aj_crawley | (no subject)

He makes a hesitant move toward the chair, then turns and very deliberately sits next to Crowley and puts his tea (with saucer, of course) between his feet. When he sits up again, his eyes are still a little nervous.

"Okay," Crowley says.

By now, he's noticeably red, and it's evident from his face that he can't quite believe he's about to have this discussion. But if there's anything he's learned from the past few years - from so very many occasions that it makes Crowley wince to think of them - it's that things unsaid can sometimes speak the most harshly of all.

And Crowley -

Crowley doesn't want to do that, anymore.

He looks at a loss, though, for how to begin.

Aziraphael waits until he notices the flush in Crowley's face, then takes a sort of pity on him.

"I don't - don't really know what I'm doing, you know. With the palm thing. So it's not as though you have to explain anything."

One hand clenches at the other, relaxes, then they switch positions. Finally he rests one on each thigh.

"It's just," Crowley says, slowly turning his teacup in his hands. "I think I, er, came across wrong, downstairs. You looked like you'd gotten the wrong sort of impression. You have to admit," he adds with a wry grin, "we have a history with misunderstandings. I thought I should nip it in the bud."

"Oh," he says, then more heavily, "Oh." He bends to pick up the teacup and takes a hasty gulp.

"Yes, good idea," he adds, looking relieved. He could say again that it doesn't really matter, but clearly it mattered enough for Crowley to bring him up here.

"I only meant that..." Crowley clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Right, you know how, say, temperance is within your purview, and you dutifully encourage people towards temperance - but you're not actually that devoted to denying yourself indulgences?"

"I am devoted to--" he begins in a tone of outrage, then breaks off abruptly.

"My list of indulgences is very short and doesn't endanger those around me," he concludes sulkily.

"Oh, just - go with the analogy for the moment, can't you?"

Aziraphael considers, then huffs a sigh.

"All right, yes. An analogy."

"Okay," Crowley says again, slightly mollified. "So, likewise..."

It's ridiculous, how many issues between them are tangled up in this. How easy it is to put a foot wrong, in the tripwire web of want and need and duty, and who they are, and what they are, and what they should be.

"Likewise," he says, quick and low, "while lust is within my purview - "

And it's so ridiculously easy to misunderstand.

"You're not that devoted to denying yourself lust?" he repeats, already resigned, then hesitates.

"No, wait, that's backward..."

"It is," he says hopefully, willing Aziraphael to pick up on his meaning.

"...You are devoted to denying yourself lust," he says triumphantly, before he follows that to its logical conclusion and his face falls again. It would be comical under other circumstances.

"Wait, why would you be devoted to denying yourself at all? You don't do that sort of thing."

"No," Crowley says, pinching the bridge of his nose, face by now a flaming red. "No. Not - denying. The way you're not particularly temperate..."

"You're not... particularly... lustful?" he guesses, watching Crowley's face carefully for contradictions. They'll need to resort to charades or Pictionary in another minute or two.

"Or," he mutters, "I wasn't. Before. Is what I meant, downstairs, alright? Not - not anything else."

Crowley sort of looks as though he wants to die, which is due less the subject matter, and rather more to the context. He is a demon, after all; the Pope might as well put his hand up and admit to never having been much for that whole 'praying' thing.

It's simply that there's a difference, when it's not - business. Which it always had been. Before.

"I see," he says, eyes wide.

"Well, it. I may have coloured what I saw in the lines with my own experience, a bit. But I really don't think the lines have changed. Perhaps you only had the potential all those years."

Guilt. Terrible guilt. He tries a weak smile.

"Maybe," he says, studying his own palm for a minute before remembering that it's all mostly bullshit anyway. "It would make me feel a bit safer about lying through my teeth during all those reports and performance reviews."

He looks up, somewhat heartened - and frowns slightly when he sees Aziraphael's expression.

"What?"

Aziraphael's eyes are on Crowley's hand as well. He starts to brush off the comment, thinks better of it, and shakes his head.

"If it was only potential before, you know. I'm really not supposed to incite lust in anyone. But it's not as though I can actually regret it."

Nervous laughter, and he's suddenly very, very glad that they're not having this conversation in the main bar.

"Ah," Crowley says thoughtfully, taking a sip of his tea before setting it down on the floor. As he sits back up, he pushes his sunglasses up to perch jauntily in his hair.

"Don't blame yourself," the demon says earnestly. "It's not your fault I have such bad taste."

Aziraphael is Not Amused.

"Thank you, my dear," he says, dry as dust. "I can always count on you to keep my vanity in check."

"Always a pleasure," Crowley retorts.

With a rustling of blankets, he pulls one knee up onto the mattress, turning to the side to face Aziraphael. Instead of looking at the angel, though, Crowley picks at the hem of his trousers for several long moments.

"I probably owe you a thanks as well, though," he ventures, finally.

"For which of my many indulgences is this?" he asks, only half-serious.

He catches himself picking at non-existent cuticles again and forces his hands down.

"I'm, er." Crowley huffs a laugh, dry and soft. "I'm not sure."

He looks around the room, as though it, somehow, will provide the answers he needs. It doesn't, quite, but on the second go-round, he catches sight of Aziraphael's hands twitching restlessly in his lap.

"Your hands," Crowley blurts. "I spent about half the conversation downstairs watching your hands. And thinking about how - soft they were, when you were reading my palm."

Of all the things he'd expected, this was probably near the end of the list. If it made it onto the list at all.

"Well, then," he says, swallowing. "You must have a very good idea why I was rambling on about your hand when I know only the tiniest bit about palmistry."