𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

manners maketh man

Year two: It had been months since Crowley had first gone outside, and he made a point to never go out again. Even though what he had experienced was pleasant and thoughtful, he couldn't get past himself to trust in something he didn't see. He knew this was a fake realm, created by possibly a higher angel than he knew. He knew God didn't care enough to build the two an entire realm.

He did, however, finally will himself to sit down after a year of standing in this realm. A sigh escaped him as he finally rested and leaned back into the plain black armchair across from the window. The shining day streamed through the curtainless window, and for just a breath of a moment, he trusted his surroundings and closed his eyes. It was peace: an old, unfamiliar friend he'd like to know deeper.

However comfortable he was, he opened his eyes again. He could sense someone outside the door, and to his nonexistent surprise, Aziraphale was peering at him through the opened door. Had he opened it while his eyes were closed? Shame. He should have paid closer attention.

"You're sitting," the angel said, dumbfounded.

"I am." Strutting over to him, he gently laid his head on the armchair, as if he was wanting to share the space. Crowley didn't mind. "You seem tense, though. It's just an armchair."

Cracking his neck, he hesitantly responded, "I still have a hard time trusting this... place. It doesn't seem real, because I know it's not." He looked at Aziraphale; so that's what his eyes looked like. They looked like endless deep, hazel caverns of a fantasy world. "And I think you do too."

He looked away, seeming to be disappointed with the answer. "If this isn't real to you, what is?" It seemed he was just fine with believing in the unknown. Crowley clearly wasn't.

He found himself staring into space. "I don't know. I hardly know if I'm real from time to time." He tilted his head, seemingly confused and waiting for elaboration. "For all I know, I'm blacked out in Hell, waiting to wake up again. Or I'm human, waiting for this nightmare to end. Or your God is just toying with what I see? Maybe I'm real, maybe I'm not. but I seem to be the least real thing here."

"Am I real?" Crowley looked down at him, and somehow, with the last unhealthy pride he had left, he gave him a smile. "You're too stupid to be fake."

"Hey!" Aziraphale lightly swatted his shoulder, laughing loud and bubbly. It sounded sweet and familiar, but he couldn't place where he had heard it from. He found himself chuckling along. It was unfamiliar.

They sat like that for a while, blissfully and comfortably silent. The sun raised for a few moments, but of course, the obnoxious angel couldn't keep his mouth shut for more than five minutes.

He took a breath, paused, then let it out. Then he finally asked the question that the both of them couldn't answer. "Why are you so afraid of God?"

Crowley hummed, looking for an answer as well. He leaned forward in the chair for a minute, bringing his hands to the sides of his face. He paused like that for a few moments before giving a mediocre answer.

"It's not fear, I wouldn't say. I don't understand how someone can believe in God." He figured that would suffice, but the angel didn't.

"But it's so simple to believe!" He straightened himself out, stretching a little. "I know God works in mysterious ways, but-"

"And there's that phrase again. 'He works in mysterious ways.'" He sighed and cracked his knuckles, amused when Aziraphale winced. "I can't find myself believing in someone like that."

"It's just devotion."

"It's blind devotion. And I don't want to be blinded to have faith." There was silence after that. The two agreed to leave it at that; it was understood that neither of them would change their mind.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Crowley opened his eyes, gripping the armchair. He didn't mean to doze off like that, and damned if he'll do it again. He was still uncertain if the house he was in was real, and if he was really here for redemption.

He looked to his left. Aziraphale was dozed off as well, seemingly comfortable with his head resting against the arm of the chair. He paid no mind. Careful not to wake him, he slowly stood up and walked out the room and to the kitchen. Where he was going he didn't know, but he was tired of sitting down.

Sitting down had almost made him sore again, but as much as he'd hate to admit it, it made him feel better. His legs no longer threatened to buckle under each step, and he didn't feel as heavy as before. It really did help him, but he didn't necessarily want to make a habit of sitting down. What if he went back to hell again?

He paused when he saw a mirror on the wall above the kitchen counter in the corner of his eye. It was very oddly placed, but it was there; it had a simple and thin frame surrounding it. Looking back on it, he couldn't remember when the last time he saw his reflection was. What color were his eyes again? Weren't they red, or black? He turned and looked.

He couldn't look away. Though he thought his form was simply layered shadows, it appeared he had a face. And the thought of that terrified him. Maybe he had always figured he was built of shadows and cloth because that's all he could see in hell. He never imagined he could be made of flesh, or whatever he was made of.

His skin was a pale, pale shade and his eyes were the strangest colored yellow he had ever seen. He had figured his eyes were red or black for decades, but here they were, a mix of the sun yellow and the piercing pupils of a serpent. His face had such a distinct shape, but he couldn't name it, and his mouth and nose fit perfectly atop his flesh. If there was ever something that would remind him that he was real, it was not his reflection. Why wasn't he shadows?

Why wasn't he shadows?

His hands began to shake. This wasn't him, he never had a form to begin with. He tilted his head, and the reflection followed him. The only thing they agreed with was his simple horns, dark red and cracked. The rest of his features were unknown, they were foreign, ugly, and despicable. He would rather be the ugliest demon in hell than admit this as his form.

He heard something in the background but he didn't care. His "face" had color, why wasn't it a shadow? He hated the shade of puke his eyes held. Even his horns didn't look the way they felt when he touched them. His hair looked like it hadn't been brushed for years, and it was the wrong shade of maroon. Everything looked fuzzy, but his reflection looked fuzzier. This wasn't him. He was shaking, this fake reflection was shaking, but it wasn't him. They both raised their fists, expecting them to crash down against each other.

Aziraphale caught his fist just like they had first met. It took everything Crowley had to not attack him.

They stood like that, the angel blocking the hideous reflection and the demon shaking miserably with the most terrified expression on his face. Their eyes, no matter their color locked in on each other, and that was all they knew. There was a tense silence that was only broken by the uncharacteristically patient grin on Aziraphale's lips.

The angel reached behind him and slowly turned the mirror over. He finally relaxed, forcing himself to lower his fist. There was no danger now. He could go back to believing his lies about his appearance.

He was suddenly pulled in closer. Aziraphale was gripping him, but it wasn't rough or out of anger; it was something unfamiliar to even the depths of Crowley's human life. His pale arms were around his neck, and his head rested comfortably in the crook of his neck. He stood there like an idiot, wondering what to do. This wasn't something he knew.

Very slowly, he hugged back, sneaking his arms around his back. He was warm, but not uncomfortably hot. Their figures seemed to fit naturally, and the longer they kept hugging, the more comfortable Crowley was. He hid his head on Aziraphale's shoulders, and held him tighter. Why was he shaking?

They stayed like that, not wanting to discuss what just happened. He couldn't find out the words to describe what he went through, either. The halo above the angel served as a small spotlight to the duo, paving light as the sun through the windows slowly set. He rubbed circles on his back, never opening his mouth to speak. It was time he shut up, anyway.

They let go at the same time, with Crowley composing himself to at least appear okay. That's all he wanted for right now. Aziraphale looked up at him and asked if he was okay without ever saying a word.

He nodded, lying to both himself and his angel. It would suffice for now.