TITLE: break my cage and spread my wings
SUMMARY: Everyone called the Titanic the 'Ship of Dreams', but for Aziraphale, it was the ship of nightmares, carrying her away from her home in England, and her dreams of freedom, and towards the bleak future of her arranged marriage in America. The only spark of light in the darkness is her new and tentative friendship with the boldly intimate Crowley.
AO3 TAGS: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rose Dewitt Bukater Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Jack Dawson Crowley (Good Omens), Caledon Hockley Gabriel (Good Omens), Ruth Dewitt Bukater Michael (Good Omens), Arranged Marriage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flirting, Teasing, Smooth Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Hand Holding, Dancing, Touching, Neck Kissing, Light Angst, Temporary Break Up, First Kiss, Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Naked Female Clothed Female, Naked Aziraphale (Good Omens), Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Tribadism, more tags to come (probably), tags only look scary because of all the '(Good Omens)' additives (set by AO3 not me)
Chapter Three: (Please Don't) Flirt with Me~
Chapter Summary: "I mean no offense. The way you speak to me is… new."
AN: It's Lupercaliaaa~! So have an early update and some… intimacy~ ;3
1912 April 13, Saturday - Day 4 (Part One)
It was well past afternoon tea before Aziraphale was allowed to leave her mother's company. The entire morning and the beginnings of the afternoon had been spent socializing with high society, enduring conversations Aziraphale had no interest in and could not contribute to. The few times she'd thought she might be able to add something, her mother had not given her the chance to speak, changing the topic every time Aziraphale opened her mouth.
Stepping foot on the Titanic's deck was physically and metaphorically a breath of fresh air - the ship was still a cage, but at least it was a cage she could walk around, unchaperoned. The open space was bustling with all the life that had avoided it the previous night, the spring sun shining down on them warm enough to endure the rushing wind. Children raced about, couples walked arm in arm - it was a lovely setting that Aziraphale could scarcely enjoy, but she tried, nonetheless.
With no destination in mind, she wandered, letting her feet carry her mindlessly from the bow towards the stern. And as she'd done all day, any time her thoughts strayed to Crowley, and the utter ruination their encounter had become, she stopped and closed her eyes until her mind emptied of thought, and until the tightness in her chest loosened. At least now that she was out in the open air, she could let the wind blow her thoughts away. Though, quite possibly, it was because of her attempts at avoidation that she was bound to run into the subject of her thoughts themself.
She saw the hair first, the distinctively-coloured waves bent over a notebook as long fingers dragged charcoal over the pages, not several yards down from the corner Aziraphale had just turned. Crowley themself was turned mostly away from Aziraphale, by all appearance watching, and sketching, a pair of mothers conversing as their two sons played together. Crowley hadn't seen her yet, and unless they turned around, they wouldn't. Aziraphale wanted to go to them, but she couldn't find it in herself to feel welcome to, not after the way the two of them had parted last night. No, Crowley would be best off without Aziraphale interrupting them.
Just as surely as she'd shouted for attention though, at that moment, Crowley looked up and over, and their eyes settled undeniably right on Aziraphale, who froze under the attention, and in indecision. Her feet felt useless, unable to turn away or move forward, but the choice was thankfully taken from her when Crowley grinned, wide and pleased, and beckoned her forward.
Aziraphale complied slowly and carefully, wary that she would be turned away at the last second, or find that she'd been played for a fool. When no such rebuke came by the time Aziraphale reached Crowley, she stepped up next to the empty space on the bench Crowley was sprawled on.
"May I join you?" she asked, unsure.
"It's why I offered," Crowley said, their tone warm and teasing. Aziraphale blushed, but for once she felt a part of the joke rather than the subject of it.
She cleared her throat and tucked her skirts as she sat stiffly on the bench, crossing her feet demurely at the ankles, like she'd been taught. Crowley, on the other hand, sprawled out quite indecently, even for a man, if that was what they were. One arm draped over the back of the bench, which only gaped their unbuttoned shirt, which was as black as it had been the night before, wider, though still barely avoiding baring that possibility of unbound breasts. Their trousers were as just as dark as their shirt, and while their drawing pad sat closed and balanced on one knee, their legs were spread like a man's and their other knee nearly touched Aziraphale's. Part of her wished that it would, and her sudden need for that contact almost shocked her.
It took several minutes for her to realize that they'd been sitting in complete silence, and she chanced a glance over at Crowley. The sight of Crowley's unwavering gaze stuck on her lit Aziraphale to her core, and her breath stuck in her chest. The sun made Crowley's hair catch fire, and the sight was enough to take her breath away completely. She didn't realize she was staring until Crowley smiled at her.
"What's caught your eye?" Crowley asked, lips curled, but they didn't seem offended.
Still, Aziraphale's face felt hot and she ducked her chin. "I'm sorry. You- you look like a painting. The sun does… lovely things for your hair. If it's not too improper to say," she rushed to placate, just in case. Women tended to enjoy compliments, but men seemed to find offense for any compliment that wasn't paid directly to their ego or their wealth, and with her inability what Crowley was, she didn't want to offend them.
"As it does to yours, angel," Crowley said warmly, and then the hand stretched across the back of the bench reached out, two long fingers capturing one of Aziraphale's curls and tugging so lightly that it didn't hurt, just spread a curious fire all the way down to Aziraphale's toes.
She couldn't, for the life of her, remember what it felt like to pull air into her lungs. Was this what her novels of romance had been talking about? When her mother had announced Aziraphale's engagement to Gabriel, was this the feeling that had been missing? Was this the fire Gabriel's touch had been failing to ignite?
If it wasn't, then she never wanted to find out - those small looks and even smaller touches were already threatening to burn her. She wouldn't be able to survive a stronger blaze.
"W-wh-why did you call me that?" she stuttered out through numb lips. Crowley's smile seemed to get even warmer, and they finally let go of Aziraphale's hair, though the tips of those two fingers brushed the skin of Aziraphale's jaw and made her heart leap out of her chest entirely before they returned to their drape over the back of the bench.
"Have you seen a Renaissance painting?" Crowley asked in return and Aziraphale could only nod.
Of course she had - she'd loved her rare trips to the museum back home, the way the art had made her feel. Somehow though, the thought of revealing that felt even more personal than the confessions she'd made in the dark last night. Or perhaps it was exactly because they were in the stark light of day that made it all the more forbidden.
"You look like one, you know." Eyes traced her face and Aziraphale could feel their path like gentle hands, over her hair, down her body, all the way to her ankles and back up. Crowley moved just a little closer on the bench, reducing the distance between them by less than a handspan, but to Aziraphale, it felt as if Crowley had pressed right up against her. With a thought that stopped her heart, she realized she wanted Crowley to put their hand at her waist, to hold her close like Gabriel so often did. Only… she quite thought that Crowley's touch would be welcome where Gabriel's was not. "The soft way they paint their women, the glow they give them, the ecstasy of hedonism. You look like a painter's muse stepped off the canvas."
"Pygmalion," Aziraphale choked out, surprising herself. Crowley's gaze found her own again and they tilted their head. With a start, Aziraphale realized that they were actually waiting for her to continue. That they wanted to hear what she had to say. It was a new experience but… a warmly welcomed one. "Pygmalion was a sculptor in Greek mythology. He fashioned a statue so beautiful that he fell in love with her, and the gods brought her to life to be his bride."
"The Greeks do have a way with their mythos, don't they." Crowley actually sounded interested, and it left Aziraphale wrong-footed. She wasn't used to having someone to speak to, much less someone that wanted to speak to her. The desperate desire she felt to not mess it up was almost overwhelming. "I wonder, then," Crowley continued to muse out loud, eyes fixed on Aziraphale's, "which artist could you have been brought to life for?"
For a moment, for a brief moment, so brief that it hurt, Aziraphale knew what it felt like to fly. She crashed just as quickly, left trembling in her own skin from her fall, her face as hot as if it had been kissed by the sun himself. She wondered if that was how Icarus had felt, when he'd risen high amongst the waves before falling into them. In the aftermath, Crowley's gaze was too much, too abrasive against her tender heart, and Aziraphale had to turn away, lifting her face to the sun and air until the brightness blinded her and the wind blew away the hot flush on her cheeks.
It felt like hours passed before she had herself under control again, before she'd reeled her heart back in from where it had fallen out of her chest to the floor, before she'd calmed the shaking in her hands. It took so long that she fully expected to be alone by the time she turned back around, and it was almost a shock to see Crowley still sitting there, watching her with a small pinch between their eyebrows.
"Are you alright?" they asked quietly, voice low against the wind and the waves, but it still managed to rumble right through Aziraphale like a train through a station. As nice as it was to be paid attention to for once, it was far too new, too sudden, too unexpected, and she had no defenses against it.
She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "You're very intense," she confessed quietly, unable to actually meet Crowley's eyes. She kept her gaze fixed safely on Crowley's shoulder, just high enough that she could still catch the gist of Crowley's expression without being subjected to its strength.
"Am I unwelcome?" Crowley asked slowly.
Aziraphale hadn't even considered it, that Crowley's attention was unwanted in some way. It wasn't. Quite the opposite, in fact. She found herself turning towards it like a flower blooming for the sun, but she'd been kept in the dark so long that the sun's light was too strong, too much. It didn't just breathe life into her, it burned through her.
Movement drew her attention from her thoughts and she realized Crowley was folding up, like they were getting ready to leave, and Aziraphale panicked, scared of losing her new companion.
"No!" she exclaimed, embarrassingly loudly, gaining the attention of several passers-by and making her blush. Crowley was watching her with a raised eyebrow, and Aziraphale hurriedly dropped her eyes to her lap where she interlaced her fingers to keep from reaching out. The slide of the kid leather of her gloves were almost too smooth for the turmoil in her heart. "No, please. You're not unwelcome. I'm sorry, please-" She cut herself off, worried that she might reveal how desperate she felt to keep this possible new friend.
"Please what, angel?" Crowley prompted softly, and something about the address comforted Aziraphale. Surely Crowley wasn't mad at her if they were still calling her 'angel'?
"Please don't leave," Aziraphale pleaded with her lap. "I'm sorry if offended you."
Out of the corner of her eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley unfold again, but their long limbs seemed a little more contained than they had a moment ago, their spread not quite so carelessly and unthinkingly possessive of the space they occupied.
"You didn't offend me," Crowley said, and Aziraphale was thankful that their voice seemed bright and easy. "Though I'm starting to wonder if I haven't offended you in some way."
The idea was so preposterous that it surprised Aziraphale into looking up. "Offended me? Of course you haven't, why- Have I done something to make you think I was offended?"
Crowley stared at her for a long considering moment. "You seem to be in the habit of trying to run away from me when we speak."
Aziraphale coloured. "I mean no offense. The way you speak to me is… new."
"So you're not in the habit of running away from suitors then?" Crowley asked, voice still easygoing, expression still light and open, if a little amused. Aziraphale looked down again, unable to face Crowley for what she had to say next.
"I've never really had one," Aziraphale confessed ashamedly to her lap. The gossip had said there was no man who'd ever met her and wanted to speak with her a second time. At parties, and dances, Aziraphale kept to the sides, or at the tables, and she no longer attended any event without a book in her purse. It saved her the embarrassment of waiting for a dance request that was never going to come, though it had taken her several years to learn to do so.
"That man from last night?"
"Gabriel-" Aziraphale's throat closed but she pushed on. "Gabriel is my fiancé. My mother arranged it. She said-" No, it was best not to repeat what Michael had said. Aziraphale didn't want to paint her mother in a bad light, and while she knew that her mother was looking out for her best interests, she had the feeling that Crowley wouldn't see it that way. "It's a fine match," she parroted. "We're to be married in two months."
She hadn't even been able to pick the date. Or consult on her dress. Her bridesmaids were cousins who could be commanded by her mother and her aunts to attend her for the event. The guests were all high society, friends of her mother's, and of Gabriel's, as well as business associates he wanted to impress. Not one was a friend of Aziraphale's (not that she had any). She hadn't even been allowed to pick any of the food. It was her wedding, but she was as much a part of it a bird was part of a menagerie - she was not to speak, only to be looked at.
It wasn't until long fingers settled over hers that Aziraphale realized that her hands had started to shake, and that her vision was being distorted by tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she apologized reflexively, delicately withdrawing one of her hands from under Crowley's, careful to not dislodge the comforting touch entirely.
"You don't need to apologize to me, angel," Crowley said, from closer than Aziraphale had been expecting.
Aziraphale carefully dabbed her unshed tears away with the fingertip of her glove and glanced at her companion.
Crowley had moved closer, still leaving a fairly proper distance between them, and was now spread the other way on the bench. The hand over Aziraphale's was a gentle pressure, undemanding, a comfort offered and easy to remove if unwelcome. For a brief moment, Aziraphale contemplated turning her hand over, pressing their palms together, perhaps interlacing their fingers, but even that thought was enough to make her blush.
A comfortable silence settled over them as Crowley let Aziraphale pull herself together, and when she finally shifted the hand under Crowley's, sure enough, Crowley took their hand back without complaint, though they made no move to shift back along the bench back to where they had started. Aziraphale didn't mind the proximity. It was nice, sitting close to someone, especially someone who expected nothing from her. Besides, Crowley positively radiated heat, and their presence at Aziraphale's side was keeping her warm. Or perhaps that was just what Crowley's company did.
When she finally shifted, turning just a little bit towards Crowley, just enough to signify her willingness to rejoin the conversation again, a brown portfolio caught her attention. The weathered leather was balanced on Crowley's far knee, and Aziraphale remembered that Crowley had been drawing in it before they'd spotted her.
"Are you an artist?" she asked, hoping to learn a little more about her new friend, suddenly terribly aware of how much of herself she'd revealed over the last day, and how little she knew of Crowley.
Crowley startled, as if the question had been unexpected, and then picked up the portfolio to wave it in the air. "I sure am." They looked over at Aziraphale, their lips curled in a mischievous smile, and stared at her expectantly. As if they were waiting for Aziraphale to ask what she wanted to ask, as if waiting for her to ask for what she wanted.
Aziraphale paused, eyes flicking between the folio and Crowley's face, hoping Crowley would simply offer it to her, but the more she waited, the more wicked Crowley's grin became. Finally, Aziraphale steeled her nerves, fisted her fingers in her skirts, and forced the words out. "May I see your art?"
"Of course you can, angel," Crowley said immediately, almost too cheerful, too wicked. "All you had to do was ask."
She had no response to that, other than to hesitantly hold her hands out for the portfolio, which Crowley handed over without a fuss. It was heavy, and thick, full of loose sheafs of parchment, and there was a small lump where the stick of charcoal Crowley had been using was being held in place by the spine. When Aziraphale opened it, the drawing right on top was exactly as she'd expected, thick lines sketching out the two mothers and their two sons, who were long gone from the deck, but caught in time on the page.
Not wanting to ruin the pages, Aziraphale carefully removed a glove to carefully pick apart the pages with her fingernails, and she found her touch lingering on the outskirts of the art. Crowley had talent, that was certain even to Aziraphale's untrained eye. She could see the movement of the subject in every drawing, as if each one was coming to life right off the page. There was a woman walking her dog under the mothers, a man smoking a cigar under that, a nanny with a kite, a-
"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaimed as she slammed the leather closed, caught entirely unprepared by the naked man that had been staring at her from the page. Face aflame, her eyes darted over to Crowley, who was grinning so widely that it crinkled the corners of their eyes.
"You think I could give Michaelangelo a run for his money?" Crowley asked, tone teasing as their eyebrows wiggled almost conspiratorially.
"Um," Aziraphale answered intelligently. She looked back down at the folder in her lap, back up at Crowley, and back down to the folder. Then she took a deep breath and opened it again.
It was easier, the second time, knowing what she was about to find. She tried to convince herself that it was no different than the Renaissance paintings she'd seen in museums, but those were already several hundred years old and their subjects, whoever they were, were long dead. It felt different, knowing the man she was looking down at was, likely, still alive. Worse still was the way he was staring at her from the page, dark eyes intense, as if demanding of her to take in the body he seemed so unashamed of, propped up as it was on what looked like a bed. An offering. A challenge.
"It's very…" She trailed off, the fingertips of her bare hand tracing the charcoal lines without touching.
"Pornographic?" Crowley supplied.
In a technical sense, it very much was, but that wasn't the feeling it evoked in Aziraphale. "Intimate," she said softly. "It's very intimate."
The next drawing was of a woman, also naked, also intimate, but there was something shocking about it that hit Aziraphale like the drawing of the man couldn't have. It stole her breath, even as it made her flush from her hair to her toes.
The woman was also on a bed, but rather than challenging the artist, she seemed completely unaware of them. Her dark hair was a messy halo around her head, caught up and tangled around in a hand raised over her head to clench desperately in the sheets. But it was neither of those things that so affected Aziraphale, nor was it the bared chest and back arched off the bed. No, the honour went to the woman's other hand, placed as it was between her legs, fingers curled and disappeared in-
Aziraphale closed her eyes against the drawing and the fire it was sending into her belly, but it did nothing to keep the charcoal lines from engraving themselves onto the backs of her eyelids. She couldn't stop picturing it, the look on the woman's face, the placement of her hands, the heaving of her bosom. She could almost feel fingers at the insides of her thighs, and it made her heart beat heavy between her legs.
Swallowing hard, she closed the portfolio and blindly handed it back - she wanted to see more, but she didn't think she could handle another drawing like that woman.
"You have a talent," Aziraphale managed to say, her breath shaky and her words hoarse.
There was a brief pause, and then Crowley said, voice entirely sincere, "Thank you."
"Do you…" Aziraphale took a deep breath and then gathered herself, sitting up straight and turning her attention, and her head, towards Crowley for a proper conversation. Like she'd been taught. Like she'd never had the opportunity for. "Do you do other forms of art as well?"
"I enjoy sculpting," Crowley granted, with a dip of their head, "even if I don't often have the opportunity to do it, but what I really enjoy is painting."
Aziraphale remembered what they had said about Renaissance art and wondered if Crowley's assessment had come from an artist's eye. "I think I would like to see that," Aziraphale said, a little slowly.
Crowley smiled. "I'm afraid I didn't bring any with me, angel."
She blinked, and then coloured when realization came over her. Somehow, she'd completely forgotten Crowley's class, and how little the third class passengers had been able to bring with them. Most had come on board with no more than the clothes on their backs, and considering how similar Crowley's outfit was now to the one they had been wearing last night, similar enough to be the same exact articles of clothing, it was most likely Crowley was one such passenger.
Aziraphale opened her mouth, about to express a desire to see Crowley paint once they landed in America, but she hadn't even asked where Crowley was going. Say nothing as to whether or not Crowley would want anything to do with her once they were no longer isolated on a ship. She closed her mouth, and then opened it again with a different question.
"What do you like to paint?"
"I quite enjoy painting people," Crowley said, looking out over the deck and its occupants. "I like to break them down to what makes them them, what they desire, what they yearn, their temptations. That darkness underneath. It's amazing what you can see in a person from the other side of a canvas."
There were no words for the emotions Crowley sparked in Aziraphale's chest. It was all too easy to picture herself the subject of one of Crowley's paintings, sat just so for hours at a time, all the while at the mercy of those intense eyes cracking her open to her foundation.
"And I must say," Crowley said, turning that fearsome gaze upon Aziraphale once again. "I would love the opportunity to paint you, angel."
"Me?" If she hadn't already been flushed from Crowley's attention, she would have flushed at the way the word escaped from her like the squeak of a kitten. "You w-would-? How would you-" She couldn't even get the words out, too overcome by the thought of it.
"Mhm."
Crowley's gaze kept her pinned, even when they reached over to Aziraphale's lap and carefully lifted her bare hand. Aziraphale couldn't have counted the times a man had kissed her hand per the demands of high society etiquette, but there was something about the delicate way Crowley held her hand in their long fingers, something about the shocking unexpectedness of Crowley's skin meeting hers for the first time. A thumb brushed back and forth over the back of her hand, sparking fire in its wake.
"I know exactly how I'd paint you. But I don't dare tell you," Crowley winked, "or else you would run away from me for sure."
The world around them disappeared in that moment, and Aziraphale could only watch dumbly as Crowley stood and bowed over the hand they still held. "It's been a pleasure, angel," they said with that mischievous smile before they pressed a soft kiss to the bare skin at the back of Aziraphale's fingers. "I'll see you soon."
And then Crowley was gone, taking all of the air in the world with them.
Aziraphale wasn't sure how long she sat there before she heard a call from behind her.
"Aziraphale."
The sound of her mother's voice was like a bucket of cold water over her head and, feeling strangely protective over the warmth lingering from Crowley's touch on her hand, Aziraphale hastily pulled her glove back on. She stood to face her mother, unable to keep from pulling and patting at her clothes, as if she'd been caught in a compromising position. Which was absurd, but even the knowledge that it was couldn't dissuade her mind of the notion.
"Who was that young man?" Michael asked, and though her tone was polite, Aziraphale could hear the distaste in her mother's voice.
"That was- AJ," Aziraphale stuttered, almost forgetting to use the name Crowley had given Gabriel and her mother the night before. "You met last night on the stern. We encountered one another by chance again and I was lucky enough to be granted a viewing of their sketchbook."
The women with her mother, the countesses and Madame Tracy, nodded in interest, but Michael just stared at Aziraphale with a narrowed look she knew all too well. She would receive a lecture later, Aziraphale knew it already, but it wouldn't happen now, not in public.
A bugle sounding off behind Aziraphale nearly made her jump out of her skin, and Madame Tracy rolled her eyes. "We're going to dinner, not to war," she scoffed.
Aziraphale attempted to hide her smile, but the further narrowing of her mother's eyes told her she'd been unsuccessful.
"It's time to dress for dinner, Aziraphale," Michael said loftily, and Aziraphale ducked her head.
"Yes mother," she said meekly, following her mother back to their rooms and preparing herself for another long evening.
It wasn't until she was being laced and compressed into her corset that she wondered if Crowley had seen Michael coming and had gracefully bowed out before her mother could make a scene.
TBC
Update next Saturday and don't forget to toss rebloga to your Writer (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr, post / 190591686323)~
