(no subject)
Date: April 15th, 2001
Status: Private (Kit and John)
Setting: Garden, evening
Summary: Damn cryptic Englishman...
John had grown quite fond of the Manor gardens. They were a good place to let his feet roam unattended while his brain sorted out whatever knotty problem it was dealing with at the moment. And even with a number of non-sleepers occupying the Manor (among whom he sometimes counted himself,) the best time to find solitude out there was generally at night.
He wasn't exactly overwhelmed with company in any case. He and Kit had gone right back to arm's length by a sort of unspoken agreement after that night with Crowley. Not that it hadn't changed anything; there was almost a sense of relief that they'd finally got that out of the way, and yeah, the sex was still great and they were still the same pair of dirty-minded perverts they'd always been (and it was both of them--John would never have issued that kind of challenge if he'd thought Kit was at all likely to regret accepting it.) But that was all pretty much secondary to the main issue, when you came right down to it; sex had never been the problem.
He'd realized a day or two afterward (and after the expected awkward morning scramble, and a sharp elbow in Crowley's ribs to remind him to hide his eyes before Kit opened hers) that there had been a certain symbolism to the whole business, though it hadn't been conscious on his part: those two mismatched halves of his life were pretty much embodied in two people at this point, and putting either one of them ahead of the other was just not an option.
Only thing was, bringing them together like that, however well it seemed to have worked out in the short term, had to be one of his masterstrokes of self-destructive dishonesty to date. Kit still didn't know what he'd prodded her into taking to bed, and when she found out...
Well, Hell hath no fury and all that. And indeed, given a choice between Kit's outrage and Lucifer's malice, he'd already proven he dealt far better with the Morningstar.
And then there was Aziraphale, who'd been making himself scarce for some time, and who represented an entirely different sort of problem (only not really.) The one thing John had left out of his spur-of-the-moment confession to the angel was probably the one thing he absolutely should have told him. And would have to, eventually, he suspected, to head off any future complications it was liable to cause.
He knew Crowley wasn't intentionally using him as a substitute for the angel, but in some ways that was exactly what he'd been doing, and John was doing nobody any favors by allowing it to happen. Crowley needed not only a drinking partner and an occasional security blanket (not that John minded playing those roles,) but the equal and opposite counterpart that had kept him in balance for millennia. John could never be those things, even if he'd cared to try. That particular pair of shoes was too big and much, much too clean for him to fill. He had no idea how that whole situation could be set straight, and it really wasn't his business to try, but things just weren't going to be right until Crowley and Aziraphale were back on friendly terms again.
At least he'd managed to negotiate some kind of cease-fire between the demon and Loki. That was a load off his mind. Now if the cursebreaking coming up in a few days could just be managed without anything blowing up (like Loki, for example...) Oddly enough, though, that struck him as the least complicated of his current problems. Magic was nowhere near as tricky to handle as relationships, even a botched god-level job like the one Czernobog had cooked up.
Lost in thought, he wandered the well-worn path on autopilot, oblivious to his surroundings.
Status: Private (Kit and John)
Setting: Garden, evening
Summary: Damn cryptic Englishman...
John had grown quite fond of the Manor gardens. They were a good place to let his feet roam unattended while his brain sorted out whatever knotty problem it was dealing with at the moment. And even with a number of non-sleepers occupying the Manor (among whom he sometimes counted himself,) the best time to find solitude out there was generally at night.
He wasn't exactly overwhelmed with company in any case. He and Kit had gone right back to arm's length by a sort of unspoken agreement after that night with Crowley. Not that it hadn't changed anything; there was almost a sense of relief that they'd finally got that out of the way, and yeah, the sex was still great and they were still the same pair of dirty-minded perverts they'd always been (and it was both of them--John would never have issued that kind of challenge if he'd thought Kit was at all likely to regret accepting it.) But that was all pretty much secondary to the main issue, when you came right down to it; sex had never been the problem.
He'd realized a day or two afterward (and after the expected awkward morning scramble, and a sharp elbow in Crowley's ribs to remind him to hide his eyes before Kit opened hers) that there had been a certain symbolism to the whole business, though it hadn't been conscious on his part: those two mismatched halves of his life were pretty much embodied in two people at this point, and putting either one of them ahead of the other was just not an option.
Only thing was, bringing them together like that, however well it seemed to have worked out in the short term, had to be one of his masterstrokes of self-destructive dishonesty to date. Kit still didn't know what he'd prodded her into taking to bed, and when she found out...
Well, Hell hath no fury and all that. And indeed, given a choice between Kit's outrage and Lucifer's malice, he'd already proven he dealt far better with the Morningstar.
And then there was Aziraphale, who'd been making himself scarce for some time, and who represented an entirely different sort of problem (only not really.) The one thing John had left out of his spur-of-the-moment confession to the angel was probably the one thing he absolutely should have told him. And would have to, eventually, he suspected, to head off any future complications it was liable to cause.
He knew Crowley wasn't intentionally using him as a substitute for the angel, but in some ways that was exactly what he'd been doing, and John was doing nobody any favors by allowing it to happen. Crowley needed not only a drinking partner and an occasional security blanket (not that John minded playing those roles,) but the equal and opposite counterpart that had kept him in balance for millennia. John could never be those things, even if he'd cared to try. That particular pair of shoes was too big and much, much too clean for him to fill. He had no idea how that whole situation could be set straight, and it really wasn't his business to try, but things just weren't going to be right until Crowley and Aziraphale were back on friendly terms again.
At least he'd managed to negotiate some kind of cease-fire between the demon and Loki. That was a load off his mind. Now if the cursebreaking coming up in a few days could just be managed without anything blowing up (like Loki, for example...) Oddly enough, though, that struck him as the least complicated of his current problems. Magic was nowhere near as tricky to handle as relationships, even a botched god-level job like the one Czernobog had cooked up.
Lost in thought, he wandered the well-worn path on autopilot, oblivious to his surroundings.