aj_crawley: (baby it's cold outside)
aj_crawley ([personal profile] aj_crawley) wrote2008-11-17 03:12 pm

(no subject)

The rain falls like white noise: a soft and curiously enveloping sound, like all of grey, grey London sighing hush. The headlights of cars glow like halos outside the bookshop window, and their tyres swish softly down the road, and Crowley imagines that - even inside - he can still taste the sharp, clean smell coming off the uneven Soho cobbles. Perched on the counter, he kicks his feet against the aging wood and watches the water distort the smooth black curves of the Bentley's hood.

There's a faint, restless energy about him (kick; kick), which he's trying to make go away just by thinking about it. It's not working particularly well. He hadn't slept as soundly as he might; had woken up early; had left to pack, to cover it. And now (it figures) Aziraphael is dallying. The git is probably looking for some truly horrible flip-flops, even, which is - well. Not that Crowley's driving won't get them to the airport in time anyway, and not that the plane would leave without them even if it didn't, but really. It's the principle of the thing. He's ready on time; Aziraphael might have had the decency to do the same. As far as Crowley is concerned, the only person allowed to be willfully late is Crowley.

"Come on, angel," he calls, raising his voice to carry up the rickety stairs.

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