a-zira-fellsilentstep asked:
elsajeni answered:
Paris, 1793
Aziraphale is not looking at Crowley’s hands. He’s not doing a lot of things – not thinking how the slim-fitting coat makes him look even longer and leaner than usual, not taking note of the curve of his calf in his stockings, not trying to guess where he’s looking behind those dark glasses. But most of all he’s not looking at Crowley’s hands, at the long, slim fingers, at the lazy, casual grace of the gesture that frees him from his chains.
He is, in fact, so firmly Not Looking at Crowley’s hands that it takes him a moment longer than it should to realize he’s free, and to pull his gaze back to his own wrists, sore where the shackles have rubbed and pinched. He lets out an annoyed little oh and rubs at a tender spot, trying to decide whether this, too, is too frivolous to merit a miracle.
“What’s the matter?” Crowley says. When Aziraphale looks back at him, he hasn’t moved, but now he’s definitely looking at Aziraphale. At his hands.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling a little flustered. “It’s– the chain, you know. Left a bit of a mark.”
“Left a mark,” Crowley repeats, in a hiss – it shouldn’t be possible to hiss a sentence with no sibilants in it, but he manages it – and gets to his feet. Before Aziraphale can stop him he’s caught Aziraphale’s hand, pushing back the cascading lace of his cuff. Or trying to, anyway – there really is a lot of lace to contend with – and muttering, “What were you thinking, dressed up in all this nonsense–”
He ought to say something back, make some waspish remark about Crowley’s dress sense, something, anything. But Crowley’s hand slides up the underside of his wrist, and he can’t think about anything else, can only gasp and pull his hand away as if burned.
“That hurt?” Crowley says, blessedly misunderstanding.
“No, it’s–” Aziraphale starts, and then realizes he has no other explanation for flinching and backtracks, “Well, a little.”
Crowley looks back down at his wrist, which after all is barely hurt, and makes a sad little moue, and a soft tch sound between his teeth. It occurs to Aziraphale that he’s being made fun of. Probably deservedly – he could have freed himself at any time, and he is inclined to fuss about little inconveniences like this all out of proportion to their severity, but…
Then Crowley touches his wrist again, runs one long finger over the worst of the scrapes, and Aziraphale feels the raw skin heal over and it dawns on him that Crowley isn’t making fun at all.
And that there is something worse than watching Crowley’s hands at a distance, wanting them to touch him and knowing it won’t happen, and it’s this: being offered that touch and turning it away. Pulling his wrist back, out of Crowley’s grip, and saying in a voice that’s barely more than a breath, “Better not.”
“Right,” Crowley says, after a long moment. “You’re right. No telling what sort of trouble I’d be in for.” He clears his throat, and then says in a more normal voice, “Lunch?”
He’s not looking at Crowley’s hands. He’s not. But as they materialize outside the little cafe he suggested, he thinks he sees Crowley reach for his hand again, and then think better of it and draw back, fingers curled.
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