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 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.

Aziraphael nods, finally looking up from his tea and grabbing his book off the countertop.

"Veranda, then?"

Around a mouthful of apple:

"Tree."

(Well, Twee. But that's not the point.)

He looks surprised, brought up short just as he was about to head toward the door, but pleased.

"All right," he says simply. Ducking his head, he goes outside.

Crowley detours once, detours twice; when he catches up to Aziraphael on the sand, it's with his stolen paperback in one hand, and a bottle of sunscreen in the other.

(And the apple in his mouth.)

Aziraphael has been staring out at the water rather than reading. It's almost too blue to be real, he thinks, though of course he's seen it before and knows better. He glances over when he hears Crowley's approach and nearly bursts out laughing at the apple held in his teeth.

He stifles it, though, when he sees the sunscreen. He takes it as soon as Crowley is close enough so he can have a free hand for the apple.

"Thank you for thinking of that; one can't be too careful out here."

This presents Crowley with two options: a pointed glance up at the tree that's shading them, or -

"Completely self-serving," he says, dropping onto the sand. "I'm not having any plans derailed just because you won't miracle away your sunburn."

"Tosh," he says, squirting out a generous amount into his hand. "I wouldn't say a word."

Writhe around uncomfortably and look pitiful, certainly.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to be talking much in the first place."

He hesitates, his other hand halfway to his shoulder, and blinks.

"I'd be out of breath due to exertion, I take it," he suggests smoothly, rubbing the sunblock on his arm.