entranceway | 9th Book || Nothing Like Being Lost in a Book

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9th Book || Nothing Like Being Lost in a Book

[The video feed cuts on to show Aziraphale in his room. He is seated in an old, tartan wing back chair with the cheerful morning sunlight streaming in from a window. He smiles cheerfully.]

So, I hear we have a book club. This seems like something I would very much like to get involved in as back home I own a book shop and here I manage the library as best I can. If someone has any information on this book club, I would greatly appreciate it.

Thank you.

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[His plants tended to, Crowley saunters over to his mini-kitchen to set the kettle on.] Yes, well, much as it's not a secret anymore, I'd rather not advertise. Personally.

[Especially not with Michael around, and especially not now that there's a rather wild-eyed Dean who probably won't bother to differentiate between Crowleys. If anyone was going to bless the plumbing...]

I like being able to feel the sun on my plumage. But I suppose we could do night flights.

Maybe... [He stares absently at the kettle, rather pointedly not willing it to boil. He'd rather not talk about wings anymore, and waiting for a kettle to boil is a fairly good way to not have to look Aziraphale in the eye.]

[Have one oblivious angel entirely unaware (or in fact fully aware and intentionally putting on pressure) of Crowley's discomfort.]

Would you like me to preen yours?

Just did mine. [HA.] I'll do yours though, if you want.

[He sighs slightly.] Dear, you know I like doing your wings.

Y-Yes, well...didn't know you'd be over. [The kettle whistles almost plaintively. Crowley pours out two cups of English Breakfast, idly fixing Aziraphale's exactly as he likes it. Probably with like seven sugars.]

Anyway, you can just enjoy the sunlight like a housecat and I'll see if I can make those feathers actually stay put for once.

[Only two sugars, thank.

But Aziraphale was not born yesterday. He can tell that something is wrong even if he isn't certain of what it is.]

Crowley, what are you hiding from me?

[Crowley stands dumbly in the middle of the room, a mug in each hand, face blank.] Nothing.

[He gets up and closes the gap between them, taking a mug in hand.] I can tell something's wrong. What happened?

[He can't help but go rather defensively stiff, partially because he knows he can't lie to Aziraphale and partially because there's an angel up in his grill.]

Just drink your tea, angel.

[He takes the tea and sets it down on the nearest surface.]

Crowley, please... Please tell me what happened.

[He grumbles something and goes back to his plants, pretending to have missed something.] Nothing moreso than the usual around here, really. I'm fine, angel, don't worry.

[His wings are aching all the way to the material plane.]

[He hesitates before reaching forward to rub at Crowley's back right where he knew his wings would be. He knows he should stop, respect Crowley's clear desire for privacy, but this... If his hunch is correct...]

[He reacts instantly, flinching away violently enough that he knocks a philodendron off its table. He catches it before it can hit the ground and turns to hiss at Aziraphale.]

Angel!

[He catches himself a breath later and sets the plant back in its place, sunglasses hiding the rather hunted look in his eyes.]

Sorry, I-- Don't--startle me like that.

[He doesn't have sunglasses to hide the hurt in his eyes. But still, he doesn't move from where he is, hands dropped to his sides.]

Your wings are hurt.

[Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Crowley pushes his sunglasses higher, hand shaking just slightly. He can't believe he just hissed at Aziraphale. At Aziraphale.]

I'm sorry, I didn't--don't know what came over--

[He shoves his hands in his pockets before they can shake worse.] It's nothing--was my own fault, really, shouldn't have had them out in the first place, knowing the kind of people around here--

[A fury seems to be boiling deep with Aziraphale. How dare anyone harm Crowley? How dare anyone harm his wings? He knows is own hands are not clean of this crime (though he really wasn't the one at the helm), but he cannot tolerate anyone else doing the same. His tone is flat and angry as he says just one word.] Who?

[This is exactly what Crowley was afraid of. Well, one of the things.] I'm not telling you anything until you can assure me you're not going to do anything bloody stupid.

Crowley, who hurt you? [He was not about to make a promise he had absolutely no intention of keeping.]

[Crowley grabs his shoulders, grip tight.] You bloody well promise me, Aziraphale, because if you go and get yourself killed over a few missing feathers I'm never letting you see them again, understand?

I won't get killed, Crowley.

You will.

I won't. Now tell me who hurt you.

You will! He'll rip you apart and I can't lose you again!

[His voice tears as he says it, like the words are hurting him. Which they are. He looks down as he realizes what he just said but doesn't let go of Aziraphale's shoulders.]

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