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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.

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[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.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley huffs out a quick breath when Aziraphael's leg brushes against him, but - no.

No; if there's still a restless curling in his belly, it's only partly the edged remains of arousal. Mostly, it's simply that: restlessness. He doesn't think -

After a moment, he rolls onto his stomach, cheek pillowed on his arms as he faces Aziraphael. The slow rub of the angel's fingers feels... good. Easy, and reassuring.

"What I said earlier," he supplies belatedly.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Ah," he says, thoughtful. "I believe I do remember."

He's reasonably quick when he wants to be. Pushing himself up on one arm, his fingers stay on Crowley's back, moving with a little more purpose this time.

"Something about-- this," he says, and make sure to duck as he pushes. Just in case, of course.

[aj_crawley]

A good decision, as it turns out; there's an exclamation, bitten off, and Crowley (eyes wide with surprise) jerks against the mattress as - whoomph - black feathers unfold above them.



"Yes, well done," he manages, blinking. "You actually do have some powers of retention. No need to, no need to show off."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"I would never do such a thing," he says, running a teasing hand down one wing, fingers gentle over dark feathers. Then he drags it back up, slowly against the growth, and digs his fingers in, just at the join of the elbow.

"Really, my dear, you overestimate my powers of guile."

[aj_crawley]

Crowley hisses, hands scraping down the bedclothes.

"I'm not sure I do." His words come a little fast. Not tumbling over one another, but - quick, and not entirely distinct. "You're clearly up to something."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Slander," he says, matter-of-fact, and manoeuvres himself around until he can duck past the curtain of dark wings above them and plant a kiss on the back of Crowley's neck.

"And, mm. Libel. I'm just trying to improve my 'powers of retention,' as you said."

As he speaks - between words, in fact - he trails kisses and tiny nips of his teeth down Crowley's spine, long and straight and inviting.

[aj_crawley]

The window's open. It doesn't feel at all like the breeze has picked up. But there's no other reason, no other explanation for why the waves outside are suddenly roaring so loudly in Crowley's ears.

"No," he says. "No, look, I mean, you don't. This isn't what I meant."

The muscles in his back are bunched nearly solid.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael trails his unhurried way back up Crowley's spine before responding, then puts a hand back into the elbow join of Crowley's right wing and leaves it there.

His words are murmured into the back of the demon's neck.

"I know," he says, "I know what you meant. Plenty of time later, if you want. Just relax. Plenty of time."

His voice dissolves into a murmur while his other hand works, warm and unrelenting, at the knotted muscles below the join.

[aj_crawley]

"I, nnn." A shiver ripples across Crowley's back, unfurling from beneath Aziraphael's hand and rolling up his spine towards his neck and down (much closer) to the small of his back. "I know, but - "

There's a flush rising in Crowley's face again, as his palms splay and strain and push against the sheets.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Shhhh," he says, still gentle and quiet, as though he's trying to calm a spooked horse.

"Relax," he repeats. "Just relax."

He can't quite manage the leverage necessary from this angle, so he raises his head to carefully exchange his right hand on Crowley's wing for his left, shifting his weight slightly to the right. Running his right hand down long, shining feathers, he carefully presses the wing down toward the mattress.