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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"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."

"Example," Crowley demands, looking equal parts bemused and affronted.

Another moment of hesitation.

"For example, if your hair is on fire."

"What."

"If your hair is on fire, it may be necessary to dump a bucket of water over you," he explains reasonably. "I don't expect it to happen, but that's an example. I wouldn't hesitate," he adds bravely.

"And - "

Crowley leans back a little further, the better to level a suspicious stare at Aziraphael.

"And in this scenario - how, exactly, does my hair catch fire? Hypothetically speaking."

"Goodness, I don't know. It sounds terribly irresponsible, but at least you'll know that I and the bucket shall be there."

Aziraphael does 'innocent' well, though perhaps not so well right now.

"Right," Crowley says distrustfully. "Lucky me."

"Indeed," he says, satisfied. "I shudder to think what might happen to you otherwise."

He might spend less time in burning bookstores, but that is hardly the point. Hardly Aziraphael's point, at least.

There's a pause (not a very long one), in which Crowley realises quite quickly that if he follows Aziraphael down that path, he's almost certain to lose.

The thought itself doesn't seem to disturb him much - but on the other hand, it's a matter of principle.

Diversionary tactic: "I hope you brought enough books for all the reading you're going to be doing."

There aren't many other distractions in the immediate vicinity, after all, and almost none that don't involve venturing out into the direct sunlight.

"I'm sure I brought enough," he replies. "There was no telling how far I'd have had to go to find an appropriate tree in Jamaica. It never hurts to be prepared."

Which suggests that there's a small truckload concealed in that ratty little suitcase. He doesn't seem to mind the diversionary tactic at all, as though the change of subject was expected.

"I think I feel sort of insulted," Crowley says vaguely, although he doesn't elaborate.

Insulted that Aziraphael thinks he wouldn't have picked a spot with adequate shade, perhaps?

Or perhaps insulted that Aziraphael thinks Crowley wouldn't have found ways of entertaining him.

It is a mystery!

"It isn't as though it's much different from what I do at home," he points out. "I just have to bring them a little farther. Or is the lack of variety what's insulting?" he asks, tilting his head back to look up at Crowley again.

"...No?" Crowley hazards, a little bemused.

Between Whitman, Wilde, and Mills & Boon, Aziraphael usually has a fairly varied reading list.

"No," he repeats, satisfied, and his head comes to rest at a normal angle once again.

"What's insulting, then?"

"Oh," Crowley says, waving a hand in the (rough) direction of the window. "Just that you'd - "

There's a long, considering pause.

"Well there would have been plenty to do in Kingston," he mutters.

"I'm sure there would," he concedes. "As I said, it never hurts to be prepared."

He raises a hand from Crowley's back and traces it across his eyebrow.

"We can go next time, perhaps."

"Bloody right, we will," Crowley agrees, which doesn't do a blessed thing to hide the sort of grin he's grinning.

(Aziraphael's hand might, still lingering by Crowley's temple. But then - he's seen it before, once or twice. It's not the sort you forget.)

He beams back at him in response, and moves his hand out of the way. He doesn't see it so often that he wouldn't mind missing it.

"Perhaps I'll leave a few more books at home, then."

"And I might see my way to doing one or two cultural activities in the shade, if you find any you can't survive without."

He says it with a benevolent - even gracious - air. So it's spoiled, rather, when he adds, "Just one or two, mind. And not on this sodding trip."