(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]

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.

[aj_crawley]

Another tremor, in the wake of Aziraphael's touch, and something that has the shape of a moan - except there's no sound to it, but only a wide, shaky exhale.

It's just that they haven't ever - they have, but never like this, Crowley spread on the mattress and no - no other -

(There's a moment, between one jumbled uncertainty and the next, where Crowley wonders with brief, absurd clarity just how in hell the last few minutes got turned around so quickly.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's grateful, if he thinks about it, that there's already a sort of pattern laid out for this. He's never doubted that Crowley trusted him, but the rare moments when the demon shows it are nearly always the times when it's both of them together.

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

He feels so unprepared.

But Crowley is slowly relaxing - or at least is less actively fighting him - and this intense, solo focus slowly begins to feel less foreign. He uses a light touch across what he can reach of the soft underside of the wing, here working deeper into tense muscles, combing his fingers over and over through long, long feathers at the wingtip, and here the short, downy ones closer to the shoulder. It would be easy to lose himself in it if he wasn't focussed so intently on Crowley's reactions.

[aj_crawley]

It depends, perhaps, on the definition of 'relaxing'; every time Crowley thinks he's found a moment of stillness, a moment to centre himself and maybe try and actually breathe, Aziraphael does something that has him t-twisting his fingers into the bedsheets, taut and trembling.

He isn't loud.

(His forehead rests in the crook of his elbow; if there's a sound from him now, it's muffled in the rumpled duvet.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Ironically, this may be why Aziraphael is so carefully listening, watching Crowley's fingers for every movement, every twitch in the bunched muscles of his back.

He works backward now, dragging his fingers more roughly against the feathers' natural growth. And here he distinctly remembers the way Crowley blew across them, how incredible it felt, each pinion warm and tingling. He leans in and breathes carefully on the light down where the wing joins the back.

[aj_crawley]

That -

The not-so-gentle scrape of Aziraphael's hands back - back through his feathers gets a one-two-three of short, sharp gasps into the bedclothes, but that -

(It feels like Aziraphael's breath, Aziraphael's warm and soft breath is curling down every fibre in his shoulder, and every short, delicate feather near the base of Crowley's wing stands up - )

That was loud.

I can't, Crowley thinks. It's a litany; I can't, I can't -

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Paradoxically, it looks like Crowley is getting more tense, not less. He frowns slightly, turning his head to whisper nonsensical soothing noises into Crowley's ear.

He straightens slightly to lift the wing in order to reach the feathers on the sensitive underside. Right here is best, he remembers, just beneath the slight ridge of bone at the leading edge, and another breath of air.

[aj_crawley]

Every, every crackling, electric nerve-ending in his wing and in his back is grounding in the skin and sinew and downy feathers around the join, and when Aziraphael's breath whispers across it again, something - something flashes, something s-shorts -

"Aziraphael," is all Crowley manages, before his hands clamp down on the baseboard, and everything

and everything

goes
(fiat lux)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael presses his chest to Crowley's back even before the shudders have stopped, dragging his fingers lightly across feathers toward himself so that he can edge both his forearms just underneath Crowley's ribs, press his mouth to the back of his neck, and hold on tightly.

"Thank you, love," he says, but it's quiet enough that Crowley, close as he is, might not hear anything beyond a murmur.

[aj_crawley]

He can't tell if Aziraphael is speaking quietly, or if it's just the ringing in his ears. He's not sure if that's bedsheets filling his view, or whether, when his vision went white, it just decided to stay that way. And he can't seem to lift his head to find out. But he can feel Aziraphael on top of him, and he can feel his own ragged breathing knocking them out of sync - inhales mismatched, exhales uneven - and he can feel the slow, irregular motion of Aziraphael's chest against him. Against -

Each time: a soft moan.