upon. Is it the right time? Should he admit it's been him all along? What happens when the angel thinks Crowley is just teasing him?

He sighs, low and long, and then shakes his head. His voice is soft when he speaks again, and he can't bring himself to look at Aziraphale. Not in the eyes, anyway.

"Besides... I don't need to."

Aziraphale stares at him in silence for a moment.

Then, although the demon isn't looking, he beams.

"Oh, Crowley. Is that why you were sneaking around in here?" His voice is hopeful, almost emotional. He can't believe what he's hearing.

"Have you...been reading these books too?"

Crowley's eyebrows recede so far up on his face that they nearly fly away. After a moment of stunned silence, he actually laughs. If nothing else, it's broken the tension, and he shakes his head with a wide smile.

"No, not quite." he replies, trying to calm himself. There's a moment of hesitation and then Crowley opens the panel of his jacket, pulling a sheet of paper he'd had tucked inside of it out. It's folded neatly, like all the others. He pauses, then offers it to Aziraphale.

"I um... I wrote a new one."

The beaming stops. It's followed by confusion, and more confusion, and his own stunned silence. Now he truly can't believe what he's hearing, looking at the paper and then back at Crowley.

"You've what?" He looks to the paper again, taking it with both hands and looking at it like he's expecting it to catch on fire. Or, at the very least, contain some sort of naughty word to wring a frustrated pout out of the angel and some jolly laughs out of the demon.

He unfolds it and reads the words. Doesn't quite get the chance to take in what they actually say, as his angelic mind is calculating the likelihood that Crowley is telling the truth, and if the words on the page do match the style in the books.

They do.

The look he gives Crowley next is stunned once more, but the different kind of stunned, the kind that's usually attached to things pleasant and unlikely.

"You're the mysterious poet?"

"Not so mysterious anymore, hm?" He replies entirely too casually for the gravity of the situation. Now that he's said it, there's release... nothing to be nervous about knowing how Aziraphale feels about the writing... right? At least, as long as he isn't angry.

He watches Aziraphale closely for a moment, then hesitantly removes his glasses. He doesn't need them anymore.

"I wasn't sure if it was any good..." he mumbles, shrugging, "Couldn't really admit to having written them if you thought they were terrible, could I?"

There's a lot going through the angel's mind. First and foremost, the fact that Crowley can write such poetry - not that he doubt's the demons capacity for the creative word, but it's different to put it to paper in a neat way. Secondly, that he actually willingly did just that.

Thirdly, he's remembering all that went through his mind as he's read the words in the last few months, and there's a certain handful of feelings making themselves known now that he knows who the author is.

"I...you're...serious." Not quite what he meant to say there, but he picks himself back up quickly enough. "I didn't think--I would have liked them even if they were--"

Alright, maybe he didn't so too gracefully, so he tries again.

"It's beautiful, Crowley."

Crowley huffs. It's not indignation, just an odd sort of sound that comes with his own insecurities. There's disbelief on his end, too, that he was capable of anything that good to begin with. There's a first time for everything, not that this was the first time Crowley had ever written poetry, of course, hopeless romantic that he is. In fact, some in those books are millennia-old, having been stored in the back of his memory from a time when he could only express his feelings for the angel that way.

"You're beautiful." he replies a bit too quickly. "You've been inspiring those poems for thousands of years, angel. I only just now wrote them down."

His eyes look a touch more weepy as he voices this, but he smiles regardless, finding a way to laugh about it to break the tension. It's silly, after all, isn't it? All it took for Crowley to share his feelings were being made captive in another universe, twice, having survived a few apocalypses, forced into several life-or-death situations, and delusioned into a fake atomic-family at least once.

There's another pause to the angel, and the feeling of his face getting a bit too warm.

His eyes trail down to the page in his hands again, going over the words once, then twice. In his mind, all of the other poems, having been comfortably registered in his mind as soon as he had first read them, now shone in a new light, and played themselves over all at once. The feeling of those words ever being spoken to him turned real.

The idea that Crowley, even after everything, still had ways to surprise him.

"Crowley, I..." Speechless, quite nearly, overcome with too many feelings that concentrate on the demon in front of him. His demon. His heart. His...Crowley.

In another moment, a languid pause, then an anxious straightening his shoulders and pulling in of a breath. He stiffly strides the couple of steps towards the demon, reaching for his lapels and diving in for a kiss. You know, before he loses his nerve.

He's not used to having a lack of words, but the demon has an unnerving manner of knocking them out of him.

The demon hardly has time to vocalize the little "Hm?" sound as he'd liked to have before his angel has pulled him in, so instead there's a surprised little gasp, followed by a very pleased hum as their lips meet. Crowley's shoulders relax, his arms slide around Aziraphale’s waist, and he returns the kiss with as much emotion as he's put into his poetry... at least until he's out of breath.

"Angel--" he murmurs against his lips, smirk overtaking his face, "This is unsightly."

...What if someone were to walk in?

Edited 2021-10-22 01:16 (UTC)

He does let himself relax into the moment, hands resting over Crowley's coat even after he's broken the kiss.

"Oh, don't be sordid." He responds with the kind of frown that isn't really so much a frown as a pallid attempt to save at least a little bit of face. Even as he straightens up Crowley's lapels he previously fussed up.

"I just....got carried away."

Hard to keep up the image of a mysterious and stoic poet when his angel is making him giggle out loud. Regardless, he's too love-struck to care. Crowley nuzzles again against Aziraphale’s cheek, not quite ready to part from him no matter how 'unsightly' the PDA is.

"Perhaps we should go back to our room, then. You can get as carried away as you want in there." he murmurs teasingly.

"But oh--" he pulls away from Aziraphale briefly, "Just need to do one thing."

Casually, he plucks the poem from the angel’s hand and the journal from the table. He flips it open to the next page and inserts it with all of the others. "There." he states, "Now we can head back."

The teasing flusters the angel, quite visible by how many shades redder his face gets right then.

But then, he watches Crowley join the new poem with the rest of the collection, the image of the mysterious poet so sneakily adding to their tomes now complete in his mind. Part of him almost craves for the mystery back, fun as it was, but nothing could ever be quite as powerful a the feeling that the fact that Crowley wrote those words gives him.

"Wait, Crowley." He finally speaks up again, catching the moment before they begin to head out. "I must ask you something."

He hesitates for a second, but the look he gives Crowley is earnest.

"Did you really think I'd ever be disappointed by anything you'd written?"

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he's fucking dumb, your honor

he's fucking cute, that's what he is.

thats gay

ye

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i hate myself for this tag but yolo

god thats gay

we've established this

the icon....

top tier

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