aj_crawley | (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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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.

"Hmmm," Crowley says again, his forehead furrowing as the mattress dips (and smoothing again, with the smallest of smiles, as he leans into Aziraphael's warmth).

Aziraphael reaches the top of the bed and curls happily toward Crowley, right up until he realises that Crowley's eyes are still closed and he's not actually moving very much.

"Crowley?" he whispers after a pause. "Are you awake?"

"Mm," comes the response, low in Crowley's throat, fingers twitching on (the slow, measured rise and fall of) his stomach.

While in some sense this might be nominally true (Aziraphael doubts it), he's certainly not awake enough for what the angel has in mind.

Aziraphael's face hits the pillow with a soft thump.

"Mnngnph," he says, muffled.

Before Aziraphael even looks up: Crowley's hand, instinctive and comfortable, curls across his hip.

Aziraphael raises his head at the touch, a phrase along the lines of, That really wasn't funny, Crowley, rising to his lips before he sees that the demon is truly asleep.

"If you needed a nap, you could have said," he whines, but his expression is gentler and the words are still quiet (and conveniently bypass the fact that he himself had suggested a nap back at the airport).

Asleep or no, Crowley's attuned to the sound of Aziraphael's voice - most of all in such close proximity, the tone and timbre and the way his breath is almost close enough to stir Crowley's hair. The demon huffs gently, nuzzling into the pillow, and curls a little closer.

And after a moment, there comes a familiar sound: the low, soft hiss of Crowley's snores.

Aziraphael's sigh comes out a touch less exasperated than it had started. He turns carefully onto his back, scooting up so that he's leaning against the headboard, and reaches for the book that has no business not being on the bedside table.

"I really am quite put out," he assures the sleeping figure beside him as he opens to the bookmarked page. The soft sounds of the surf drift in the window on a gentle breeze, and he has to suppress a contented sigh.

One hand holds the book; the other slides down to rest in Crowley's hair.