Aziraphale and him had become friends in school. Well. They'd become friends outside of school and stayed friends outside of school. Watching a meteor shower together. Sneaking out - in Aziraphale's case - and simply not wanting to be home in both their cases. They had never talked about it much, but it was mutually agreed upon that it was wiser to keep the friendship secret. Definitely better for Aziraphale with his many restrictions and also better for Crowley, who felt that life was simpler when people accepted that he was more or less cool.
However, school ended eventually and that brought along changes. For Crowley, it meant moving out, being broke as ever, but choosing his own company with a little more ease. Mostly that meant fewer people. He didn't need to interact with his family much to still be in the business, so to say. Enough to get his car, enough to keep his flat. As it turned out, Aziraphale and him had one more difference. Crowley had kept things secret because he didn't want to deal with his family - with anyone - more than necessary. Aziraphale had kept things secret because he wanted to keep being part of his family.
So they did meet, Aziraphale and him. Crowley visited him often, they had lunch and occasionally dinner together. Aziraphale didn't do certain things. Car rides, he claimed that Crowley went too fast, which was fair enough. Going to clubs and bars, that was a different kind of too fast. So Crowley went to those places by himself, met some others to hang out with. But none of them mattered, not like Aziraphale. And through talking and watching and thinking too fast, he realised why that was.
He kissed back every time, even if after the kiss he'd usually laugh it off or gently berate him. He'd do it with flushed cheeks and without moving away from him. He wouldn't object to another kiss.
They were still all they had been, Aziraphale was still the one person who mattered, but now there was more. There were touches and kisses and - one night - a lot more than just that. And there was the desperate yearning for more, for everything, because Crowley didn't want to see his Aziraphale torn between his family and all that stood for and his heart. He felt the choice was obvious.
Young, romantic, disillusioned with every bit of the world other than Aziraphale, Crowley wanted to surrender himself to that love completely, whatever the consequences would be.
He saw it now, that day Aziraphale had started telling him about the mission. About the chance he was being given. About the invitation he was allowed - the use of the word made Crowley seethe - to issue to Crowley. He said it with such elation, sharing good news. A vision for the future that was a nightmare to Crowley, presented as if it was salvation. And if Aziraphale truly couldn't see what Crowley saw, did he know him at all? Anger was always a shield for him, so it came out first, hiding his fearful helplessness. He cursed Aziraphale, he yelled at him, and then he kissed Aziraphale, kissed him hard and long and desperate, already feeling the pain of the loss that hadn't happened yet.
Aziraphale had kissed back, like he always did. But when they pulled apart, the look on his angel's face spelled doom.
His eyes had been burning then and they burned now. Crowley reached up, feeling that his face was wet. Where were his glasses? He blinked his eyes open and sat up a little. All right. That was his bed. Those were tears on his cheeks and he felt as if Aziraphale's name was still on his lips.
His head hurt. That'd be the hangover then. He reached over to grab his glasses from the night-stand when he noticed the body next to him. All right, he was definitely not alone in bed. Staring down at the bit of hair poking out from the blanket, he could not even begin to fathom who that was. Great. Really great.
Crowley sighed and rolled back over on his back, covering his eyes with his arm. All those years had passed and it only took a single dream to drag it all back up again, to open up his heart and spill it all out like so much more wasted blood. Love. Wasn't there an expiration date on that?
"...don't suppose you could hand me my glasses, huh? Or, y'know--" He gestured vaguely with his free arm. "Close the curtains."
"I'm not your fucking mother, do it yourself." Groaned the voice that lazily slid from the duvet, grabbed the glasses (fingers all over the poor lenses) and tossed them vaguely in Crowley's direction. He didn't quite remember much of last night either but he did remember fucking Crowley and he did remember bring home a traffic cone because they had the great idea of making a lamp out of it.
As he sat up, he looked at the traffic cone, that was at the foot of the bed - so much for a lamp.
"Fucking hell, did we drink bleach or what? My brain is rotting."
Crowley caught his glasses and put them on, listening to that voice and wondering why it felt so damn familiar and he still couldn't entirely place it. He finally managed to turn his head to actually look at the bloke in question. Ah. Right. That one, again.
What was it, did he just keep getting roofied or something? Surely he could do better, even while making a drunken mistake. "Bleach? Nah, not me. Couldn't be me, I don't drink clear liquid."
But evidently drinking whiskey did plenty damage.
He wanted to get back under the covers and sleep more, but not while he had him in his flat. The real question was how to get rid of him subtly. "So... You got a tough day at the office ahead?"
He assumed he worked in an office. He looked it, with those ugly suits he always wore.
"Nah, I-- Don't you remember anything? We talked about it last night, you old cunt. For fuck sake, you have the memory of a sodding goldfish! I left my job, at the office! I'm doing -- my own thing." Which was mostly drinking away his savings in the pub and going to very unsuccessful job interviews. Not that he said that to Crowley. He said something way cooler. Though he had no sodding idea what.
He looked at Crowley. Crowley looked at him.
There was that familiar blankness. He's fucking gone and done it again, hasn't he? "What's my name?" He always fucked this game up. "What's my name, you pillock?"
It was something. It was definitely something. He could have bet that his last name was Brown. Maybe Grey? Some kind of colour. He was a bit of a greyish type of person in his mind. Crowley sat up, only enough to lean back against the headboard. He yawned to buy himself time, weighing his options. Maybe he could seduce him into not caring about his own name?
Nah, honestly, he didn't think he could be buggered. Maybe he could just try and guess it. It was definitely something dorky, he knew that. "You tell me my name first," he ushered the challenge. Maybe they were both cunts, there was always a chance of that.
"I still feel dirty," Crowley announced after leaving the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in all black, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. He wasn't planning on going out, so this was safer. Bill in his flat, that should make sure no sex happened.
Whatever it took, at this point. He shuddered, perhaps exaggerating, then dropped down into his chair, legs dangling over one armrest. "Y'know, when a wound is really deep and it doesn't get disinfected properly, it festers. And eventually some of the flesh is just dead, with a lot of puss and general grossness. But, and that's the beauty of it, it gets numb."
He leaned forward as he explained himself, eyes on Bill. Right now he wasn't wearing his glasses, so Bill could enjoy the full creep factor. "I was there, right? Numb. All numb. And now it's all ripped off and gushing again. And the last thing I need is Laszlo rubbing his sweaty body up against my wound."
"I really hate being your best mate sometimes. Fucking gross bastard." Bill complained as he lay on Crowley's couch - which he had checked repeatedly hadn't been fucked in. "So, I heard you took him home again, your gross darling. What was the name?" He loved playing this game. Did Crowley just disassociate every time he took Florence home or was he just joking? Should he care more? He had no fucking idea.
He lay back and yawned, rubbing his face lazily. He got into a bit of scrap last night so he had a black eye and a bruised cheek but otherwise, he was feeling really good.
Cause he was him and not Crowley right now. "So, festering wound, what's the plan tonight?"
"My plan is to just never leave again. I'll never leave my flat and I'll stop drinking." Crowley said it before taking a sip from the glass he'd filled before, then set it back down. "That way I'm avoiding temptation. Or whatever it is that keeps leading to the grossness. I don't know. Temporary insanity. Whatever it is that happens when I'm around... Edgar." Whatever his name was.
He honestly didn't know. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, wondering whether Aziraphale was thinking of him still as well. Whether he wanted him to be. "Might go out to buy a book."
"Woah, you really wanna fly straight and keep yourself sex free, eh? Getting into reading. Fucking boring, mate. Maybe like -- model kits. I always wanted to do those as a boy, they're proper brill." Bill just wanted anything but books, he just didn't get books. At all. Maybe he was too stupid for them, his boyfriend always said he was a bit thick. Maybe he had a point.
"Buying a book means leaving the flat though. I guess there's amazon or something." Bill had no idea where any of this was going but it was entertaining.
The last several minutes, Crowley had spent pretending as if he wasn't pacing up and down in front of Aziraphale's bookshop working up the nerve to go in. That meant that instead he'd bought an overprized cup of coffee - three espressos to further agitate his nerves - at the hipster coffee shop with the weirdly aggressively moody owner. Then he had gone into the record store and had to talk to a rather ditzy and distracted seeming blonde about why he should buy a Melissa Etheridge record for a non-existent record player. To escape that, he'd had to stand by some restaurant long enough that he'd ended up making reservations, in spite of not caring for either French nor food.
Finally, there he was. Entering the bookstore. He walked in, straightened up and looked around. "Hi."
His outfit had been carefully put together, he'd changed several times. Black on black on black had been a no-brainer. New black jeans, so they weren't washed out at all, waist coat and suit jacket and a shirt that had three buttons unbuttoned. Black boots, sunglasses, obviously, and a hairstyle that looked effortless and had taken about an hour to perfect.
"I'm here to buy a book." No one emphasised 'book' like this, but here he went.
"Hello, I will be with you in a just a --" He paused as he heard that voice continue and then it dawned on him. Crowley was here. Buying a book. Why?! Why? Whhhhy? He didn't read, he always said he didn't read, and now he had come here. To torment him. To guilt him. Could it get any worse?
Well, he might also take one of his precious books took?
Aziraphale turned around, trying to fake a smile but his eyes were weirdly wide and his body was stiff as he took Crowley in. Even now, so long after their last time together, he still looked incredible. Satanic temptation personified. He stared for a moment longer and then remembered where he was and what he was doing.
"Oh. Oh, well, feel free to browse." He was a shop owner, not a waiter. He didn't have to spend time with him. So there. He turned away and tried to focus on his inventory list instead. He could survive this, he could get through - he was strong.
"Mhhh, yeah. Let me." Crowley put one hand into his pocket - meaning just some of his fingers, the pockets didn't leave room for much more - and then he made his way over. Closer to Aziraphale. As close as he could manage, only to then turn sideways and browse whatever was closest.
Cookbooks, apparently. Yeah, right up his alley. He tilted his head thoughtfully and then reached up to get one of the books on a higher shelf. Mostly because he was hoping that would draw further attention to him, his body and his presence, not because he cared for Albanian cuisine.
He was doing that on purpose. Getting close with his slinky hips and amazing smell. What was he wearing? It was lightful. Like manly musky apples or something. There was a weird thought. How did an apple get musky? He tore himself away from his list and eyed up Crowley for a moment before realising this was dangerous.
"If you'll just excuse me..." He slid away from Crowley and hurried across the shop to the craft book section. Nothing here Crowley would want, unless he always wanted to learn cross-stitching and oragami.
"Is it quite alright if I stand. I don't really need to sit. I'm not truly the 'patient' or whatever you call it. I've just come for advise. Think of me as a reporter, crafting a story or-- oh! Or an author of a self help book. This could be research!" Aziraphale attempted to justify as he awkwardly stood in Holden's room, a fair distance from the chair and Holden, holding a little notepad and pen in his hands.
He had researched for hours after Crowley broke his heart again, just desperately to find a way to try and make this better. And he needed help. He needed advise. He needed someone who understood his perspective a little.
When he saw that this gentlemen specialised in therapy and religious 'trauma', he felt that might be ideal. Of course, he wasn't quite under the impression he was traumatised. Neither did he wish to be himself here but he just wanted to take some notes, get a game plan and be ready for Crowley's return.
"I'm here for a friend. Georgie. Georgie ... Johnson. He needs some advise and I had the time so..." He awkwardly spread his arms out. "Ta-da."
"I see." That was a little unconventional, to say the least. Mostly the lack of sitting down. "You should sit down anyway. It could take a while to properly advise... Georgie Johnson."
It wasn't actually the first fake name he had had to deal with, although one a little difficult to say with a straight face. Either way, the man looked distraught so Holden knew he had to approach this delicately.
He leaned back and gestured to invite Aziraphale to speak. "What is it that Georgie is struggling with?"
"No, no, I'll stand. Erm, I've never -- should I just explain it all? I can do that. I think it's good to just try and law the groundwork, so to speak." Aziraphale said as he awkwardly fiddled with his pen and just tried his best to decide how to tell the story of poor Georgie Johnson, who kept getting yelled at by his ex boyfriend.
"So Georgie was born into the fundamentalist Latter Day Saints and was raised very religious but when he was a teenager, he fell in love. With a boy. Another boy. Non-Mormon boy. Very nice boy, actually. Bit of a rogue but he had nice eyes and always was rather sweet. And they were happy but then Georgie's family found out and ... it got complicated. From what I hear from ol' Georgie, they offered him a chance to go on a mission and that his 'friend' could come with him. Unfortunately, the friend hated the idea and yelled a lot and kissed him and begged him not to. And Georgie got a little... uneasy, shall we say, and told him that he forgave him and--and yes, it was bad. Georgie panicked, if you will. And didn't know what to do."
He waved his hand in a general direction to try and show the passage of time. "Now, why I'm here is that said ex boyfriend has returned to Georgie and I'm unsure how to advise him because the ex boyfriend keeps turning up. He yelled yesterday again, actually, and being civil doesn't work and -- should he say sorry? I know he should but he's having a mental block. It's just hard, of course. It wasn't like he meant to hurt anyone, he just believed it would be easier if they shared faith together. And while he knows it's wrong, he doesn't want to say sorry for his faith. It just seemed easier then, is all. Then I could keep family and -- I mean, he could keep family and his boyfriend and-and-and there would be less yelling!"
His voice was getting more agitated as he tried his best to get through this, unsure what to say or how to best explain himself. "Why can't Georgie just say sorry? Why can't his ex just ... leave."
"I see..." Well, that was a lot in a short amount of time. "Do you want a piece of chocolate?"
Holden reached for the box he had in his drawer and opened it up as he held it out to Aziraphale. "There's a lot to unpack here, for us. For Georgie, I mean. Of course."
Where to begin? "First of all, I'm sure that Georgie is aware that it is no easy feat to deal with an upbringing such as his. I'm not sure what his faith is now, but when someone grows up like that and then finds himself at a crossroads with those beliefs, it can easily make them feel isolated. It is important for Georgie to know that he is not alone. There are a lot of people who struggle with reconciling their upbringing, their faith and their minds being opened to different viewpoints. There are people who understand. Who deal with a very similar dichotomy."
This time, Crowley had sworn himself, he would manage to defeat his greatest enemy. Himself.
So he didn't give himself time to interfere by doing anything like thinking, getting emotional or anything other than one straight-forward goal. Telling Aziraphale how he truly felt.
And so he slammed the car brakes only at the very last moment, the Bentley partially on the pavement, cutting Aziraphale off from actually walking into the bookshop. Crowley opened the door and got up, holding on to the roof as he called out. "Angel! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for whatever it is that-- for everything I said, I'm sorry! It doesn't matter, I love you. Let's leave together!"
He wasn't sure where they would be leaving for, but he was determined not to do the thinking thing. "I apologise, all right? Whatever it takes."
"I think my life just flashed before my eyes..." He had been like 99% sure that he was about to be run over by his ex boyfriend so it took a lot to get over the shock of that and focus on what was really happening. Crowley, here again, this time pouring his heart out. It was raining - Crowley always found rain romantic. Was that why he had come now? It was hard to say.
"You really shouldn't be on the pavement..."
He assumed that wasn't the point here but he wanted to point it out. He stepped back just so he could try and get some cover from the rain, looking at Crowley in confusion. "Why are you here?"
"Because of you, you idiot!" Ah, the talking thing was getting out of hand again, already. Crowley stepped away from his car, closer to Aziraphale, looking up to see if there was any awning. There was not. There was one across the street but he wasn't sure how to smoothly get them over there - especially with his car in the way - so instead he simply looked at Aziraphale while getting miserably wetter by the moment. "I'm here because of you. Everything I do is because of you! Every single stupid thing."
And on too many occasions, stupid blokes. He kept himself from saying that out loud, at least. "You should be with me. We should be-- We are us. Yeah?"
Yes, definitely romantic. Why was Crowley like this? "Oh, Crowley. You're getting drench. Come on, this is ridiculous." He took Crowley by his wrist and pulled him along to where the bookshop was, dragging him under the small ledge as he pulled out his key to unlock. "We can talk inside. This is not the place to do ... this."
Whatever this was. Last time, it was resentment and hate, now it was begging and wanting. Sometimes, he did wonder with Crowley. He was so emotional - it must have been so hard for him. Always. All the time. "Do you want to-to come inside?"
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thearrangement2023-07-28 03:22 pm
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Aziraphale and him had become friends in school. Well. They'd become friends outside of school and stayed friends outside of school. Watching a meteor shower together. Sneaking out - in Aziraphale's case - and simply not wanting to be home in both their cases. They had never talked about it much, but it was mutually agreed upon that it was wiser to keep the friendship secret. Definitely better for Aziraphale with his many restrictions and also better for Crowley, who felt that life was simpler when people accepted that he was more or less cool.
However, school ended eventually and that brought along changes. For Crowley, it meant moving out, being broke as ever, but choosing his own company with a little more ease. Mostly that meant fewer people. He didn't need to interact with his family much to still be in the business, so to say. Enough to get his car, enough to keep his flat. As it turned out, Aziraphale and him had one more difference. Crowley had kept things secret because he didn't want to deal with his family - with anyone - more than necessary. Aziraphale had kept things secret because he wanted to keep being part of his family.
So they did meet, Aziraphale and him. Crowley visited him often, they had lunch and occasionally dinner together. Aziraphale didn't do certain things. Car rides, he claimed that Crowley went too fast, which was fair enough. Going to clubs and bars, that was a different kind of too fast. So Crowley went to those places by himself, met some others to hang out with. But none of them mattered, not like Aziraphale. And through talking and watching and thinking too fast, he realised why that was.
The first kiss was as stormy as the night it had happened on, with Crowley dripping from having run through the rain and with him breathless as he kissed Aziraphale as soon as he opened the door. It was cliché, it was wet and it wasn't as romantic as the movie had made it seem, but it most assuredly happened and Aziraphale kissed back.
He kissed back every time, even if after the kiss he'd usually laugh it off or gently berate him. He'd do it with flushed cheeks and without moving away from him. He wouldn't object to another kiss.
They were still all they had been, Aziraphale was still the one person who mattered, but now there was more. There were touches and kisses and - one night - a lot more than just that. And there was the desperate yearning for more, for everything, because Crowley didn't want to see his Aziraphale torn between his family and all that stood for and his heart. He felt the choice was obvious.
Young, romantic, disillusioned with every bit of the world other than Aziraphale, Crowley wanted to surrender himself to that love completely, whatever the consequences would be.
He saw it now, that day Aziraphale had started telling him about the mission. About the chance he was being given. About the invitation he was allowed - the use of the word made Crowley seethe - to issue to Crowley. He said it with such elation, sharing good news. A vision for the future that was a nightmare to Crowley, presented as if it was salvation. And if Aziraphale truly couldn't see what Crowley saw, did he know him at all? Anger was always a shield for him, so it came out first, hiding his fearful helplessness. He cursed Aziraphale, he yelled at him, and then he kissed Aziraphale, kissed him hard and long and desperate, already feeling the pain of the loss that hadn't happened yet.
Aziraphale had kissed back, like he always did. But when they pulled apart, the look on his angel's face spelled doom.
His eyes had been burning then and they burned now. Crowley reached up, feeling that his face was wet. Where were his glasses? He blinked his eyes open and sat up a little. All right. That was his bed. Those were tears on his cheeks and he felt as if Aziraphale's name was still on his lips.
His head hurt. That'd be the hangover then. He reached over to grab his glasses from the night-stand when he noticed the body next to him. All right, he was definitely not alone in bed. Staring down at the bit of hair poking out from the blanket, he could not even begin to fathom who that was. Great. Really great.
Crowley sighed and rolled back over on his back, covering his eyes with his arm. All those years had passed and it only took a single dream to drag it all back up again, to open up his heart and spill it all out like so much more wasted blood. Love. Wasn't there an expiration date on that?
"...don't suppose you could hand me my glasses, huh? Or, y'know--" He gestured vaguely with his free arm. "Close the curtains."
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As he sat up, he looked at the traffic cone, that was at the foot of the bed - so much for a lamp.
"Fucking hell, did we drink bleach or what? My brain is rotting."
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What was it, did he just keep getting roofied or something? Surely he could do better, even while making a drunken mistake. "Bleach? Nah, not me. Couldn't be me, I don't drink clear liquid."
But evidently drinking whiskey did plenty damage.
He wanted to get back under the covers and sleep more, but not while he had him in his flat. The real question was how to get rid of him subtly. "So... You got a tough day at the office ahead?"
He assumed he worked in an office. He looked it, with those ugly suits he always wore.
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He looked at Crowley. Crowley looked at him.
There was that familiar blankness. He's fucking gone and done it again, hasn't he? "What's my name?" He always fucked this game up. "What's my name, you pillock?"
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Nah, honestly, he didn't think he could be buggered. Maybe he could just try and guess it. It was definitely something dorky, he knew that. "You tell me my name first," he ushered the challenge. Maybe they were both cunts, there was always a chance of that.
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Whatever it took, at this point. He shuddered, perhaps exaggerating, then dropped down into his chair, legs dangling over one armrest. "Y'know, when a wound is really deep and it doesn't get disinfected properly, it festers. And eventually some of the flesh is just dead, with a lot of puss and general grossness. But, and that's the beauty of it, it gets numb."
He leaned forward as he explained himself, eyes on Bill. Right now he wasn't wearing his glasses, so Bill could enjoy the full creep factor. "I was there, right? Numb. All numb. And now it's all ripped off and gushing again. And the last thing I need is Laszlo rubbing his sweaty body up against my wound."
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He lay back and yawned, rubbing his face lazily. He got into a bit of scrap last night so he had a black eye and a bruised cheek but otherwise, he was feeling really good.
Cause he was him and not Crowley right now. "So, festering wound, what's the plan tonight?"
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He honestly didn't know. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, wondering whether Aziraphale was thinking of him still as well. Whether he wanted him to be. "Might go out to buy a book."
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"Buying a book means leaving the flat though. I guess there's amazon or something." Bill had no idea where any of this was going but it was entertaining.
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Finally, there he was. Entering the bookstore. He walked in, straightened up and looked around. "Hi."
His outfit had been carefully put together, he'd changed several times. Black on black on black had been a no-brainer. New black jeans, so they weren't washed out at all, waist coat and suit jacket and a shirt that had three buttons unbuttoned. Black boots, sunglasses, obviously, and a hairstyle that looked effortless and had taken about an hour to perfect.
"I'm here to buy a book." No one emphasised 'book' like this, but here he went.
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Well, he might also take one of his precious books took?
Aziraphale turned around, trying to fake a smile but his eyes were weirdly wide and his body was stiff as he took Crowley in. Even now, so long after their last time together, he still looked incredible. Satanic temptation personified. He stared for a moment longer and then remembered where he was and what he was doing.
"Oh. Oh, well, feel free to browse." He was a shop owner, not a waiter. He didn't have to spend time with him. So there. He turned away and tried to focus on his inventory list instead. He could survive this, he could get through - he was strong.
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Cookbooks, apparently. Yeah, right up his alley. He tilted his head thoughtfully and then reached up to get one of the books on a higher shelf. Mostly because he was hoping that would draw further attention to him, his body and his presence, not because he cared for Albanian cuisine.
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"If you'll just excuse me..." He slid away from Crowley and hurried across the shop to the craft book section. Nothing here Crowley would want, unless he always wanted to learn cross-stitching and oragami.
He would not cave. No. He would stand firm!
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He had researched for hours after Crowley broke his heart again, just desperately to find a way to try and make this better. And he needed help. He needed advise. He needed someone who understood his perspective a little.
When he saw that this gentlemen specialised in therapy and religious 'trauma', he felt that might be ideal. Of course, he wasn't quite under the impression he was traumatised. Neither did he wish to be himself here but he just wanted to take some notes, get a game plan and be ready for Crowley's return.
"I'm here for a friend. Georgie. Georgie ... Johnson. He needs some advise and I had the time so..." He awkwardly spread his arms out. "Ta-da."
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It wasn't actually the first fake name he had had to deal with, although one a little difficult to say with a straight face. Either way, the man looked distraught so Holden knew he had to approach this delicately.
He leaned back and gestured to invite Aziraphale to speak. "What is it that Georgie is struggling with?"
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"So Georgie was born into the fundamentalist Latter Day Saints and was raised very religious but when he was a teenager, he fell in love. With a boy. Another boy. Non-Mormon boy. Very nice boy, actually. Bit of a rogue but he had nice eyes and always was rather sweet. And they were happy but then Georgie's family found out and ... it got complicated. From what I hear from ol' Georgie, they offered him a chance to go on a mission and that his 'friend' could come with him. Unfortunately, the friend hated the idea and yelled a lot and kissed him and begged him not to. And Georgie got a little... uneasy, shall we say, and told him that he forgave him and--and yes, it was bad. Georgie panicked, if you will. And didn't know what to do."
He waved his hand in a general direction to try and show the passage of time. "Now, why I'm here is that said ex boyfriend has returned to Georgie and I'm unsure how to advise him because the ex boyfriend keeps turning up. He yelled yesterday again, actually, and being civil doesn't work and -- should he say sorry? I know he should but he's having a mental block. It's just hard, of course. It wasn't like he meant to hurt anyone, he just believed it would be easier if they shared faith together. And while he knows it's wrong, he doesn't want to say sorry for his faith. It just seemed easier then, is all. Then I could keep family and -- I mean, he could keep family and his boyfriend and-and-and there would be less yelling!"
His voice was getting more agitated as he tried his best to get through this, unsure what to say or how to best explain himself. "Why can't Georgie just say sorry? Why can't his ex just ... leave."
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Holden reached for the box he had in his drawer and opened it up as he held it out to Aziraphale. "There's a lot to unpack here, for us. For Georgie, I mean. Of course."
Where to begin? "First of all, I'm sure that Georgie is aware that it is no easy feat to deal with an upbringing such as his. I'm not sure what his faith is now, but when someone grows up like that and then finds himself at a crossroads with those beliefs, it can easily make them feel isolated. It is important for Georgie to know that he is not alone. There are a lot of people who struggle with reconciling their upbringing, their faith and their minds being opened to different viewpoints. There are people who understand. Who deal with a very similar dichotomy."
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So he didn't give himself time to interfere by doing anything like thinking, getting emotional or anything other than one straight-forward goal. Telling Aziraphale how he truly felt.
And so he slammed the car brakes only at the very last moment, the Bentley partially on the pavement, cutting Aziraphale off from actually walking into the bookshop. Crowley opened the door and got up, holding on to the roof as he called out. "Angel! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for whatever it is that-- for everything I said, I'm sorry! It doesn't matter, I love you. Let's leave together!"
He wasn't sure where they would be leaving for, but he was determined not to do the thinking thing. "I apologise, all right? Whatever it takes."
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"You really shouldn't be on the pavement..."
He assumed that wasn't the point here but he wanted to point it out. He stepped back just so he could try and get some cover from the rain, looking at Crowley in confusion. "Why are you here?"
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And on too many occasions, stupid blokes. He kept himself from saying that out loud, at least. "You should be with me. We should be-- We are us. Yeah?"
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Whatever this was. Last time, it was resentment and hate, now it was begging and wanting. Sometimes, he did wonder with Crowley. He was so emotional - it must have been so hard for him. Always. All the time. "Do you want to-to come inside?"
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bitch.
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im good
brilliant
never been better
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wanna get a drink?
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also think I'm gonna be cutting back on drinking
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1/2
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