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flowesona · 5 years

Text

Miasma

Setting: Renaissance Venice (1630-31)

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

TW: Graphic Descriptions, obsessive/ yandere behaviour

A/N: I’m so happy to have had to opportunity to work with the wonderful @jooniescupcakes on this fic in anticipation of our amazing leader Namjoon’s birthday! Please check out the version of this fic posted on her blog which has an exciting alternate ending!

The humid air of the mid-evening provided a somewhat pleasant stroll. It would have been serene, if not for the desperate cries of people fighting against soldiers. Their screams of mercy at Namjoon were ill-received, as he instead chose to avert his gaze, to see how the Venetian water rippled. He couldn’t bear to face these people, to answer as to why they weren’t going to survive. Prayers, smoking, even infecting oneself with Syphilis. Every cure people had dreamt up were based on fallacious dreams. And Namjoon hated to associate himself with such disparity, hated to see those at the lowest in society doomed to a horrific fate.

No one had thought so many would be lost once again when the plague that had last reared its ugly head centuries returned once again to Italy, causing mass panic in Milan the previous year before reaching Venice and letting Namjoon bear witness to the curse.

Yet instead of facing the hopeless souls, Namjoon tried to distract himself with the more optimistic side of things. The patients that he was about to visit had reportedly not experienced any major symptoms of the plague. Yet as he reached the entrance of the quaint ‘house’ crammed into the rest of the neighbourhood and simply reeking of poverty, there was still a feeling of dread in his stomach, that he wouldn’t be able to cure them.

Brushing all pessimistic thoughts aside he reached out and rapped on the door twice, his greeting being met with a cough and the scurrying of feet.

“Oh! Dottore! Please, come in.” A worn-out voice accompanied the face of a woman that was anything but.

“Buona sera. What seems to be the problem?” Namjoon ducked under the entrance of the shabby accommodation as he spoke, surveying the surroundings with an ever-keen eye.

“It’s… papa was spitting blood today. I was worried something was wrong.” The woman explained, leading the doctor through the cramped room into an adjacent room, occupied by a middle-aged woman dabbing at the forehead of a bed-ridden man with a filthy towel. A sight of great pity, an illustration of suffering.

“Has he experienced any other symptoms?” Namjoon went to place his surgical bag on the floor but had second thoughts upon seeing the blood and spit dotted around, instead cautiously placing it on the stained sheets with a grimace. There was no doubt this family’s living conditions were integral to the patriarch’s illness, but alas Namjoon was a doctor, not a charity.

“He’s got an awful fever, dottore.” The woman sat by the bed replied, still stroking her husband’s face to no avail.

“I see. May you two please leave the room, I need to examine him.” Both women observing the scene left the room, not before glancing back at their sick patriarch and the masked stranger ready to decide their fate.

“Can you stand up? I need to examine for any other symptoms.” The wheezes and grunts of the pauper sitting up in his bed were not a good sign. But what was far worse was the sight of a buboe on his neck, previously hidden by the tattered blanket but now in plain sight for Namjoon to see. And it was not a pretty sight.

Even as Namjoon approached and used his gloved hands to tilt the chin up so he had a better view, the truth was clear. He’d caught the plague, and he was going to die in a matter of days.

“For now, rest and some herbal incense is the best road to recovery.” was all advice the doctor could give. He’d never seen such things curing the victims, but it was the most relief he could give. A placebo, blaming the bad air for the disease when there was most definitely something more to it.

He left the room with a horrible feeling in his stomach, the truth a heavyweight on his tongue.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the older woman instantly standing up and letting her chair fall onto the floor as she rushed to attend to her husband.

Namjoon took the opportunity to seat himself at the table.

“I have some bad news about your father, Signorina...?” He trailed off, realising that in his drowsy arrival he’d never learnt his patient’s name.

“Y/N. What’s a wrong doctor? Please tell me it’s just the flu or-”

“I’m afraid it’s a lot worse.” Namjoon pulled the rubber mask away from his face, letting himself breathe for a second without such construction on his face. He hated the sick feeling in his stomach from having to break the news, of already knowing this young woman’s fate.

“Your father has… there’s no easy way to say this, but he has the plague, blue sickness, whatever you wish to call it.” The doctor couldn’t even look at her face in shame. “The best you can do is pray that God has a place for you in heaven.”

“Wait, What?” All at once, the barriers broke and tears started falling from (Y/N)’s eyes.

“I’m very sorry. I must be on my way.” Scraping back the chair, Namjoon stood up to take his leave, to report the case and to find some devil’s drink to cure his mind of guilt but was held back as Y/N desperately took ahold of one of his hands.

“I’ve heard the screams of the people, dottore. Being trapped like rats or burnt alive isn’t fair. Please, you can’t do this to us!” The young woman searched for sympathy in any inch of his exposed face, finding his deep expresso-coloured eyes and giving him a pleading stare.

Namjoon felt like at that moment, refusing to do something would kill him. With how Y/N hung onto him like a lifeline, as she begged for him to save her from death, he found himself opening his mouth once again.

“It would… I don’t know if I can do that. If I don’t report it, you could spread the plague through your entire neighbourhood. We have to quarantine, it’s only what’s right for the people.”

“Since when did you rich people ever give a damn about ‘the people’?” There was a strange sense of familiarity in seeing Y/N sniffing as she spoke and the emotion behind her words, something that the doctor couldn’t quite place his finger on. Regardless of his strange nostalgia, he felt some strong feeling stir in his chest for change. He truly felt that he couldn’t just sit back and let this poor girl die.

“I… I know this is unorthodox but I could get you out of here. I’ll pay for a carriage and you can go to a better place in the country.” There was still some gnawing part of his conscience begging him to do more, but he pushed it down.

“And my family? Will there be help for papa in another city?” It was as if a light had been lit inside Y/N’s eyes and the strange feeling of nostalgia crept up on Namjoon, almost like deja vu.

But her hope was not long-lasting.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. He’d die on the journey, and there’s a high chance he’d die on the journey. The only way for you to guarantee your survival is leaving, and letting fate take its course.”

“But there must be something you can do! Some cure, some treatment you must have heard of, we’ll do anything. If you’re worried about the money...I’ll find a way to get it. Please, please help him.” Namjoon quietly watched the female plead, wondering how to appease her.

“I’ll see what I can do. There’s no guarantee for his life, I won’t promise you anything.” With a short and tense farewell, he slips on his mask and leaves the shaky house.

Namjoon looked up at the dark night sky, the twinkling stars laughing down at him at them, at all the people of Venice. Who else was looking at the same sky? How many were crying under the black blanket, which provided no warmth or comfort, as yet another loved one fell? The world saw this sight, but only Venice suffered so much under it.

If he kept staring at the warm glow of the full moon, maybe the cries would stop echoing. How long were they to suffer?

Then, his mind wandered to other things. The young woman, whose father he had just visited. It was understandable as to why she wanted him to keep quiet, but was it foolish of him to have surrendered? He had been hit with a wave of something, depressing but familiar, as he watched her pretty eyes. He struggled, even with all his knowledge, to put a name for it, and diagnose it.

He could, no, he should tell the authorities about her father, as it would prevent the spread of the plague. But this secret arrangement could also benefit him, it could be a way for him to experiment and possibly find some cure for this devastating problem.

He noticed his mansion on the horizon and picked up his pace, secretly eager to get home. The tiring job of trying to help people, only to watch them die, exhausted him and upset him. What was the point of being a doctor that could only give empty promises and bring news of death?

Unlike the streets he had just left, he lived in a cleaner and more quiet part of the city. Everyone here was swimming in money, but that didn’t make them any less of a target to the fatal and consuming plague. Many of the children stare from their windows, his large and strange mask attracting curious gazes and hushed whispers.

He had watched many people die, captured by the officials and burnt alive or, if they were too slow, the plague finished them off first. Namjoon had gotten used to the feeling of sadness, anger and disappointment, at this point, after all the deaths he had supervised, it was numb, part of a mundane routine. The thought of the young girl, looking at him like he owned the world like he could change fate, brought back these long-buried feelings in an unprecedented crashing wave, along with something else, unidentified.

———————————————————————

It was another messy evening, the blank sky ignorant to the screams and cries below. All the days blended together with the same sight, the same words, the same end. Namjoon was walking down the familiar path he took just a day ago, equipped with a new idea and a stronger determination. However, there was no certainty for success.

He walked up to the run-down house, glancing over the cracks he had missed in his rush during his last visit. He eyes the cracking paint and dirty windows, the tattered curtains not doing much to shield the inside. He slowly stepped up to the old, wooden door, sharply rapping at it thrice. He waited for a second, and the door swings open, the delicate female mumbling a small welcome with worry evident in her face.

“I...thought of something...to help with the buboes,” he glanced over to see her perked up, watching him intently, “it might not work, and it will surely hurt like hell, but its the best I have"

He curiously observed her changing emotions, happiness at first, hope glimmering in those twinkling eyes, mouth trembling, then disappointment, gravity tugging at the corners of her lush lips, eyes downcast. Finally, the last shine of determination, stronger than the soldiers lining up on the streets, brighter than the shine of the glaring sun.

It was that burning determination that made him remember.

Remember when he first fell in love with the sweet, pretty girl from his childhood.

The sharp jab of the nostalgia, the sudden waves of memories crashing against his confused mind, it was all confirmed when he caught sight of a small toy. It was old, blue and green patches on it, once bright, vibrant coats of fresh paint. It was a small dollhouse, although not in good condition, he noticed the shiny symbol, a logo of the best carpenter in the country. The door to the expensive creation was slightly open allowing little light and peeping eyes through, though it was not furnished. Maybe the fragile pieces had gotten lost over time, but the overall image was still obvious.

He bought that dollhouse, he gifted it to someone, his first love. It was a one-of-its-kind house, unique as every individual star. And it was expensive. Far too expensive for a family like this to even dream about. When he looked back at the female, lost in her own thoughts, he found himself observing her features; the familiar curve of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the plush lips.

Everything came back to him.

Those memories from years ago, when they were both ignorant, young and in bliss. Nothing mattered except themselves. He never knew how much her family struggled to put food on the table, and he never understood why she kept trying to return the gift. When he offered to get her a different house, she refused frustratedly, breaking into tears.

His parents had to explain to him what she was too embarrassed to say; that she wasn't as rich as them. She was poor, living at the bottom of the city's trash, and that was why she always wore the same dresses, and why she never had any toys.

Her family couldn't afford any luxuries. In short; they were completely and extremely different to everyone but themselves. He was born into a prestigious family, money raining down on him, and she had to crawl past scraps to survive.

Namjoon was appalled at the truth. He was angry that he couldn't figure it out by the subtle words and the obvious visuals. He didn't realize how much money, or the lack of it, affected them and their relationship. No matter what, society, with its cruel and cold hands, ripped them apart and forced them to stay away, each succumbing to their fate, only having the memories to hold on to.

"Y/N?" Namjoon forces out.

The female looks confused. Why did he suddenly call her name? And why did he look so shocked?

Inside, a cry of pain shatters the moment, and once again, Namjoon is forced to remember what he is here for. The patient, her father.

“I- maybe you should see my papa first,” she mumbles, gesturing towards the door, “thank you for coming again, dottore.”

Namjoon is once again escorted into the bleak, cramped room, a pungent odour drifting in the room. The closed window indicated that it came from within the room itself, though the doctor didn’t want to find its origin. The condition in which the patient, whose health was as fragile as a thin piece of thread, was terrible. He carefully navigated through the cluttered room, placing his bag with care onto the sheets, stained with yet another unknown symptom.

“I have come with a possible solution,” he spoke slowly, watching the way the older man coughed, scrambling to sit up, “but it will hurt, and it will not be a pleasant sight. If you wish to be cured, then sit quietly and bear the pain.”

“Y/N,” the man calls, waiting for the young woman to come running, “hold his legs tight, and do not let him go. I fear that in his painful struggle, he might strike me.”

She nods, holding onto her father’s scrawny limbs tightly. They watched silently as the doctor reached into his bag to pull out a needle, and a matchstick. He lit the small stick with a swift tug of his large hand. He carefully held the needle’s sharp point, letting the hot flames lick it hungrily. After a few moments had passed, he brought it towards the sick man, carefully aiming towards one of the large, nasty buboes, and shooting towards it with impeccable speed. His patient let out a silent cry in pain, tensing his arms more as hs daughter winced at the disgusting splatter of discoloured pus. This action was repeated again a few more times at all the bulging, taunting buboes on his thighs before moving on to the ones on his neck and groin.

The tiring and painful process took a couple of hours, and when it was done, Namjoon felt a sense of rushing relief. He left the room, reminding the patient to have a good rest. Back in the living room, he met Y/N, who was still curious about the earlier incident.

“You...don’t remember?” he asked.

The girl shook her head before offering him a drink in a cup, chipped away at the edges, “what am I supposed to remember?”

“I gave this to you...many years ago,” he carefully picked up the old toy, feeling the layer of dust that had settled on it.

“Namjoon?” Her eyes were wide open, gaping at him as he calmly smiled back, dimples showing.

“I admit, I didn’t think our reunion would be in such an uncanny situation, much less one so drastic. Have you been well?” He wonders what she was thinking about.

“I-things haven’t really changed much,” she says, eyes focused on stirring her drink, “but I see you’ve reached the stars.” her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Reached the stars. He knows what she was trying to imply by the line, but he also knew what he wanted to tell her. I reached the stars for you. The words are left unsaid, but the thought of it lingers. After finding out her distraught financial situation, Namjoon had pledged to earn a lot of money and save her from the horrible life she had grown up in, he worked hard to be able to provide for her, and spoil her. However, cruel circumstances had them torn apart.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it. Look, tesoro, I missed you, really, I didn’t think I would ever see you again after what my parents did.” He reached forward to grab her cold hands in his, enveloping the smaller fingers in warmth.

“But you understand why they did it,” she whispers, tugging her hands out of his grasp, “there’s no wa-”

“Who cares what everyone else thinks? There’s always a way. I haven’t forgiven them for what they did, but they certainly paid for it.” A gleam of something flashes in his eyes. Insanity, the female recalls. She remembered Namjoon’s streaks during their childhood. The same look would be in his eyes, and after, a moment of unfiltered feelings, terrifying, maddening actions. Although she couldn’t remember all of it, she did remember a time where he found sickening, sadistic satisfaction in dissecting a live animal. A small, pure creature, he had ripped apart.

“Can we just talk about something else? How long have you been a doctor?” She quickly changes the subject and they go on chatting for hours.

As night falls, the full moon peeks out playfully at the sombre city. Namjoon is walking down the streets, a giddy smile playing on his lips. He’s ecstatic after reconciling with his love. He’s even happier to know she hasn’t changed much, and still possess the same little quirks. The way her eyes light up when talking about something she enjoys, or her nose scrunching in disgust, her animated chatter had sent him to Cloud 9. He knew, that she was still so perfect, just for him. All that was left was to cure his father-in-law and impress him, winning his daughter’s hand in law.

Another joyous chuckle escaped his lips, slowly turning into maddening laughter.

On the streets of Venice, there was not a more terrifying sound.

Namjoon worked tediously all night to make a cure for his newest patient. Although he had nothing to rely on, he had a theory that cleansing the buboes with a salve would help stop the plague spreading at the least. His salve was made of fresh honey and garlic, pounded and mixed well until it made a smooth paste. The smell was strong and sharp, but it was worth a try.

After packing the salve and putting it in his bag, he once again set off on the familiar path towards the house he had been visiting for the past few days. Seeing the girl greet him at the door made him more inspired to cure the man. He once again warned the man that the paste might sting or burn, before getting Y/N to hold him down again. Slowly, with steady hands, he applied the salve to where the buboes previously used to be.

It was a tiring process, the only sound coming from the whimpers escaping the older man’s mouth. A thin layer of sweat had formed on Namjoon’s forehead, as well as the two other occupants of the room, but with no proper ventilation, it was expected. At the end, he was more than happy to leave the congested room and into the less cluttered living room, where once again, a hot drink was waiting for him.

“Dottore, will he be alright?” the voice came from Y/N’s mother, anxious for his reply, “I can’t promise you anything. The results may take a day to fully show. I will see you then. Buona Sera,” he nodded to both ladies, his gaze lingering on the younger female.

——————————————��————————

“Ciao, Namjoon.” The greeting from Y/N’s mother was a heartwarming one. She looked positively uplifted by his presence, hope shining in those starlit eyes that he loved in her daughter.

“Ciao, how are things?” The small abode had started to feel like home once again, as it had in those precious childhood years. Most would call the temperature stifling, made worse by derelict wooden walls, yet there was something comforting and cosy about the house. Maybe it was just knowing that Y/N was in the other room that made him feel so content even in such a bleak setting. Yet simply being there was not enough.

“My husband is well on the road to recovery thanks to you! I don’t know how we could possibly repay you, but rest assured we will find a way.” Namjoon hummed in response as he removed the protective rubber mask, the essential part of his uniform that he hated greatly, from the sickening scent of the herbs hidden in the ‘beak’ to the way it stifled him with heat.

“That’s what I actually came here to discuss. Is he awake?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, he should be.” The matriarch stuttered, feeling some intensity to his words that subconsciously brought shivers down her spine.

The doctor simply turned on his heel and entered the smaller room, immediately catching sight of Y/N by her father’s side. A smile worked itself onto his face seeing how everything was laid out perfectly for his plan to work.

“Signore L/N, I’ve been told you’re making a speedy recovery.” The two occupants of the room finally noticed their visitor, and with the way Y/N looked at him with a smile of joy plastered across her angelic features he was hook, line and sinker.

“Yes, yes.” The patriarch nodded to the best of his ability, giving Namjoon ample view of his neck to see the neatly dressed wounds were still in perfect condition.

“So, would it be possible for us to discuss the payment?” Seeing the discussion unfold, Y/N excused herself to assist her mother with the cooking of a hearty celebratory meal for the family.

Namjoon seated himself on the derelict stool previously occupied by Y/N, clasping his hands together nervously yet also in an intimidating move.

“I am in love with your daughter, signore. She is my everything, my anima gemella. I have loved her for the many years that we were apart, and I will love her for many more.”

“Well? Spit it out cucciollo, what is it you want?” His patient asked some gruffness to his voice.

“I want your daughter’s hand in marriage.” There was silence in the small room. “Living in this part of town is not right for her. If she’s my wife then I will be able to provide anything that she needs to live in luxury. Naturally, I can make sure you as her parents are-”

“No.”

Namjoon’s fist curled in anger as he persisted.

“I can give this family everything. I already have. Marriage is such a little thing to ask for when I’ve saved your life and asked for nothing else in return!”

“But I’m not going to sell my daughter off to be some noble’s plaything.” (Y/N)’s father snarled, using one weak arm to push his back straighter so he could be a more intimidating force against the doctor. “We have more pride than letting you run our lives like a puppet show, cucciollo.”

“You’ll regret this.” Namjoon left these last words hanging in the air as he stormed out, signing a death warrant for the family in his head.

As he snatched his mask up from the table, the two women in the kitchen exchanged nervous glances. The aura their doctor was exerting was simply deadly.

“Did you agree on the-”

“We’ll talk about this soon.” Namjoon’s deep voice almost sounded raspy, worn with emotion. “He isn’t able to cough up right now, but you’ll all pay soon enough.”

The slam of the door behind him was a signal of his rage. The doctor would certainly keep to his words, perhaps in a more literal sense that one would think.

———————————————————————

The loud banging on the door was a terrifying sound for the (L/N) family to hear, and soon the entrance to their fragile abode was burst open with a swarm of officers were in the home in a matter of seconds. The family of three sat up, confused and disoriented by the sudden intrusion, but this quickly morphed into horror as the patriarch was snatched up from his bed by two of the officers.

“What is happening? Unhand me, I haven’t done anything wrong!” He cried out, only to be interrupted by a deep chuckle.

“Yes you have.” The voice was familiar, and it didn’t take long for Kim Namjoon to emerge from the shadows. “You stole something from me.”

“If this is about-” The patriarch seethed, only to be stopped as the doctor held up his hand to signify silence.

“Right there officers. That dollhouse.” It was as if someone had set Y/N’s veins of fire. She couldn’t help but protest against the injustice.

“That was a present from him, from a long time ago! It isn’t stolen!” Namjoon cast his eyes on the young woman, and she once again felt the malicious power that this noble had as he smirked, shaking his head.

“You think I would gift a peasant family something so valuable? There’s no need to lie to protect your father, tesoro.”

As he spoke, his fingers traced over the faded design of the ornament, following every crack of paint until he withdrew his hand, instead beckoning another officer to take it away for him. And with that, Y/N’s father was dragged away simultaneously, his loud protests of innocence and begging of mercy becoming quieter yet still haunting the small Venetian streets.

“And what are you going to do now, tesoro?” With the emptiness of the house being quickly abandoned by the authorities, Namjoon’s voice cutting through the silence was an unwelcome shock.

“With your father in prison, there’s no way for you to earn any money to keep a roof over your head. Lest one of you get sick and you should need medicine.”

The women exchanged a look of fear. There was no doubt to the truth in his words, and knowing this only made the disparity of their situation worse. And seeing the revelation fall upon only made Namjoon prouder.

“It’s lucky I have a solution then.”

———————————————————————

Grime coated the walls of the jail cell, and rats scurried about the place as if they were the sole occupants. Yet their home was shared by a defeated older man leaning against the wall, eyes closed as if he could block out all other stimuli and just pray to god.

“See, this is no place for you tesoro.” Hearing a voice in the distance, the patriarch of the L/N family let out a moan of agony.

“Papa!” He opened his eyes to see his daughter clutching the bars of his cell, eyes wide with horror.

“Don’t touch those.” The presence of Y/N was marred by seeing the man who had put him in the awful cell in the first place. The man who, by the glimmering band on the young woman’s finger, was going to be his son-in-law.

“Papa, I’m so sorry that this happened to you. W-We’re going to see if we can get you in better living conditions, or maybe they’ll set you free. I swear, everything will be alright.” Y/N said, releasing her grip on the bars but not stepping away from the cage for a second.

“I can issue a pardon.” The L/N’s attention was diverted to the smug doctor standing behind Y/N. “But I’m not sure I’m quite ready to forgive you.”

Namjoon pulled Y/N away from her father, into his arms that trapped her in a paradoxically romantic gesture, as he pressed a kiss onto her pristine neck.

“Maybe your daughter will change my mind. But for now, we must be going.”

It was a bitter feeling to see his daughter be resigned as a mere object of the monstrous Doctor’s obsession, but the older man became distracted as his chest was captured in a wheezing fit, as when he drew his hand away from his mouth, he found spots of blood decorating it.

———————————————————————

Translations to Italian phrases used:

Buona Sera - Good evening

Ciao - Hi/Bye (a causal greeting)

Tesoro - Treasure

Cucciollo - Puppy (used usually by parents or to denote a rookie)

Signorina - Miss

Signore - Mister, Sir

dottore - Doctor

anima gemella - twin soul

#yandere bts #yandere kpop #yandere x reader #yandere bts au #bts #bts AU #yandere namjoon #yandere namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader #yandere collab #bts RM #Kim Namjoon #yandere

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wolfstarisfxckingcanon · 5 years

Text

Don’t forget about this /part 3

Word count: 2918

Summary: (Part three of my don’t forget about this fanfics. In case you haven’t read them:) Sirius had been really drunk some night several weeks ago. He and Remus kissed and Remus told him not to forget about it. Sirius did and they got into a fight. Now some weeks have passed and it’s full moon again...

Remus Lupin took a look around. Dust was floating through the air, the first weak sun’s rays were shining through the window. Where was he? Rotten wooden floor, the old piano, the smell of mold, rain and wood.

Finally he started to understand. He was standing in the shrieking shack, his shirt torn, his head hurting… it must have been full moon again.

Now he recognized his friends, Peter Pettigrew and James Potter standing only a few feet away. They were both looking exhausted, but relieved that their friend had finally turned back into his human form again. For a moment Remus just kept staring at them, his first instinct was to see if they were hurt… if he had hurt them. Peter looked fine, he only had some small scratches on his arm, nothing too serious. But James, he had a big red bloodstain on his shirt…

“Oh god! Are you alright?” Remus whispered concerned, with a weak voice and walked towards Potter.

“Don’t worry about it”, James told him, trying to cover the red spot with his left hand, so that his friend didn’t have to see it, “it’s not too bad. One visit to the hospital wing and I’m gonna be as good as new.” He smiled a bit in order to comfort his friend, but he was very pale, some drops of sweat were visible on his forehead. No, he didn’t look alright, he looked agonized, Moony thought, feeling the lump in his throat.

He was so sick of this. He was sick of those sleepless nights. He was sick of feeling like a monster. He was sick of hurting his friends, of them playing it down to protect him. It was not fair, they shouldn’t have to suffer every single full moon, just for him, they should never have gotten hurt because of him and they should never get hurt again… It must be so hard, he thought, especially now, that it was only the two of them.

Over two months had passed since the night he and Sirius had had this… moment. And they hadn’t really spoken ever since. They had tried to, the day after, but Sirius didn’t seem to remember anything about that night, which made Remus so upset he ran away and hid in the room of requirement. When he came back late at night, Sirius tried to talk to him, tried to explain so desperately how he remembered now, but Remus… he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to listen. He told the other boy to leave him alone. And the next day it felt even weirder to speak to each other, just like the day after, or the week after… or the month. At some point, both of them had given up on each other. None of them felt as if the other wanted them to talk or even as if they wanted to have them back in their life again.

It had been a hard time. Not only for the two of them, but for all of the marauders. The atmosphere in the dorm was always so tense. It was so quiet all the time, no stupid jokes, no serious conversations, not even some light talks, nothing. Peter and James always had to choose whether they wanted to spend the day with Padfoot or Moony and they felt torn every single time. And then when the two estranged boys were forced to talk to each other, due to a school project maybe, they only said the necessary, usually not more than single words and parted ways again as soon as possible.

When the three marauders arrived at the dorm again, Sirius had already gone to breakfast, which made Remus feel relieved, but also incredibly sad somehow. Peter took a quick shower before leaving as well, while James came up with some crazy story about how he got his wounds and went to the hospital wing.

Once they were gone Remus took a shower too, before taking care of his own wounds. Most of them weren’t too deep, except for the one he had on his face. Great, he thought, just where everyone can see. While getting dressed he already tried to come up with what to tell all those nosy idiots who were going to ask him about it throughout the day, but his head hurt too much and he couldn’t exactly think straight.

When he was ready he sat down on his bed, all he needed was a little break before going to class. His wounds burned, his head hurt, his stomach was cramped. No he couldn’t join class in this condition. Maybe if he skipped the first lesson, he would feel better afterwards. Plus they had McGonagall and she knows what was going on anyways, Lupin thought to himself, before lying down. With his finger and thump he started rubbing his forehead, hoping for his headache to magically disappear, (which of course, it didn’t,) then opened his eyes again and sighed loudly.

It was only now that he discovered that there was something on his nightstand that didn’t usually belong there. He sat up again. A big red cup filled with coffee, that was still at least a little warm and a bar of his favorite dark chocolate. No way, that couldn’t have been Peter or James. Does that mean…?

Looking around the room again, Remus started to realize other small things, that were somehow different than before. The bed he was sitting on right now had been freshly made and he was sure that he left it all messy the night before. And there on the floor he spotted his favorite woolly sweater, the sweater he always wore when having a hard day. It had been washed, folded and put in front of his closet.

“Sirius”, he softly said to himself, “why did you…?”

He wanted to help me, Remus figured out, he wanted to help but he couldn’t do it the way he used to, so he did… this?

The boy frowned, a little confused he leaned back on the huge stack of pillows again and took a little sip of coffee, then ate the first piece of chocolate, letting it melt slowly in his mouth. Not quite the healthiest breakfast one can have, but after a night like this, Moony couldn’t imagine a better one. It felt as if every sip of the dark drink gave him a little more energy, a little more life, and as if every bite of chocolate made his headache slowly go away.

Now, that all the other Griffindors had classes, it was completely silent in the dorm. All you could hear was the birds outside singing happily to greet the day. Remus drowned the sound by sighing loudly once again. Not an annoyed sigh though, rather one letting out all of the stress, all of the pain…

It was the first time in weeks that the young wizard had experienced such a silence. Sharing a room with your friends is great, of course, but you never have a minute for yourself (unless you’re a fxcking werewolf who has to skip class every once in a while, Remus thought).

But now he was alone, now he had time to think, think about everything that had happened lately. And by everything he meant Sirius and all the things that had happened between them. He was still angry. Sirius had hurt him really bad, he knew how much he meant to him and still… No he didn’t miss talking to Padfoot at all. He didn’t miss his stupid jokes, or his stupid pretty face, or playing with his stupid long hair while listening to Queen songs together and he totally didn’t miss that stupid smile Black had, or rather used to have, every time Remus walked into the room…

Okay fine, maybe he did miss him.

At least a bit.

Maybe he missed Sirius’ smell, that unique sweet odor combined with the smell of cigarettes and lemon tea (“Just because I am a dark, bad ass rebel doesn’t mean I can’t value a good cup of tea, Moony!”). Or maybe he missed sitting way too close to him every single time they sat together and maybe he also missed that stupid smile, that he, Remus smiled every time Sirius entered the room.

But what was the use of admitting all that? Sirius probably didn’t miss him at all, Remus thought and once those words appeared in his head, he felt as if his heart broke into thousands of pieces, as if it ached horribly. He took another bite of chocolate, this heavenly chocolate that Sirius had gotten him.

Yes, exactly, Sirius had gotten him that chocolate. Maybe, Moony thought, maybe there was a chance, even if it only was a small one, that Sirius did miss him as well. And maybe, even if all of that was just in his head and the other boy just wanted to be nice, wanted to be polite or helpful, maybe the chance was worth giving a shot.

He took the last big sip of coffee, put on his jumper (fxck school uniforms, today’s a jumper day!) and put the rest of the chocolate in his pocket. Who knows what the rest of the day might bring, if I end up sobbing ugly on the toilet because I interpreted my love’s actions wrong, I might as well eat the rest of this!, he thought to himself while grabbing his backpack and running towards McGonagall’s class room.

He was already walking through the corridor, when it occurred to him that he was going to interrupt her class now, having everyone’s eyes fixed on him, on his wound. And what was he going to do anyway? Storm into the room, recite some French love poem and carry Sirius outside like a bride? Oh boy, he should have just waited in his room for Padfoot’s class to end, but then again he felt as if he’d go crazy doing nothing now. And so he knocked on McGonagall’s door.

It was Longbottom, who opened it. He looked at the wound in the other Griffindor’s face for a moment, his mouth slightly open, he looked shocked, but tried his best not to show it by sitting down quickly again.

“Good morning, Pro… Professor”, Remus stuttered a bit. Having the whole class watching him as if he had just arrived from the future to pronounce the apocalypse didn’t help the already pretty anxious boy.

“I… I knocked my head… in the… in the shower this morning and felt a little dizzy. So I came later. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Knocked your head in the shower, what the hell Remus, this doesn’t look as if you had knocked your head in the goddamn shower.

“Of course Mister Lupin. I hope you feel better by now. But would you be so nice and sit down so that I can continue with my class?” Professor McGonagall replied with her posh voice.

You’re still an idiot, he thought to himself while walking down the aisle and sitting down on his usual spot… right next to Sirius.

Sirius looked tired.He probably had spent most of the night lying awake, thinking about what he could do for Moony (or at least that’s what Moony liked to imagine). His tie was hanging loosely around his neck and his hair was tied into the messiest bun in the world history of messy buns. He looked like mess, a quite pretty mess though, Remus thought.

Sirius glanced at him carefully, then, when discovering that Remus hadn’t brought any of his stuff, slowly slid his book towards his friend, so that the other boy could follow the class. Remus grabbed a pencil and started writing on one of the pages:

Thank you

Sirius smirked, when he saw the little message, took out his own pencil and answered:

For sharing my book?

You know for what, idiot, Remus scribbled quickly

Don’t worry about it

For a moment they both just sat there, pretending to listen to the Professor, while actually trying not to stare at one another and make this more awkward than it already was. Should I write something else? What if I annoy him? What if I annoy him if I don’t write anything what if-

Before Remus could decide what to do, Sirius had already picked up his pencil again and, without looking at the page, he quickly wrote:

Are you okay?

I was worried

He was worried. Sirius Black was still worried about Remus’ wellbeing and that little thought alone made Remus smile widely. But then he remembered…

You should be worried about James.

He’s gonna be fine, Moony, Sirius comforted him without hesitation.

“Am I right Mr. Black?” The high pitched voice of McGonagall made Sirius look up again.

“Ugh, yeah, Professor. Totally. You’re making some really good points!” Sirius answered provocatively, obviously having no idea of what was going on.

“I was just saying”, his Professor repeated herself with a strict tone in her voice, “how you, Mr. Black and your friend Mr. Lupin as well, are wasting your potential by doodling and sketching in your book!”

“Well… you’re not wrong Professor-“

“Then, start paying attention again, Mr. Black!” McGonagall cut him off immediately and continued her lesson.

Sirius sighed and started taking notes again and Remus followed his example. They talked again, he thought, or maybe not talked but they wrote to each other. Sirius was fine, Sirius wanted to communicate again. That was good that was progress, that was… amazing. He felt his cheeks getting warmer the more he thought about it. One more look at the book just to make sure it was real, before continuing taking notes for class again.

Just sitting so close to Sirius felt weirdly exciting. And then every once in a while they almost touched. While writing Sirius’ hand would almost touch Remus’ elbow and every time it happened Remus’ heart felt as if it skipped several beats.

Then, finally, when Professor McGonagall wrote the name of a new spell on the board, Sirius used his chance to start writing something on the page of his book again. Lupin moved his head to the right and the left, attempting to read it while the other boy was still writing, not seeing their Professor coming closer.

“Uh hum!” She cleared her throat to get the boys’ attention, before closing the book and taking it with her.

Nooo, don’t! Remus almost shouted. He wanted to know so, so badly what his crush had written for him. Even though it was only a stupid note in a stupid schoolbook. After weeks of ignoring each other, he wanted nothing but reading that note. But he couldn’t. He had to wait and even though every single minute felt like torture he had to stay calm.

When inhaling he could smell that familiar odor of lemon tee and smoke and when exhaling he already missed it. He could feel Sirius being close and all of a sudden he had so many things to say, so much to explain, so much to apologize for, but now, that he finally had the courage to, he couldn’t! He just wanted to, no, he needed to know if Sirius felt the same. He needed to know right now if Sirius still liked him the way he said he would that night. What if he had changed his mind, what if everything was different after not talking for so long… He needed to know… but he was caught here, in class. So close to the boy of his dreams not able to even say a single word.

That’s when he suddenly felt Sirius’ hand around his wrist. At first he didn’t get who had touched him, he almost pulled his hand away. But then he let him take it, let him lay it down in his lap. What was that? Some kind of a weird hit on? Some bad attempt at being romantic? But then he felt the cold tip of a ball pen writing on his hand. He had to smile a bit, since it was tickling him. Sirius only wrote five words, then he waited for Remus to pull his hand away again. And Remus did, even though every single brain cell of his told him to keep his hand lying in Sirius’ much bigger, much warmer one. He immediately looked down at the smudged handwriting.

Skip next lesson with me?

Even though he tried to, Remus couldn’t stop himself from smiling. After all, Sirius was probably the only person who could make him smile like this after such a night. Trying to hide his smile, Remus covered his mouth with the hand Sirius had just written on, while the other boy glanced at him waiting for a reaction. Carefully, just slowly enough so that nobody else could see, Remus nodded.

Yes, he was definitely going to skip that next lesson. Who needs potions class anyway? No, as soon as McGonagall would finish he would grab his backpack and Sirius’ would grab his and they’d just run outside together.

Together, after so long. Would it all work out, Remus asked himself. Would they both be forgiving and talk it all out. What if not? But right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered to Remus in that exact moment was that any minute now they’d walk out together.

Together… wasn’t that a beautiful word?

@of-stars-and-moon @todays-quote @wewhohavefailed @dude-bro-tm @siriuslyxblack @remus-la-swearwolf @wolfstar-matriarch @nerdyqueerfangirl @kierabee123 @knduniverse @queenofhellish @meandminniemcg @fayerye (they’re not that sad this time i guess so i hope i’m slowly making it up to you :) ) @flawlessflatline @therealhmmlingle @blackwolfofhogwarts @jencala @rjpea @a-queer-kids-blog @maraudersvs @seriouslyblacklikemysoul @rosielupin @rosielupin @padfootlupinblack @wynd27 @full-moon-008

If I tagged anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged anymore for whatever reason please tell me so I don’t want to bother you.

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(I hope you enjoyed it, I really put a lot of work into it because it was requested so much. (I have like a thousand drafts on my laptop because they were never good enough and I still don’t think this one is but I guess I finally had to post a part three...) I have been way too busy to write lately but I missed it so much and I loved working on that one so thanks to all of you for keeping me motivated and asking for it all the time.

Thanks in advance for every reblog and comment. Your nice words always make me really happy!)

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arrogantshrew · 4 years

Text

White Walls and Dead Air

They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.

He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.

He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.

A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?

It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.

It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.

He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.

It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.

Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.

Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.

Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.

Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”

Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.

Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.

Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?

Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.

After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.

His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.

Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.

He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.

The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.

Never again.

By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.

Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.

Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.

The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.

He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.

Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.

#Good Omens #Ineffable Husbands #aziraphale/crowley #wing fic #pining #hurt aziraphale #mutual pining #forbidden love #aziraphale whump #aziraphale is afraid of falling #wing grooming #hurt/comfort #angst and hurt/comfort #hints at female-presenting crowley #crowley is good with kids #crowley has long hair #the Black Plague #the Bubonic Plague

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