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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The expressions working their way across Crowley's face suggest that it's not so much the case that he doesn't know what to say, as that he doesn't know where to start.

(Something that might be a clue, though: they're all variations on 'amusement'.)

"Have we... not spent decades and decades not seeing each other once? Not even on the same landmass, even?"

Well, barely. The Isthmus of Corinth is a pretty shoddy excuse for a bridge.

"Of course we have; I don't mean there." He waves an dismissive hand, presumably taking in the rest of the world.

"I mean when we're on holiday and you say that you think you'll go see what's just over there, and you'll be right back, and then you don't come back for six hours and I imagine all sorts of terrible things."

He says it in a rush, and the sheepish look is back by the end.

"Aziraphael?" Mock-patient, and patiently mocking, for all the world as though Crowley himself doesn't live with a healthy dose of paranoia. "That's ridiculous."

"Yes, well," he repeats, mildly defiant. The message is clear: if Crowley wants to continue this line of questioning, he can expect a return to the 'soggy' subject from earlier. And no one wants that.

Though Aziraphael wouldn't mind.

"Yes," Crowley agrees, satisfied that Aziraphael thinks so too.

"Anyway," he says, after a thoughtful pause, "'s not as though you can't come find me."

He hesitates.

"It's much more difficult if you leave your shirt and jacket in the house," he points out.

"I suppose I could. In the sun."

"One or the other, Aziraphael," Crowley says.

It's accompanied by an eyeroll, but the demon's been marinating in afterglow for rather too long for it to be quite convincing.

"All right, all right," he says, doing his best to sound exasperated.

"Perhaps next time I'll look. But when I find you - well."

He sniffs, to convey that there will be Terrible Things, like five minutes of huffiness.

"Pff," Crowley says expressively. "The way you make it sound, when you find me, you'll be so relieved, you'll succumb to a fit of the vapours."

He sputters for a moment. "The vapours. Really. I should think not."

His exasperation will likely not last as long as the Terrible Things, but right now it's at a peak.

Crowley props himself up on one elbow, placing his other hand dramatically on his chest.

"Oh, Crowley!" he exclaims, in what would actually be a strikingly good imitation if it weren't quite so... breathy. "I'm so glad I found you; you've been gone a whole six hours. I was positively frantic!"

The exasperation turns stony very quickly.

"And that's the part where I dump a bucket of water over you," he growls.

"And when you do," Crowley says, looking cheerfully down at him, "I will make it a permanent part of your anatomy."

"Hmph. Just at the moment, I'm thinking that it might be worth it."

He'd cross his arms, but horizontal as he is, it wouldn't have the same effect.

"No you're not," Crowley says confidently, before leaning down to fit his smirk to Aziraphael's mouth.

Aziraphael is extremely accepting of this tactic, despite the apparent sulking seconds ago. And it keeps his response muffled.

"Am too," he says mildly, at a pause, then dives back in.

"Uh-huh," Crowley replies, not sounding very convinced. "Right now, what you're thinking about is dumping a bucket of water over me."

His teeth tug gently at Aziraphael's lower lip.

"Sure."

"I will be," he says threateningly, but it's a much-delayed response, as he's otherwise occupied.

"As soon as you stop."

"Cunning," Crowley murmurs (eventually). "Very good incentive."

"Or," he sits up, "I could just bugger off somewhere safe."

Aziraphael is obviously distressed at this, but he pauses before answering.

"Nowhere is safe," he says finally, triumphant.

"I'd get a good six hours while you tried desperately to find me," he points out.

"And then you'd get the bucket of water dumped over you," he says, and reaches vaguely upward.

He lets Aziraphael tug him down again, but not - not quite all the way.

"Well, I can't stay here pacifying you all day. Exciting plans, and that."

He sighs, looking forlorn.

"Yes, all right. I'll bring the books. And the bucket."

"I'll make you sleep out on the veranda."