(no subject)

[a_fell]

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.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

"I really am, mm," Crowley says. "I'm very grateful."

He loves how green the palm fronds are. Sunkissed, and floating in the breeze - a vivid, living green.

It's his other hand now that toys with the hem of Aziraphael's fantastically horrible pyjama shirt. And then (a pause), he slides it underneath, fingertips just barely brushing the skin of Aziraphael's stomach.

"Extremely grateful," he leers.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael swallows hard. All this has been very hard on his sense of self-restraint.

"As I seem to recall you said once, this really is meant to be all about you," he points out once he feels a little more in control of himself. His hand is winding into the untucked tail of Crowley's shirt.

[aj_crawley]

"All about me?" Crowley echoes, between scattered kisses along the angel's jaw. "That does sound like something I'd say. But I'm not sure how it really applies..."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"No?" he asks, eyes drifting closed and then blinking slowly open again with what is apparently a great effort.

"I'll be happy to show you, then," he says, pulling back and tugging lightly on Crowley's hand.

[aj_crawley]

"Um," Crowley says eloquently. "That's not really what. Uh."

He lags a little behind Aziraphael, something faintly uncertain in his face, but allows himself to be led nevertheless.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael leads him back the way he'd come, into the bedroom with the still-open window, the still-rumpled bed, the watch and the handkerchiefs and the book on the bedside table.

"Much more sturdy than the chair," he mumbles almost inaudibly, and showing very little of his usual restraint, he turns to kiss Crowley deeply while his hands go to the buttons on the demon's shirt.

[aj_crawley]

There's little to do while Aziraphael's hands are in the way, so Crowley contents himself with threading his fingers through the angel's hair - reasoning that with Aziraphael's high degree of bedhead, it can't exactly make things worse.

(It keeps Aziraphael close, even when he does insist on pulling back to check his progress.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Well, he can't see when he's distracted that way. It's hard enough to concentrate on buttons as it is, with Crowley's tongue fairly twisting around his own and Crowley's hands fingering interesting new shapes in his hair.

Twice he almost gives up and puts his arms around Crowley's neck or waist (depending on how far along he is, of course), but after what must have been hours, at last the buttons have all been pulled through their infernally tiny holes, the shirt hangs open and he can slide his hands underneath.

[aj_crawley]

The feeling of Aziraphael's palms, smooth and soft, elicits a pleased hum, echoing in Crowley's throat and against Aziraphael's lips.

As should surprise no one, the demon has little reservation in taking the easy way out; while he begins to open the first few buttons of Aziraphael's pyjamas simply for the sake of it, for the sensation of his knuckles brushing the skin of Aziraphael's chest, he gets only halfway before the rest of the buttons find themselves mysteriously undone.

His fingertips skirt above the angel's waistband, tantalisingly close, before skimming up to slide the shirt from Aziraphael's shoulders.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He wriggles out of the shirt impatiently and lets it slide to the floor before his hands find their way back onto Crowley as though magnetised. It's only a pyjama top, a horrible pattern of clashing colours woven into an approximation of plaid, but it's still surprising that he makes no attempt to tidy it away.

He pushes Crowley's shirt off his shoulders as well, uses his hands to trace down his arms to push off the sleeves.

[aj_crawley]

There's a moment where the sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, refuse to peel off quite as they should. But Crowley wrestles free of them quickly enough, hands going back to Aziraphael's waist where they make good on their promise: sly, hot fingers snaking beneath the waistband of the angel's pyjamas.

This -

(really is meant to be all about you)

Yes. This is familiar ground.

"I hope," Crowley says, grin smug and voice breathless. "I hope you didn't have any plans for this morning."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Hmm," Aziraphael hums through his smile. His breath catches when Crowley's fingers insinuate themselves beneath his waistband, but he's - there - got past the button, at least, on Crowley's trousers. This stretchy waistband affair on the pyjama bottoms isn't fair at all, he thinks vaguely. To even the odds, (or so he tells himself), he edges the two of them, gently but inexorably, in the direction of the bed.

"That depends entirely," he says, "upon what you mean by plans." and leans carefully forward until both of them topple onto the rumpled blankets.

[aj_crawley]

The thing about literally falling into bed is that it isn't at all as romantic as it sounds - far too many opportunities for knocking foreheads or noses, or for landing elbows and knees in unfortunate places. This morning, however, they strike lucky; the only casualty of the springy mattress is Crowley's chin, which gets rather a bump from Aziraphael's shoulder.

(Or, to put it another way: Aziraphael's shoulder, which gets a rather sharp jab from Crowley's chin.)

"Other plans," he clarifies, rubbing his chin and grinning behind his hand.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Terribly sorry," Aziraphael says, not sounding particularly sorry at all, but he does duck a little lower to drop kisses along Crowley's jaw. It's close to his chin, after all.

He braces his weight on one elbow, which means the other hand is free to roam. It does, slowly, lingering on Crowley's face, the underside of his chin, that ever-fascinating collarbone.

It might occur to him to move up the bed sooner or later.

[aj_crawley]

Kissing along Crowley's jaw, Aziraphael probably feels it before he sees it: a deep breath, chest rising under the angel's fingers, and then - jaw cracking, breath warm - Crowley yawns.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"I do hope you aren't getting tired," the angel says, a warning note in his voice. His free hand abruptly detours from its lazy tracery to slide all the way down Crowley's chest, past the open button of his trousers, and makes short work of the zipper there.

[aj_crawley]

"Joking," Crowley says, though there's a certain - hitch to his snigger, layered over the purr of his zipper. His fingers press gently around Aziraphael's arm.

"Won't do it again."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"I should certainly hope not," Aziraphael says, a playful note of warning in his voice. He doesn't move his arm, but doesn't lift his hand, either.

"Perhaps we should--" he begins, nodding in the direction of the headboard. Their legs are mostly on the bed, but falling onto it has ended with them in a haphazard sprawl.

[aj_crawley]

Expression comically polite, Crowley makes an after you sort of gesture.

Aziraphael is lying on top of him, after all.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Hmm," he says, and with a sigh, he backs carefully (gangly elbows have minds of their own) into a hunch at the end of the bed so that Crowley can move backward.

The shift in position doesn't pacify the hungry look in his eyes, however.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's well aware; it makes it hard to slither up the bed with quite as much grace as he'd have liked. He gets there, though, and even manages to avoid bumping his head against the headboard in his distraction.

The pillows are - had he noticed how downy they were, before falling asleep? They're so comfortable (he sinks back against them with a blissful grin), and he loves the feel of the cotton against his shoulders - cool and comfortably rumpled, and with a most obscenely high threadcount.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Much better," he pronounces, crawling up to join Crowley with more-than-usual speed and less-than-usual grace, which means that he nearly succeeds in kicking over a table lamp.

"Where was I," he muses, but he stops moving up before he reaches quite the same position he was in previously. "Here, I believe," and he tucks the fingers of both hands beneath Crowley's waistband and gives his trousers a gentle tug.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley lifts his hips obligingly, but, loath on principle to make anything so easy, he curves his hand around the back of Aziraphael's neck and pulls him down for a kiss: slow, and deep, and only a little more urgent than before.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's taken somewhat by surprise; his concentration had been focused on getting the waistband past Crowley's hips (and off, if possible), but when he's so willing to be distracted this way, the grand plan is easily modified.

He takes his time; the kiss is relaxed and thorough and draws a tiny, pleased sound out of him. That furtive hand, in the meantime, is creeping downward again. And this time there's quite a bit less cloth between him and Crowley.

[aj_crawley]

And - there, a much more distinct catch in the soft sounds Crowley's making into the kiss. Suddenly and abruptly reconciled to the idea of getting his trousers off, his hand (tightens and then) releases Aziraphael's neck, going down to push at his waistband.

And if he should have to lift his hips again, to shimmy out of them, then that's - well, that's a pleasant bonus.