While we play the waiting game for Sonic 3, I decided to start a mini comic series for Shadow pre-incident, so we can have a little something positive for the poor guy ♡
Imagine both Leon and Luis offering you their jackets when you start shivering.
“You cold?”
“A little bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”
You say this with your teeth chattering and it was clear on Leon’s unamused face that he wasn’t buying it. The blonde sighs, hiding a slight smirk before his lips return to his characteristic frown.
“Here,” he says, shrugging out of his thick, fur-lined jacket. In doing so, the strong definition of muscles on his arms and chest came into full display and you couldn’t help but note every sculpted line. Those years of secret government training did wonders for his physique and the tight navy shirt left little to the imagination. Your overactive thoughts nearly run wild when his arms flexed out of his sleeves.
Remembering yourself, you shake your head. “Thanks, but won’t you be freezing?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Leon says with a slight smile, his gentle tone echoing yours when you tried to save face in a surprisingly teasing manner. For as long as you’ve known the blond, he was rarely warm and gentle. His stern, straight-laced demeanor and dry sense of humor often overshadows his kinder, sociable qualities. So to see him so openly considerate was a rare treat. This unexpected side of him stirred feelings inside you that are not at all unwelcome, but you found yourself at a loss for words.
He takes his jacket by the collar and offers it to you with an encouraging look that said that he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. You breathe out an air of defeat, reaching towards him. Against your will, your eyes roamed over the thick veins of his strong forearm and bicep appreciatively, and you tried to recover by quickly looking up. That was a mistake. He was no longer wearing a grin, but the heat within his eyes intensifies when they meet yours. You felt your cheeks burning under his knowing gaze.
Your fingertips (unintentionally) brush against his as you grabbed hold of the faux fur and was about to accept the weight of the clothing in your hands until you felt something warm and heavy drop around your shoulders. It took you by surprise and you look over to your side to see Luis standing next to you- sans leather jacket.
The Spaniard had his signature lopsided smile on his handsome face as he adjusted the stitched leather around you, making sure that it would not fall. It gave you an opportunity to look him over as well. You knew he wore a white-buttoned shirt, but now that he wasn’t wearing his jacket, you can see how nicely the fabric fitted on his frame.
For a man who considers himself the brains of your group, he was impressively cut. While Luis wasn’t as strongly built as Leon, he had a lean, well-defined waist that would have otherwise been hidden from sight with his jacket on. The sleeves of the shirt hugs his long arms nicely and his broad frame tautly stretches the thin creases that ran across the fabric, accentuating the exposed portion of his scarred chest. It became apparent to you then that Luis left the few buttons undone for reasons beyond just visual appeal.
The dark-haired man chuckled beneath his breath as he caught you staring. “Take mine, my friend. I’ve kept it warm- just for you.”
“Luis,” you started, trying to keep a straight face, “aren’t you worried about getting sick?” Your consideration came from a genuine place of concern and it showed in your voice, but you couldn’t argue the relief you felt wrapped inside the warmth provided by his jacket. You thought the leather would do little against the chilly weather, but surprisingly, it felt wonderful on you- most certainly because Luis’ heat formerly occupied it and the thought of you surrounded in said heat made your already feverish blush deepen.
“Y no te preocupes por mí.” He assures confidently. “I grew up in these parts. This weather doesn’t affect me one bit, so I insist.”
The man doesn’t give you an opportunity to respond.
“Unless…” Luis pauses for a second, playfulness glinting in his grey eyes. He then steps closer to your front. The movement forces you to reflexively let go of Leon’s jacket, leaving it to hang in the other man’s hand to allow room for the Spaniard to step in between you. Now only Luis stands in your full view, his eyes locking yours, all while maintaining his charming grin. “We come in close. Like this.”
The devilish man wraps a daring arm around your shoulders, nudging you closer to him but not forceful enough where you couldn’t pull away if you wanted to. You subconsciously didn’t want to and allowed him to bring you in, stopping to where your chests are merely a hair’s breath away from pressing against one another.
“This way we can keep each other warm,” he continues with a wink. “A good idea, ¿sí?”
Your ears pick up an annoyed scoff and you look over Luis’ broad shoulder. Leon stood with arms crossed, his bored eyes casted to the side as if finding something interesting in the distance. He already had his jacket back on, much to your disappointment.
Before you, Luis wears an amused smirk, addressing the blond without looking at him with faux intrigue, his focused gaze still resting entirely on you. “Something funny, Sancho?”
Leon ignores the obvious jab, “Just making mental bets on how long you’ll last before you start running your mouth. So far, I’m leaning towards two minutes.”
This made the Spaniard take a step back to turn his body sideways, arm still resting around you. Luis hums thoughtfully.
“Such harsh words for a squire,” he dismisses the counter with a casual shrug, squeezing your shoulder. At the time, you thought it to be a warm gesture, not once detecting the possessive undertones blatantly on display at the action. “Never underestimate a knight’s resilience. Or his endurance.”
If you had paid attention, you would have noticed the two men glaring at one another. You would have caught Leon’s challenging snarl and Luis’ taunting gaze. But no, you were too busy settling into Luis’ jacket, slipping your arms into the sleeves and zipping it closed around your form.
Ashley’s voice calls out to the three of you, announcing that she found something. Without a second thought, you start stepping towards her direction, separating yourself from Luis’ heat. You missed the frown he wore at your absence and by the time you looked back at him, he had on his usual charming smirk.
“Thanks for the jacket, Luis. I’ll give it back, I promise.” You say graciously, causing his grin to widen to a genuine smile. You then stop before Leon, also offering him a grateful look as you patted his chest. It was meant to be an amicable touch but the contact sent jolts of electricity from your palm to your chest. His body exuded an inviting warmth that made you hesitant to withdraw as you spoke trying to keep your voice level. “And I appreciate the thought, Leon. You’re always so reliable.”
You missed the subtle redness in his cheeks then too, willing yourself to give space and continuing to move to Ashley’s location. Both men are left staring after you, longing evident in the pools of silver and blue. After what seemed like an eternity of tense silence, Luis is the first to speak up.
“Dos minutos, mi culo.” He grumbles, a hint of amused irritation in his thick accented voice.
Hiya, could you pretty pretty please do a 12. and 33. prompt for the ineffable husbands? I keep thinking of Bentley just locking them in and not letting them out until they talk cupboard trope style 😔
Yessssss :D
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"Now you listen to me Crowley, you are going to tell your car—"
"Our car."
Aziraphale stops. Blinks. Gives up on fighting with the door handle.
"What did you say?" he asks.
"It's our car," Crowley repeats, more of a mumble this time, looking away from Aziraphale. A raindrop runs down the window, and he follows it with his eyes until it pools at the bottom, joining the great conference of former raindrops gathering there. They're in for a night of it, by the looks of the sky. "You said that. You made that true. So you're as much at fault as I am for it locking us in."
"I don't see how this is my fault. You kidnapped—"
"Kidnapped? I rescued you. That's. That's what I do. That's what the almighty made me for, I think," he huffs, still not looking at Aziraphale.
One rescue does not a rift mend. He's owed an apology. And even though everything's gone to heaven, like he predicted, he still hasn't gotten one.
He'd take a lot less. He doesn't need to hear that he was right. He needs to hear that Aziraphale's sticking with him this time.
The Bentley is, at least temporarily, seeing to that. Crowley gives the steering wheel a gentle pat. He genuinely has nothing to do with the doors being locked and apparently immune to miracles or temptation, but he thinks it's trying to help.
If nothing else, the constant itch of not being able to reach out and touch Aziraphale, if he wanted, has vanished for a bit. The ache of missing him has eased back just a fraction. It's a good car. A good, loyal car.
"You're cold," he says, shrugging out of his jacket without even having to look at Aziraphale. It's cold out tonight, in the middle of bloody nowhere, and he gets cold easily. Crowley doesn't want him to be cold.
"You'll be cold," Aziraphale says as Crowley shoves his body-warmed jacket at him.
"Demon," he says. "Don't get cold."
Theoretically, an angel ought not to get cold either. Thing is. Aziraphale's never actually been a very good angel. Not that Crowley would ever tell him that to his face.
Besides, he's his angel. He's allowed to be not very good.
"Thank you," Aziraphale says, taking the jacket and spreading it over himself like a blanket.
Silence, except for the pit-pat of rain against the car, falls. And Aziraphale's breathing. Crowley's missed the way he breathes.
He literally twiddles his thumbs in his lap, trying to think of something to say or do.
"Things are a bit of a mess," Aziraphale says after what might have been several eternities. Crowley's lost count.
He opens his mouth to say something—something comforting, like that it's not all that bad, or that they'll figure it out, they're a team, they always figure it out.
And then Aziraphale continues, "and you tried to warn me."
His voice sounds so small that Crowley, naturally, like he always does, deflates like a sat-on whoopee cushion. Because the thing about Aziraphale is that he always really is trying to do the right thing. Because he still believes there's one true Right Thing to do. Because he's precious and wonderful and optimistic and good. Not a good angel. But a good person.
"Did you ever wonder why I might try to do that?" Crowley asks.
He's not sure he wants an answer. Either one's going to hurt.
Aziraphale falls silent again, which is probably for the best. The way the moonlight's hitting the window now, Crowley can see him reflected in it. Still the same Aziraphale. Heaven hasn't really changed him.
"Do you really think God created you to look out for me?"
Crowley sighs. "I don't know. Plan's, y'know, ineffable."
"Well it would explain why you keep doing it," Aziraphale says. "If it's all in the plan."
"Right," Crowley draws in on himself. Not getting through right now, then. "No other possible explanation for it, really."
"Well. There is one other possible explanation," Aziraphale offers hesitantly.
"Oh?" Crowley asks.
"Well... you might. I suppose. Be fond of me?"
Crowley glances over at him. Sighs. Okay, well. He's come to that conclusion, then. It's only taken a little over six thousand years. Practically no time at all.
He takes his sunglasses off. Stares out of the windscreen. Wonders if he can actually be discorporated by way of stomach knots. Gnaws on his lip.
And then gets very, very brave. "I might be," Crowley says, forcing himself to look Aziraphale in the eye. "I might even be in love with you."
Aziraphale swallows. He looks like he might either be sick or pass out from what Crowley realises at the last second isn't disgust.
It's nerves.
"You might," he says, looking away as he fiddles with Crowley's jacket. "And. And if you were. That would be very convenient for me. Because I... I think I've been in love with you for a very long time."
Crowley means to say something to that, but the nice satisfying thunk of the Bentley unlocking beats him to it.
"Well," Crowley says, running his tongue over his teeth. "That's probably enough to save the world, then. Shall we?"
Aziraphale lights up, bright and beautiful and good as always. "I think we really must."
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