a_fell | (no subject)

(no subject)

I.II.III.

Consciousness descends on him by inches, and with the growing light that has been edging onto his pillow comes the growing awareness that the other side of the bed is empty.

There's a terrible crick in his neck, as well; he remembers waking with a start after drifting off over his book last night, Crowley still snoring blithely on beside him, and crawling under the covers rather than waiting any longer for the demon to wake. He's slept the night through, and while he can see that it's still early morning outside, daylight has fully broken across the water.

He sits up carefully, rubbing at his neck as the crick fades. The suitcase abandoned last night is nowhere to be seen, but Crowley's watch is on top of the dresser, and a few of his own handkerchiefs are folded in a neat pile nearby. Someone's unpacked, then. He looks again at the sky out the window, frowning; it can't be more than nine yet.

He stands carefully, considers making the bed, and just as quickly discards the idea. He'll do it when he's getting dressed, perhaps.

He wanders into the kitchen with a vague idea of making some tea, discovers a bowl of apples on the counter, and glances out the window for the culprit. There on the veranda, hair lifting gently in the breeze, is Crowley.

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"That's what you get for not taking the easy way out," he replies, still unmoved - except, perhaps, for the faint tinge of regret as Aziraphael rubs in the rest of the suncream.

There goes his afternoon's entertainment.

"I suppose," he sighs. "The price to be paid for self-restraint. It's a lucky thing that you like it, my dear."

"Sort of," Crowley corrects, idly scratching his stomach. "I said I sort of like it."

"Ah," he says, looking forlornly down at himself. "In that case, perhaps a nice, long bath would do the trick.

"Yeah," Crowley says simply, grinning up at the play of sun through the fronds. "Exactly."

Aziraphael looks at him curiously. "But normally you don't even wear it," he points out, but he's rather distracted by the look on Crowley's face.

Crowley tips his head to the side to favour Aziraphael with an amused - if slightly skeptical - look. That's all, though, and after a moment, with a snort and a shake of his head, he looks back up at the sky.

If Aziraphael doesn't remember, Crowley will just have to remind him.

Lifting his arm to his face again, Aziraphael lets it drop with a sigh.

"Yes. Nothing for it, I'm afraid, except lots of hot water and soap after we get back."

Crowley's not quite close enough to reach over, which is a pity; after a moment, he pushes himself off his elbows and crawls forward to lie on his stomach instead, book propped open (with a certain amount of negligence) in front of him.

(This does put him near enough, but he doesn't reach out. Maybe that wasn't the point. Instead, the other hand holding down the fluttering pages, Crowley swirls his fingertips through the sand, drawing crumbling shapes, and getting it underneath his nails.)

He'd been bracing himself for something, though he wasn't sure quite what. When Crowley opens his book, however, he relaxes a little, leans back against the tree, and opens his own.

His eyes keep straying to the Crowley's fingers in the sand, of course.

It also puts him close enough to filch Aziraphael's mug for a sip of tea.

Aziraphael just watches him, oddly amused.

"What do you think?"

"Not bad," he says, setting the mug back at the base of the tree once more. "Bit sweeter than it smells, but 's still alright."

"Yes," he agrees, "but it suits the tropics." He picks up the mug and takes another sip.

"And I don't notice the sweetness as much as you do, perhaps. I hardly even notice it."

"Oh, I know," Crowley replies smartly.

"Of course, yes," he says, as though he should have realised. "Is that why you chose it, then?"

"Oh. Er."

That hadn't really been what he'd meant, but at the same time -

After a short beat, Crowley seems to realise that his answer isn't particularly illuminating. Helpfully, he supplements it with a careful shrug.

Aziraphael just raises an eyebrow.

"Chosen after careful consideration and much debate, then. I should see about finding a supply after we get back to London; it would be a shame if this was the only place it was sold."

Crowley looks up again, a hint of uncertainty in his expression.

He's not really sure whether they're talking about different things. Or the same thing.

(Same difference.)

"I'll keep an eye out for it," he says.

One of the benefits of Crowley filching his tea: now he's close enough for Aziraphael to reach him, too.

He pushes back slowly a lock of Crowley's hair that the wind has blown forward. It would have fallen into Crowley's eyes if it'd had the enormously bad judgement to grow that long.

Whatever Crowley was searching for, he seems to have found it; the grin that unfolds across his face is one of satisfaction.

(It's a little sheepish, too - but mostly satisfied.)

Aziraphael reflects it back at him - or near enough, anyhow. His hand lingers in Crowley's hair.

"I'm glad we came," he says simply.

"Good," Crowley replies, which does sort of make sense, even when it doesn't.

"Yes," he agrees, which makes almost as much sense. "I should make a habit of arranging unexpected holidays."

You'd say:
"Pff," Crowley says expressively. "This fluke aside, you haven't a spontaneous bone in your body. Any of them."
contrapunto.
This is demonstrably untrue, which Crowley knows from (among other things) very personal experience. On the other hand, it wouldn't be much of a conversation if he didn't throw a few spanners in the works along the way.
When 's a good season for the Staatsoper.