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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One of the benefits of Crowley filching his tea: now he's close enough for Aziraphael to reach him, too.

He pushes back slowly a lock of Crowley's hair that the wind has blown forward. It would have fallen into Crowley's eyes if it'd had the enormously bad judgement to grow that long.

Whatever Crowley was searching for, he seems to have found it; the grin that unfolds across his face is one of satisfaction.

(It's a little sheepish, too - but mostly satisfied.)

Aziraphael reflects it back at him - or near enough, anyhow. His hand lingers in Crowley's hair.

"I'm glad we came," he says simply.

"Good," Crowley replies, which does sort of make sense, even when it doesn't.

"Yes," he agrees, which makes almost as much sense. "I should make a habit of arranging unexpected holidays."

You'd say:
"Pff," Crowley says expressively. "This fluke aside, you haven't a spontaneous bone in your body. Any of them."
contrapunto.
This is demonstrably untrue, which Crowley knows from (among other things) very personal experience. On the other hand, it wouldn't be much of a conversation if he didn't throw a few spanners in the works along the way.
When 's a good season for the Staatsoper.

"I beg to differ," he says in an offended tone.

"All right, perhaps I'm not very creative," he admits after a pause. "But unexpected is quite something else."

"Hey, by all means," Crowley says, waving a hand and accidentally flicking a little sand on Aziraphael's leg. A few grains stick to the suncream. "Take this as an invitation to prove me wrong."

"Well, as long as you're proving me wrong somewhere between the forty-fifth parallels, anyway."

(It's not a challenge Crowley much expects to win; what happened earlier in bed is proof enough. But if it should lead to anything else even half so completely and wholly unexpected - well. He won't really be complaining.)

Aziraphael brushes at the sand without thinking, but only succeeds in moving the grains around on his leg.

"An unexpected visit to somewhere between the forty-fifth parallels isn't terribly original," he points out. "Still, I suppose a surprise holiday in Antarctica wouldn't go over very well."

"Most of the habitable world¹ is between the forty-fifth parallels," Crowley points out. "There's 'creative', and then there's 'suicidal'."

¹Habitable by Crowley's standards, at least.

"Are you suggesting that my shop is not in the habitable world?" he asks with a broadening smile.

"Most," Crowley emphasizes. "Most of the habitable world. And almost everywhere worth going on holiday to."

"That depends on what sort of holiday you like," he says, "but as you prefer the warmer ones I suppose I can see your point." He looks thoughtful.

"You did branch out a bit with Iceland, though, come to think of it."

"Trust me," Crowley says, laying a hand on Aziraphael's shin, "if we could've seen the Aurora Borealis from the equator, I'd've taken us there, instead."

"Mm," he says, nodding. "I'm not terribly surprised, though I'm not sure it would have had quite the same effect viewed through binoculars."

"Who says we'd have needed binoculars? This is my hypothetical universe; if the Aurora Borealis is going to be visible from the equator, it might as well be properly visible. I wouldn't've taken us anywhere where we'd have needed binoculars to see it."

Aziraphael is not making any sense at all.

"Good," he says decidedly. "It's well worth braving the - heat - at the equator to see it properly. Even if that would make things uncomfortable."

"Well," Crowley says, and lets his hand linger a moment longer before pulling it back, brushing down the open spine of his book. "Good to see you feel the same way about it."

"Yes," he says vaguely.

His gaze is distant for a moment longer, and when it finally focuses, it lands on Crowley's hand on the book. He reaches for his own, brings it to his lap, but rather than reading he looks out toward the sea and the waves crashing endlessly on the shore.

"It's not a long chapter," Crowley ventures quietly.

"No, it isn't," he agrees, which again doesn't make any sense at all. When he turns his gaze back to Crowley, though, it's as if he didn't say anything at all.

"Read as long as you like, my dear. I'm perfectly happy right here."

For a little while - a few minutes, at most - that's all: just the waves, and the breeze, and the hot yellow sun dappling through the palm fronds onto the pages of their books.

"Fuck it," Crowley says suddenly.

"I'm sorry?" he says, blinking up from his page.

He heard, of course. He'd just rather not repeat it.

Crowley's book lands with a gentle puff of sand, and he boosts himself onto his knees. And because Aziraphael's turned his head to level a quizzical look at him, it's the perfect opportunity for Crowley to cup the angel's face and lean in for a kiss, quick and fierce.

It's a rather stupid grin that spreads itself over his face when Crowley pulls away, and his own book falls closed before he can mark his place.

"Time to go?" he asks, and stifles a whispered "Bother" when he looks down and sees that his place is lost.