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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"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.

"You can - " he gestures vaguely at the sand, at the tree, at Aziraphael's book.

"I'm going for a swim."

"All right," he says, but makes no move to open the book again.

"It sounds quite refreshing," he adds, as though he's never considered the idea before.

"Probably," Crowley says, and then he's already on his feet, scuffing down towards the water's edge and stretching as he goes.

He watches Crowley for a moment, then looks down at his book, then back up at Crowley. There's really no comparison.

Knee-deep, Crowley pauses, curling his toes in the loose, clouding sand. Eyes closed, he rolls his head from side to side - left to right, slow, with a long breath in and out before he opens his eyes again.

The water's so clear, here.

Head still tilted to one side, he watches the sun filter through the shallows and lay a moving web of light on the rippled sand beneath.

Breathe in; breathe out.

Low and sleek, Crowley dives.

Well, now he can't see him at all. That's his excuse, at least, for standing up and stepping out of the protective shade of the palm tree.

It's hot. It's blindingly, stiflingly hot and he feels heavier for stepping out into the blaze of the sun. The breeze continues, though, and after a moment to get his bearings (and make certain the sunblock will stay put), he walks hesitantly down to the water's edge and wades in with a relieved sigh.

Crowley hasn't surfaced yet - but for someone who doesn't actually need to breathe, that's hardly a matter for concern. He's still visible, just: a darker smudge under the clear water, cutting out.

(The water feels incredible - cool and clean, streaming through his hair and through his fingers.)

He follows the dark shape with his eyes, wading farther in almost without realising. He does realise, of course, when the water climbs above his knees and the shock of cool over the heat of the sun becomes too much to ignore. Steeling himself a little more obviously than Crowley did, he submerges.

It's more of a flop than a dive, however, and he holds his nose at the last moment.

There's an outcrop of rock just a little way offshore; halfway there, Crowley resurfaces, blinking water out of his eyes.

Idly treading water, he cranes around to make sure of his location - and blinks again when he sees the empty spot under the tree.

Nose held or not, Aziraphael is spluttering when he resurfaces. It's mainly out of habit, however, and he's not looking particularly put out as he blinks water out of his eyes. He can still stand - just - but only the tops of his shoulders are visible above the water line and his hair is mostly plastered to his head.

He sees Crowley looking and waves sheepishly.

Grin just on the edge of visible, Crowley raises his own hand, beckoning.

(Too quiet to be heard: "Come on, then.")

He doesn't wait where he is, quite; instead, he sculls gently backwards, still inching towards the rock as he watches Aziraphael.

He suspects that Crowley is laughing at him, but it isn't as though that's new. Cautiously, he moves forward and leaves the sandy bottom behind.

He knows how to swim, it isn't that, but he hasn't exactly trained to the level of the butterfly stroke. He's grateful that the water hides the fact - this far out, at least, - that his current movement owes more to the dog-paddle than to the breaststroke.

By the time he reaches Crowley, the demon is floating on his back. Not particularly well - he hasn't got enough in the way of fat to be very buoyant - but a little kicking keeps him afloat well enough.

Aziraphael, on the other hand, has plenty of body fat to buoy him up. He's gasping a little when he reaches Crowley and relaxes gratefully into a similar position, motionlessly drifting on the water, closing his eyes tightly against the glare of the sun.

"It is refreshing," he announces after a moment's silence.

"Been a while?" Crowley asks, letting his feet drop and returning to treading water. Aziraphael's eyes may be closed, but the grin in Crowley's voice is audible.

"As a matter of fact, it has," he says, not changing his own position just yet.

"I rarely see the appeal of getting wet all over on purpose. And it's so exhausting just to keep one's head above water. Unless one is doing this, of course."

With a quiet splashing sound, Crowley slips a little closer, and brushes his lips against Aziraphael's shoulder.

"Come on," he says, and ducks beneath the water again, slinking away towards the outcrop.

At that he turns his head, at least, which throws off the delicate balance of his position and his legs sink back beneath the water.

"Blast," he mutters, and paddles off after Crowley once again.

The outcrop slopes up steeply from the seabed to where it breaks the surface, once-jagged edges smoothed and rounded by the ocean. Crowley finds a purchase just beneath the water and settles there, waves still lapping gently at his waist.