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 smiles, biting his lip again.

"I thought that was at least half of the point."

"No," he babbles, "yes, but. Look - stop, stop."

His hand closes feebly around Aziraphael's arm, just below the elbow. He looks... just a little wild-eyed.

"You can have too much'f a good thing."

There's a point where sensitive becomes hypersensitive becomes over-sensitive. Right now, Crowley's closer than not to point four: insensible.

Aziraphael looks at him assessingly for a moment, then appears to take pity and slowly - so slowly - bring his hand back around to Crowley's back.

"All right," he says reluctantly, against Crowley's lips. "Later."

"Later," Crowley promises, relieved. "Plenty of time."

Shoulders loosening again, he noses back into the warm curve of Aziraphael's neck.

There: a hitch, and then a long, deep sigh.

He settles back into the pillows, arms returned to their proper places and tightening into an embrace. He's smiling again, a real, full smile, accompanied by a low hum that vibrates his whole torso.

"Love you," he murmurs suddenly, mid-hum.

Against Aziraphael's chest: trip.

Crowley lifts his head and gives Aziraphael a flat look.

Aziraphael looks at him, hair askew and eyes still a little bleary, and tries to look innocent.

"What?"

"You didn't have to go and make it all... soggy," he says accusingly.

Alright, so Crowley might have said something a little similar yesterday evening - but at the time, he'd been in possession of even fewer faculties than he is now.

(And anyway, he'd been quoting Aziraphael in the first place. It's sickening, really.)

"Hmph," he says, as primly as he can, given that he's sprawled naked in a bed with a demon relaxing mostly on top of him. "I love you, I love you, I love you. It isn't soggy."

He pauses and gives their position an assessing look. "You think I'd let just anyone drape themselves across me like this?"

In fact, he isn't letting Crowley move away even if he tries to, so his point doesn't carry much weight.

"You'll be sorry if I end up throwing up on you," Crowley warns. "I'm starting to feel nauseous."

"That would be unfortunate," he agrees. "It's just that I like saying it. Perhaps I'm rather stating the obvious, but soggy. Really."

Hoping to shut the angel up, Crowley attempts to dig Aziraphael in the ribs. Unfortunately, he hasn't quite gotten around to feeling like he's made of anything stronger than jelly; it's a weakly sort of dig, and more than a little unconvincing.

To Aziraphael, it feels more like Crowley's trying to tickle him than jab him in the ribs - and with impressive accuracy, too. He lets out a peal of laughter, jerking away from Crowley's questing hand. He can't go far, of course, but for the moment it has the intended effect.

Well, in that respect, at least. Aziraphael's contortions also serve to dislodge Crowley, toppling him (with a half-hearted grunt of complaint) to the mattress by his side.

Result: suddenly, the demon's wings are noticeably in the way, and the tangle of limbs is rather more tangle than limbs - so it's with some regret that Crowley finally furls them away.

He makes a tiny sound of disappointment when Crowley rolls off him, and a louder one when his wings disappear. He makes up for it by burrowing into the demon's neck, hands finally free to roam all the way up his back.

"Love you," he says again, mischievously, but it's probably too muffled to be sensed as more than a low vibration.

Crowley can guess, though, to judge by the way he huffs: contriving to sound both disgusted and deeply, profoundly put-upon.

And yet (he finds, as his hand settles in the small of Aziraphael's back, as Aziraphael's come to rest once more on his shoulder blades), he can't keep it up at all. Not even the most paltry pretence.

"Yes, well," he says lamely.

The room, in shades of white and pale wood, seems to glow in the sunlight.

He loves how bright it is.

Aziraphael is content to stay like that for a while, taking long, regular breaths so steady that it wouldn't be a surprise to find he's fallen asleep.

After a few minutes, though, there's a soft rustling noise as he tilts his head and looks up.

"Do you know what you'd like to do today, my dear?" He's interrupted mid-sentence by a yawn.

Crowley shrugs, although all things considered, Aziraphael might feel the motion rather better than he can see it.

After a moment, he waves a lazy hand at the open window and elaborates, "Swim. Walk. Read. Sit."

The general gist is both clear, and enormously unsurprising: anything at all, really, so long as he can do it in the sun.

"Yes, I thought you might have something in mind along those lines," he says, sounding pleased.

"The 'read' part sound particularly compelling. I shall be doing exactly that."

Where by 'reading' he most likely means 'watching Crowley,' but he can live with his delusions for a while longer.

"Under the same bloody palm-tree as last time, I assume," comes Crowley's reply - likely meant to sound mocking, but not doing a very good job of it.

Aziraphael's never really cared for the heat.

(It probably doesn't help that the thought makes Crowley's arm tighten a little around his waist.)

"Very likely," he says, making no attempt to move.

"It was an excellent spot. Convenient, comfortable, lovely view. And I never got splashed when the tide came in."

Crowley leans in, to all appearances about to brush his lips against Aziraphael's cheek - but then pauses.

From close by Aziraphael's ear, low:

"Speaking of which."

"...Yes?" he says, still unmoving but eyes wide. He seems to be reddening for no reason at all.

(Actually, he suspects that 'tide coming in' is some kind of terrible metaphor.)

"If you dump a bucket of water over me this time, you're going to be using it as a raft home."

There's a pause, as of lips tightly compressed over a smile.

"Only if it proves necessary, of course."