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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He approaches eventually and clings to the rock, panting once again while doing his best to look like he's not panting.

"Yes, all right, it's been a while," he repeats, by way of explanation.

Leaning down, Crowley grasps Aziraphael's hand and tugs him up to sit beside him.

"Plenty of opportunity to practise, while we're here."

"That's certainly true," he says, letting out a weary sigh as he relaxes onto the perch next to Crowley.

"Goodness, look how far we've come," he adds after a moment. His eyes widen as he looks back toward the tree on shore.

"Not a bad view," Crowley remarks, entirely neglecting to let go of Aziraphael's hand.

"No, it isn't," he says with some surprise, looking around as far as is possible without actually leaning forward. A wave crashing in front of them - viewed from behind, now - blocks their view of the line between sea and shore for a split second, then rolls up the sand as another rises to take its place.

"The sound is the same, though. The surf and the birds."

He closes his eyes again to listen. It shouldn't be nearly this comfortable, perching on a rock and half-submerged, but Aziraphael feels oddly sleepy. A combination of his exertions getting here and Crowley's warm presence, no doubt.

Crowley isn't watching the beach.

There's seawater beading on the tips of Aziraphael's eyelashes, and trickling from temple to jaw and down his neck. Crowley tracks a drop, watching it trace a slow, wet trail across the angel's skin - and then, when it's a little way below Aziraphael's ear, he leans to catch it on his tongue.

His eyes fly open on a sharp intake of breath, and as soon as he's relatively certain he can do so without cracking their heads together, he inches around for a kiss that starts at the corner of Crowley's mouth. It's lazy and a little tentative, and difficult to hold, at first, due to an uncontrollable smile.

He'd like to say he knew it would be worthwhile to follow Crowley out here, but the truth is that he'd had no idea.

Crowley runs his hand through Aziraphael's hair, scattering water droplets across rock and the shallow water, before pulling away again and settling back on one elbow.

"Let me know when you catch your wind."

"Hmph," he says, somewhat chagrined when he pulls back.

"I'm fine, thank you." It's mostly true; if his breathing is a little elevated now, it's not due to the swimming. And he's quite a bit more awake.

"Sure?" Crowley asks, fingers still playing over Aziraphael's wrist. "Wouldn't want you to over-exert yourself. You know, it being such a chore to trail after me, and all that."

"I'm sure," he says, a little mulishly. "The situation isn't so dire that I can't keep up when I put my mind to it."

"Good," Crowley says - but it's lost, or nearly so, in the sudden splash, as Crowley pushes himself upright and swings his leg over Aziraphael, planting himself with a casual sort of alacrity astride the angel's lap.

"Glad to hear it."

Aziraphael blinks at him - again - then leans forward, hands going automatically around Crowley's waist to clutch at his sides, and kisses him again; a little harder, this time.

"Why's that?" he asks against his mouth, a little muffled.

"A number of reasons," Crowley replies, hands fastening in Aziraphael's hair.

A little breathless:

"Well, not that many."

"Ah. Good," he murmurs, letting his own hands wander up Crowley's back and letting his eyes fall half-closed against the pull of fingers in his hair. "I wouldn't want you to-- too distracted with-- things," he finishes nonsensically.

It occurs to him to wonder where Crowley gets the energy, but it's becoming rapidly obvious that he doesn't care.

"No," Crowley murmurs, low as the surf as he bends his head to the curve of Aziraphael's neck. "I doubt there's any danger of that."

He feels so awake today. He feels so aware - aware of the sun beating down upon his back, and the lapping of the waves around their hips, and the hard, uneven rock beneath his knees.

But it's not distracting, not in the least.

Because it's all of a one.

"Mm," Aziraphael says, and it's probably meant to come out as another 'Good' but the word is so difficult to form just now, with Crowley's lips at his neck.

His hands trace their way down Crowley's back again until they dip beneath the water, past the waistband of his suit in order to pull him the impossible inch closer.

Despite what rumours may suggest, Crowley is in fact perfectly capable of taking a hint. When he lifts his head, it's the start of a long, fluid undulation; neck, shoulders, back, and finally hips, rolling them down against Aziraphael as he tips his head back, laughing low and delighted into the clear blue sky.

There was something, he thinks, about seagulls and modesty, and how one should be preserved for benefit of the other. The thought floats into his mind again briefly, then vanishes along with their swimsuits. Beneath the water, after all, certainly doesn't count. Or it might count, but--

He stifles a groan when Crowley moves against him, and digs unsteady fingers into his hip.

Crowley, for his part, makes a muffled sound of surprise, though he only pulls away far enough to mutter against Aziraphael's cheek.

"That really wasn't," (between kisses) "wasn't necessary. I mean, I hope you don't think I'm getting up to any more than this on a rock."

"Could put them back if you want," Aziraphael suggests (also between kisses). "If rock offends - mm - delicate sensibilities. Thought I should keep up."

He's smiling broadly now, kisses or no, and he'd have a corner of his lip between his teeth if it wasn't otherwise occupied.

Must be Crowley's influence.

"Doesn't so much offend my delicate sssensibilities as it does my knees - "

Crowley's not at all keen on relocating, though, to judge from his hiss as Aziraphael pulls their hips together.

"Oh. Suppose that would get uncomfortable," he says breathlessly, but he makes no move to dislodge Crowley. His hands trace back along Crowley's legs toward the knees, starting from his hips.

"Been worse," Crowley huffs, finding and settling into a steady rhythm as he rocks against Aziraphael. "Still a, an incentive to be - straightforward about things."

"Mngh," he says intelligently, which sounds a little like agreement.

"Could have -- leverage," he suggests through gritted teeth.

Or they could not, really, as Crowley seems to be doing the work for both of them.