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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

"Something like that," Crowley agrees, leaning back on his elbows and biting back into his apple.

"Yes," he agrees vaguely, moving to his other arm. He glances back at Crowley when he starts on his chest.

"You know, I would never ordinarily have chosen this particular place for reading, but that sound is so soothing," he says. "It's almost worthwhile just to come and hear it in the background."

Raised eyebrows (and a pause, until Crowley swallows).

"If you ever get the urge, please mention it."

"Of course, the traffic and conversation outside the shop is nice, too," he says quickly. "But this has a certain relaxed charm."

He dabs at his face with one hand, holding entirely too much sunblock. When he finishes, he has random patches of goo on his cheeks and forehead that don't quite blend.

"So, I thought we might go for dinner one night. I remember we saw a few places the last time we were here, and just never really got around to going."

(The idea must be a very exciting one; Crowley's grinning like anything.)

"Oh, that would be lovely," he says, almost matching Crowley's enthusiasm. "I remember some of them as being quite exotic. For England, at least."

Lost in these pleasant ideas (most likely featuring towering desserts), he rubs awkwardly at his lower back.

Tempting as it is to spend the rest of the afternoon watching Aziraphael twist and contort on the sand with splotches of suncream decorating his face, Crowley eventually decides to take pity. Unfortunately, since it's Crowley, this simply means:

"You're sitting under a bloody tree, angel. I'll do your back before we go anywhere."

"Oh," he says, one arm half-over his shoulder. "I thought you were only waiting for me."

He closes the bottle and sets it carefully against the tree. For a moment, there's only the breeze and the sound of the surf.

"Now I smell like coconut," he says, a little petulant.

"I told you you would," Crowley replies, not at all sympathetic, and chucks his apple core over to lie beside the bottle.

"Besides, I sort of like it."

"I'm afraid I can't see myself investing in coconut-scented cologne," he says, sounding dubious. He sniffs at his arm experimentally.

"No, not like - "

Crowley scowls, though it's half-hearted at best.

"Never mind."

"It's just something to do with sunblock," he suggests. He scratches a spot on his chin, and discovering a patch of extra sunblock, he rubs a hand over his face again. It effectively destroys any hint of the little blobs that remain.

"That smell won't go away for days. Gets into the pores."

"That's what you get for not taking the easy way out," he replies, still unmoved - except, perhaps, for the faint tinge of regret as Aziraphael rubs in the rest of the suncream.

There goes his afternoon's entertainment.

"I suppose," he sighs. "The price to be paid for self-restraint. It's a lucky thing that you like it, my dear."

"Sort of," Crowley corrects, idly scratching his stomach. "I said I sort of like it."

"Ah," he says, looking forlornly down at himself. "In that case, perhaps a nice, long bath would do the trick.

"Yeah," Crowley says simply, grinning up at the play of sun through the fronds. "Exactly."

Aziraphael looks at him curiously. "But normally you don't even wear it," he points out, but he's rather distracted by the look on Crowley's face.

Crowley tips his head to the side to favour Aziraphael with an amused - if slightly skeptical - look. That's all, though, and after a moment, with a snort and a shake of his head, he looks back up at the sky.

If Aziraphael doesn't remember, Crowley will just have to remind him.

Lifting his arm to his face again, Aziraphael lets it drop with a sigh.

"Yes. Nothing for it, I'm afraid, except lots of hot water and soap after we get back."

Crowley's not quite close enough to reach over, which is a pity; after a moment, he pushes himself off his elbows and crawls forward to lie on his stomach instead, book propped open (with a certain amount of negligence) in front of him.

(This does put him near enough, but he doesn't reach out. Maybe that wasn't the point. Instead, the other hand holding down the fluttering pages, Crowley swirls his fingertips through the sand, drawing crumbling shapes, and getting it underneath his nails.)

He'd been bracing himself for something, though he wasn't sure quite what. When Crowley opens his book, however, he relaxes a little, leans back against the tree, and opens his own.

His eyes keep straying to the Crowley's fingers in the sand, of course.