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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]

He's not sure how long they stay like that; it's at least a few minutes. He traces lazy circles and nonsense patterns on Crowley's other shoulder, drifting a little, himself.

At last he pushes himself reluctantly away - not far - and drags his fingers lightly down Crowley's spine.

"Turn over?" he suggests. The half-smile he's wearing hasn't faded at all.

[aj_crawley]

There are two things that account for what happens next.

First: Crowley's arms feel like they're made of spaghetti, or perhaps a few lengths of wet string. He has to prop himself up in stages - erratically, and jerkily.

Second: amongst other reasons, he hasn't nearly the presence of mind to furl his wings away.

Thus, Aziraphael - who reluctantly pushed himself not far away enough - finds himself assaulted in very short order by a faceful of black feathers.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Fortunately, Crowley's not quite regained strength enough for the wing to knock him across the room - or even off the bed - but it's a near thing.

"Oomph," he gasps as the air is knocked out of him, eyes comically wide with surprise. He rolls once and comes to a halt on his back with an arm and most of one leg dangling off the side of the bed, shocked and blinking.

[aj_crawley]

He's surprised enough that his arms nearly give out again, wasting all his hard effort. Luckily, some part of his brain is just alert enough to follow through - to pull Crowley's legs the rest of the way under him and topple him back into a seating position.

"Shit," he says, looking (a little) alarmed, and (very) apologetic. "Sorry."

Only, Crowley's throat is really very cracked, so it comes out sounding rather more like, "Sh  . S   y."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael blinks at the ceiling a moment longer, then seems to focus on his surroundings and his face cracks back into that silly smile. He laughs quietly, pushing himself onto one elbow.

"Quite all right, my dear." He rolls onto his knees and holds out a hand.

[aj_crawley]

Nonplussed, but entirely unhesitating, Crowley reaches out and places his own hand in it.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's presumably Aziraphael's hand that pulls them together, though the angel leaning forward and some trick of his roll has already brought him far enough to slide the other hand into dark hair, inky and dense as the feathers he's been teasing. The brush of his lips against Crowley's is gentle and light, but the angel, at least, feels it's been a long time coming.

[aj_crawley]

Though tingling still with the echoing residues of pleasure, in his current state of torpor Crowley's wings are little more than two massive dead weights at his back. Reluctant to winch them in - especially with the way the gentle breeze is ruffling his coverts - he takes the next most logical course of action, which is to spread his hands on Aziraphael's chest, and sort of twist a bit, and then simply lean insistently into the kiss until the angel sinks far enough back into the pillows that Crowley can drape himself across him.

There.

Much better.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It would be difficult to imagine a more comfortable position, pillows on one side and a be-winged Crowley on the other, especially after so long spent propping most of his weight on one arm or the other when only one hand was at work.

Actually, he may have cheated a little, there. Completely without realising.

His arms go automatically around Crowley, resting (more or less) on his lower back, and he makes a pleased humming noise into Crowley's mouth. Comfortable as it is, this position isn't exactly conducive to his plans. But he can't bring himself to move just yet.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's kisses are slow, and only barely unchaste, lips as dry as the hand that comes up to cup Aziraphael's jaw (to brush a thumb across his cheek, to feather the fine, soft hair at his temple, to trace the line above his eyebrow with unsteady fingertips).

And they're interrupted, more than once, when Crowley simply rests his forehead on the pillow, and breathes - mostly silent, mostly even - from the crook of Aziraphael's neck.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Each time they're 'interrupted,' Aziraphael tries (sometimes in vain) to trace Crowley's jaw with one hand or to plant a kiss on his ear. But whether he's successful or not isn't really the important thing; what's important is the breathing he can hear at his neck, and his own breath whispering close enough to ruffle a few strands of Crowley's hair.

His eyes are half closed again.

He can't run fingers as far up Crowley's back as he'd like, so he settles for tracing ten points of cool pressure on his lower back - spreading slowly outward, then lacing together, then back - and then one hand slides around Crowley's hip and carefully underneath to wrap around him.

And this way, he doesn't even have to move.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley makes a ridiculous vowel sound and says, "Oh

 

fuck

 

Aziraphael

 

if

 

you

 

do

 

that

 

now

 

I'm

 

going

 

to

 

pass

 

out

 

seriously

 

I

 

mean

 

it."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He smiles, biting his lip again.

"I thought that was at least half of the point."

[aj_crawley]

"No," he babbles, "yes, but. Look - stop, stop."

His hand closes feebly around Aziraphael's arm, just below the elbow. He looks... just a little wild-eyed.

"You can have too much'f a good thing."

There's a point where sensitive becomes hypersensitive becomes over-sensitive. Right now, Crowley's closer than not to point four: insensible.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael looks at him assessingly for a moment, then appears to take pity and slowly - so slowly - bring his hand back around to Crowley's back.

"All right," he says reluctantly, against Crowley's lips. "Later."

[aj_crawley]

"Later," Crowley promises, relieved. "Plenty of time."

Shoulders loosening again, he noses back into the warm curve of Aziraphael's neck.

  There: a hitch, and then a long, deep sigh.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He settles back into the pillows, arms returned to their proper places and tightening into an embrace. He's smiling again, a real, full smile, accompanied by a low hum that vibrates his whole torso.

"Love you," he murmurs suddenly, mid-hum.

[aj_crawley]

Against Aziraphael's chest: trip.

Crowley lifts his head and gives Aziraphael a flat look.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael looks at him, hair askew and eyes still a little bleary, and tries to look innocent.

"What?"

[aj_crawley]

"You didn't have to go and make it all... soggy," he says accusingly.

Alright, so Crowley might have said something a little similar yesterday evening - but at the time, he'd been in possession of even fewer faculties than he is now.

(And anyway, he'd been quoting Aziraphael in the first place. It's sickening, really.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Hmph," he says, as primly as he can, given that he's sprawled naked in a bed with a demon relaxing mostly on top of him. "I love you, I love you, I love you. It isn't soggy."

He pauses and gives their position an assessing look. "You think I'd let just anyone drape themselves across me like this?"

In fact, he isn't letting Crowley move away even if he tries to, so his point doesn't carry much weight.

[aj_crawley]

"You'll be sorry if I end up throwing up on you," Crowley warns. "I'm starting to feel nauseous."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"That would be unfortunate," he agrees. "It's just that I like saying it. Perhaps I'm rather stating the obvious, but soggy. Really."

[aj_crawley]

Hoping to shut the angel up, Crowley attempts to dig Aziraphael in the ribs. Unfortunately, he hasn't quite gotten around to feeling like he's made of anything stronger than jelly; it's a weakly sort of dig, and more than a little unconvincing.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

To Aziraphael, it feels more like Crowley's trying to tickle him than jab him in the ribs - and with impressive accuracy, too. He lets out a peal of laughter, jerking away from Crowley's questing hand. He can't go far, of course, but for the moment it has the intended effect.