This puzzles Aziraphale. The first time he tells Crowley that he loves him, the words taste like the sweetest manna in his mouth. And every time he says them afterwards (and he does, as often as he can), the words fill him with a joy he never thought possible.
But Crowley doesn't say it.
Not that first time, nor any of the myriad times afterwards.
There is no doubt in Aziraphale's mind as to Crowley's feelings--he shows his love in a thousand ways every day, from a brush of hands, to a rare book he just happened to come across, to a surprise dinner at the most exquisite little restaurant that Aziraphale hasn't even heard of. In fact, now that he allows himself to notice it, Aziraphale can't help but realise that Crowley has been telling him of his love in his own way for a long, long time.
But Crowley doesn't say it.
There are reasons for this, Aziraphale expects. Some he can guess at, some are a mystery--there is so much about his precious demon that he has yet to learn. He does not pry. They have all the time in the world now, and after Crowley has been so devotedly patient with him for all these millenia, the least Aziraphale can do is allow him to approach the matter at his own pace.
And he would, in all honesty, be perfectly content never to hear the actual words from Crowley's mouth at all, except...
Except.
Crowley doesn't say it.
But sometimes, when Aziraphale tells him of his love, there is a moment of start, an inhale and a twitch of lips as though Crowley is trying to say something but can't quite bring himself to it. He always covers it with a kiss or a smile or a joke, but Aziraphale can feel the flicker of frustration underneath it. And so he attempts an experiment.
They are curled around each other, warm and content, breaths mingling in a single rhythm. Aziraphale nuzzles against Crowley's neck and murmurs, "I do love you, so very much." He sees the smile, feels a thumb stroking the back of his hand. Presses a soft kiss right underneath Crowley's ear. "And you love me, too."
Crowley inhales sharply, holds himself terribly still for a long moment. Then his whole body shudders, as though releasing a strain it has held far too long. He turns into Aziraphale's embrace, holds on to him as though for dear life, his voice a choked and ragged thing fighting to be heard.
"I do, angel. I really, really do."
Aziraphale holds him and kisses him and tell him that it's all right, that he's here, that he's got him, and loves him so much he can hardly bear it.
Crowley doesn't say it.
But that's all right. Aziraphale can say it enough for both of them.
When Crawly slithered out of their hiding place, the two humans were gone.
Pity.
Crawly had been looking forward to spending more time with them. The longer one with the little front-facing tail between their legs had been quite pleasant in a pragmatic sort of way, and the shorter one with the thorax bumps, well. Crawly had always thought of themself as inquisitive, but the human had listened to all their questions and then replied with even more questions, new and better questions that made Crawly’s mind churn in ways they’d never experienced before. But then the angel with the flaming sword had appeared and Crawly had done what any demon with an ounce of self-preservation would and made themself scarce.
And now the humans were gone. Banished, abandoned, kicked out. Mission accomplished, time to report back. But after getting their first taste of a real conversation, Crawly found themself reluctant to return to the Below. The demon looked around—and coiled in on themself when they spotted the angel on top of the wall. The Guardian, who had descended upon the humans with their Divine sword to act out the wrath of the Almighty. Both demonic instincts and memories of the Rebellion screamed in Crawly’s mind that they must not let the angel notice them, and so they held themself completely still and observed.
Even though the angel’s attention was focused outside the wall, Crawly could feel the raw power of a Cherub rolling off them. Strange, then, that they’d chosen a physical form representative of the lower choirs. And not just that, but something else seemed…off about them. Not in a demonic way; their inherent goodness burned so brightly that Crawly felt the empty place in themself ache for something they weren’t allowed to remember. But as the demon watched the angel shift their weight from side to side, shoulders and wings drawn tight, Crawly couldn’t help but think they looked somehow…unsure, if not downright anxious. Or at least that was their best guess, since for as long as they could remember, Crawly had never seen an angel display anything less than unmitigated confidence in their purpose and righteousness.
Interesting.
Interesting enough, Crawly decided, that they could postpone their return to the Below for a little longer. Who knew what valuable information they might miss out on otherwise? If worse came to worst, well. Crawly was fairly talented at getting out of tight spots, so they just had to keep on their guard, and there would be little risk in revealing themself. They had only one chance, after all—considering the enormous size of Creation, Crawly wouldn’t be meeting this particular angel again until the final war between Above and Below came around. And that likely wasn’t going to be the place to strike up a conversation.
Their mind made up, Crawly tried to visualise themself in a physical form similar to the angel’s. It did seem to lend itself far better to manifesting and stretching their wings than their serpent form did. And even though they retained only a vague memory of how limbs worked, Crawly was sure they’d get the hang of it soon enough.
Taking a final glance to make sure the Divine sword was nowhere to be seen—which didn’t mean much, but was at least a good start—Crawly started slithering up the wall.
“And then he said, ‘There are no back channels, Michael’” said Michael as they carefully straightened a feather on Uriel’s secondary left wing.
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing. Just smiled and got on with it.”
“I admire your restraint.”
“Well, you know how he gets when I pat his head and tell him how precious he is. I didn’t have time for that.” The Archangel continued preening their sibling, but couldn’t help muttering, “ThErE aRe No BaCk ChAnNeLs MiChAel”
Uriel made a sound that in a less divine being might have been called a snicker.
“You know, he probably really believes that.”
“Not sure if that makes it better or worse.” Michael nudged the last feather into place and stepped back. “There you are. All done.”
Uriel rose and spread their wings to their full reach. Their divine halo shone like the birth of a new sun, gleaming brilliantly off golden markings set in flawless dark skin. Michael clasped their hands in rapt veneration.
“Your beauty brings glory to the Almighty.”
“As it should. Shall I do yours now?”
“Please.”
There was no room for vanity in Heaven of course, and so the act of preening was purely utilitarian. And an angel’s love was by nature boundless and indiscriminate, which did not allow for anything as small-minded as the concept of a favourite sibling. It just so happened that Michael’s and Uriel’s schedules tended to coincide, as did a great many of their opinions (especially regarding their beloved sibling Gabriel). And since it would be unthinkable to face the hordes of the Enemy on the fields of Armageddon in anything less than a state of divine perfection, Michael allowed themself to manifest their multitude of wings and relax into their sibling’s trusted hands.
Soon Uriel’s gentle fingers were combing and straightening feathers with the ease of several thousand years’ practice, but Michael could feel that their mind was preoccupied with their previous topic. As always on these occasions Michael’s mind sang a prayer of divine gratitude that the Almighty had created them as separate beings, each with their own purpose but still capable of sharing each other’s burdens once in a while.
And even though the Archangel had never in their long life experienced a single moment of doubt in their own judgement, there was still a certain sense of reassurance when their sibling apparently reached the same conclusions Michael had.
“Do you think they could be a problem?”
“I hope not. We’re talking about a mere principality, after all.”
“Who used to be a cherub.”
“True.”
And no official explanation had ever been given for the unprecedented act of demotion. There were theories, of course, but still. It was one of those little details that Gabriel tended to dismiss, but Michael couldn’t help worrying at, in case it might turn out unexpectedly significant at some point. Apparently Uriel felt the same way.
“I would think that should at least warrant an attempt at following up.”
“So would I.”
For a while Uriel worked in silence. When they spoke up again, it was almost too softly for Michael to hear.
“You know he is going to keep believing in the principality’s innocence until the moment he sees the Grace burn out of them.”
“He always does.”
There was more they could have said—about how Gabriel had taken every Fall as a personal injury, about his protectiveness growing fiercer and more ruthless with every sibling they had lost to the Enemy. But they had both been there, and there was no need to speak of such matters now.
“Perhaps we might pay Aziraphale a visit,” Uriel suggested. “Just to make sure.”
Michael examined the idea from several angles. It did appear prudent, and yet…
“You realise that when Gabriel finds put we’ve gone behind his back, he will punish us most severely?”
“You mean another pep talk about tri-lateral communication?”
The fond annoyance in Uriel’s voice perhaps wasn’t quite done for one the Almighty’s highest-ranking servants, but Michael couldn’t hold back a smile.
“Worse.”
“With Power Point slides he drew up himself?”
“Worse.”
“I can’t possibly imagine anything could be more excruciating.”
“Yes, you can.”
The sound Uriel made was definitely not a groan, but only because no celestial being would stoop to anything so undignified.
“Oh, no, no, no…”
“So you do remember the last team building excursion?”
“I try very hard not to.”
Michael’s eyes closed in quiet relief as a secondary feather that had sat crooked for days was gently nudged back in its proper place. Then Uriel continued, “Of course, we could tell him that we’ve been inspired by his rousing leadership and initiative.”
“He would…probably eat that up, yes.” Michael allowed themself another moment of mirth before growing serious again. “And it is our duty to see to the Great Plan’s flawless execution.”
“Indeed. Will you conduct the confrontation, or shall I?”
“I would prefer to observe in this case. Though for all their strange inclinations the principality does appear a being of rather simple nature.”
“True. I shall attempt to be as unsubtle as possible then.”
“Thank you.”
Michael tried to relax, to discipline their mind into quiet contemplation. But there was still so much to take care of, so many matters to direct into their proper courses…
“You still worry.”
“I always do.”
“Hmm.”
There was no censure in Uriel’s voice, only quiet acknowledgement. They had known each other since before the beginning of time, and their natures were as familiar as the laws of time and space.
“We will win, Michael.”
The unshakeable faith in Uriel’s voice resonated all the way through Michael’s soul and the Archangel leaned into it, basked in the perfect trust and knowledge of purpose that was the core of their being. They had been crated as instruments of the Almighty’s will, and nothing could possibly stop them from playing their part in the Plan.
“Yes,” Michael murmured, their words both prayer and prediction. “We will win.”
This is really not what I wanted to be working on, but when the brain suddenly turns the OTP into an OT3, what are you gonna do?
It doesn't happen right away.
Izumi is nine, Lu Ten seven, and Kya finally sleeping through the night when Katara returns from one of her visits to Republic City. The Fire Lady coming home always brings a flurry of activity for both of them, but at the end of a long day Zuko and Katara at last find some time to talk alone as they go to bed.
“How’s Aang?” Zuko asks and Katara can’t hide a bit of a grin.
“Honestly? Kind of hot.”
Zuko nods gravely. “This summer really is the hottest we’ve had in years. I’ve been thinking—”
“No.” Katara waits until he meets her eyes and she has his full attention. “I mean he’s,” she wiggles her eyebrows and licks her lips, “hot.”
For a long moment Zuko simply stares at her as though he can’t make sense of what she’s saying. Then he shakes his head sharply.
“No. Katara, he’s a child.”
“He’s twenty-six.”
“He is tiny.”
“Taller than you. Remember the Equinox festival? You had to look up to talk to him.”
“I can hold him up with one arm!”
Katara is giggling now, both at Zuko’s incredulous expression and at the thought of what would happen if he tried that move today.
“That was thirteen years ago.”
“That can't be—”
He breaks off and Katara uses the opportunity to snuggle against his chest while he is lost in mental calculations. Suddenly he perks up. “That means we’ll be married ten years next spring!”
“I know. I already have a planning committee stressing out about it.”
She can almost hear the face he makes.
“I guess that means no chance for a quiet family celebration on the South Pole?”
“None at all.”
“Hmph.”
She starts tracing familiar patterns around the scar on his chest with her fingertips and feels his breathing shift in response. After three weeks without her husband it doesn't matter how tired she is. Right now she needs—
“How hot exactly?”
She blinks up at him.
“What?”
“Aang. Just how hot would you say he is? Just a little bit, or really really hot?”
Katara frowns as she considers the question.
“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but if he didn't have a girlfriend, and if I wasn't married to the sweetest, sexiest, most amazing man in the world? I would absolutely tap that.”
“Hm.” He pulls her up for a kiss, then rolls them over and starts nuzzling her neck. “Tell me more about this man you married. I think I like him.”
Katara giggles again, which turns into an almost-whine when his tongue finds that spot below her ear.
“Or maybe,” he continues in that playful purr that makes her shiver in anticipation, “tell me about the things you’d like to do to Aang.”
“Are you—mmh, yes—are you sure?”
He gives her earlobe a gentle bite.
“Don't pretend you haven't thought about it.”
He knows her so well and she loves him for it.
“I may have.”
“Naughty woman. Tell me everything.”
And she does. Or tries to, at least, until all thoughts of Aang flee from her mind and she is full of Zuko in every way.
Three months later Aang arrives just in time for his godson Lu Ten’s birthday celebration. Busy as always with the festivities, Katara barely gets a moment to rest her feet. She loves it, of course, loves the excitement of the children--her own as well as her many nieces and nephews by blood and by choice--loves the joy of seeing old and new friends and all the little tasks of making everyone comfortable.
Still, when at last she sits down to let Zuko braid her hair for the night, she closes her eyes and breathes a deep sigh of contentment. They keep quiet at first, as they do, giving each other some space to breathe and come back to themselves and be present in this time they have together. Today Zuko is the first to break the silence.
"You were right."
Katara smiles, eyes still closed.
"I know. About what?"
"Aang. He is hot."
It takes her a moment to recall their conversation of a few months ago, then she laughs out loud in surprise.
“Finally noticed that, didn't you?”
She meets his eyes in the mirror as he shakes his head with a bemused smile.
“When did that happen? He used to be this tiny, scrawny kid and suddenly he’s all made of muscles.”
“Very nice muscles. And also nice hands. Did you notice his hands?”
“Not as much as his voice. His voice, Katara.”
“I know. Can't you just imagine him telling you to get on your knees?”
“I can now. Did you hear the way he talked to those Gaoling delegates? He's really growing into a leader.”
Katara smiles at the mixture of incredulity, pride and admiration in his voice.
“Our little Avatar, all grown up.”
“Hm. I can't believe I didn't notice him becoming a man.”
It is not that hard to believe for her. With all their responsibilities to the world, to their nation, their children and their marriage, every day is full from sunrise to nightfall with barely a minute to breathe in between. And even though Katara loves the live she leads and would not change it for anything, sometimes she does find herself surprised when another year has slipped past already.
“We’ve been busy.”
“True…”
Before he can lose himself in his thoughts Katara tilts her head backwards until she faces him upside down. When he meets her eyes, she gives him a cheeky smile.
“Sooo…?”
“All right, fine.” He bends down to kiss the tip of her nose. “If he didn't have a boyfriend and if I wasn't married to the smartest, most beautiful and most fearsome woman in the world, I would absolutely tap that.”
“Hah. I knew it.”
“What? That my taste in men is as questionable as yours?”
“It can't be that bad. Just look at who I married.”
He doesn't reply but turns back to his work with a smile and a barely visible blush. Katara allows herself a moment of smug self-satisfaction—getting Zuko to accept her compliments and praise without deflecting or searching for hidden meanings took far longer than she expected, but it is one of her most cherished accomplishments.
“What did you think about his boyfriend?”
The question surprises her and she tries to recall the man Aang brought with him. An air nomad, of course, maybe a year or two younger than Aang. Handsome, friendly, and she realizes with a pang of guilt that she didn't even bother to remember his name.
“He seems nice. Very… smitten.”
“Full of hero worship, you mean.”
He is right, and there is no accusation in Zuko’s voice, but she still feels compelled to defend her friend.
“Aang seems really fond of him.”
“He always does.”
Which is also true, but still. They can both guess where this is going.
“Another four weeks, maybe?”
Zuko purses his lips as he considers her estimate.
“That would make it his longest relationship so far.”
“That's not true. There was that healer, remember? From the North Pole?They were together for almost four months.”
“You’re right, I remember. Didn't he spend most of that time in Omashu?”
There is nothing she can say to that, because it is true. Katara combs through her memory of Aang’s relationships, trying to find one that might qualify as more than a fling. Eventually she gives up with a sigh.
“Do you think he’ll ever settle down?”
“Aang?” Zuko meets her eyes in the mirror and frowns. “I don't know. I’m not sure he could, even if he wanted to.”
“I just want him to be happy.”
“I know.” He pauses his work to stroke her cheek with his thumb and Katara leans into the touch. “But maybe he has to find his own way to be happy. And someone who can be happy with him in his way.”
There is no admonition in his voice, just the gentle reminder that they've had this discussion before, more than once. With a quiet sigh Katara mentally repeats the words she has told herself so many times: You do not owe it to Aang to sacrifice your happiness for his. The best you can give him is to love him in your own way, even if that's not the way he used to want.
Behind her Zuko ties off her braid and steps back.
“Time for an early night?”
It’s what he always asks when he suspects she might not be in the mood for a more passionate conclusion to the evening, but today it only serves to shake Katara out of her wistful thoughts. She rises from her stool and raises her arms above her head, stretching out her whole body. In the mirror Zuko’s eyes follow the movement of her nightgown as it falls open and she smiles. Turns around and approaches him with swaying hips until she can place her hands on his chest.
“Actually,” she murmurs with a tilt of her head, “I was hoping this time you would tell me what you’d like to do with Aang.”
The hitch in his breathing and the faint flush creeping up on his cheeks tell her that Zuko enjoys this game as much as she does, but he shakes his head with a small self-conscious smile.
“I’d love to, if I knew what to tell you. You know the only time I ever—well.”
She knows that he avoids the topic for her sake, but after all these years the memory of Jet brings only a vague fondness. And a quiet amusement that she and Zuko made out with the same boy within a few months of each other.
“That's a pity.”
Katara sticks out her lower lip in a mock pout that earns her a soft chuckle. Strong hands reach for her hips and pull her flush against Zuko’s body, then he bends down to give her lip a gentle tug with his teeth.
“Believe me, my Lady, I am devastated over causing you such grave disappointment.” He is purring into her ear now and Katara feels her body melting against him. “But I will do my best to make it up to you.”
And he does, with the thorough and single-minded devotion that makes her forget everything else in the world.
Or almost everything, because a little later, when their two bodies are moving like one to a rhythm of ‘yes’ and ‘there’ and ‘more’, when she is at the point so close to the brink where sometimes Katara herself is surprised at the words that come from her mouth, she pulls him close and whispers, “Do you want to watch me fuck Aang?”
The noise he makes drives her right over the edge, and Zuko follows less than two heartbeats later.
TBC, possibly, if anyone would like more?
(And yes, I know this isn't technically a ficlet, but it was really supposed to be a tiny little headcanon dump and I’m going to pretend that's what it is so I don't get suckered back into the Black Hole Of Long Fic And Despair)
Thank you for tagging me in this game, @tarysande ❤️
Since I'm experimenting with the habit of ending each writing session in the middle of a sentence, here's actually the last 1.5 lines of a tiny little Deckerstar bit tentatively titled Real.
Of course there was nothing he would consider even remotely calculated about Chloe’s affections, and yet after several millennia of every sentient being he’d encountered trying to outwit him for their own gain, the habit of second-guessing every intentional action proved difficult to break. And so it was those casual, unthinking little gestures of hers that
This is 56 words, which is actually more than this blog has followers, so if you're reading this, please consider yourself tagged (or re-tagged if you’ve already played and would like another go)
Since my brain keeps insisting that I’m a useless waste of space who never gets anything done, how about we have a regular check-in on the WIP list and see how things are progressing? Above is the index page from my current project book that lists all the open WIPs (asterisk means that project’s finished) and here are the current projects:
10: Dr Who Scarf
Some time in 2014 my brother asked if I’d consider knitting him a Dr Who scarf. Of course, loving and generous sister that I am, I promised he’d get it for Christmas. Of course, self-aware and smart sister that I also am, I did not specify which Christmas, so technically I’m still pretty much on track with that one...
(I’m about halfway through the chart, though I’m considering shortening it a bit since it turns out my gauge swatch for this one is a lying liar who lies)
11: Sunset Necklace
My first (and probably last) foray into bead crocheting. I love the colors, but the process really isn’t me and the end result is nice but not stunning. Gonna finish this and then put down the crochet again for the foreseeable future.
12: Book Cover
I want to make a fancy cover for my project book (the one that houses the WIP list at the top) and I’ve seen some stunning things in polymer clay on pinterest. Not sure when (or, to be more honest, if) I’ll get around to it, but I’d really love to give it a try.
13: ME:A Fic: Fan
Subtitled: That Time When Saskia Ryder Met Jane Shepard And Didn’t Even Realize It, AKA Look At My Precious Babies Being Dorks Around Each Other
(1380 words so far)
"That's okay, you can have mine." Saskia offered her sandwich and the woman took it with some hesitation.
"What about you?"
"I'll just take Scott's."
"Too bad," Scott said cheerfully, "I already licked it."
"Too bad," Saskia said with equal cheer as she swiped the remaining sandwich off his plate, "I saw you use my toothbrush this morning."
14: ME:A Fic: Twin
Subtitled: Saskia And Scott Having A Moment Together, AKA I Have A Lot Of Ryder Family Feelings And Don’t Know Where To Put Them
(1286 words so far)
"So yeah, he stood there, watching me gasping and choking and-- and all he thought was 'Fucking hell, Ellen's gonna be so pissed.'" She felt the hitch of suppressed laughter in his chest and smiled in spite of everything. Nice to know her Grumpy Dad impression was still on point.
15: N7 Hoodie
Started in 2015 during the Creativity Challenge and abandoned since then. I really, really want this hoodie, though, and I will finish it.
16: Slippers for Middle Child
No picture because my crafting room’s a mess and I can’t find the WIP box this post is picture heavy enough already.
18: Bambi Set for Younger Child
A set like this one only with a different fabric combination (I seriously love matching sets and have so many adorable fabrics stashed, so there probably will be a couple more)
(The trousers are already finished and currently in the laundry, and I’ve cut the pattern fabric for the other pieces)
19: ME:A Fic: Smitten
Subtitled: When Alec Met Ellen, AKA No Seriously I Have SO MANY RYDER FAMILY FEELINGS SOMEONE PLEASE HELP
(1025 words so far)
The first time he saw her, she was wearing a midnight blue sparkly evening gown and had two guns pointed at her face.
"There's a man in there whose brain is frying right now! You have to let me through!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need to see your ID."
"Do you see this dress? Do you see it? It doesn't have room for underwear, where would I keep a fucking military ID?"
21: Giveaway Drawing #2
Drawing for a giveaway I held a while ago somewhere else; line art is finished and needs coloring
22: Shakarian wrist warmers
A pair of really simple wrist warmers / fingerless mitts from my own hand dyed Shakarian sock yarn
(almost finished, just needs a few more rows and casting off)
