(no subject)

[a_fell]

It's late when he arrives upstairs, so his knock is quiet and hesitant. When there's no answer, he opens the door (it might have been locked, but that is easily circumvented) to find Crowley sound asleep on top of the bedclothes.

He's quiet crossing over to the bed, and his movements are every bit as hesitant as his knock had been. He looks her over from head to toe; she seems to be breathing normally, hissing very slightly, and she's obviously in one piece aside from the empty - and half-empty - Atlantean bottles in the vicinity of the room's two armchairs.

Aziraphael lets out a small sigh - somewhere between relief and despair - and cups his hands over Crowley's head. He can't clear the Atlantean out, but at least he can ease the hangover that's sure to come.

A few minutes later, after an intense internal debate, he settles in one of the armchairs. At first, he turns to a discarded paperback for distraction; it's sufficiently terrible that, two chapters in, it finds itself suddenly replaced by a volume of poetry from Aziraphael's back room. But not even Neruda can hold the angel's attention for long, not when every few lines, his gaze flicks anxiously to Crowley's face instead. Eventually, resignedly, he sets the book down again, and whiles away the time until she wakes picking at his new manicure and trying not to stare.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

Crowley pauses halfway through shimmying out of her jeans; feet still tangled in the legs, she fixes Aziraphael with a look of flat incredulity.

"Would you like me to avert my eyes?"

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"No," he says, not quite pouting. "It's colder in here with nothing on."

'Nothing' isn't quite the case, though; he unbuttons and pulls off his own trousers to reveal boxers with a fading pattern of yellow ducks - and fairly scrambles for the edge of the blankets.

[aj_crawley]

She kicks her jeans off the rest of the way, leaving them in a heap by the bed, and pulls back her side of the covers.



- First, some more water.

(Behind her, the mattress dips under the angel's weight. When she closes her eyes, the edge of the glass presses against her smile.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He doesn't look up until he's got the blankets pulled up nearly to his chin; it's really much colder here, and his knees instinctively pull up toward his chest. He glances up at Crowley, but she's turned away toward the table.

He reaches out a hand instead, which brushes against her hip.

[aj_crawley]

The water gone, she lowers the glass - doesn't put it down just yet. Her other hand lies atop Aziraphael's, her fingers in the spaces between his, her thumb against his thumb against the warm skin of her hip.
(I hate you deeply, and hating you)
Eyeh asher eyeh.
(bend to you, and the measure of [my changing]↓ / my love for you)
Some say: I am that I am. Others: I will be what I will become.
(is that I do not? see you but [and?] love you blindly)
Crowley's still conscious of a heat in the back of her throat, and a twist in her stomach that she can't put a name to.
(to make you hear as I want you to hear me)
When she sets the glass down, another droplet of water seeps into the corner of the book, and the clear curve distorts the name on the spine (Neruda).
(you occupy everything, you occupy everything)
There are things - still things she can't wrap her agile tongue around and articulate. Because that, first, would require acknowledging that they exist; would give them power. (Maybe it's fear.↓ In her stomach. Or just her hangover.)
([the measure of my changing] I want you to hear me)
But - they've talked. It's enough to be getting on with.
(so close that your hand on my chest is my hand)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He watches her from the pillows; again, she's turned away so that he can't see her face, but he can see that the tension in her body isn't completely gone.

He isn't surprised, but it makes him anxious, because it might be that this - just love, in his view, and mutual acceptance - isn't enough, but he wants it to be. It should be. And if it isn't-- what is?

He fits his fingers a little more securely between hers, and waits. In some illogical part of his mind he feels that this means that it will be all right. She'll come back when she's ready, he says to himself. He can wait.

"I love you," he says anyway, low but certain.

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah," she says.

Which is probably a bad way to phrase it - but just it's as quiet, just as sure, and they're not so terrible at communicating that Aziraphael doesn't know what she means.

After a moment, she turns back, sliding under the covers.

"Yeah," she mumbles again, when her face is level with the angel's.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He beams at her, briefly; he does know what she means, and he can't help it. His arm drapes itself comfortably across her waist, fingers just brushing her back.

It's much warmer now.

[aj_crawley]

Which is nice, true - but when she takes up so little room, there's no sense in not taking advantage of it. She slithers closer, until Aziraphael's legs warm her feet, and his shoulder provides a crook in which to tuck her head, and his arm, solid and warm across her back, lays against the sheet on her other side.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He is happy to shuffle over, himself, to meet her - more than happy, really - and brush lips against her hairline.

It's tempting to drag fingers up and down her back, but he resists making other movements for now.

Maybe one more kiss.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley snakes an arm around Aziraphael in turn, fingers curling loosely against the centre of the angel's back.

Breath.

(Warm.)

"Okay," she says again, wholly to herself.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael tucks the blankets around them - somehow without actually moving his hands - and closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. It's only habitual, but he finds it soothing.

[aj_crawley]

Curled together, it falls into sync with Aziraphael's; in, as he breathes out.

(So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.)