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[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

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael looks like he's formulating a clever reply, right up until Crowley's fingers wrap around him and he freezes, blinking nonsensically at nothing.

"Yes," he says, almost too low to be heard. A shudder runs through him, but he doesn't move.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley can wait.

(Though he might prefer not to.)

He occupies himself with further tracings against Aziraphael's side - this time as far up as his arm, and as far down as the skin of his thigh.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," he repeats, then swallows.

"This. Please." His hips press forward, then abruptly stop; he's clearly trying to keep control of himself, and it's a near thing.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's lips quirk back into that crooked grin.

"Here," he says.

He scoots to the side - as much as he can, with Aziraphael atop him - and pats the sheets beside him.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael rolls off obediently onto the sheets, though with some obviously nagging reluctance. He doesn't go far; one hand drags across Crowley's ribs as he moves.

[aj_crawley]

"Other side," he says, which is admittedly somewhat cryptic - until a hand on Aziraphael's shoulder and a gentle nudge make clear his meaning: roll over.

(His other hand is already lifting to his mouth.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He makes a small sound - more impatience than anything - and does so. He looks back over his shoulder at Crowley, though, and one hand edges over to lie against his side, fingers tracing restlessly over soft skin.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley presses closer again, fitting himself to Aziraphael, chest against the angel's back. He slides his foot beneath Aziraphael's foot, slides his knee between Aziraphael's knees, and slides his arm beneath Aziraphael's side, there where it's least uncomfortable, to wrap around his chest and lay a hand over his heartbeat.


Shortly, there's a kiss at the nape of Aziraphael's neck, and Crowley's other hand - slick - reaches over to close around Aziraphael again.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's distracted already, but having Crowley spooned against him like this, contact nearly from head to toe, feels wonderful in itself. He takes a deep breath, one that's much more steady than any other he's taken recently.

One arm pillows his head, and the other hand flexes uselessly on top of the blankets. Once he feels Crowley's hand again, though, it clenches into a blanket-filled fist.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley sets a pace that's slow and even, in time with his level breathing against Aziraphael's shoulder and the muted wash of the waves outside.

There's some variation, though not too much: when he pauses to tighten his fingers, to exert the slightest of pressures, or when he stops before the downstroke for a teasing swipe of his thumb.

But mostly, it's just like this: slow, and even.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael's eyes are closed, harsh breathing broken by the tiny intermittent sounds he can't prevent. His own hand picks up the rhythm, clenched in the blanket and marking out a steady pattern: tighten, relax, repeat. He feels surrounded, secured, and Crowley's breath across his shoulder is warm; he feels warm everywhere. It's so warm.

[aj_crawley]

Sometimes, Crowley scatters dry kisses along Aziraphael's shoulder; sometimes he rests his forehead against Aziraphael's neck, or the back of his head, where he can nose into the angel's hair.

And if, now and then, a troubled look steals across his face or furrows his brow, it's well out of Aziraphael's sight. Anyway, they're not so very hard to smooth away.

This is comfortable.

This is familiar.

(This really is meant to be all about you.)

And it's so blissfully warm.

When there's a change in Aziraphael's voice - tiny, even minute, something in the tone and pitch and other, far less quantifiable things - Crowley quickens his strokes, just a little. A tiny change; a tiny bit faster.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael's free hand releases the blanket and flails around a little, looking for some part of Crowley he can hold onto. He can reach Crowley's hip, tucked up behind him, or brush though a little of his hair if he reaches over his shoulder, but the most accessible is the arm Crowley's wrapped around his chest to put a hand over his racing heart.

He clamps his own hand over it and arches his back a little, concentrating on trying to keep his hips steady.

[aj_crawley]

"There - " Crowley says, pressed against the curve of Aziraphael's neck.

He moves his hand, the one under Aziraphael's, just half a fraction up - just enough that the angel's fingers slip between his own, so he can twine them together.

(Aziraphael's grasp is as much a request as anything. Crowley answers with a faster stroke again; with another nonsense murmur, echoing against the angel's skin; with a fluid twist of his wrist.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It feels like this has been building up in him for days; Crowley's voice, the movements of his hand, that - that - motion in the wrist. It pulls pleasure out of some core within until it's rolling through him in waves, powerful as a hurricane. Aziraphael comes with an insensible cry, squeezing Crowley's hand as though it's the only thing anchoring him to the world.

[aj_crawley]

"There," Crowley says again, low and quiet and between calming kisses. He tightens his arm a little, gathering Aziraphael that impossible inch closer.

His hand slows, but doesn't yet stop; touch gentler, he strokes Aziraphael through it, coaxing the last, drawn-out shudders from him - the last, trembling aftershocks.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His hand in Crowley's is trembling a little as his breathing slows. It's too soon for coherency, but his lips are moving gently and tiny sounds escape, none louder than a whisper.



Eventually he turns his head back toward Crowley, but it's not far enough to see him. Not much of him, anyway. He still hasn't released Crowley's hand.

[aj_crawley]

Finally, when the last tremors have stilled, Crowley's hand uncurls from around Aziraphael - going instead to rub slow, careful circles on the angel's stomach.

With his other arm pinned beneath Aziraphael, he hasn't got the leverage to prop himself up for a kiss. He settles instead for the shift of Aziraphael's fingers between his own, and the steadying rhythm of his breath against the demon's chest.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael curls into it contentedly, but only for as long as it takes for him to get the suggestion of motor control restored. After a minute or so, he straightens his knees and rolls carefully forward, away from Crowley. As soon as Aziraphael's back hits the sheets, he levers onto an elbow to scoot back over.

His free hand comes up to gently cup Crowley's jaw, and he leans in.

[aj_crawley]

It's hard not to grin, seeing the look on Aziraphael's face, but the slight curve to Crowley's lips doesn't do much to help the languid clumsiness of the kiss.

When it occurs to him, he waves a hand to clear away the mess, before resting it idly on Aziraphael's hip.

"Better?" he enquires after a while.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," he says, his voice a little hoarse. "Thank you, love, much better. I was, er."

A handwave that Crowley can't see will have to suffice for the rest of that sentence. He's not sure he could accurately describe it, himself.

Aziraphael is still inclined to wrap himself as closely around Crowley as possible, but that's hardly unusual. His fingers linger in the sensitive area of Crowley's back, just below his neck.

[aj_crawley]

"I gathered," Crowley replies dryly. And, then, somewhat smug: "Least I could do, considering it was my fault."

Well, perhaps not the least - but hardly the most he might have done (or might have hoped to do), either. But it's what Aziraphael had asked for. Eventually.

(And, if Crowley does say so himself, it does seem to have gone over rather well.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes, perhaps," he says. His eyes are half-closed again. "And you can make it up to me again later, if you like," he adds, with a touch of wickedness in his smile.

[aj_crawley]

"Hm?"

He'd been lost a moment, in the space between replies, levelling a faraway gaze at some part of Aziraphael's shoulder and not seeing it at all.

"Well," he says, focus briskly returning. "I was planning to. My way, this time," he adds.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His laugh is weak (it will probably get stronger later), and his half-hearted swipe even more so.

"I was mostly joking there," he says, not at all repentant, "but your way sounds intriguing. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me about it."

He stretches languidly, and his thigh just brushes Crowley's lingering hardness accidentally-on-purpose. Aziraphael had made a promise earlier, of sorts.

Warm as he is, comfortable as he is, there's a sense of something having passed him by, some nuance that he might have picked up, given a few more decades.

But he is warm, and comfortable, and they have a few more decades. His fingers trace lazy patterns on Crowley's back.