[personal profile] a_fell
Aziraphael tries not to get angry. He gets... annoyed. Peeved, perhaps. Certainly he gets miffed with something or other almost every day, but angry? No. Anger leads to - anger leads to bad things; whatever that phrase is from that film Nymphadora enjoys so much. So it's annoyance, obviously, that has him shifting his weight restlessly outside Crowley's door. It's annoyance at the arrogance of those in power, at the decisions made and the secrets kept and the things they think they can keep from him, for Heaven's...

Annoyance. Nothing more.

(And still he'd held the door open for the idiot who'd barged past the lady who'd let him in, still he'd carefully picked up her spilt shopping and helped her up the stairs with it because some things there's no changing.)

Crowley's too still when he answers the door. Pale and too still, swamped in a thick jumper with his feet bare and his hair still damp from the shower and Aziraphael'd read the news, eventually, that's why he's here, and it's all he can do not to touch and bustle and take charge.

He's learned, over time, that that's not what Crowley needs.

So he sits on Crowley's sofa, forces his foot to stop tapping, folds his hands together in his lap to keep them still. Watches Crowley move carefully, stiffly, no more than is needed as he fetches them tea and sits on the sofa a little too far away to casually touch.

("I was just going to - going to leave for the bar. In a bit."

"Oh? It's the second place I would have tried. We could still - "

"You didn't go home first?"

"I didn't go to the shop, no.

We could - we could stay here, though. If you like. Saves going out in the cold."

"I suppose. If you want."

Crowley picks up the remote from the coffee table, turns on the TV and hands it over, tucking his feet up on the sofa and leaning against him when he settles himself again, spare motion, too still. Aziraphael tries to shift only the barest amount, turning a little into Crowley so he can be leant on more comfortably, then he carefully breathes and carefully stops moving. Only turns his head, once, to press a quick kiss to dark hair, the line of Crowley's -


- sunglasses cold against his skin. Only the flicker of light from the television gives the impression of anything other than stillness.

Until Crowley turns his hand over, twines his fingers with Aziraphael's.

Not much movement. Perhaps just enough.
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April 2010

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