aj_crawley | (no subject)

(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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"If you truly expect me to don any sort of bathing attire whilst we're away, it's going to be another thirty seconds," the angel's voice floats down.

He's holding up two truly terrible options, debating between them with more worry than is really warranted. Perhaps Crowley's case of the fidgets is contagious.

"You can buy some when we get there," Crowley replies, perhaps half a second before a much cleverer answer presents itself.

He scowls at the 'CLOSED' sign on the door, which curls a little around the edges.

"All right," comes the voice, "I'm coming down now." He throws both options into his suitcase, slams it shut and buckles it, hauls it to the landing, goes back for his hat, can't find it in the top of the closet, digs under the bed with a determined expression, pulls it out and plops it on his head (trailing dust bunnies), and hauls the suitcase down the stairs.

"All ready!" he announces.

Inner peace, thinks Crowley, slithering down off the counter and pulling his scarf a little tighter. He looks Aziraphael up, and then down, and then up again, and then says, "Dust yourself off; you're not getting into my car like that."

"I'm hardly - oh," he says, as a dust bunny half-dislodges from the hat to dangle down in front of his face. He takes it off and shakes it vigorously.

"Cheer up, my dear," he says carefully, "it's your holiday. There'll be warm water and rum and... gardens and things."

"Yeah."

Crowley doesn't sound terribly enthused, but then, he's otherwise occupied, snatching up Aziraphael's suitcase before the angel can change his mind about its contents.

He's maybe halfway to the door before he gives an irritated hiss and, with a wave of his hand, banishes the case to the Bentley's trunk.

Aziraphael trails after him, glancing around the shop as he goes.

"Unplugged the lamps, turned off the outlets, closed the blinds," he's muttering. He looks wistfully at another book or two as he passes, slowing, but after a glance at Crowley he resigns himself to the ones he's already bringing with a sigh.

It may not have been a particularly pointed sigh, but when Crowley's in this sort of mood, such distinctions become more or less academic. He pauses, one hand on the doorknob, and looks back over his shoulder.

"What."

"Oh," he says, blinking, "nothing, really. I'm sure I won't even get through the reading I'm bringing. The rest of them will be here when I get back."

It sounds like he's trying to convince himself - or that he's just fretting over nothing.

"No," Crowley says flatly, "you won't. And yes, they will."

There's a finality to his tone, one that suggests Aziraphael would be wise not to contradict him - but when the doorknob clicks and the bell jingles and the cold wind slips in off the street, Crowley stands back and gestures Aziraphael ahead of him.

(He's not being chivalrous.)

Aziraphael wouldn't dream of thinking that he was, in spite of copious evidence. Even the angel pulls his coat a little tighter against the chill wind and rain, filtering through the greyish mist outside. Not that the rain touches him - he's learnt at least that much respect for Crowley's car, over the years - but it certainly looks like a miserable day.

With Aziraphael safely out of the shop ahead of him, Crowley closes the door with slightly more force than strictly necessary, and lopes swiftly around to the driver's side.

This door, of course, Crowley closes with rather more care, and he watches narrowly to make sure that Aziraphael does the same.

The inside of the car is still warm from the drive over, but he's been waiting in the shop long enough for the windows to have fogged up a little. Pulling off one of his gloves, the demon turns the keys in the ignition, and directs the hot air vents onto the windshield. As the engine rumbles to life around them, then settles into a deep, steady purr, and as the vents begin to hum, Crowley leans his head back against the smooth upholstery, and exhales.

There's nothing else for the moment, and Aziraphael glances over at him with a hint of worry in his blue eyes. He reaches over with one hand, fingers barely brushing the demon's tightly-wrapped scarf.

"All right?" he asks.

"Hm?" he says, opening his eyes behind his sunglasses. And then, "Yeah. Just - "

He gestures at the windows, at the falling rain outside, at the odd Soho denizen scurrying along the streets, hands deep in their pockets and chins tucked into their scarves.

"January," he says expressively.

"Yes," he agrees, glancing around. "And then some. It's this dratted rain; the dampness makes it worse, they say."

He's had the heat up lately, but that doesn't mean he's some sort of expert.

Crowley shrugs, the movement blunted by the heavy wool of his coat.

"If it's raining, it isn't snowing."

After a moment, he pulls off his other glove, and curls his hands around the old, rich leather of the steering-wheel. It makes his fingers seem paler than they are.

"Okay," he says, as the last bit of mist evaporates from the windows.

He shifts gear, doesn't check his mirrors, and pulls out.

Aziraphael starts to wax poetic about the many beauties of snow, but thinks better of it before he speaks (for once) and instinctively grips the sides of his seat. It's probably some sort of miracle that no one was coming.

Or something.

By most tastes except Crowley's, matters are a little too exciting before they hit the M4. On Piccadilly in particular, he leaves a hyperventilating traffic warden in his wake, and (if he's any judge) at least a half-dozen motorists with more than a few years shaved off their collective life-expectancy.

But that's all right.

Once they reach the motorway, most of the rest of the traffic suddenly discovers somewhere else it has to be.

Aziraphael's come to expect this sort of reckless insanity when Crowley's behind the wheel, but that is a far cry from being accustomed to it. He manages to keep his outbursts to relatively quiet squeaks and wordless noises of warning, but this doesn't affect the demon's driving in the slightest (except perhaps in that his foot presses a little harder on the accelerator).

Relief makes itself known in the angel by a whole-body slump when they reach the motorway.

"So," he manages on the second try. "What do you plan to do first?"

"I dunno," he says, slanting a faint grin over at Aziraphael as the sodden scenery flashes by. "Sleep, maybe. Or sit out in the sun. Or maybe go sit out in the sun and sleep there. Or see how far it is to the Royal Botanical Gardens."

Noted especially for their orchids, you know.

"Of course, the gardens," he says, a little hesitantly. "They're said to be beautiful, even at this time of year. A little battered, of course, from hurricanes. But beautiful. And the sun will be out, of course."

He's certain that it wouldn't dare be otherwise.

There's an amused cant to his mouth now, the corner of his lips tilting up a little further.

"And it's just possible they'll even have greenhouses. I mean, if they're really technologically advanced."

Aside from the briefest of glances, Crowley's eyes never leave the road - not from care, nor any sort of diligence, but simply the intent, grinning focus of someone who enjoys going very, very fast.

He's not too picky about why Crowley's looking at the road, only relieved that he is, especially at this speed.

"It's possible," he says. The fingers of one hand scratch at the nails of the other. Terrible habit.

"They have to house all those orchids somewhere."

A beat, and Crowley shoots another glance at Aziraphael - this one a little sharper.

He doesn't reply, though. Instead, he simply takes a bend on squealing tyres, expression lowering once more.

"And sunshine," he says again, hopefully. "It'll be very warm. I may have to resort to sunblock or... some other disagreeable substance that smells of coconut."