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'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.

Crowley hmms, the sort of sound that suggests it's not the most uncomfortable he's ever been - but nevertheless.

Nevertheless, he pushes against Aziraphael's shoulders, just enough to back him up a step or two, enough to take a step or two after him, hand in his.

Aziraphael leads him back through the house (the beach is lovely, but sand always finds its way into even more uncomfortable places sooner or later) toward the bedroom, placed at the front so the water can still be see through the room's large window.

The bedspread is different, but otherwise the place looks more or less the same as when they'd last seen it.

Crossing the room, Crowley pulls up the blinds - then opens the window and then the shutters, breathing in deep as the velvety breeze flutters past him.

When he turns back, he's already unbuttoning his shirt.

(Clumsily.)

Aziraphael is more than happy to step forward and help him out of it; he gets a few more kisses into the bargain, as well.

It's with some effort that he turns to sit on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off; admittedly it was Crowley's insistence that first prompted the habit, but lately it's something he's noticed even when Crowley isn't around (rarely) to remind him. There are occasions, of course, when he forgets. The slow pace of the afternoon allows time to undo the laces.

Crowley resorts to toeing off his own, followed by his socks - though more from laziness than from any sense of urgency. They've barely been on the ground a few hours, but time seems already to have slowed, melted in the sun and mixing with the soft breakers on the beach. Barefoot, he crawls onto the bed beside Aziraphael, stretching out behind him.

Turn and turn about: when the angel starts unbuttoning his own shirt, Crowley feels bounden to lend a helping hand, untucking it slowly from the waistband of his trousers.

Aziraphael smiles when he feels Crowley's fingers at his waist; he finishes unbuttoning and takes care with the cuffs to pull the shirt off. At a loss, suddenly, as to what to do with it, he stands and crosses the room to drape it on the back of a chair.

There's no reason to have to take wrinkles out later, especially not when they're on holiday.

With the side of the bed to himself, Crowley drops his sunglasses onto the bedside table and rolls over onto his back, sinking into the deep pillows and stretching - really stretching, this time - in the window-sized square of warm, clean sunlight.

On a long, lazy inhale then e x h a l e, he closes his eyes, scratching his stomach contentedly.

The shape of the chair's back isn't quite right for holding clothing; unless actually thrown over, the shirt keeps falling off. He tuts softly at it, considering just making it stay, but really, avoiding having to take out wrinkles the easy way is the entire purpose of hanging it somewhere. It wouldn't do to give in to cheating so early in the holiday. He goes to the closet in search of a hanger instead.

At last, shirt safely deposited in the closet, any danger of wrinkles averted, he crawls carefully back onto the bed.