aj_crawley | (no subject)

(no subject)

I.II.

He'd fallen asleep.

If Crowley had been nearly too exhausted to drive, he'd been by far too exhausted to lean back and will the jeep to drive itself. The first had required only concentration; the second would have needed the sort of resources which, after fighting to will himself warm against the cold cold cold that had seeped in anyway, Crowley simply hadn't got. By the time they'd pulled into the car-park of the tiny inn, there'd been a tremor - a shaky sort of weakness - in his knees and elbows. He'd barely managed to open the heavy jeep door; barely managed to climb the stairs to their little room; barely managed to hold the key steady long enough to unlock the door.

Shrugging off coats, discarding gloves and scarves and sunglasses, and then it had hit them both at the same time, as though it had simply been waiting for the click of their heavy, wooden door, and the rustle of their curtains being drawn: Crowley's breath suddenly uneven, Aziraphael sitting down abruptly on the edge of the bed, and the raw immensity of the time out on the ice all crashing home.

There'd been such need when Aziraphael kissed him (or perhaps when he had kissed the angel; either way), when they'd crawled back towards the pillows, pressed as close as could be. Slow, and intense, and fiercely tender, and in the time it took Aziraphael to extricate himself, flushed and urgent, to pull off his shoes and set the clunky radio alarm, Crowley'd fallen asleep.

(Wearing everything but his coat.)

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Aziraphael only presses his lips together and murmurs a quiet "Hmm," which is neither agreement nor rebuke for Crowley's adamant cursing. His glances at the demon are becoming a little more frequent, and a little more perceptibly nervous.

"Er," he says at last, looking from Crowley to his empty hands and back again.

"To baggage claim, then? It isn't far, if I remember correctly."

"Um," Crowley says, looking left, looking right, looking lost. "I don't - "

He doesn't know where baggage claim is.

He doesn't remember Heathrow even looking anything like this.

"No," he agrees, though Crowley hadn't actually finished his thought.

"I hope you didn't have your heart set on going straight back to London, my dear," he blurts out at last. "It's just that I thought you might like a detour someplace that's warmer, first."

"What," Crowley, says, turning around to level a look of you are not making any sense at Aziraphael. But -

Behind Aziraphael, there are windows. And outside the window is their plane. But behind their plane is -

Is so bright.

"What," he says again, with a face full of sunshine.

"It's the Barbados airport," he admits. "We were here before, once, but I think they've changed it a bit."

If you listen carefully, there's a faint strain of anxious hope in his voice.

A helpless gesture.

"But we," he says, increasingly pointlessly.

Crowley takes a step towards the window - carefully, as though he's afraid the view is going to dissolve, to shimmer away and then vanish into the low, grey haze of London in January.

It doesn't.

He only moves further into the light.

(You'd say: illuminated. You'd say: lit up.)

"Yes," he agrees again, "but I made some adjustments to that. To be honest, I thought you'd catch on before now, but you were asleep, and, well."

And he didn't have the determination necessary to wake Crowley up to examine the label on the gate in Iceland or to hear the boarding announcement or the pilot's monologue about the weather in Barbados, which might have clued him in. But he doesn't say so, only shrugs helplessly.

"Surprise?"

Turn and turn about.

(Equal and opposite.)

And Aziraphael had -

The light is different. The light is entirely different. Crowley thinks he might need to sit down.

Instead, though, he takes another few steps, and props himself up against Aziraphael.

Aziraphael breaks into a wide smile as his arms go around Crowley. He's holding on tightly enough that his face can't be seen, but Crowley might be able to feel it, given that the angel is burying his face in his shoulder.

"Yes - that's good, then," he mumbles nonsensically.

There's such a smile starting to surface on Crowley's face: dazed, and simple, and rather stupid.

"When did you even come up with."

(He's losing words to a shaky exhale that might, maybe, be a laugh.)

"Oh, I suppose I was thinking generally of Barbados months ago," he tells Crowley's shoulder, "but I didn't decide I needed to bring you here until the other night. It was all rather last-minute."

He pulls back a little, enough to give Aziraphael a quizzical look - though he's tired enough that it edges, perhaps, towards 'mystified'.

(His sunglasses are crooked, and one side of his hair is mussed from sleeping on the plane.)

"Why didn't you ssay? Before."

Aziraphael looks amused, then takes pity and makes an attempt to smooth down Crowley's hair. Of course, it is mostly ineffective.

"That would have defeated the purpose of the 'surprise,' my dear."

"No," he says, swatting away Aziraphael's hand (which turns into an impatient gesture). "I mean, before. When you were wanting to go for months."

"Oh," he says, considering. "I wouldn't say that I had wanted to go for months. But the idea of coming back had been brewing for a while, you might say. And there's no point coming when it's warm at home." He reconsiders that statement fairly quickly.

"Not much point."

Crowley opens his mouth to reply, and then - hesitates, looking faintly confused (again). His forehead furrows slightly.

"Why didn't you say," he repeats.

There's a tinge of wariness to it.

"I--" He frowns slightly, shaking his head.

"Coming to Barbados was never about me," he explains. "I had a marvellous time when we came before, of course, but I'm the one who suggested we go to Iceland in the summertime, you remember. So when you chose Iceland in winter, and were sleepy and cold and unhappy for so much of it--" He shrugs uncomfortably.

"I thought you'd like to go someplace warm for a while. And we know this place."

"But - "

Crowley shakes his head, an unconscious imitation of Aziraphael's gesture, and takes a step back (the better, perhaps, to run a hand through his hair, undoing all Aziraphael's good work). He's tired, and he's - he's not at his best, and he can't conceal the fact that wariness on his face is deepening into suspicion.

"That's not... what I asked."

It's a simple question. There's a simple answer. Just one. So why -

Aziraphael looks a little hurt - and again not at all certain that he's done the right thing.

"Crowley, I don't know what - I didn't say because it wasn't even on my radar as a possibility. The winter trip wasn't my choice to make; we were going to Kingston, and then - we didn't."

He looks away, toward the sunlight streaming through the windows, and takes a slow breath.

"We can still go to Kingston, if you'd prefer. It's much closer from here than from London. And it's probably at least as warm."

He tries for an encouraging smile.

Crowley sags - visibly sags - with relief, raising a hand to his hair again.

(It stays there a little longer, this time.)

"That's all you had to fucking say."

He hadn't meant it to sound so harsh. But he'd thought -

Well. He'd thought. He's tired, and not at his best, and he'd thought of bedsheets and central heating and spending week after week scraping up time that wasn't there to fly home and find an empty bookshop and never once the notes Aziraphael had promised.

I didn't say because it wasn't even on my radar as a possibility. The winter trip wasn't my choice to make.

That's all Aziraphael had to fucking say.

Aziraphael looks extremely relieved, himself; he takes Crowley's other hand on instinct.

"Staying here, then? I'm sure we could both use a little more rest, wherever we end up."

Aziraphael isn't admitting to being tired, of course. Perhaps a short spell with a book would do the trick.

He's not sure whether he pulls Aziraphael towards him, or whether he simply lets himself be pulled. Perhaps a little of both; it doesn't matter much.

Everyone else is long, long gone towards baggage claim. Possibly they shouldn't even still be here. But it's quiet, and the sun is bright through the tall windows.

Crowley's hands fit well against the curves and angles of Aziraphael's jaw, when he tilts the angel's head just so and leans in for a kiss.

Slow.

(Apologetic.)

Aziraphael's eyes close immediately, and his fingers close around handfuls of Crowley's thick jumper. Even the inescapable flight announcements have gone silent for a few moments, and the world around them is bright and peaceful.

"We should get to the house," Aziraphael says when they part. "The bed's there, of course. Er. For napping." He flushes, predictably.

"The same - ?"

Of course the same house, he thinks with a snort - one that melts, after a moment, into a low snicker of another sort entirely.

(They're completely, entirely alone; Crowley's voice isn't quite soft enough to be a murmur.)

"I, ah. 'M also sorry that I fell asleep. Last night."

"Yes, so am I," he agrees, with a small, embarrassed laugh he can't quite suppress. "But it was clear you needed the rest. We have lots of time for, er. Being awake."