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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Crowley, for once deciding not to comment on how long any one piece of clothing may or may not have been mouldering at the bottom of a drawer somewhere, instead says, "It was probably SARS. Patient zero."

The Bentley is an old car, which means it's big: broad and majestic and not at all suited to the modern premium on space. Crowley quirks an eyebrow, and the can-sized Fiesta to the left suddenly finds itself... somewhat more to the left.

With a satisfied look, he pulls in.

Since the further comment on his clothes is not forthcoming, Aziraphael doesn't mention the little shift of reality that made the parking job possible. Turn and turn about, all that.

"They were going to Japan, and when he got off that coach he didn't have anything more than a slight sniffle and a lollipop," he insists, not about to give up on little Jamie so easily. He is extraordinarily careful not to open the car door against the Fiesta, though.

"Which I'm sure his parents took off him as soon as they realised he got it from a stranger in an airport," Crowley returns.

Only after supervising Aziraphael's handling of the Bentley's passenger door does Crowley open his own.

Getting out, he makes short work of hoisting open the trunk and handing Aziraphael his luggage.

"Nothing left in the car?" he asks.

"No," he says, fiddling with the zips (broken) and handles (cracked) and wheels (three) and straps (nearly severed) on his ancient suitcase.

"Off we go," he announces, still trying to close one of the fastenings. It's been acting stubborn since about 1972.

Crowley watches a moment longer, something much less sarcastic around the edges of his grin than he'd ever admit to.

When everything seems at least moderately secure, he retrieves his own suitcase from the recesses of the Bentley's trunk and

(pauses for just a moment, just a brief pat above a tail-light, and)

leads the way towards the deserted coach stop.

(It's still raining, but the stop is beneath an overpass. So that's all right.)

Aziraphael follows, mostly carrying his three-wheeled suitcase until he decides that it isn't going to drag any more. It doesn't, but it does pull to the left like a broken shopping trolley. Fortunately, the stop is very close.

"Oh - right on time," he says as the coach lumbers into view.

(They're always right on time.)

They slow, and then stop, waiting for the coach to pull up. Aziraphael shifts his weight on his feet, Crowley shoves his free hand into his pocket, and Aziraphael's suitcase topples gently over into Crowley's shin.

There's one free seat. Crowley takes it.

Aziraphael takes the opportunity to inch up and down the crowded coach, trying to start conversations with strangers. This works marginally well, but there are no colicky children over whom to bond, so he eventually returns to stand in front of Crowley. He clings to a wildly swinging overhead strap and tries (with limited success) not to tread on his feet.

"They all seem to be doing very well," he says, sounding just a little disappointed.

"Aziraphael," Crowley says, low (though the passengers to either side of him have earphones in). "We're going on holiday. You can stop offering aid and succour for a few days."

He glances around once more before he responds.

"You're right," he says, drawing himself up. "I will. No need to seek out trouble. It's just." He glances around at the other passengers, absorbed in their music or phone calls or staring blankly into space.

"We aren't exactly free to do what we like here, so it doesn't feel quite as though the holiday's started."

Crowley tilts his head a little, looking up at Aziraphael. His eyes, of course, are well-hidden by his sunglasses, but his expression is still moderately clear: quizzical.

"Depends what you mean by 'what we like'. It's not as though we spontaneously acquire Free Will when we leave the country for a fortnight."

"I suppose it's not as though leaving the country guarantees constant privacy, either," he points out. "But it's been cold and wet ever since you got to the shop, and I'd like to be useful for just a little longer."

He reaches out; the back of his hand brushes quickly over Crowley's jaw.

"Giving aid and succour is a distracting occupation."

"Ah," Crowley says. Paradoxically, a little warmth unfurls across his expression - though veiled somewhat, muted by a wry and private grin.

"Don't worry," he says. "You'll get your chance."

"Yes," he says, "I suppose I will."

Even if it's after we get back, he thinks mischievously.

"I'm on holiday, beginning now."

"Good," Crowley says, standing once more as the coach approaches the bay outside Terminal 1. The stop jostles him against Aziraphael a little, but then, it's not a particularly smooth or graceful stop. It jostles everybody.

Which is convenient.

He doesn't reply aloud, but nods when Crowley stands and they move (a little more clumsily than is required) with the slow crowd to collect their suitcases.

Aziraphael takes a deep breath once they're off the coach, but Heathrow doesn't boast a lot of fresh air, and he has to firmly tell himself not to cough or sneeze.

The passengers flow past him and around him, moving in a luggage-laden swarm towards the entrance.

Finally, warm fingertips brush once more against Aziraphael's elbow, and Crowley's voice, close by the angel's ear, says:

"Come on."

It's hardly an improvement once they get inside; people are everywhere: running, wandering, or standing stock still, squinting at rows of screens broadcasting flight information. There seems to be a lot of chatter, and the voice broadcasting warnings and pages over the loudspeaker echoes in the vast hall.

Aziraphael stops in front of a likely-looking screen and stares at it blankly.

"Here," Crowley says.

His hand worms into Aziraphael's, only to pull away again a moment later, holding the worn strap of the angel's suitcase.

"I'll check us in, before you give yourself a hernia. You go get in line for some coffee."

He starts to argue - technically, it's not possible for him to get a hernia and they both know it - but it's true that he'd be fairly useless at the electronic check-in machine.

"Extra large, extra hot," he says, and gives Crowley's arm a squeeze before heading toward a badly-integrated coffee bar. It's bound to be overpriced, but 'working' or not, he'll be sure to leave too much in the tip jar.

After Aziraphael disappears into the harried, hurrying crowd, Crowley cranes his neck a moment, looking at the oversized display, then sets off towards the correct check-in area. There, he spends a minute or so watching a middle-aged man grow progressively more purple as the little kiosk bloops calmly to inform him of yet another error. Finally - and much to the delight of a bored-looking steward - he stomps over to a check-in desk instead. Crowley takes his place.

The kiosk gives the demon no such cheek, nor does the stewardess manning the baggage drop seem to notice that she is checking only one passport for two boarding passes.

(Neither, for that matter, does she seem to notice the appearance of said passport, or the dates printed inside. Sometime around 1940, it occurred to Crowley to obtain one - being the going thing, so to speak. Some months later, when he bothered to remember, he found that he couldn't recall whether he'd ever finished applying. On balance, he thought he probably had; thus, it naturally followed that he had a passport.)

Aziraphael, meanwhile, is having a lovely conversation with the barista at the little coffee stand; it seems the girl is looking forward to starting a new job in a few weeks. The gentleman has two wildly disproportionate orders (one a coffee in a size she wasn't even aware they made, one a modestly sized black tea) and seems fascinated while she gets them ready, wanting to know everything from the type of work she'll be doing to the state of her family life.

A second gentleman in dark glasses taps him on the shoulder, and she suddenly realises that four disgruntled customers are waiting for their drinks.

"Ah. Haven't had their coffee yet, apparently," says the first man while she scrambles to get the orders filled. It's surprisingly quick.

"Ready to go?" Aziraphael asks Crowley sheepishly.

"Ready," Crowley says, and then, because he can, leans in for a swift kiss, just far enough to the right of Aziraphael's mouth to be called his cheek.

There's a grin on his face as they move away (directionless; more for the sake of moving than of going); it might have something to do with the oversized cup steaming in his hand. Or it might have something to do with the faintly, self-consciously awkward silence behind them.

(It's fairly smug. So it's probably the latter.)

Aziraphael doesn't notice; he's blushing a deep red, but can't quite bring himself to scold Crowley for the display of public affection.

"Really, my dear," he murmurs, but walks a little closer than he otherwise might.

"I know," Crowley says.

He's not much given to such things: rarely enough within the confines of Milliways, and almost never without - or at least, not half so blatantly.

Sometimes, though, it's worth it.

For a moment, he's silent, sipping his coffee and watching the miasma: angry men, women with headaches, children too bored, or too excited, or too small to keep from crying. And over all, the grating chime and crackle of the announcements, and the whirr of trolley wheels on sticky tiles.

It's second only to Christmas shopping. But that doesn't mean that Crowley has to like being in it, not for any great length of time.

"You want to go through security?" he asks. "We've got about half an hour."