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Difficult in the sense that it was bloody annoying, but actually riling people up was pretty easy.

[It usually is, during times of inequality. Arthur might have been a bit more decent than a lot of other rulers, but it didn't address a whole lot of pre-existing issues.]

Far too many horses, though.

[ Poor Crowley... suffering the elements. Aziraphale would give him a consolation arm pat if he were close enough, but alas, it must wait for another day. ]

Veeeeery soulful eyes, horses. Majestic animal. Bone structure aside, obviously. [ He doesn't know why that got through quality assurance with no notes. ] If I never have to ride one again, it'll still be too soon.

Honestly, whoever was in charge of designing horses better be a demon now.

[Falling is the only appropriate punishment for the creation of horses. Are they useful for humans? Of course, but surely there were better options.]

The first drafts looked so sweet, too! No idea what happened there.

[ Would not be surprised if the lead designer went to superhell. Oh, maybe they didn't get a chance to finish up first... Aziraphale never thought to ask. ]

Just as well we're dealing more with magical reindeer in these parts.

Even not magical reindeer are a sight better than horses. They've always seemed a bit sturdier.

[It's possible that's just the extra fur, but that doesn't matter to Crowley.]

I actually spent some time with the Sámi people, back in the day. They had the right idea, using reindeer instead of horses.

[Surprising no one, this conversation has gotten entirely off track.]

Better traction.

[ He splits the fingers of his non- drink holding hand to look more like a hoof shape, as though it needed explaining, or as though the gesture itself would help explain anything even if it needed the explaining. This is just what he knows about reindeer. Better hooves for traction.

He never was deeply involved in the actual design process of creatures as much as he was present for the designing. His properly involved job was lined up for after rollout. ]

Oh, how was that? Lovely culture. Gorgeous weaving work.

[ If the children related to heroes who could stay on track, neither of them would be here right now. ]

[Crowley snorts at the gesture, on account of being able to tell exactly what Aziraphale means even though it's a vague explanation at best and absolutely nonsensical at worst.]

It was a well needed break from the Romans, I'll tell you that. [It's no secret that Crowley was miserable in Rome. Even Aziraphale knows that, having found him trying to drown himself in liquor.] They were very clever, didn't have much access to metals back then, so they were using bone and antler for all sorts of tools. I've probably got some antler hair pins kicking around somewhere.

[Crowley doesn't hold onto things, not the way Aziraphale does, but occasionally an item or two will be worth keeping, especially if there's any sentimental value.

Not that he'd ever admit that.]

[ Crowley gets it. Of course he gets it. He's beautiful and smart and used to this bullshit.

Good to hear he got a little break after Rome. Bit of a rough one for him, that. Aziraphale's expression softens out. ]

If you find them again, you'll have to show me.

[ Once we're home goes without saying. ]

I haven't the hair for them anymore.

[He makes a point to ruffle his own hair, in case Aziraphale needed the demonstration on how short it is these days.]

But I'll try to scare 'em up when we get home.

[There are a few storage units dotted around London that Crowley owns, they might be somewhere in one of those. This is obviously very important.]

[ Demonstration not needed. Free excuse to openly admire Crowley's hair a bit, appreciated. ]

Splendid. [ Rare Crowley souvenir showcase... Aziraphale tucks it very carefully into his mental list of things to look forward to.

It's not much of a list, not terribly long. The sort of thing an eternal being cobbles together during a few months drafted out into some other reality right on the tail of thwarting the apocalypse, largely, because he hadn't quite worked up the nerve to dare to make that list beforehand. Scattered little collection of items, most of which have Crowley's name attached.

Café where Crowley might like the coffee. A museum display he'd like to listen to Crowley complain about, standing next to him. Stroll through the park with Crowley, or maybe a nice botanical garden, maybe take him by the arm for a minute. He could, he could call him on the phone and invite him over and neither of them would have to scrape together a whole imaginary pretext for why. Aziraphale doesn't know how that phone call will work, strictly speaking, without him sounding ridiculous or somehow managing to put a foot in his mouth.

Well. He doesn't know how to offer up most of those things without sounding ridiculous or managing to put a foot in his mouth, yet.

But he keeps it all in rotation, because he can learn. And he can learn how to tell Crowley that he's trying to learn, that he wants to learn, has wanted, will keep wanting, in the same way that part of the list is about trying to learn to feel like they really do have the time for it. Not borrowed, not a delay.

Which would be an easier hurdle if "retirement" didn't apparently tag them with "open for freelance recruitment" markers on some metaphysical level they're not aware of.

Spilled milk, though. ]

Is the longer hair back out of fashion, or were you just in for a bit of a changeup?

[ He'd kept a touch of length for a while there recently, and Ashtoreth, well, she'd certainly been well-coiffed. Could be that Crowley felt awfully boxed-in by that. Can't relate, as someone who plans to wear this same waistcoat in all forms and functions until it turns to dust.

Doesn't need to relate, even. That's what he has Crowley for. ]

[There are so many ways to answer that question, some of them truer than others, some of them true in a way that won't reveal anything about the state he was in when he decided he was due for a change.

Because "I had something akin to a panic attack about the end of the world and subsequently stressed cleaned my apartment and cut my hair" is the full and actual truth, and is absolutely not what he's going to say to Aziraphale.

They don't talk about — emotions, not like that. Aziraphale made that abundantly clear in the aftermath of the world not ending, when he brushed right past the fact he'd found Crowley drunk out of his mind and crying about Aziraphale seemingly being gone. It was sort of a relief, not having to address it, but he also suspects that Aziraphale just doesn't want to deal with all those messy emotions, which is well within his rights. Satan knows Crowley doesn't want to deal with his own messy emotions, he's just stuck with them.]

Little of both, frankly. Suppose it was a bit symbolic, leaving Ashtoreth behind since I had no reason to keep playing that part.

[A sliver of the truth, as a treat.

There are more complicated aspects of even this, how Crowley felt about leaving Warlock, but they're definitely not going to get into that.]

Not thinking of giving it a try yourself, are you?

[This is a joke, they both know that isn't going to happen.]

[ Delicious delicious truth treat.

Well, Crowley looks lovely in any arrangement, symbolically driven or no. Which Aziraphale obviously can't just say to him, with his words, out loud. He huffs out a ha! for the joke instead. ]

I've dabbled more than enough to last me the next few decades, thank you.

[ He did a Francis, he did bodyless, he shared with Madame Tracy, he wore Crowley's corporation, he got here and lost his coat... appearance shift meter is full right now. ]

Oh, I dunno.

[Sometimes it's the little things that delight Crowley, like realizing that he can pull this conversation full circle.]

That Michael bloke from the show's got longer hair, it doesn't look half bad.

[This is the closest he can get to saying anything positive about Aziraphale's corporation; it's too risky to be truly honest.[

[ Behold, an offended little nose scrunch of epic proportions. Aziraphale can't believe he's been twofold reminded that this actor exists and is named Michael, here, in his own Christmas room.

He's literally not even being insulted at all, yet here he sits. ]

Well, how very nice for him. I, however, happen to be myself. [ The nerve!!! ] Hardly see you going-- going rugged brunette, do we?

[ GOTTEM. ]

[Crowley laughs, because he's an asshole and he's not even sure what Aziraphale is getting his knickers in a twist about, he just knows that it's fun to rile him up.]

I could do rugged. [Liar. Absolute fucking liar. He's the specialist little princess and he knows it.] And I suppose there's worse things to be than brunette.

[Hey.

Aziraphale.

Crowley snaps his fingers and his hair appears to change color, to a very normal sort of brown. It's an illusion that Aziraphale could easily see through, depending on how closely he looks, but it serves the purpose.]

[ When you know full well totally not biased at all that your crush would be the prettiest thing in any room no matter what presentation he's opting for, so you can't just be like "shut up it's hideous" because it's not really hideous and you wouldn't want him to not look how he wants to look on your account, but. Also. You hate it.

Aziraphale is emotionally a funny cartoon character that just noticed it ran off the edge of the cliff and is sitting in mid-air.

At least there's the true solace: knowing full well Crowley's ass could not do rugged. ]

I ought to turn your jacket to tweed.

[The look on Aziraphale's face is well worth the price of admission; he doesn't know all the exact thoughts behind it, only that he looks like he's bitten into a lemon and is trying to pretend that he didn't.

It's great.]

Pffffft. [A very dramatic pffffft, as is to be expected.] I'd look like some college professor, it'd be awful.

Edited 2023-09-12 02:03 (UTC)

[ The looks of a depressed English professor and the soul of a wet cat.

Aziraphale does a handwave with trademark unnecessary gay flourish. There you go Crowley, live your new entire outfit dream. It's not like Heaven's about to kick in the door for frivolity. Whatever. See if he cares!

IMMEDIATELY turns back around in his desk chair and starts flipping through the actor photos again. Whether even Aziraphale knows what he's huffy about exactly remains to be seen. ]

[There's a split second where Crowley sees the hand gesture and thinks surely he wouldn't, at which point he looks down at himself, to discover that Aziraphale has, in fact, turned his clothes to tweed.

He sort of — freezes, hissing at the clothes because when he tries to move he can feel the tweedness of it all.]

Uuuugh.

[He's so upset he can't even put it into words, he's just making faces at Aziraphale's back.

Help him.]

[ WILDCARD.

He hears a hiss of distress. The hiss of someone allergic to looking like that much of a nerd in that quantity of tweedy fabric. It takes about three seconds for him to feel too mean.

Too much? Maybe that was too much. Probably was.

Aziraphale is secretly, quietly, grateful he didn't bring eye color into the equation. ]

You raise a good point. Far too rigid for you.

[ Original goth gf status: restored. ]

[With the clothes gone, Crowley returns his hair to the correct color, and then continues to make vague sounds of disgust and/or distress, just to express how truly upsetting that whole business was.

He slides down in the chair a little, turning into a very dramatic sprawl.]

I'm never going to recover.

[He'll be fine.]

[ Ahh, the dulcet tones of grumbly dramatics.

Aziraphale loves him. ]

I have complete faith that you'll recover beautifully.

[The trick to untwisting Aziraphale's knickers is to distract him with dramatics.]

There'll be — you've left scars! Psychological scars! I'll need a millennia of therapy to recover from this.

[Things said by demons who actually desperately need therapy.]

Here lies the psychological wellbeing of Anthony J. Crowley. T'was slain by the horror of tweed.

[He's sooooo normal.]

The horror of tweed. You're being ridiculous.

[ Silly old serpent. Definitely needs therapy, unlike Aziraphale.

He stops pretending that he's actually looking at the photos again. ]

There isn't anything objectively horrific about tweed in the slightest. It's a fine fabric!

It's not the fabric I've an issue with, nothing wrong with a good twill.

[Which is, essentially, tweed, just variations depending on where the wool comes from and the pattern on the fabric.]

It's the bloody colors and patterns that're ridiculous.

high five us

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