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Entry tags:
(CLOSED/ACTIVE)
Who: Aziraphale & Crowley
When: 7/5, late evening.
Where: Within their residence.
What: You know, just friends under the full moon.
Warnings: Language, probably. . . And consensual, very normal shaving.
There have been strange happenings ever since Aziraphale had first arrived here in this city. Most of it was to be expected, of course, as one didn't just simply arrive into a bustling city full of beastmen and magic without coming to expect a certain level of oddity. He wasn't quite yet used to it, not by far, but he was steadily adjusting his expectations for what he might have to encounter or otherwise deal with while residing here.
Mostly he had just been trying not to gawk at anyone's appearance, if he were going to be completely honest. It was just such a difficult affair when he was so delightfully interested in all of the variety that the beastmen had to offer. Oh, he had even seen some fishfolk!
No, the strangest part had been himself.
It was a small thing or so he had been telling himself when it first started. It was just a little nail growth! Albeit a very stubborn one, but surely nothing more than that. He would wake up with claws—of all things!—and promptly clip them off only for them to reappear the next morning. Next had been the teeth. It was barely noticeable in the beginning, but each day it got a little less so. Sharper, more pronounced, and absolutely dreadful.
Hopefully Crowley hadn't noticed that he had begun to take precautions not to reveal his teeth.
Hopefully.
Unfortunately, there had been a new development after evening fell today. Small, uneven patches of thick, white fur had appeared on his legs. He desperately wanted to dismiss it as unchecked hair, but it was too noticeably different from the sort of leg hair that human bodies were supposed to get. This was fur! It was fur!
Swallowing down his panic and horror, he had left his bedroom to call out to the rest of the cottage.
"Crowley—" he starts, already looking for a familiar streak of red hair.
"Something is wrong."
When: 7/5, late evening.
Where: Within their residence.
What: You know, just friends under the full moon.
Warnings: Language, probably. . . And consensual, very normal shaving.
There have been strange happenings ever since Aziraphale had first arrived here in this city. Most of it was to be expected, of course, as one didn't just simply arrive into a bustling city full of beastmen and magic without coming to expect a certain level of oddity. He wasn't quite yet used to it, not by far, but he was steadily adjusting his expectations for what he might have to encounter or otherwise deal with while residing here.
Mostly he had just been trying not to gawk at anyone's appearance, if he were going to be completely honest. It was just such a difficult affair when he was so delightfully interested in all of the variety that the beastmen had to offer. Oh, he had even seen some fishfolk!
No, the strangest part had been himself.
It was a small thing or so he had been telling himself when it first started. It was just a little nail growth! Albeit a very stubborn one, but surely nothing more than that. He would wake up with claws—of all things!—and promptly clip them off only for them to reappear the next morning. Next had been the teeth. It was barely noticeable in the beginning, but each day it got a little less so. Sharper, more pronounced, and absolutely dreadful.
Hopefully Crowley hadn't noticed that he had begun to take precautions not to reveal his teeth.
Hopefully.
Unfortunately, there had been a new development after evening fell today. Small, uneven patches of thick, white fur had appeared on his legs. He desperately wanted to dismiss it as unchecked hair, but it was too noticeably different from the sort of leg hair that human bodies were supposed to get. This was fur! It was fur!
Swallowing down his panic and horror, he had left his bedroom to call out to the rest of the cottage.
"Crowley—" he starts, already looking for a familiar streak of red hair.
"Something is wrong."
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He's draped length-ways along their small couch, legs hooked over the arm and book held above himself. The only way to apparently do anything in this place is to take the stupid coven classes, and Crowley is so desperately bored of it all he's agreed to do some. Besides which, Aziraphale doesn't seem to have quite got the hang of it yet. He'd picked up the book for him, really, but may as well read it himself.
The sound of his name has him turning sideways idly, yellow eyes scanning sideways absently for any sight of Aziraphale. The follow up is what really catches him off guard.
Something is wrong.
He snaps the book shut instantly, swings his legs off the sofa and discards his reading material on it as he pushes to his feet.
"Angel?"
The lack of active information on what, specifically, is wrong, immediately has him on edge. Something happening outside? Something broken in the cottage? Worse, something happening to Aziraphale?
"What's going on?"
The nervous shape of Aziraphale, when it appears, at least seems unharmed. Crowley isn't sure that's strictly helping.
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"It's—" he starts, trying to find the words.
He looks away then, focusing on the smooth lines of the window as if that might make it a little easier to speak. He knows he should say it. He should tell Crowley. He wants to tell Crowley. Maybe he could figure out a way to fix this.
The pause lasts a little too long.
Aziraphale lets out a harsh breath.
"Oh, good lord," he says as he gestures towards himself. "There's something wrong with me."
Multiple things, really.
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"Err," he manages, "well I mean... bit harsh, wouldn't go that far."
Maybe Aziraphale isn't perfect but... he doesn't know that he'd go so far as to say there' something wrong with him, exactly. He's fine the way he is!
If Aziraphale is having some sort of confidence crisis, Crowley suspects he is entirely the wrong person to be assisting him. Unfortunately, he has no idea who would even be better. Unfortunate, that.
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Aziraphale's face twists into an expression of disbelief. Was he joking? At a time like this? Oh, help him because he thinks that he might turn around and find a way to deal with this himself. He's not sure what he would do exactly, but something surely.
He lifts his hands, annoyed.
"No, don't be daft!" he insists. It doesn't matter whatever nonsense Crowley had been trying to say. There was no time for it. He gestures downward, fingers pointed towards his leg, before he lifts it to press his foot against the arm of the couch.
Then, all too suddenly, he's pulling up the leg of his trousers to show off the scattered white fur racing along his skin.
"Look!" he tells him, pointing exactly at the offending hairs.
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Oh. Oh!
... Oh no.
He blinks, studying the fur, reaches out as if he intends to touch it then freezes and seems to reconsider. Aziraphale probably wouldn't like that. Hands to yourself, Anthony Crowley.
"Have you," he begins carefully, "been... bitten by any strange dogs recently?"
Then, a second later as a follow up:
"I did warn you about the moors. Not been in any moors, have you?"
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—this unwanted abnormality!
"Crowley," he says then, tone terse and strained. He isn't in the mood to hear even the slightest bit of a joke about what's happening.
Then, he continues. "You know exactly where I have been."
Since finding one another a few days ago, they have always been in the general vicinity of each other. If such a thing like a strange dog bite occurred, Crowley would have been the first to know about it.
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Probably not, though. If anything had happened, the truth is Aziraphale would have instantly wanted to tell him. Doesn't like that sort of thing. Not that Crowley does much, either.
Nnngh. He makes a faint, pained sound of frustration and waves his hands at Aziraphale's leg.
"Alright," he says, "no dogs. So in that case, just a weird bit of hair right? We just shave it off."
Problem solved? Yeah, sure, least for... the minute anyway.
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He needs it!
"Just a weird bit of hair?" he asks, absolutely incredulous. He gestures towards his leg once more, as if Crowley just needed to get a better look at it and then he might better realise the problem here.
"No, my dear boy, this is not the only thing that is going wrong! Not by far!" he continues, lifting his hands in exasperation. It is not just his legs. It is his teeth and his fingers and Lord knows what else soon enough! What was it going to be? More fur? A tail? Horns?
He clicks his tongue.
"Shave it off, he says!" he repeats, grumbling the words in irritation.
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Desperate to run in circles? Stare at the moon? Crowely can't actually remember what other werewolf stereotypes there are. Wasn't silver bad for them or something? Suppose they could test that. Maybe the rules are different here, though. Sometimes they were. The difference between werewolves that were just really furry humans and the ones that turned into actual great big wolves, for example. That was important to know, probably.
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He makes an irritated noise from low in his throat, almost a growl.
"Then you're doing a terrible job at it!" he insists. "I just want you to sound like you're concerned about it!"
That's it! That's all he wants.
He just wants to feel like Crowley is taking this as seriously as he is. His body is changing without his consent! He needs Crowley to be as horrified by the notion as he is! Or at least close to it. His nonchalance wasn't going to suffice!
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No part of that isn't concerning! The problem is, Crowley doesn't know what to do about that. It's almost too much to process. He doesn't know how to process it. What can he even do about the fur? He has no idea! Can you stop someone turning into a werewolf? In his experience, they usually just get shot!
Nnnghh. Not a thought he wants to process.
"Alright," he says, "alright, alright, look. Why don't we just --"
Crowley reaches out, hesitantly rests his hand on a patch of Aziraphale's leg still covered by fabric.
"Try and get rid of it, yeah? Just try. See what happens, yeah? Maybe it'll stay gone."
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That and all the little stories they tell about hair growth. Right up until this moment, he has always been amused by the one where hair grows back darker and thicker if it's shaven. What a terrifying thought when it's actually possible for him.
"I—" he starts, already starting to calm down. At least enough to not want to take it out on Crowley, that is.
He takes a breath.
"Yes, alright," he agrees. Might as well give it a good old college try. If he's lucky, perhaps it will make him feel a little better to know that it is gone.
But this is just the beginning, isn't it? His face tightens with worry.
"I don't know what's going to become of me."
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He hesitates, uneasy -- not from the fur itself but from how shaken Aziraphale is. Crowley doesn't like to see him shaken, doesn't like to see how unsettled the whole thing has left him. Aziraphale is normally so steady. He should be the steadier of the two of them.
He shouldn't have to suffer this.
His hand slips from where he'd been resting it, moves down to gently unpick Aziraphale's hand from where it's holding up the leg of his trousers and laces their fingers together.
"I'll be here, yeah? We'll work it out."
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The thought makes him nervous.
"Fashionable," he mutters underneath his breath. "I don't believe anyone had ever meant this sort of hair. Fur, that is."
There is more to say, more flaws to point out, and a firm reminder about a very particular point in human history, but then Crowley's hand slips into his. Their fingers intertwine together easily, the feeling of it just slightly familiar. It makes him feel marginally better.
He sighs, fingers curling against Crowley's.
"What do you expect to do? Shave my legs for me each day?" he asks.
Surely, that wasn't a reasonable option and neither of them could say for certain that this fur situation wasn't only going to get worse.
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He squeezes at Aziraphale's hand reassuringly, offers him a playful wink.
"Can't hurt to give it a try, can it?"
Said with the calm tones of someone who has absolutely been burned by 'just giving things a try', but who has conveniently forgotten all of those moments for now. If it really is just fur, well, what's the worst that could happen? They remove it, it just goes back? That doesn't sound so bad.
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Which, maybe it isn't.
"I would think not. It is just—"
Just hair. It shouldn't do more anything than what hair does; that being to grow. Aziraphale just doesn't get the opportunity to say that out loud. The rest of what Crowley had said finally clicks in his head and he's immediately far more concerned with that idea.
"You'd want to see my legs?" he asks, a little incredulous over the thought of it.
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Crowley immediately looks caught out, the picture of someone who's realised a mistake and is about to start busily trying to dig themselves out of it.
"Err," he manages, "well. Not like you get them out often. Would need to, anyway, to -- you know. Do that."
Shave them. Which, now that he's been called on his interest in legs, is beginning to look also like a mistake. Shaving them. Probably... intimate. It's all going to be... intimate. Very close. Crowley can feel the edges of panic beginning to creep up on him.
"You don't like legs?" he offers, as some sort of wild related comment. Doesn't everyone like legs? Isn't liking legs normal? Maybe there's nothing at all interesting about his... interest... in legs!
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It's quick, isn't it?
This sharp progression from casual to suddenly stumbling. It almost makes Aziraphale feel as if he had misheard or maybe he had just plain misunderstood, but that was what it sounded like, wasn't it? That Crowley had an interest? Possibly in him, in particular? Although, he supposes he could very well be projecting considering his own interest.
Right, yes. That was possibly the case.
"Don't suppose I have much of an opinion—" he starts, his grip on Crowley's hand unintentionally tightening. "Oh, but, none of that is really an answer to my question, is it?"
He's not even sure if he wants the answer now, but does think he should clear that up. Make sure there aren't any misunderstandings. Something like that. Ideally, he won't even seem as if he were concerned about how Crowley might feel either way. He's just verifying.
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It's not that hard.
Just spit it out.
"Err, I mean. I'm not saying no, am I?"
There. Nailed it.
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Yes, that sounded like a capital idea.
Aziraphale glances back down at his leg, the fur now hidden under the fabric of his trousers.
"You didn't mean to try and shave it now, did you?" he asks.
He needed a little time before, he thinks, to mentally prepare himself for whatever this might entail.
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"... Whenever you like," he tries, hoping that's the right answer. "Can just take our time, no rush. "
Although that's a dangerous thing to say, Crowley realises, because Aziraphale might put it off indefinitely.
"... Might keep growing if you leave it, though."
So in that sense... probably best not to wait too long? More work shaving it if it's long! Right? Right. It's not that he actually does want to touch it. It's just that he's concerned. About it getting long.
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Perhaps he could even get used to it?
Or maybe it was better to go ahead and 'rip the band-aid off', in a sense, and get it over with?
"Well," he begins, the volume of his voice slightly lower than before as he considers his options here. He reluctantly pulls his hand out of Crowley's, moving instead to smooth out his pant leg thoughtfully. Or anxiously, depending on how he thought about it.
He takes a breath and then makes a decision.
"I'd like to do it now."
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"Now?" Crowley echoes, then: "Now, yeah, alright, uh. I've got a razor if you don't?"
Has he seen Aziraphale use a razor? It feels like something he should have noticed, but Crowley seems to have forgotten absolutely everything in the past thirty seconds.
Aziraphale's also still propped up on the arm of the sofa, and it's making him feel pinned in place. By his leg. Which he's apparently about to shave for him, to remove some mysterious fur. The more he thinks about it, really, the more Crowley can feel the mistake resolving itself into high definition. Fine details slowly becoming clearer and clearer.
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He's already not fully confident that this is a good idea. In terms of the shaving, allowing Crowley to perform said shaving, and the . . . strange intimacy of the whole thing. It was intimate, right? Friends don't usually let the other help with their bodily hair-slash-fur, although he supposes that handholding wasn't entirely platonic either.
Aziraphale didn't really want to think too much about it.
"I have one in the medicine cabinet. Although, I suppose it doesn't matter which one we use," he remarks. Same tool, same purpose. No issue with using either or. Slowly, as to not accidentally throw himself off balance, he pulls his leg away from the couch before starting to make his way towards the bathroom.
Then there's a thought.
"Do you suppose I would be better off just removing my trousers for this?"
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However.
There's a small chance this will never happen again, and he'll have passed on the opportunity to admire Aziraphale's naked legs.
As a demon quite literally hell bent on constantly sewing the seeds of his own destruction, he can see the opportunity in that.
"Well," Crowley says, "whatever's more comfortable I suppose. Chance they might get a little damp or something though."
If he kept them on. Instead of taking them off. Crowley stands up, imagines this for approximately three seconds and immediately recognises this is indeed going to be a mistake.
It's going to be awful, and naturally it's his own fault. Very unfair how that keeps on happening.
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