#probably sent the pics to himself too without telling you and deleted the evidence

[quinnybee-writes]

Title: Fire Meet Gasoline

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Rating: T+

Part: 6/?

Story Summary: A chance encounter between a villain and vigilante leads to an unwise deal made between unlikely allies; an unwise deal made between unlikely allies ends in a final stand neither would have ever dared to take on alone. Together, though, they just might have a fighting chance.

Part 6 Summary: Favor number two tests the patience of one and the mettle of another, leaving uncertainty about both in its wake.

Part 1 on  Tumblr / AO3

Part 2 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 3 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 4 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 5 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 6 on AO3

I swear to god if if I have to sit through one more meeting where I get voluntold to pick up another department’s slack in the same sentence as management trying to cut my intern’s hours I’m going to chug a two-liter of Surge and burp so loud I bring this whole mfer down with me.

Shouta stared at his phone, his sleep-addled brain trying to make sense of whether Yamada meant the text as a threat or not. He’d been catching a quick power nap in the back of his truck during his lunch hour and had been most of the way asleep when the rattle of his phone on the metal floor jolted him awake again. Not helping his attempt to dissect the meaningless hyperbole was Yamada’s follow up text of lmao it u along with a gif of a cat trying to jump from a bed to a dresser and falling halfway with the caption “parkour!”. He wouldn’t put it past Yamada to be the type to threaten in one breath and quote a meme in the next, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around why Yamada would be sending him incriminating evidence via text message during work hours.

Two new messages came in quick succession as Shouta was trying to puzzle things out.

Oh my god

Those were supposed to go to my sister holy shit

So not an admission or a threat, just an idiot with a cell phone. Shouta groaned, eyes rolling back in his head in disgust at how much energy he had wasted on taking Yamada seriously yet again.

forget it Shouta sent back.

Cute cat pic for ur trouble? Yamada replied along with a picture of a gangly black cat with bright yellow eyes. The cat was sprawled on its back in a pile of kibble and the shredded scraps of a cat food bag. Shouta snorted, grinning a little in spite of himself at the self-satisfied look on the cat’s fuzzy little face.

cute he texted, trying to distill as much exhaustion and disinterest into the single word as possible.

That’s Ai-chan. She’s a monster, but she’s my monster <3

So what are you up to? Break from work?

Shouta sighed, rubbing his temples. It was impossible to freeze out someone who was so willing to keep the conversation going without outside input.

trying to catch some sleep before afternoon deliveries Shouta replied as pointedly as he could.

Oof. Busy night?

do you need something? Shouta asked, stabbing the send key a little harder than he really needed to. There was a short, offended pause from Yamada’s end of the line; Shouta could picture him looking down at his phone with that little not-quite-pouting moue he always made when things weren’t going his way.

I guess not.

The curt punctuation seemed to signal Yamada had finally gotten the point, just in time to exhaust the last of Shouta’s free time before he had to get going again. Shouta put his phone into his pocket and made a point to not check it again until he was walking home. Waiting for him was another gif, this time of a pair of hands vigorously shaking a bottle of Surge, followed by a message that just said Oh goddammit. Shouta rolled his eyes and deleted the thread without replying.

The perceived slight only kept Yamada at bay for a short time, however. Now that he’d gotten a taste of the man’s texting habits Shouta had to wonder how Yamada managed to get anything done. No matter when his breaks were during the day it seemed like Yamada always had some new meme or gif or general workplace complaint to gift him with in the meantime, whether it was before dawn or after dark or occasionally both.

do you actually have a job or do they just pay you to bother me? Shouta finally asked as he waited at an interminable red light several days later. Yamada had been on a spree that morning, flooding his inbox with an illustrated play-by-play of Ai-chan’s newest misdoings while Shouta had four straight hours of back-to-back deliveries.

Excuse you, Yamada texted back loftily, I am an integral part of station management! Who occasionally may or may not take extra long bathroom breaks to avoid getting roped into being more integral than I already am.

my bad. clearly you’re just doing your part to prevent asahi radio from being razed via belch Shouta replied, snorting out a laugh before he could stop himself. He paused, frowning. That was both new and unwelcome.

Yamada sent back a long line of laugh-crying emojis followed by Look who grew a sense of humor just in time to drag me!

don’t act like you know me.

Yeah, yeah. Scout’s honor, I won’t tell anybody you’re actually funny.

Shouta scowled, dropping the phone onto the seat next to him and pulling through the light as it finally turned green. Despite the chilly weather he rolled his window down to get some airflow on his face. He hadn’t turned on the truck’s heater yet but his cheeks already felt way too warm.

Shouta spent his next day off drinking too much coffee at the cat cafe while he tried to reign in the chaos that his computer desktop had become. His phone buzzed on the table beside him and Shouta swiped in the passcode with one hand while the other was dragging a huge load of defunct backup files to his computer’s trash. He’d sooner walk into traffic than admit it to Yamada, but having a passcode on his phone was turning out to be less of an inefficient hassle that he’d always thought it would be and did make him less anxious about putting it places that weren’t his pocket or his hand.

As if waiting for the thought to cue him in, the alert was for yet another of Yamada’s early-morning memes. This time it was a gif of a kitten trying to stay awake before it wobbled and flopped out of frame. Yamada’s accompanying caption read That midweek feeling hitting hard today along with an emoji of a sleeping face with a snot bubble.

it’s monday Shouta texted back.

When you work 24/7 it’s always midweek, Yamada replied.

implying you work at all. still not convinced.

I resent that, Aizawa. It takes a lot of skill and determination to shovel this much shit and still have spare time to be a full-time pain in the ass.

Shouta almost allowed himself a laugh at that, but the air caught in his throat at Yamada’s next question.

So, do you do all of your important hero research on the public wifi at kitty cafes, or is today a special occasion?

What do you mean? Shouta asked warily.

Behind you.

Shouta turned slowly, dreading what he knew he was about to see. Yamada was standing on the sidewalk outside, grinning at him over the top of his cell phone. He gave Shouta a little wave before sauntering in and up to the counter. He chatted amiably with the baristas as they made his order. Shouta frowned to himself, trying to work out the quickest way to pack up his belongings while disturbing as few sleeping cats as possible. The moment came and went too quickly, however, as Yamada came over with two cups of coffee in his hands.

“Black with one sugar, right?” Yamada said. He slid one of the steaming mugs in front of Shouta. “That’s what they said anyway,” he added, nodding up towards the counter.

“What are you doing here?” Shouta asked coolly. Yamada frowned at him.

“I was on my way to the post office to mail a couple things and empty the station P.O. box and saw you in the window,” Yamada said. “I figured we could sit and chat since we both have a minute.”

“You just kind of assume you’re welcome wherever you decide to be, don’t you?” Shouta said.

Yamada snorted. “If that’s the worst thing someone tells me about myself today, I’ll count it as a win,” he replied, toasting Shouta with his coffee cup. He invited himself to sit down in the only chair not currently occupied by cats. “Wait, is that a spreadsheet with my name on it?” he added with sudden interest, arching his neck around to peek at Shouta’s screen. Shouta slammed the lid of his laptop shut, feeling his face heating.

“Do you need something?” Shouta asked, trying to redirect the conversation and get Yamada back on his way as quickly as possible.

“Just caffeine and conversation,” Yamada shrugged. “Is it illegal to ask someone about their day?”

“Implying you care about whether or not you’re doing something illegal,” Shouta replied curtly. To his annoyance Yamada just chuckled and shrugged.

“I mean, you’ve got me there,” he said. “So, what are you working on?” Yamada added, lowering his tone just slightly.

“Catching up on some things,” Shouta said, intentionally vague. “Organizing research. It takes longer when you’re doing it on your own.”

“I bet,” Yamada agreed. “Would probably save you some time and effort to have a permanent back door into places you’re not supposed to be, huh?” He said it with a too-even speculation that set Shouta instantly on edge.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Shouta said.

“I know people who know things,” Yamada said with a broad, conspiratorial grin over his coffee mug. “Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer is a lot easier when you can tell which is which.”

Shouta felt a frisson of discomfort run up his spine at the implication of where Yamada considered him to be on that spectrum. “I think I liked it better when you were threatening me,” he muttered. “Don’t make more of that than there is,” he added quickly as Yamada’s smile grew cheeky and he opened his mouth to comment. Yamada did his annoying little not-quite-pouting pout and let out a quiet “hmph” at his joke being preempted.

“In any case, you probably don’t need me to tell you how to crack a secure password,” Yamada said. “Even when they’re clever they’re usually related to either the one who sets them or the thing they’re locking up, or they’re something pseudo-random cooked up by a number generator. Sometimes they get stupid-clever and try to do all three.”

“Mmn?” As bored as he was trying to sound, Shouta couldn’t help taking mental notes on what Yamada was saying. Yamada was a flippant trouble-maker from the word go but there were moments where he displayed actual talent for the things he claimed to be an expert in.

“Oh yeah,” Yamada said. “They’re trying for layers of security, but too many moving parts makes passwords way easier to out-think. Codes are only as smart as the people who write them, y’know?”

“And you know how smart they are?” Shouta asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he goaded Yamada into staying on a roll. Yamada caught his drift a little too well, however, and the sharp, meaningful grin came out again.

“I know people who know things,” he said again. “I’d be willing to let you in on a few trade secrets for the low, low price of a certain five-letter word beginning with ‘f’.”

Shouta snorted. “Hard pass.”

“Well, I tried,” Yamada said, shrugging. He checked the time on his phone and sighed. “That’s about my lot, I’m afraid. Gotta get back before the world ends.” He stood and stretched with a groan. “We should do this again sometime. Maybe talk less shop.” The offer seemed oddly genuine and Shouta wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that.

He tried to get back to work after Yamada left, but his concentration had been thoroughly broken. He bought another coffee and turned on some neutral background music; his brain, however, was no longer in the mood to stare at a screen and try to riddle out what his new sub-folders should be called. Finally Shouta dislodged the many cats who had taken up residence in and around his lap and packed up his laptop to see if fresh air on the walk home and a change of venue might help get him back on task.

Shouta nudged his apartment door closed with his heel, scooping the mess of envelopes out of his mail bin. It was mostly the normal jumble of junk and bills, but amongst the shuffle was a thin white payroll envelope with his name and address on the front in too-familiar spidery handwriting. Just going to empty the station mailbox indeed, Shouta thought with a groan. Yamada was way too fond of theatrics. He tossed the envelope onto his sofa without opening it and delayed paying it any attention until he’d put everything away, showered, and had a lengthy play session with his cats. If it was unimportant enough for Yamada to not just hand it over when they were in the same room together, Shouta told himself, then there was no need for him to bend over backwards to pay attention to it the instant he got home.

Finally his excuses ran out and he tore the envelope open. Inside were two pieces of paper folded separately into sharp thirds. The first was a handwritten note on Asahi Radio letterhead that read:

Aizawa-

I need a favor. I have a line on something but doing it alone might be tricky. You’ll just be the go-between, nothing dire. Meet me Friday, 9pm sharp.

-M

Also included was another of Yamada’s meticulously notated hand-drawn maps, at the other end of which was a complex of storage units bordered on all sides by a spike-topped chain link fence. Shouta peered into the dark, abandoned-looking guard booth, wondering if the first step to tonight’s goings-on was having to find his own way inside.

“Hey, you made it!”

Shouta turned to see a dark-haired man slouching up towards him from the other end of the sidewalk. He eyed the man warily, about to say he had the wrong person, but stopped as he stepped into the light and raised his sunglasses with a smirk. Yamada had stuffed all of his hair under a short, spiky black wig and a black and green snapback, slicked down his mustache and covered it in a thin layer of skin-colored makeup to blend it in with his face, and buried himself in baggy jeans and a jacket that made him look both heavier-set and a few inches shorter than he actually was. The only things that gave him away were his sharp too-green eyes and his unmistakable grin, full of crafty smugness at Shouta’s open surprise at his appearance. Yamada did a full turnaround of the odd costume, ending the twirl with a dramatic pose.

“Not a bad look for me, huh?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Shouta snorted. “You look like a washed-up pop star who’s trying to pretend he still has to avoid the paparazzi,” he replied flatly.

To his surprise Yamada let out a burst of full-throated laughter at the remark. Shouta wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Yamada laugh in genuine amusement before now, only the occasional mocking chuckle or triumphant snicker. He had a loud, whinnying kind of laugh that tapered off into short bursts of wheezy, hyena-like giggles behind his hand as he remembered himself and tried to tamp it down.

“Okay, cynical,” Yamada said, still coughing through the last of his laughing fit. “Everyone’s a critic.” He rolled his eyes and gave a flourishy “well, what are you gonna do” kind of shrug. Shouta scowled at him.

“What are we doing here?” Shouta asked, doing his best to ignore Yamada’s grandstanding despite the growing burn of annoyance creeping up his face.

“Just a quick jaunt into my evil lair,” Yamada said cheerfully. He punched an entry code into the number pad next to the guard house, then pressed his thumb to the scanner underneath. The keypad flashed green and beeped an affirmative, and a small portion of the gate swung inward. “C’mon,” Yamada said. He motioned for Shouta to follow him as he led the way through the rows of squat cinder block units to one in the very back left corner of the lot.

“People with money can afford secret basements and underground boltholes wherever they need them,” Yamada said over his shoulder as he bent down to unlock the door of the unit, “but the rest of us have to make do with what we’ve got.” He lifted the door just high enough for himself and Shouta to duck under, then set it back down with a clatter. The unit was pitch-black and humid inside and smelled like a mixture of burnt-out electrical parts, solder, and partially cured epoxy glue. “I’ll get the lights, one sec,” Yamada said. Shouta heard him scrabbling along the wall to find the light switch, then a click. A fluorescent shop light flickered and buzzed to life above them, flooding the unit in intense blue-white light. Yamada turned to Shouta and spread his hands wide. “Taa-daa! Welcome to the inner sanctum.”

It looked more like a high school shop room that had sublet space to a thrift store. The left wall had been covered in a cluster of flat-pack bookshelves, their shelves bowing under a jumble of storage boxes labeled things like “radio parts-LIVE”, “speaker wire”, “tape--sticky”, and “tape--magnetic”. The back wall was one long anchored shelf divided into slots that held overstuffed file folders bundled together with rubber bands and binder clips. The only wall not covered in shelving or projects was taken up with a butcher block work table and a cork board with scribbled notes and schematics pinned to it.

“Kind of rinky-dink, but it gets the job done,” Yamada said fondly. “Anyway. First things first, did you happen to wear the stab vest I gave you?” he asked over his shoulder as he ducked under the work table and retrieved a box marked with today’s date.

“Yeah.” The assurance that his part in tonight would be “nothing dire” had put Shouta on high enough alert that he’d forced himself to put pride aside and opt for personal safety instead.

“Thank god. So, basically what I need is for you to be my stand in while things get underway tonight,” Yamada said. “I’d go on my own, but the meeting place is kind of a...no-go area for me right now due to certain people who frequent it.”

“And you’d rather send me in looking like you instead?” Shouta asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Yamada stared at Shouta like he’d started speaking French.

“What? God, no, what gave you that idea?”

Shouta sighed, silently counting to ten in his head as his patience frayed. “You just said I’m supposed to be your stand in.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, poor choice of words. Think stunt double, not body double,” Yamada explained. “I just need you to be a good-faith warm body, I’ll be handling the rest with this.” He reached into the box and pulled out something that looked like a cold weather mask had been extruded into a large funnel shape at the bottom edge. Shouta looked from it to Yamada, who was beaming in obvious self-pride.

“Which is…?” Shouta prompted.

“Which is your half of a two-way radio with a built in broadcasting speaker,” Yamada said, turning the top edge inside out to show Shouta the wiring and speakers sewn into it. “At first I thought maybe I could just have you memorize a script and I’d step in if things got too off-book, but you’re not very good at lying under pressure so I wasn’t sure that would fly,” he continued. Shouta wasn’t sure if that was meant as an insult or not. “So instead, we have this to work with. I can use this--” Yamada pulled up his sleeve to show a tiny microphone taped to the inside of his wrist-- “to talk to you or talk as you, depending, as long as I stay within ten or twelve feet of you at all times.” The last part he said in one of his uncomfortably accurate impressions of Shouta’s voice.

“And that’s why you’re dressed like that?” Shouta said.

“Exactly. I’ll have to be close enough to you that the receiver can pick up the signal, and it’ll be way easier to read the room if I’m, y’know, in the room.”

“If you were going to put on a costume and go anyway, why didn’t you just do that and go on your own?” Shouta asked.

Yamada frowned and waved a finger at him like he was scolding a child. “Eh-eh-eh. No questions asked, remember? You know as much as you need to know, and you don’t need to know any more than that. Now stand still so I can get you wired up.”

Shouta grudgingly stood with his arms straight out from his body as Yamada turned him into a human switchboard. With a combination of strategic placement and gaffer tape Yamada ran a long wire with an audio jack on one end and a battery connection on the other from Shouta’s waist up his left side to just under his collar bone. Another wire ran the length of his inner arm from shoulder to wrist and ended in a loop with a switch on it that fit over the first knuckle of his thumb. All he had to do, Yamada said as he taped it all down, was press the switch when he needed to talk to Yamada and let it go when he was finished. “Y’know,” Yamada said, “like those cheap walkie-talkies you used to play with as a kid.”

“I ended up making this a lot bigger at the bottom so that we can hide all of our crimes under it,” Yamada muttered as he slipped the mask over Shouta’s head. He was back in the extreme focus mode Shouta had seen him slip into before, attention laser-focused and the corner of his mouth between his teeth as he connected all the wires and power sources underneath. He pulled an earpiece up under the mask by its wire and stuck it in Shouta’s ear before reaching up to fuss with Shouta’s hair and make sure it was hiding everything sticking above the mask. Shouta shivered involuntarily at the touch, barely resisting the urge to pull away. “With the right top layer all of this should be more or less invisible,” Yamada went on, frowning appraisingly as he took a step back to examine his handiwork. He rummaged through a few things in the box and surfaced with a heavy black zippered jacket. “I had to guess sizes, but I think this one should be close enough.”

Yamada unzipped the jacket and held it out so that Shouta could shrug into it. Shouta eased the jacket on, trying not to disturb the network of wires all over him. Yamada zipped it up almost to the top, open enough to seem casual but still high enough to cover all but the face portion of the mask and its contents. It wasn’t a terrible fit other than being slightly short in the sleeves and restrictive around the shoulders. Shouta bent and twisted his arms, trying to stretch it out without doing damage to the electronic infrastructure. Yamada untied the audiojack end of the main wire from Shouta’s belt loop and stuck it into a small cheap-looking disposable cell phone.

“This should have enough battery to keep a recording of the whole thing,” Yamada said. “Can you give me a quick mic check to make sure everything’s hooked up?”

“Uh. Testing,” Shouta said.

Yamada seemed to like what he saw in the waveforms on the phone’s screen. He smiled in satisfaction before stretching a piece of tape around the back of the phone and carefully taping it into place in Shouta’s pocket. “If we head out right now we should get there early enough to do a few on-site checks,” Yamada said, checking the time. “Shall we?”

The two of them walked a few blocks from the storage unit to a cramped, dim little pub. Yamada walked at tailing distance behind Shouta the whole way, testing the range on the homemade gear by giving Shouta directions to where they were going. The audio was relatively clear if they stayed within Yamada’s estimation of ten or so feet; after they hit closer to the twelve-foot mark it got fainter and fainter until dropping out completely as they reached about fifteen feet. Again Shouta had to wonder why, if they were essentially going to be handcuffed to one another anyway, Yamada couldn’t have just gone undercover by himself.

“Grab a drink at the bar and go sit at one of the high-top tables,” Yamada said as Shouta opened the bar’s door and made his way in. “That’s where he’ll be expecting you.”

“Any advice on how to recognize whoever I’m supposed to be meeting?” Shouta muttered back under his breath.

“No idea, he said he would find you. That’s pretty standard for a meeting like this,” Yamada added before Shouta could protest. “Nobody wants to get jumped outside before negotiations even get underway. Think of it as a blind date, but nefarious.”

Shouta sighed loudly, making sure he hit the switch so that Yamada would hear him. Yamada’s never-ending supply of bad metaphors was the last thing he needed right now.

“Calm down, Aizawa,” Yamada said. “Remember, all you have to do is sit there and look pretty, I’ll handle the talking.” There was a short fizzle of static as Yamada entered the pub and made his way to a secluded booth in the back corner. “Still read me?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent. What’s your poison?”

“Pardon?”

“Beer? Wine? Shot of whiskey to settle your nerves?”

“You really want alcohol anywhere near all this equipment?” Shouta asked, bewildered.

“It’s just for show, who goes into a bar and doesn’t order anything? You shouldn’t drink anything they serve here anyway, their bartending is a bad joke,” Yamada said dismissively. “I just need to test the audio output and make sure we’re good to go before the main event.”

“Then just do it,” Shouta said shortly. “Didn’t you just say you were going to handle all the talking?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Yamada muttered again. His usual flippant chill had gained an undertone of cranky tenseness that was less than reassuring. “Can I get a bottle of Sapporo?” Yamada said aloud in Shouta’s voice. Shouta just managed to turn toward the bartender in time for the question to seem natural. The bartender, a smirking woman with long brown hair held back in a red ribbon, gave him an appraising once-over. She seemed to be unimpressed with what she saw.

“Sure,” the bartender said. She reached into a cooler under the counter and came back with the bottle of beer, popping the lid off before placing it on the bar in front of Shouta.

“Thanks,” Yamada said, far more cheerfully than Shouta had ever said the word. Shouta nodded his own thanks and went to go sit at one of the high tables in a cluster near the front. He drummed his heel on the bottom rung of the bar stool. The bar was basically empty and silent other than the bartender’s phone playing lo-fi swing music from a speaker dock behind the bar. Otherwise it was just Shouta and his undrinkable beer killing time.

“Ohshit.” The words came out as a single noise hissed violently in Shouta’s ear, making him jump.

“What?” he hissed back, avoiding the curious look the bartender was giving him.

“Remember how I said there were some people who made this place a no-go area because they want to kill me?” Yamada said, sounding like he was talking through his teeth.

“Yeah?”

“That’s them coming in. Don’t look at them! Have you never been undercover in your life?” Yamada whisper-shouted as Shouta turned to look over his shoulder at the door. Almost immediately he snapped his head back around, trying to be as casual as possible about pulling the jacket’s hood over his head as he saw Takeshiro and his wife coming in and sitting a few tables away.

“You know them?” Shouta asked, hopelessly hoping Yamada actually meant someone else who was still outside.

“Ye-ep,” Yamada said, distaste drawing the word out several syllables longer than it needed to be. “They’re still kind of sore about a certain scene in a certain alley you might be familiar with.” He scoffed, then hissed, “Wait, you know them?” as Shouta’s tone dawned on him.

The alleyway. Shapes in the dark played back in Shouta’s head, fuzzy from time and panic but falling into clearer place with the new context. A short, stringy figure barking orders and bailing when things got complicated; the other taller and stocky and silent with a plant-based Quirk protecting him. Shouta gritted his teeth, annoyed by how clear the connection seemed now that it was right in front of him.

“Takeshiro works on the night crew in package processing. Takes a lot of sick days now that I think of it. I’ve never actually spoken to his wife but I’ve seen her at office parties before,” he said quietly.

“His wife? Ew,” Yamada said.

“You’re telling me they’re villains?” Shouta asked, ignoring him. Yamada snorted.

“So-called. They work for an egomaniac middleman called Seguchi. Hebiko is Seguchi’s left hand, and Takeshiro’s hers.”

“What did you do to make them want to kill you?”

“Their boss did something stupid with information that wasn’t his and got busted. I had nothing to do with it,” Yamada retorted tartly.

“Right, sure,” Shouta said. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be,” Yamada said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “This is why I planned things this way. No reason to bail out before anything happens.” Shouta was about to protest that it made a lot more sense to leave before there was a problem rather than scrambling when they were in trouble, but Yamada spoke first. “Heads up, you’ve got company.”

“So you’re Null.”

Shouta turned to see a lanky man with brownish hair and a narrow, rattish face standing slouched behind him with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his grubby jeans.

“Potentially,” Yamada replied. “You’re Raimaru?” His impression of Shouta’s voice was dead-on, which was bad enough on its own, but there was something just slightly off about his intonation that made Shouta’s skin crawl.

“That’s what they call me,” the man said. ”Getcha a refill while we talk?” he added, nodding at Shouta’s obviously untouched beer.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Shouta fiddled with the neck of the bottle to make it seem less like a static prop on the table in front of him. Even if Yamada had been against the idea of giving him a script to follow, some guidance on what to do in general might have been nice. He felt stiff and awkward, like a puppet whose puppeteer only had a vague idea of how natural movements worked.

“Suit yourself,” Raimaru shrugged. He ambled off to talk to the bartender, seeming to be doing his best to chat her up as she mixed his drink.

“‘Null’?” Shouta muttered to Yamada.

“Short for ‘nullify’, like your Quirk. Get it?” When Shouta just sighed in reply, Yamada added defensively, “Well, I had to call you something, didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“What did you want me to say, ‘oh by the by you’ll be meeting my friend Shouta Aizawa, he’s thirty, single, a Scorpio, and lives in a single-occupancy uptown with three cats’?” Yamada retorted.

He technically had a point and Shouta hated that the most out of all the things he hated about this evening so far. Yamada had no time to gloat over the win, however, as Raimaru came back and dropped onto the stool across from Shouta.

“Kind of a hassle, having to be the face of cleaning up all of your boss’s bad behavior, huh? From what I’ve heard he’s got plenty to go around,” Raimaru said. Shouta privately agreed with the sentiment, but Yamada snorted instead.

“I get paid to go where I’m told, not to pass judgements,” Yamada replied stiffly. Shouta resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the defensive bluster. Raimaru laughed for him.

“I dunno about that. There’s plenty of judgement to go around if you want some,” Raimaru said. “Seems like the only books he can get into these days are peoples’ bad ones.”

“You think he gives a damn about anyone’s books other than his own?”

“I’m just saying I know a glorywhore when I see one. He spends all of his time making deals and playing nice and then suddenly people higher than him start going to jail,” Raimaru said. “Happened to Fukawa, happened to Seguchi, happened to Iwata. Hell, everyone knows he snitched and got Hanajima back in the day but Hanajima got shanked in prison and all his men scattered so nobody talks about him anymore.”

Shouta squirrelled the names away to research later, though other than those names Raimaru had said precious little to convince him that he knew much of anything besides Yamada’s surface reputation. So far his assertions had been vague at best and his “work, am I right?” tone was suspiciously chummy, like he was trying to nudge “Null” into letting something incriminating slip out.

“Why is any of this relevant?” Yamada asked. He sounded equally short on patience with Raimaru’s unsubtle attempts at currying favor. Raimaru gave a slightly passive-aggressive shrug.

“There’s a storm coming. A big one, one that’s gonna hit hard and rewrite a lot of rules about who’s in charge and who’s got a boot on their necks. You’re not gonna be in a great spot if you’re working for the Bird, so I thought you’d wanna know there’s better options,” he said. It was the first thing he’d said that sounded like he actually knew what he was talking about and it was not a reassuring change. Yamada, however, seemed unfazed.

“What, some new jumped-up ‘super’ villain with big plans for a criminal utopia?” Yamada said, unimpressed. “Seen ‘em come, seen ‘em go, nothing of value was lost. You asked me to come here because you had something valuable you wanted to trade. Is that still the case, or should I head out and stick you with the tab for wasting my time?”

“So, that’s a ‘no’ from you?” Raimaru asked, still grinning like someone had wired the corners of his mouth behind his ears.

“I didn’t hear a question being asked, but…” All of a sudden Yamada’s voice trailed off in a fizzle of static. Shouta tensed. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Yamada, who met his eye with a look that was not quite panic but was very, very close to it. Yamada tapped his ear questioningly. Shouta twitched his head to the side in a negative. He saw Yamada mouth “Shit!” before his attention snapped back to the problem in front of him as Raimaru let out a short chuckle.

“Never a good idea to use radio signals around me,” Raimaru said smugly. “They usually end up a little...dead.” He casually brought the hand that had been under the table to rest on its surface. It was holding a large pocket knife, which he casually flicked open and closed as he spoke. All of the plastic had been stripped off of the knife, leaving behind just the blades and metal guts holding them together. As Shouta eyed it, the blade began to glow a smokey orange around Raimaru’s fingertips.

“I think we’re done here,” Shouta said, trying to match the off-cadence way Yamada had been using his voice all night.

This only seemed to egg Raimaru on, however, as he cranked his Quirk up another notch. Shouta felt a static prickling like the kind before a huge lightning strike setting the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck on end. A tinny shrilling feedback noise whined through his earpiece, making him jolt and hiss in sudden pain. Shouta gritted his teeth and set his own Quirk on Raimaru instead. A hasty decision, it turned out, as a sudden crash of noise hit him all at once. Yamada’s voice half-shouting in his ear was interlaced with loud snaps of static as the equipment reconnected. Shouta winced at the onslaught, clapping a hand to his ear before he could stop himself. The moment of distraction was all Raimaru needed.

“So the Bird’s doggy wants to bark, huh?” In one fluid motion Raimaru threw what was left in his glass in Shouta’s eyes and hooked a foot under the bottom rung of Shouta’s stool, yanking it from under him. Shouta toppled to the floor, landing hard on his ass and elbows as he futilely tried to catch himself as he fell. He blinked hard, tears streaming as his eyes burned with whatever had been in that glass. Raimaru grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him partially upright.

“Things could have gone better for you, but it looks like the Bird just likes making things difficult,” Raimaru said.

Shouta dug his fingers into Raimaru’s wrist, trying to wrestle himself free. Raimaru smirked, a violent shock sparking off of his skin and into Shouta’s arm. Shouta let out a bark of agony as his entire arm below the shoulder seized and went numb. Someone else’s hand, large and thick-fingered, ripped his back by the forearm, twisting his hand back and up between his shoulder blades. Shouta stiffened. He hadn’t heard Takeshiro or his wife approaching during the scuffle but it was obvious now they had him surrounded. He thought of the alley and the way they had closed ranks around Yamada, accounting for every avenue of escape except for a one-in-a-million outside intervention. Shouta darted a look over to Yamada. Their eyes met for a split second that lasted an eon. Yamada’s eyes were wide and his face had gone deathly pale as he took in the scene in front of him. He was frozen half in motion, caught between breaking cover to come help and his desire to steer clear of Takeshiro and Hebiko. Shouta’s stomach sank as Yamada dropped his gaze, hunching in on himself and pulling his hat down farther to hide his face.

“Last chance, doggy,” Raimaru said. “That signal was too weak to come from very far away. Point us in the right direction and we’ll let you go, no hard feelings. Otherwise we send you back to your master in pieces.”

He leaned in as he threatened, and Shouta took the opportunity to show him how close was too close. Shouta reared back, then rammed his forehead into Raimaru’s nose at full force. As Raimaru reeled back, Shouta slammed himself back into Takeshiro, sending the man spine-first into the edge of a table. Takeshiro grunted in pain and Shouta twisted away from his grasp as Takeshiro tried to catch himself. Raimaru sank his fist into Shouta’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, but Shouta managed to activate his Quirk again before Raimaru could shock him. Shouta retaliated with a sharp hook, jamming his fist into Raimaru’s solar plexus with as much force as he could muster. As Raimaru doubled over Shouta grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed him face-first into the table.

“All right, ENOUGH!” the bartender yelled. She was floating above the bar with a warning look on her face, a thin metal pipe leveled at Shouta’s head. Shouta looked from her to Takeshiro and Hebiko, who had backed off behind their table again, to Raimaru, who was staring up from under his hand with undisguised disgust as he bled onto the table. Shouta took a moment to catch his breath, then released Raimaru. Not bothering to see if Yamada would follow, Shouta took the moment of peace to walk out of the bar.

The night air was cold and made his face feel closed in and sticky under the mask. Shouta jerked it down under his chin, sucking in a hard breath. The adrenaline in his veins felt like a cloying, choking compulsion to just run, escape, flee as fast as he could in any direction that would count as away. His lungs burned nearly as badly as his eyes, every new breath feeling like a sharp stab in the chest. A strange itching slightly farther down his abdomen joined the pain in his chest as he half-sprinted down the sidewalk. Shouta looked down and froze mid-step. The bare metal handle of Raimaru’s knife stuck out of his stomach at an almost perfect perpendicular angle, jammed in so far that the tip was pressing the rough kevlar of his stab vest against his flesh.

“Ho-ly shit that was a whole bunch of something.” Shouta didn’t look up from the knife almost in his gut as Yamada’s voice crowed out behind him. He felt Yamada digging in his pocket and retrieving the cell phone. “Could have gone better for sure, but also could have gone worse.” Yamada gave Shouta a cheery smack on the shoulder. “You and I make a pretty good team, huh? C’mon, let’s go find a nicer place to grab a bite and hang out until things die down.”

He paused like he fully expected Shouta to agree and follow after him, but Shouta was barely listening. His mind was still trying to process the knife handle sticking out of his stomach. The night “could have gone worse”? Raimaru had almost made good on the threat to send Shouta home in pieces while Yamada cowered in a corner booth, more worried about being seen than being helpful, and Yamada was congratulating himself for a job well done.

“Aizawa? Earth to Aizawa? Hey, are you okay? You’re shaking.” There was a note of real concern in Yamada’s voice as he reached out a hand to steady the trembling in Shouta’s body.

The idea of Yamada making any kind of physical contact snapped the last bit of sane civility Shouta had left in him. True fury, hot and fast and scraped raw by everything that was running through Shouta’s head, boiled over in his chest. He swung wildly at Yamada, hoping to make contact but hoping more just to fend him off as violently as possible. Yamada yelped and jumped backwards, hands coming up to protect himself.

“Whoa! What the hell--?” Yamada began, but Shouta was already swinging again. He wanted to make Yamada bleed, make him feel even half as agonized and afraid as he did right now. Yamada stumbled away from him, eyes wide in shock and confusion. His back hit the brick wall of a building and Shouta got right up in his face, Quirk blazing and teeth bared in a hateful snarl as he spoke.

“Let me be clear with this, so maybe you’ll hear it over the sound of your own voice,” Shouta said between clenched teeth. “We are not partners. We do not make a good team. We are sure as fuck not friends who hang out. You are a problem in my life that I am trying to solve. Get that through your thick skull and stop acting like we’re in this together.” He pulled the knife out and threw it violently at Yamada’s feet before turning on his heel and striding away as fast as his legs could carry him.

As soon as he staggered into his apartment and secured every lock and deadbolt on his door Shouta stripped down, dumping everything he’d been wearing in a heap in the entryway. Ignoring his cats’ cries for attention, Shouta went straight to the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as he could stand it. He could feel himself shaking now, the dregs of adrenaline making his legs weak rather than holding him up any longer. He sat down in his tub with the scalding water beating against his back, arms wrapped around himself. He looked down and saw a long irritated scratch rising on his stomach where the knife had dragged against him through the vest. Shouta let out a long, unsteady breath and closed his eyes. He’d been a vigilante for long enough to know that it meant going without any kind of help when things went from bad to worse to potentially lethal; until now not even his worst cases had shaken him like this. But those times he’d known the risk going in and taking it on had been his choice, which made all the difference. Yamada had known, though. Yamada had known they should have bailed as soon as their worst case scenario walked in the pub’s doors and he’d used Shouta as a human shield to try to get what he wanted anyway. Shouta gritted his teeth, nails digging into his palms as his hands balled into fists. He shouldn’t have expected anything less from someone like Yamada.

Never again, Shouta thought as he roughly toweled off. Yamada could keep his favors and his trade secrets and all the rest of it. He’d need all the help he could get, because as far as Shouta was concerned Yamada was on his own from this moment on.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #eraserhead bnha #eraserhead mha #present mic #erasermic #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #shouta aizawa #hizashi yamada #Fire Meet Gasoline AU #Quinny thinks she's a writer

[nivalvixen]

Selfie (memories)

Also on AO3

...

To say that Crowley invented the selfie is a lie. It's not even a stretch of the truth or a little white lie or any other sort of twisted truth. In fact, Aziraphale invented selfies by accident, as is often the way with Aziraphale. It came about because of food, as is always the way with Aziraphale. (Crowley did invent the selfie stick, though, so that's just as good in his books. Or bad, depending whose books you're reading.)

 Aziraphale had been fascinated by photography since the camera was first invented, though not as fascinated as his books, of course. The camera was still something he appreciated, the idea to capture a moment in time and keep it forever, to remember it again even when the moment or memory itself was long gone. The reason Aziraphale had created the selfie was to send a photo of himself with his plate of crepes to Crowley, who was the only other being on Earth who would have understood the joke.

 (Crowley hadn't wanted to twist the precious thing Aziraphale had shared with him, but Hastur had tempted three priests and Ligur had tempted an actual archbishop, so Crowley had needed something big. He still felt his stomach twist anytime someone reminded him of the selfie and his hand in it. His stomach doesn't twist when it's about the selfie stick, which he really doesn't get enough credit for.)

Aziraphale often wished he had had a camera during the last six thousand years, even if there were parts he hadn't truly enjoyed and would prefer to forget, there were also moments that made him smile and his chest ache. He didn't have a human heart, of course, but his body was made up of his soul and for some reason, his chest always seemed to have an ache when he thought of the tender moments, the unexpected moments, the smack-in-his-face realisation as a bomb was dropping on them in a church with Crowley standing there - almost dancing, in fact - and announcing it would take a miracle to save them both. Aziraphale had done it and saved them, but Crowley had saved his books. His soul aches at the memory and Aziraphale knows a camera would never be able to capture that moment. Still, he'd like to think it would try its best, just like humans always did.

 A hundred and eighty-ish years after the invention of the selfie, and a few weeks after the Almost Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale stopped outside of the bookshop for one of their reminiscing nights, both planning on talking about the last six thousand years without saying anything too important or revealing, and getting absolutely drunk on Aziraphale's good wine. They'd been celebrating nearly every night since the Almost Apocalypse and had no plans to stop.

 Before Aziraphale could get out of the Bentley, Crowley handed him an iPhone, saying they needed it to communicate with each other if they weren't home, and promptly got out without waiting for a response. Aziraphale, who had thought his telephone was already quite good - he was the reason Crowley still had an antique answering machine, though Aziraphale didn't know that - took a moment to navigate through the human device. It was similar to the phone Michael had, but also severely lacking in so many ways, and thus it was far too awkward to navigate without prior knowledge or an instruction manual.

 Or perhaps there could be an instruction book, he mused, though doubted it would be one of his prized possessions like his first edition signed prophecy books and bibles.

 A surprised shout from inside the Bentley had Crowley opening the door immediately to check on Aziraphale, who was sitting there wide-eyed and a little pale.

 "I apologise. I accidentally turned the camera on and I saw myself. I didn't expect it. Or my chins," Aziraphale muttered, stroking his chin curiously and thinking about Gabriel's comment about needing to lose his gut.

 "Your chin is fine, angel. Would you get out of the car now? I don't want your smell to take over the new car smell," Crowley said with a glare.

 "You've had the car for seventy years, Crowley; the new car smell doesn't exist in here anymore," Aziraphale said, sniffing and frowning.

 "It had better," Crowley growled.

 Somewhere in London, deep in the bowels of his apartment, Crowley's houseplants shuddered.

 "Well, I suppose you're right - "

 Crowley frowned as he saw Aziraphale stroke his chin once more. The front-facing camera was obviously his idea; who knew humans would do with something like that, especially after they ruined the normal back-facing cameras with dick pics? He sure as Heaven didn't know what they would do and that was why Crowley had a love-hate relationship with all of humanity. Humanity's imagination surpassed his own and they could leave him slack-jawed at the things they thought of or did as a result, sometimes both good and bad ways.

 He had thought the same about Warlock when he'd been his sort-of godfather, and wondered if this was the way all godfathers felt about all of their godchildren: amazed and awed and wanting to strangle the brats for being so bloody stupid when they had the potential to be so damn smart.

  Dick pics, really, humanity?! That's what you're using your big brains for?! Not as big as dolphins or whales, of course, but bigger than a gnat or the average Hell-shrunk demon, and that's what you think of?!

 Crowley snarled, shook his head, and sat in the driver's seat once more, closing the Bentley's door behind him. "What did you do, angel?"

 "Hmm?"

 "The camera," Crowley prompted, sternly telling himself that he wasn't endeared by Aziraphale's absent-minded expression and that soft little smile he had sometimes.

 For God's, the Devil's, someone's sake, he was going soft.

 Aziraphale was surprised by the request but did as Crowley asked and took the photo this time, showing it to him.

 Crowley grinned at the sight of Aziraphale's face caught on the phone screen and fiddled with a few buttons to send the photo to himself, deleting the sent message so Aziraphale wouldn't know.

 "Oh, don't laugh at me. You know I hate it when you mock me," Aziraphale said, his mouth turning to a pouting frowning thing that Crowley also had a love-hate relationship with.

 "You love me," Crowley replied, grinning wickedly.

 Aziraphale gaped and looked ready to protest, but took the phone from Crowley and got out of the Bentley without a response. Crowley followed Aziraphale across to his bookshop, a little surprised to see Aziraphale pointing the phone at himself and frowning at each result. Rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses, Crowley opened the door and walked in, grabbing the phone out of the angel's hand as Aziraphale muttered about miracles.

 "You're doing it wrong, angel. You don't need a miracle, you need a longer reach," Crowley murmured, holding the phone up, snapping a photo of the two of them together and throwing the phone back to Aziraphale, who caught it with a slight fumble.

 "I don't need a longer - oh, well. That's not bad, now is it?" Aziraphale said, smiling brightly and looking far too similar to the first sunrise Crowley had seen.

 The first sunrise Crowley had seen had been the first sunrise anyone had seen, of course. It was the first time light had existed and Crowley had snuck out of Heaven to have a look at God's work when he was meant to be meeting Lucifer and the other angels for what would probably have been an exceptionally boring discussion about stars or dinosaurs or something. There was something breathtaking about that first sunrise with its brilliant reds and soft pinks and mix of blues and purples and several other colours that humans would never be able to see, stardust still sparkling in the sky of Earth. Even Crowley, who hadn't needed to breathe as such, had felt breathless at the sight. He felt the same way every time Aziraphale smiled that soft smile at him and Crowley still didn't know what to do about it. He'd already saved the angel's books, hadn't he?

 "Angel, would you get the wine already?" Crowley asked with a sigh.

 Aziraphale realised with a start that he was being remiss in his duties as a host and hurried to get the bottles of wine he'd promised Crowley. Curious about the photo now that Aziraphale wasn't in the room, Crowley grabbed the phone and looked at the photo he'd taken. Aziraphale looked adorably flustered, Crowley scowling at the camera, and Crowley wondered how long it'd take humans to make something that could print photos from the phone.

 A small suggestion to a techie should do it, Crowley mused, even as he sent the photo to himself and deleted the evidence again.

 The background of Aziraphale's contact number would be fire - the warmest thing in Hell and providing nothing but comfort for a demon like him, even if he did saunter vaguely downwards rather than Fall - but the contact photo would be Aziraphale's flustered face and looking at Crowley.

 "You don't smile in your photos," Aziraphale said, almost admonishing as he returned with their alcohol.

 "Mmhmm," Crowley said, gesturing in a 'give me the alcohol already, angel' motion.

 Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and huffed a sigh, already pouring their drinks. "You should try being more patient, Crowley."

 "I tried it once. Worst ten seconds of my life. Well, except for the fourteenth century. That was definitely the worst. Fifth and sixth centuries tie for second; too damp," he muttered, accepting the glass and taking a long drink of wine. He looked at the bottle Aziraphale set down next to him, squinting at the label in approval.

 As planned, they proceeded to reminisce and celebrate and get very drunk.

 "It still surprises me that you were the Black Knight," Aziraphale said, shaking his head from where he was draped in his armchair awkwardly. "Before I knew that, I thought I could turn you to the light, you know."

 Crowley snorted. "Doesn't surprise me, angel. I thought I'd be able to tempt you over to my side before I knew," he admitted, drinking deeply.

 "We cancelled each other out, like you said," Aziraphale said, frowning. "Do you think we do that now? Cancel each other out?" he asked, blinking owlishly and drinking down the last of his bottle.

 It was only a small miracle that his glass refilled on its own, really.

 "Not what I meant, angel. I meant the... power thing," Crowley said, waving his bottle carefully - even drunk, he knew better than to spill wine on Aziraphale's books.

 "The power thing," Aziraphale echoed in agreement, nodding firmly. He glanced down at his stomach, a frown forming. "I don't have chins, you know."

 "Angel, honestly, I'll use a miracle to make you forget if I have to."

 "It doesn't work that way, Crawley. Crowley," Aziraphale corrected, frowning at himself.

 A few thousand years knowing Crowley as Crawley still hadn't cancelled out the other thousand years knowing Crawley as Crowley, it seemed.

 "I know, I know. But you're an angel, you don't have that human thing about doubt and self-pretty."

 "Self-pretty?"

 "Self-pity. Shut up, I'm drunk."

 "So'm I. I'm pretty, aren't I?" Aziraphale asked, innocent when drunk, just as he'd been in the beginning.

 "'Course you are, angel. Always have been, always will be."

 It was too close to a confession, too close to the truth, too important and definitely too revealing. Crowley hoped they could stay drunk a little longer so they'd forget he'd said anything.

 "So are you, Crowley. Like, like... like a camera."

 Even drunk, that didn't make sense.

 "What?"

 "A camera," Aziraphale repeated, more emphatically this time, though still not making any sense. "You know, keeping memories and, and... I'm still drunk, aren't I?"

 "Very drunk, angel."

 "Yes, I am an angel. You're a demon, but... you're still... I mean, just - " Aziraphale blinked owlishly.

 Crowley was either too drunk or not drunk enough for this. These nights weren't meant to be for important things, but this night was crossing a line from reminiscent into revealing. He wondered if being sober would be better, but couldn't bring himself to ask, waiting for Aziraphale to finish his sentence.

 "Cameras keep important things," Aziraphale said triumphantly.

 Crowley definitely wasn't drunk enough. Aziraphale, on the other hand, certainly was. His snores filled the bookshop in a way that his books never could. Crowley sighed, taking his sunglasses off and rubbing his eyes. Sobering them up took a small miracle and Aziraphale continued to sleep even as Crowley left the bookshop to return home.

 He had to water his plants anyway.

 ...

 The next morning, Crowley turned off his alarm and opened his bedroom curtains, sans sunglasses. He got up early to watch the sunrise every morning. While sleeping was something Crowley did with pride (and to the confusion of other demons), sleep was only the prelude to the morning sunrise. Watching the sun come up over the horizon, the sky filled with pinks and reds and blues and a few other colours no humans could see or describe, Crowley felt just as awed as he had that first time. Just as awed as he felt every time he saw Aziraphale smile.

 Fuck.

 Crowley wondered if there was any point in telling Aziraphale the truth. He didn't want to ruin their six-thousand-year friendship, after all, and he wasn't exactly subtle anyway. Surely Aziraphale had to know how Crowley felt? What if he did and he didn't feel the same way, but didn't want to lose his best friend, so hadn't said anything about it?

 The logic hurt Crowley's head as well as his chest, and he contemplated what he could do.

 He doubted he could stay away from Aziraphale. It was like Aziraphale was an angel-shaped magnet and Crowley was a burnt piece of metal, struggling not to go to him, but knowing there was nothing he could do to fight against the inevitable. Except, in this case, the magnet wanted nothing to do with him. The metal, the demon, whatever, both.

 Crowley turned away from the sunrise to put the fear of Crowley into his houseplants while he tried to use his imagination to think of a way to stop the pain in his chest that rivalled even the holiest of holy water held in a tartan thermos.

 ...

 Aziraphale woke without a hangover which was nothing short of a miracle and certainly not one of his. Blinking and licking his dry lips, Aziraphale looked around the bookshop for Crowley. The bookshop was silent around him and Aziraphale told himself he wasn't disappointed by the fact. He looked over to the window, surprised to see the sun rising. He hadn't fallen asleep in... well, a decade. That decade had usually involved Aziraphale reading throughout the night and the sunrise wasn't something he had actually paid attention to for an even longer time. However, this morning it felt important and Aziraphale made his way to the top of the bookshop to watch the sun rising over the horizon.

 He watched the sky change colours overhead and thought about the last six thousand years. Crowley was always there, always at the important parts, and even the ones that weren't so important. Running into him in Rome had been a surprise and one that Aziraphale took almost two thousand years to realise and admit to himself that had been a pleasant surprise.

 Crowley always went too fast for Aziraphale and he felt like he was struggling to keep up, always falling behind, sinking in quicksand, and yet... and yet, Crowley always pulled him out of the sand, brushed him off, and kept him by his side.

 It wasn't like Aziraphale couldn't have made it out of the quicksand on his own, of course, he certainly could. It was just he liked being by Crowley's side, the metaphorical feel of Crowley's hand in his, and pulling him up to the surface. Crowley made sense when all other things in the world didn't, even (or perhaps especially) if it was part of the Ineffable Plan.

 He took a photo of the sky with his new iPhone, used a miracle to make it look exactly as he saw it, and sent it to Crowley. He wanted to share the sunrise with him, even though he knew Crowley would probably be asleep.

 Aziraphale was surprised to receive a response in seconds and not one full of swearing, either.

 Beautiful, angel.

 Aziraphale smiled then, his chest-heart-soul filling with love and warmth. He wondered if Crowley's offer to show him his apartment still stood, though it had been almost thirty years since the initial offer. He'd better not ask though, that could be considered rude, and Crowley had just been grateful for the holy water. It wasn't like he was offering to... ahem... dance.

 There is exactly one angel who can dance and while every demon can dance, they don't do it well. There is only one demon the angel wants to dance with, anyway. The gavotte is out of style, but Aziraphale is certain that Crowley could teach him how to dance, showing him the steps, and keeping him by his side the whole time.

 ...

 Crowley received the photo from Aziraphale far too early in the morning, and he knew then - just as certainly as he knew in the burning bookshop - that the angel loved him just as he loved his angel. The message washed away all of his self-doubt (self-pretty, a snarky hiss said in the back of his mind, Crowley's mouth twitching at the reminder of the night before) and he replied immediately.

 Deciding he had to go through with his plan now that he'd planned the damn thing, Crowley clicked his fingers and left the apartment, sunglasses on and dressed to impress.

 ...

 Aziraphale startled at the knock at the door, frowning when he saw the time; seven o'clock was too early for God, so it was definitely too early for his bookshop to be open. "We're closed!"

 "It's me, angel."

 Surprised at Crowley's voice and feeling a smile on his face, Aziraphale hurried over to open the door, only to see a bright camera flash in his eyes.

 "Ow, fuck."

 "Well, angel, there's no need for that kind of language," Crowley said, mock-serious and grinning when Aziraphale looked at him when his eyes adjusted properly.

 "What are those?" Aziraphale asked, frowning at the sight of Crowley with several cameras slung around his neck.

 "Cameras. They're for you."

 Aziraphale looked pleased and confused at the same time. Crowley's chest ached again. "Crowley? Why did you get me cameras?"

 "I..."

 Sometimes plans don't always go the way people - or demons - expect them to go. In this case, Crowley thought his plan was obvious when to outsiders - or angels - it was simply confusing.

 "Cameras, um... no, I..." Crowley floundered; what had made perfect sense in his head only a few hours ago was now too difficult to put into words.

 Aziraphale remembered his comment about cameras the night before and how he'd compared Crowley to one in a drunken haze. He smiled as he began to understand Crowley's plan and Crowley felt the ache in his chest ease at the sight.

 "They keep memories and I wanted you to make memories. With me, angel," Crowley added, hating how uncertain (how human) his voice sounded.

 If Crowley had thought the first sunrise was bright, it paled in comparison to Aziraphale's smile then.

 "All of my memories are with you already, Crowley. The important ones, at least," Aziraphale said. "Won't you come in? I... I've been meaning to ask you about dancing."

 "Oh, thank God," Crowley said, stepping into the bookshop to kiss his angel, Aziraphale welcoming him with open arms and an open soul.

 ...

 You're welcome.

 ...

The end.

#NV fanfic #I wrote a thing #good omens #aziraphale/crowley