Title: Opacity (The demon, the angel, the god)
Rating: G
Warnings: Mild angst, frustration, slashy non-slash
Coupling: Crowley-crushing
Disclaimer: Not mine. Gneil and Pterry's.
Notes: I've been trying to overcome my writer's block, and thought rehashing my view of the Crowley/Aziraphale couple would help me get back into the swing of things. ^-^; Short, lots of Tomo-stretching-her-vocabulary. XD

~Tomo Trillions


Love, Crowley reflected, was not a red emotion.

No, not at all.

In fact, were he pressed to designate one color for that most despiccable emotion, he would choose something more along the lines of mucky brown or a very dark black.


When you threw paints together on a palate and smeared and smeared, those were the colors you created, mottled, sickly colors with no real hue and swirls of all the others. Love, he supposed, was quite like that. Emotions, all of them, blended up in uneven chunks that altered each time you swirled the concoction again. Something knew, unguessed, impervious to your attempts at making sense of it all.

It was oblique and unpredictable. It never came out the way you thought it would.

Black, the scientists say, appears dark because it absorbs all color without reflecting any chosen hue. It pulls things in, mercilessly, opaque and colorless.

Crowley knew firsthand that love shared that supposed trait with his favorite color as well - the two sensations were almost inseperable. One of the things that had been ripped away from him was the well-protected scar where he fancied his heart had once been.

Surely, he felt, love was divine. Surely God had created it and set it loose on the world, some time long ago...He, as a demon, had probably contracted it simply by continuous exposure during his time on earth. A slow blood-poisoning, now too deeply ingrained for him to ever cast aside.

It was a depressing possibility.

Crowley stared defiantly over the rim of his sunglasses, a silent paroxysm of adoration stealing over his thoughts. The angel was still looking back at him with a wide-eyed stare, pallid and surprised, mouth gaping half-open as his mind wrapped around the simple idea of love being directed at him.

That palpable innocence was the trait that first made the demon Crawly look twice at the angel of the Eastern Gate.

Surely even an ingenuous angel was capable of love, he reassured himself, stiffly. Surely what he felt was not unrequited, surely his friend and companion had felt the echoes of it to over the long nights since they had first met - over six thousand of them, all the same, all quite lonely.

"Crowley," the angel began, after another long moment of silence in which Crowley barely dared to meet his eyes. The demon knew what the answer would be even as his name was spoken in soft, forgiving tones... Aziraphale was not used to the concept of hiding his emotions, so at times (like the present) when it would be kinder to prevent emotions from coloring his tone, he was often sorely lacking. "I'm... I'm not sure you quite know what you mean."

"Ah, angel, but I do."

"Crowley... I don't feel for you like that." Aziraphale's expression was pleading. "I mean, I do love you - but I don't love you. I can't."

An opaque, foggy black, like his dark hair, black like the pupils of his snake-eyes, black like the Bentley and the night sky which flowed in through the open windows relentlessly, casting shadowy figures across the floor.

Love was definitely black. Black because, after everything was said and done, a dying human was thrown back into love - blackness - the love of God... Six feet under would be darker than dark, and they spent the rest of eternity elsewhere as their body was enfolded in the gloom, it would be warm, musty and kind - dark.

Black, the antithesis of the being before him.

Perhaps it was not so divine.

"I'm sorry," whispered Aziraphale. It was not an apology, no - Crowley didn't suppose the angel would be able to regret something like not falling for an enemy. It was more... an apology that he had led Crowley into feeling it necessary to make his feelings known. It was the apology someone murmured when a friend lost a distant relative. Guilt by association.


"I...see," Crowley managed, throat dry and constricted, eyes burning strangely. He hadn't expected more. He hadn't really thought.... no. He had thought. Goddamn love, mixing up reality and dreams, good and evil, confusing him - "Well. I'm just...going now."

"Crowley - "

He stepped out of the door, wings spreading from his back before he'd taken six paces, launching the suddenly quite inhuman figure of A.J. Crowley into the night.

He didn't bother looking back.