Crowley makes an appreciative sound into the kiss, before following it up with, "Helpfully ssspecific, that."
Of course, to look at it differently, it's enticingly unspecific. The coda, the actual, unspoken end of Aziraphael's request, is clear enough, and Crowley finds himself most intrigued by the prospect of taking the idea in all its silent vagueness and - as it were - running with it.
Slowly-warm, his hand slides from Aziraphael's pulse around to his shoulderblade, mirroring the other, fingers and palms splaying in a primitive outline of wings.
(The sun is higher and hotter than when they started, streaming into the room from a steeper angle. It picks out motes of golden dust in the air, and turns the ends of Aziraphael's hair into spun light.
Crowley takes a moment just to look, to close his eyes and print the image on the inside, and breathe it in with the good sea air until his lungs are so filled with it he thinks they might levitate off the bed.)
"Say," the demon says, as though something mildly interesting has just occurred to him. "You getting a sense of déja-vu, at all?"
There's a whole sea of potential in Aziraphael's rather open request - but there's no sense in fixing something that isn't broken.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-12-27 12:57 am (UTC)Of course, to look at it differently, it's enticingly unspecific. The coda, the actual, unspoken end of Aziraphael's request, is clear enough, and Crowley finds himself most intrigued by the prospect of taking the idea in all its silent vagueness and - as it were - running with it.
Slowly-warm, his hand slides from Aziraphael's pulse around to his shoulderblade, mirroring the other, fingers and palms splaying in a primitive outline of wings.
(The sun is higher and hotter than when they started, streaming into the room from a steeper angle. It picks out motes of golden dust in the air, and turns the ends of Aziraphael's hair into spun light.
Crowley takes a moment just to look, to close his eyes and print the image on the inside, and breathe it in with the good sea air until his lungs are so filled with it he thinks they might levitate off the bed.)
"Say," the demon says, as though something mildly interesting has just occurred to him. "You getting a sense of déja-vu, at all?"
There's a whole sea of potential in Aziraphael's rather open request - but there's no sense in fixing something that isn't broken.