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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Bristling slightly, Crowley gives Aziraphael an as if, you smug prat sort of look, drags himself to the edge of the bed, hauls himself to his feet, and - well, yes, alright, wobbles (ever so faintly) over to the dresser.

Aziraphael stays where he is for the moment, watching, but his expression doesn't fade; he hasn't missed the faint wobbling, either.

"I don't suppose you'd toss me my swimming things whilst you're looking through the dresser," he suggests. "I don't doubt you can find them more quickly than I can after all that unpacking."

He doesn't actually expect anything of the sort, but it's worth a try if he can keep reclining here and watching.

Surprisingly enough, the first thing Crowley pulls out is, in fact, tartan-patterned - which itself is more than enough excuse for a grimace to balance it out. He pitches the trunks over to Aziraphael, before moving to the next drawer to dig out his own.

Discretion being the better part of valour, rather than do himself and his dignity serious damage by attempting to pull them on whilst standing, Crowley drifts back towards the bed.

The trunks don't quite hit him in the face, but it's a near miss.

"Thank you, my dear," he says, trying not to sound too surprised. He scoots to the edge of the bed to pull them on, but his eyes are still on Crowley.

Crowley sits, pulls his trunks on, stands, pulls them up, sits again, and finds himself grinning at the floor.

He gets them on, though more slowly than Crowley, and gives him a questioning look.

"What is it?" he asks, folding his hands carefully in his lap.

Much more of this and he's going to have to reach out again. That would be a bad idea if they're going to get anything at all done today.

Aziraphael's being bloody disobliging; it means that when Crowley reaches over, he has to pull on the angel's elbow instead to tug him to his feet.

The ease of keeping his hands to himself isn't much improved by standing, but they stay at his sides while he casts around vaguely for his discarded book.

Crowley's fingers sort of -

His grip loosens on Aziraphael's elbow, as though he's about to let go, and then tightens again uncertainly.

He knows exactly where his book is, to be honest; it's right there on the bedside table where he'd left it before crawling beneath the covers last night.

But the grip of Crowley's fingers hints that the continued contact is not unintentional. And that's all the suggestion he needs to allow his hands to drift forward and brush against the sides of Crowley's hips.

Crowley steps forward - a tight half-step, only, before hesitating. He looks down at the floor again, away out the window, and then back up.

(He looks like he's not sure what he's on the edge of, but that's not true at all.)

Aziraphael lets his hands drift higher, above the waistband of Crowley's suit where he encounters smooth skin.

Certainly not helpful. He takes a breath, and waits.

His fingers tighten again, almost enough to be painful. And just for a moment, his jaw works silently.

"I got some tea, as well," Crowley says.

"Did you?" Aziraphael asks, beaming again. "That was very thoughtful of you. What kind?"

His hand drops from Aziraphael's elbow as he shrugs, voice lightening once again.

"A few. Saw a mango one I thought would be - " he jerks his head towards the scene outside the window, " - appropriate, sort of."

"Yes, quite," he says, not so willing to drop his own hands.

"Very, er. Tropical. Fruits make excellent flavoured teas."

"Anyway."

He scratches at his jaw, and steps back, shrugging again.

"They're in the cupboard."

Aziraphael's hands drop to his sides once again as Crowley steps back.

"I'll make some to have while I read, then. Would you like a cup?"

He seems about to say something different, but then -

"No. Maybe later."

"All right, then," he says, and starts to move toward the door. "I'll just put the kettle on."

And leans in to brush his lips across Crowley's cheek as he passes. On holiday, and all.

A few steps bring Crowley to the window, where he leans on the sill, fingering the shallow grooves worn by the shutter bolts.

I got some tea, as well. For fuck's sake.

A huff: short, and not so soft as the velvety breeze.

(When he looks down at his hands, the memory of Aziraphael's - weight sneaks up on him. His forehead furrows.)

But then - there's the velvety breeze, and the sun on the vivid green palms, and the sky that seems like it could go on forever. Even though it won't.

And the smell of mango tea.

With another huff, he pushes himself upright, and pads into the kitchen.

Aziraphael is just pouring the tea from a small pot into a mug when Crowley comes in. He picks up the mug and takes a deep breath from the steam rising above it.

"An excellent blend, my dear; you did well," he says, and hums appreciatively as he takes a sip.

"'Course I did," Crowley says, as though Aziraphael has just pointed out that grass is green and the Pope is Catholic.

He snags another apple from the bowl, tossing it restlessly from hand to hand.

"You headed down to the tree, when you're done, or staying up here?"

The veranda has chairs, but not much shade to speak of; the tree, vice-versa.

"Wherever you're going," he says, still intent on his tea.

"I suppose I can bear the sunshine until you finish your chapter. And I can bring this with me."

Crowley fumbles, but catches the apple before it splats on the tiles.

"Fair enough," he says.