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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"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."

"You won't even see the bucket," he promises. "Unless you run off."

"You could just stop being a wet blanket and come with me."

He brightens, blinking.

"Oh," he says at last. "Er. Perhaps I will."

"I mean," he adds after a moment, "assuming you can keep up."

It's probably a coincidence that Crowley's hand is currently tracing idly over Aziraphael's stomach.

Probably.

Aziraphael looks down at Crowley's hand, and has to clear his throat before speaking.

"I can keep up. I won't be weighed down by anything if I'm coming along."

"Hmm," Crowley says, but doesn't pass any further comment - just gives Aziraphael's stomach an amused pat and then pushes himself upright again, sitting cross-legged on the blankets.

Aziraphael purses his lips at him for a moment, daring the demon to speak, then sits up as well.

"I suppose I should get my bathing suit on, at least."

"If you like," Crowley allows generously. "I know you'd hate to offend the seagulls' delicate sensibilities."

"I would," he agrees mulishly, "but there's no telling who we might run into. If, er." He eyes Crowley.

"Where are we going?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I thought I'd read a little longer. I was in the middle of a chapter."

At least, he thinks he was in the middle of a chapter. Probably. He'd been concentrating pretty hard on lounging, so it's possible he may have lost track.

"That sounds lovely," he says, brightening once again. "I shall join you, then, and we'll leave when you finish."

He's read his own book enough times to be confident that he can put it down when required. Probably.

"Or not," Crowley replies, slow and easy, with a shrug that says it all.

(He's turned a little, like he's gazing out the window, but his eyes are closed in the breeze.)

"Or not," he echoes, with a wide smile that almost spills over into laughter.

"I'm entirely at your disposal, my dear."

(Here's the thing: they'd never - )

He's gotten as far as sitting up, and the edge of the bed is right there, and it feels like the sun outside is practically singing to him.

But it's shockingly hard to pull away.

Because Aziraphael didn't have any reason to do this.

He'd just thought that Crowley looked wretched.