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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"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."

"Mm," he agrees lazily, leaning in again, quickly, and then - yes, alright, once more - and then stepping back.

"Okay. Bags?" he suggests.

They're probably on the carousel by now.

When Crowley steps back, Aziraphael almost forgets to let go of his jumper.

"Yes, bags," he agrees, once he's got his bearings. They turn toward the baggage claim, walking a little more closely together than necessary through the terminal.

After a few seconds, Aziraphael's hand darts out to give Crowley's a momentary squeeze.

Their bags are indeed already on the carousel - amongst the last half-dozen, even, the crowd already dispersed.

Crowley does not bark Aziraphael's shins with his case.

Not even accidentally.

There's a car outside waiting to drive them to the house (a last-minute cancellation had meant that this high class service was available), and most of the ride is spent in small talk or silence, hands joined low on the back seat where, at Aziraphael's insistence, the driver can't see.

It's the same house. Crowley spares a moment to wonder how Aziraphael managed to contact its owner, never mind persuade him to lend it out. But his thoughts are still hazy, still sleepy, and in the end he decides: he probably shouldn't be surprised. Aziraphael always has been just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.

It's the same house. The first thing he does, after he drops his bag carelessly on the kitchen tiles, is step out onto the whitewashed wood of the little veranda. It's just a tiny bit more faded, just a tiny bit more weathered, and where Crowley leans his hands on the railing, the paint is starting to peel.

It's the same beach. The sky is blue, and endless, and the waves hush softly in the silence.

The breeze ruffles his hair, as he turns his face up to the sun.

Aziraphael detours to put his own bag down in the bedroom, but leaves unpacking for later and follows Crowley outside. The beach is still pristine, and if there are other sounds, they're drowned out by the low, steady roar of the surf. Crowley's head is still tilted back, facing toward the sun like a flower.

The back of his neck isn't accessible while he's looking up, so Aziraphael comes up behind him, leans over and places a kiss just below his ear.

Photosynthesis: sustenance from light.

Crowley makes a soft, warm sound, and leans back against Aziraphael's chest.

Under the sound of the waves, he mutters something - indistinct, because his lips curve in amusement.

"Hmm?" Aziraphael asks lazily. His eyes are on the waves, but his arms wrap easily around Crowley's middle, and he rests his chin on his shoulder.

It has the air of a quote - or a punchline, perhaps.

"You did well, love."

My thoughts are sea-foam and sand.

Aziraphael breaks into a wide smile; it's still something of a relief to hear confirmation, of course, but the line is very familiar.

"I'm glad to hear it, my dear. I suppose repeating a location is forgiveable on short notice. And it served very well before."

It's quite literally palpable: the cold-knotted, exhaustion-stiff muscles in Crowley's back relaxing, gently and gradually, one by one, led by the steady rhythm of Aziraphael's heartbeat, and the sighing of the surf.

After a while (perhaps a long while), he turns in the angel's arms. He's leaning against the railing; they're nose to nose.

He'd closed his eyes for most of that time (resting them, that's all), but blinks them slowly open when Crowley turns. He waits a few seconds, but there's only so long he can hold out when Crowley is this close. He leans in for a kiss that very slowly deepens.

Eventually, his arms tighten just a little.

He can't run his hands up and down Aziraphael's sides, not when the angel has his arms around him. Instead, Crowley settles for splaying his palms against Aziraphael's chest and bringing them to his shoulders in a slow, warm slide.

(Not so warm as it should be - but it's not that sort of warm. And when Crowley pulls back, simply for the pleasure of leaning in again, the honey-pink light of the late afternoon paints some colour in his face.)

He does look better, Aziraphael thinks briefly when Crowley pulls back, just before he's swept up again. A small sound escapes him, along with a good bit of rational thought, and one hand slides up to the back of Crowley's neck.

Eventually, he realises he's actually pushing the demon into the railing, and leans back with reluctance. Not too far.

"That cannot possibly be comfortable," he points out, his lips not quite brushing Crowley's.