Little Lonely Eyes doodle I did last night cus I got frustrated doing some other things. I love these bastard men, Please ler them be soft. Anyway, Elias is a small man, and Peter is large.
I took a huge hiatus from writing (and I’m on poetry hiatus temporarily too) but I am back with this heap of fluff. Here’s a link to it on AO3, or read beneath if you so wish to.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876504
xo MyChemicalSeal
Aziraphale blinked awake, soft light filtering in through the bedroom window. A heaven if there ever was one (at least in human terms). After all, one can hardly imagine a heaven if there’s demons around.
Demons, who just so happened to be reading antique books. Aziraphale looked closer. A demon reading what would appear to be a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ (signed, in the man’s own hand with: ‘to Azirafell, my dear friend - the true Mr Gray’; it was one of the angel’s most treasured possessions).
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale mumbled. “What are you doing?”
Crowley was sat upright, wearing Aziraphale’s quaint reading glasses (he felt he should look the part, after all, he was out to impress), and reached out a hand to card his fingers through the blonde curls at his side.
“Morning Angel.”
“Crowley….”
The demon’s hand continued to twirl strands of Aziraphale’s hair, and his eyes continued to scan the immaculate pages, albeit somewhat slowly. Aziraphale never expected a true response, and was more than happy to spend time within the blissful silence that had fallen over the room.
Heaven was never so relaxing. Quiet, but eerily so. Aziraphale much preferred earth. Aziraphale much preferred his book shop, and above all, Aziraphale much preferred Crowley’s company to anything else heaven, or hell, or earth could ever hope to offer him.
Angels nor demons need to sleep, but it’s very tempting to doze off in the presence of someone who you trust absolutely and unquestionably. So that is what Aziraphale does: drifts back into the hazy dreamworld he’s scarcely left. Crowley thinks it’s rather sweet (not that he’d be seen or heard to actually say such a thing).
“Hey, ‘Zira?”
All Crowley gets in response is a contented little sigh. He goes back to his reading, or his attempts to. The thing is, Crowley is intelligent and learnt how to read a very long time ago. He chooses not to, not because he thinks demons shouldn’t be seen to be smart, or well-read (not that many are, they’re far too busy harvesting souls and making humans miserable. Crowley’s forgetting what demons are supposed to do), in fact, Crowley doesn’t read often for an entirely different reason. One that could be seen as trivial, as both demons and angels choose their earthly forms and it stands to reason that they could, if they so desired, change them.
Crowley doesn’t read because snake eyes are not built for it. The words jumble and scramble, and his eyes struggle to focus on lines upon lines of text. He gets rather frustrated at this, and Crowley has a nasty habit of taking it out on others. Usually, the trembling and terrified foliage in his own apartment.
“Angel, please?”
Two baby-blues shoot open at this. The owner of these are not used to hearing ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ or indeed, anything resembling polite manners.
“Yes, dear?” Is the sleep-slurred response, “Can I help you?”
Crowley sighs, and tugs at Aziraphale’s hair, trying to persuade the sleepy angel beside him to sit up. This is Important, with a capital ‘I’: Crowley is about to do something he’s not done in centuries, if ever. He is about to ask for help.
“I, um,” He trails off. How does anyone do this? Help seems overrated if this is how difficult it’s going to be. “I need help. I can’t, um, I,”
Aziraphale looks softly, and adoringly at the stuttering demon. “You can’t read it? Give it here, dear. Where are you up to?”
As Aziraphale sits up and ever so carefully takes the book, cradling it in his hands as if it was a precious thing (which to him, it very much was), Crowley points to a spot, halfway down the page, about 10 pages into the book.
“I was trying, I don’t know why I can’t,” the demon broke off.
“Oh Crowley, it’s quite alright. I’m rather impressed you’re trying, in fact.” He pulled the demon closer to him, “I think it’s rather sweet, dear.”
“Don’t. I’m not sw-” Crowley was cut off by Aziraphale’s lips, and he wasn’t about to argue about that. Crowley cuddled a little closer (but he’d deny this to anyone: demons don’t cuddle), and rested his head on the angel’s shoulder.
“Shall we read a little further? I think we have time before lunch.”
Aziraphale took back the reading glasses offer by Crowley, placed them upon his own nose and continued to read from the spot Crowley had pointed to. The sun cast an ethereal glow upon the pair of them as it climbed away from the horizon, and as Aziraphale read on, page after page, as Crowley softened into his side, his head resting against Aziraphale’s cheek, and occasionally pressing a chaste kiss there.
If being called ‘sweet’ was the price to pay for his own little slice of heaven, he was more than happy to pay it.
[@ Hal] It isn't often that Flint looks at him like this: soft-eyed, grinning, so very obviously /proud/ of his quartermaster. It's even less often that Flint steps forwards, one arm wrapping around Gates' broad shoulders to drag him into a fleeting hug, Flint's hand slapping his back fondly. But he does it. Just this once. [ you know when your quartermaster takes A Risk for you and you're in a weird period of stability and thus you can actually Be A Person with him? YEAH ]
He takes a moment, just a moment because he knows that’s all he’ll be allowed. He leans his weight into the embrace, gripping tight and fast at Flint’s bright white linens. It would be nice to place a hand on Flint’s neck now, push up a little to feel the soft, salt-washed hair brush against his fingertips. Linger in his warmth, unhurried. Thank him.
Instead he huffs a laugh, and squeezes Flint close, breast to breast, for one hot heartbeat.
Then he lets go, stepping back. Feels Flint watching him, his eyes still soft, grin not yet stolen away.
