salutosinedelectat | [For Westofeden][Reverse AU]

[ Crowley has his own opinions about how nicely wine pairs (or doesn't) with chocolate cake, but he doesn't share them. It's not as though the food is for him, after all. Never has been. ]

We'll pick some up. I know just the place.

[ There's a silence, not quite awkward, before he ventures to speak again. ]

I didn't...know why you wanted to meet.

That it was. For this, I mean.

[ To fight the demon in his gluttonous and hedonistic tastes is often a losing battle. Though it's fair to think that they may have that debate on a day less loaded with whatever is hanging in the air.

Such a thing rears it's head when the angel breaks the silence with those words. The demon looks over at him, hesitating for just a moment.]

Oh. Hum...

[ Eyes back on the road.]

What did you think it would be? [ The words may come out casual, but in his mind he's cursing himself for digging deeper into this, against his better - or worse - judgement.]

I didn't know.

[ Crowley keeps his gaze straight ahead, grateful for the excuse not to have to look at Zirafell right now and inwardly kicking himself for bringing it up at all. Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut? ]

Thought maybe...you'd heard something, wanted to warn me. Or that you were going to...

[ Cut him off, say goodbye, clear his throat and not quite meet Crowley's eyes as he said well, it's been a good run, angel, but I think we both know it couldn't last forever, don't we? He fidgets, uncomfortably. ]

Not important. Doesn't matter.

[ Going to what, exactly? But he doesn't ask.

He doesn't ask, because nothing that could follow those words is anything he wants to handle. The same way he didn't want to handle the sudden offer that was handed to him in the restaurant, the Grim and rude reminder that they aren't quite free or safe. The same way he didn't want to handle the fallout of having chosen the wrong way to reject it (would there have been a right way? A gentler way? One that didn't hurt them both?) by staring at an empty seat in front of him, left by the one person whose company he delights in, and yet the only thing he has to measure himself in.

There's still a dull hurt, there. But maybe it was just an unintentional poke against something that's already sore. But there's guilt, too, and shame, in knowing he hurt the angel in some way. He doesn't want to face the reason for that hurt. He doesn't want to think about why things are this complicated.]

No. [ He responds quietly, tense, but softly all the same.] None of that.

Just a check-up, is all. You did promise to share the wine. Far from me to pass the opportunity.

[ There's an attempt at levity in the last part there, to bring back the place they were just in.

You know I can't say what we both would like to hear. It doesn't work that way. ]

I did promise.

[ The wine, and so much more. Was he so terribly wrong, after all, to have suggested they go away? Not forever. A weekend. Two days in six thousand years, a precious few hours away from both sides, from all their pressures and demands, to just...be. A brief respite, one, he thinks, they've both more than earned.

Zirafell may know, or think he knows, that such a thing is impossible. Perhaps he's right; perhaps they wouldn't have got two miles outside the city limits before they were discovered, before Upstairs and Downstairs both decided this was one step too far. But Crowley...Crowley can't stop dreaming about it. Hoping, wishing, that such a thing were possible.

He responds just as quietly, though with an undercurrent of sadness he can't quite hide. ]

You can have as much as you like.

Edited 2020-06-10 03:27 (UTC)

[ Zirafell realizes then, through that particular tone in Crowley's voice, that they shouldn't have met today. Not yet. It was far too early, and balancing between casual conversation and the background of themes too complex to untangle was not what he wanted to do, but he should have known this would have been the end result. He should have seen it coming.

The demon is well aware of his own cowardice. It is, like many things, an ingrained instinct that keeps many of his kind alive, slithering away from those situations they know they can't win. And this, he knew, was a losing battle.

It wasn't just a weekend. It wouldn't be just two days away, by themselves, as far too many meanings hide behind such a concept. Or, at least, he sees them.

He still wishes he did not hear that tone in the angel's voice. It pains him to know he had a hand in that.]

Right. Of course.

[ Empty, distracted words. He fusses and fidgets with one of his silver rings.]

[ There's so much they're not saying. Crowley risks a sidelong glance at Zirafell, catching him fussing with his ring. So. At least he's not imagining the tension in the air.

Knowing that really doesn't help, though. It doesn't tell him what to say, how he can make things better. Instead, he stays silent as he drives. As he approaches the pâtisserie, the road miraculously morphs in front of the car, creating a free parking space inexplicably set exactly in the middle of a previously no-parking zone. Crowley pulls in smoothly. ]

Sachre...tort thing, right? I'll just be a minute.

[ Zirafell blinks, suddely aware that they've arrived at one of their spots, barely managing to hide away the fact that his mind was on anything but that at this point.]

Oh, yes, hum.

[ He clears his throat, forces a casual smile.]

Right. I'll, er, I'll wait here.

[ Or he could just leave.

--No, no, you silly old goat, you can't just run away like that, you'd ruin everything even further..

He smes at Crowley s, thankful his eyes are mostly hidden.]

[ Crowley smiles back, guileless, and slips out of the car and into the shop. It never occurs to him that Zirafell might not wait. Why wouldn't he? This had all been his idea, after all.

Luckily - if not, perhaps, miraculously - there's a fresh sachertorte in stock. There is a bit of a wait, and Crowley spends it with his hands jammed in his pockets, trying desperately to spend it neither thinking too hard nor peeking constantly out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Zira waiting outside. When he returns, though, it's in triumph, as he carefully hands the sachertorte over to his passenger. ]

Looks good. [ It looks like a cake. He doesn't care. But it looks like something Zirafell will enjoy. ] Can't wait to try it.

[ Zirafell watches the angel leave the car and enter the shop. As soon as he's out of sight, the demon leans back on his seat, closes his eyes, and takes a deep sighing breath.

There's an apology on the tip of his tongue, bittersweet and irritating and fighting to get out, but it won't, it will stay there and burn him, together with all the other things that just aren't safe to say. Aren't meant to be said. Like the hurt in being put on the spot, in having the dangerous decisions left to him, leaving him to consider their circumstances or to act a fool. Like the want to say yes, to run off together, if just for a day or two, and toss all caution to the wind. Like other words, hidden so much deeper, where they scratch uselessly and vengefully at the walls, of which they will never escape.

He takes off his spectacles, sure in the fact that no one will even spot him. He sits there, for whoever long, until he notices the angel walk back to the car. He quickly straightens up and puts his glasses back on, plastering that smile back on.]

Oh, lucky. [ Words that ring a little different when they come from a devil's mouth.] Will you actually enjoy some this time?

I'll enjoy the wine.

[ Outright lying is - not impossible, but it's not comfortable for him, either, particularly when it comes to Zirafell. Much better to avoid the question entirely than make promises he may not be able to keep. He gives Zira his most dazzling smile, for good measure, as he eases the Bentley out into traffic and continues on the way home.

He's feeling better, a little more lighthearted, though he's being careful not to stray too far towards hopeful - at least not consciously - as that would require some too-close examination of what, exactly, he might be hoping for. Something about seeing Zirafell with a cake feels right, somehow. Zira with a cake, a good bottle (or three) of wine, the two of them cozied up in Crowley's flat, where they belong...

Not hopeful. Just...content, that's all. ]

That all right?

[ Perhaps it is the demon's nature that keeps him struggling to balance between the sense of almost ideal normalcy, and all that lies beneath their interactions. Perhaps it was the invite, the reminder, that have made them all too clear, much like someone afraid of heights traversing a particularly high rope and being told not to look down. He wants to not think about it, but have you ever tried to not think about something?

Still, he's a good enough actor, or so he thinks, to keep on pretending to be fine until he is. The cake and promise of wine help. ]

I'll get you yet, angel. [ He teases, which is not entirely a ruse. ] You really don't know what you're missing out on.

Hmm.

[ He hums noncommittally, watching the road instead of Zirafell. That's the problem. He knows exactly what he's missing out on. He's had six thousand years to imagine it, to observe Zira, to know him better than he's ever known another living being - and yet it's still not nearly enough. Not anything close to what he wants.

He can't say any of that, of course. Ostensibly they're talking about cake. ]

Well, I suppose I've gotten this far without it.

[ It's much better to talk about cake. Cake is simple, and yet complex, in all its intricacies. A good cake has many different characteristics to consider, such as flavor, dryness, texture. There's a lot that can be said about cake. There's a lot that can be said about enjoying cake. And there's a lot of time the demon can try to convince the angel to actually try cake, in a pointless little quest to tempt him (tempt, with the small t, and not Tempt) into enjoying harmless decadence. All of it is quite more enjoyable than the irritating words that keep floating about the air. ]

Oh, you're no fun. [ The demon tuts, in a pout of a tone. ]

[ No fun? Crowley frowns, offended, and it's only partly for show. Michael is no fun. Uriel is no fun. By angel standards, Crowley's a blast. ]

I'm fun.

[ The demon catches that tone. He glances in the angel's direction for a moment, and, despite what the day, the week has been, even that does not take away the hint of satisfaction he gets out of that. ]

Oh? Are you? [ Asks the hedonist by trade. ]

Course I am.

[ There's a pause, as he waits for the demon to confirm this. Instead, there's only silence.

Crowley glances over, frown deepening. ]

I'm loads of fun. Everyone knows that.

Sure, sure.

[ Eyes kept on the road again. Maybe riling up the angel is not the best move given their current circumstances, but it's really hard to resist. ]

Just a tad bit.... [ He trails off, and it's most definitely a trap. ]

[ A trap that Crowley walks freely into. He waits, again, for the demon to finish his thought. When he doesn't... ]

A tad bit what?

[ Oh, you poor lovely angel you. ]

Unadventurous. [ He had to finish that off with an unnecessarily expensive word, of course. ]

But that's all quite alright. Just more delectable, scrumptious sachertorte for me to enjoy. All by my myself.

Unadventurous.

[ Crowley mulls over this for a moment. He's not sulking, he's mulling.

Unfortunately, all his mulling doesn't result in any kind of helpful response. ]

Hmph.

[ Zirafell lets that sink in (entirely unaware of just how badly that could have gone, in his search for something a bit more entertaining, and in a clear show of his incredible ability of both overthinking things and never thinking them through), sitting in silence for a few seconds. ]

You could prove me wrong. [ He suggests, very subtly. ]

[ Luckily for them both, things haven't gone badly. Yet. There's still plenty of time for either or both of them to make another misstep, to say or do something whose consequences can't be dodged. ]

Could I?

[ Now, at least, he's wary. Now, at least, he has the smidgen of self-preservation instinct necessary to be wary of potential traps.

Now that it's likely too late.

He casts a suspicious glance Zirafell's way, careful not to look away from the road too long. (Never mind that they can't die and he could miraculously prevent any accidents anyway. Being a conscientious driver is just the right thing to do.) ]

And how, precisely, would I do that? Eat a slice of cake?

[ Eating a slice of cake would likely be the simplest and safest way for him to do just that, and he should count himself lucky to be asked to prove his adventurousness by something as unadventerous as eating dessert. Unfortunately, there's a hint of sarcasm in his tone, challenging the demon for something more. ]

[ Ah, yes, the wild adventure of indulging in tasty desserts. Nothing to do with the fact that he'd be enjoying them with the demon, of course, much less a demon that has solidified his demonic career as an hedonistic temper, quite possibly as an excuse to follow those indulgences himself and write them off as leading by example, or manipulating others into overindulgence.

Or maybe, just maybe, he enjoys teasing the angel with such topics. He would never attempt to use his Demonic Temptation on him to begin with, but temptation with a lowercase t is fair game. Plus there's something quite endearing about the angel when he's mad.

But that's neither here nor there.]

Yes. For starters. [ He's quick to add.]

[ He's not mad. A bit defensive, yes, perhaps. But who wouldn't be, when faced with such harsh accusations from what is supposed to be a friendly quarter? Demon or not, Zirafell's always been much more ready to have Crowley's back than anyone Upstairs. Even if he would never say as much. ]

For starters.

[ He should ask exactly what Zirafell means by that. What else might be included in this little - bargain? Dare? What exactly is he getting himself into? But he's eager not to be called unadventurous again, or anything else disparaging, and accepting whatever it is Zira's proposing without asking a load of questions beforehand seems like a good first step towards proving that he is, in fact, Fun. ]

Well, I could certainly do that. If I wanted.

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Cough cough unreliable narrator catastrophizing everything

this is fine...

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Oh he's in trouble now

he's BEEN in trouble

He can handle trouble!!

can he...

...maybe....

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They are both disasters

they sure are