a_fell | (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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"I can keep up," he insists. It's a stubborn mantra that he couldn't abandon now if he wanted to, after repeating it so often.

He manoeuvres himself around, taking deep breaths and hoping that his legs are steady enough now to hold him.

There's a soft, feathery fwmp as Crowley's wings unfold from his back once more - the reason he crouches to offer Aziraphael his hand again, rather than simply leaning down.

He scrambles up with Crowley's assistance, dripping seawater from his rather ridiculous swimming trunks. There's an echoing fwump once he gets his balance (the wings help there, as long as he can avoid knocking them into Crowley's), and he stands poised to leave at last.

"After you, my dear," he says politely.

(Another few seconds wouldn't go amiss; he's still hoping that all of his limbs will function properly once in motion.)

With their wings out, there's not quite enough room to turn around - or at least, not quite enough room for Crowley to take off with his back to Aziraphael and avoid a repeat of the incident in the bedroom.

And so he backs up, careful over uneven rock, feeling the way with the soles of his feet until he stands on the edge - heels out over nothing, like a diver on the high board.
(in fact, of faith in something)
He checks over his shoulder, which doesn't accomplish much, and then looks back at Aziraphael, meeting his gaze (yellow-gold to astonishing blue).

"We'll be back soon enough," Crowley says.

Aziraphael could take his wings back in and avoid all that, but now that he's got his balance he's not sure that he could do it without falling into the water again. And nursing a concussion is no way to spend a holiday.

"I should hope so," he says instead. "I haven't looked in the refrigerator, but I'd hate to miss out on whatever else you picked up in the market this morning."

Wordlessly, Crowley scrapes back the tendrils of wet hair falling over his forehead - something that's almost immediately undone when he coils like a spring (or like a snake) and then leaps.

The first downstroke of his wings craters the water, but by then, Crowley is too high for the spray to hit him. He only looks down once as he climbs, at Aziraphael, and at the earth and the sea spreading below him.

After all, they'll be back soon enough.
(All Crowley has to do is save the world. Again.)