aj_crawley | (no subject)

The mug, clearly knowing what's good for it, straightens out of the danger zone. Aziraphael draws a long breath in before turning his head just enough so that his words are somewhat less muffled.

"I'll see what I can come up with, then."

Crowley's in the middle of another grateful sip of coffee; he waits a moment, savouring the way the heat slips over his tongue and down his throat, settling finally somewhere between ribcage and belly, before replying.

"Good," he says evenly. "Eight minutes."

"Mm hmm," he agrees, languid. The hand at Crowley's hip is getting a bit squashed, so he worms it out from between them and eases it behind the demon's back instead. Much better. He raises his cup again to take a sip and then rests his head on Crowley's shoulder once more.

It's going to be difficult to think of something irresistible to do if it involves moving away from this position.

This is not really having the desired effect. Not from the sound of it, anyway.

Carefully smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows, Crowley takes another drink of coffee and then says:

"I hope I hear wheels turning inside that fusty head of yours."

"Fusty," he repeats, indignant. That, at least, seems to pull him out of the sleepy, burrowing state he'd been sinking into. He raises his head to glare muzzily at Crowley.

"My head is not fusty-smelling, whatever you might believe. For all you know it could be rosemary and cedar in there."

The idea pleases him, judging by the softening behind his eyes, and the hand at Crowley's back slides a little farther along so that the fingers tighten possessively on his other hip.

"For all I know."

He shouldn't have spoken up again. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Still, maybe it's better than nothing.

"Well, so long as it's not going back to sleep, it can be anything it likes."

"It isn't going back to sleep; six minutes isn't nearly enough time for a nap," he says somewhat peevishly, though the true annoyance in his voice, never very strong, is already beginning to fade.

"Maybe I should leave you to plan in peace?"

"Certainly not," he says quickly, and the hand at Crowley's hip tightens further.

"I'm afraid you're going to be required for every part of this plan. Er, including the planning part," he adds.

"I suppose that's good to know."

It's meant to sound teasing - and for the most part, it does.

They say that the best lies always contain a grain of fact - so naturally, it should follow that the very best lies of all are the ones that are also completely true.

(And Crowley, it's fair to say, is a pretty good liar.)

"Really, the most difficult part of all this is the bit where I have to wait another six minutes. I'd rather not imagine how frustrating it would be if I had to chase you all over the house as well."

A few seconds pass in silence.

"Perhaps five minutes."

Perhaps Aziraphael can feel it: a half-grin, pressed against the top of the angel's head.

"I feel as though you're missing the point here."

"Perhaps I'm simply making a different point," he suggests. "One about--" he pauses to think-- "the constraints of time, or something equally cryptic and profound."

"What happened to angelic patience? Spending hours in profound contemplation of the infinite, and that."

"The infinite, perhaps, but angelic patience simply isn't valid where you're concerned, my dear."

He reaches up to push Crowley's hair back from his forehead, which seems to support his point.

He sniffs, feigning offense.

"Well, if you're not going to give this its due, then maybe we should wait and do it another time."

"No need for that; I'll wait if I must," he says, feigning a put-upon expression that clashes with his smile.

"However, I believe the ten minutes was originally set to give us time to finish our drinks, and I can drink very quickly."

"Well, if you want to chug the tea I got out of bed and made you, then by all means..."

"Or I could just put it on the table over there, and have it later."

Despite his words, however, he isn't making any sort of effort to move toward the table. In fact he's moving away (toward Crowley) if anything.

Yeah, he decides. Better than nothing.

With a long-suffering sigh, one that swells beneath his ribs and in his belly and seems like it loosens some little part of the tight tangle of knots sitting there, Crowley (carefully) leans back to his own bedside table, and sets his mug down silently by his sunglasses.

Then rights himself, and holds his hand out for Aziraphael's.

Smiling widely, he hands it over and the fingers behind Crowley shift to trace a thin line of pressure up his back through the jumper.

"Thank you, my dear," he says, taking advantage of the way Crowley's head, turned toward the table, exposes the back half of his neck.

"Welcome," Crowley says again, pausing where he is, eyes on the dresser, as Aziraphael... investigates. "So much for 'good things come', eh?"

It doesn't sound cruel as he says it. But that's how it feels in his mouth: cruel and clear, and completely unnecessary.

It happens. You hear about it all the time - he hears about it all the time, in his line of work. A few years on, the same things just don't do it for people. And if Aziraphael would rather just get on with it than play Crowley's little game (no creeping, thoughtful flush at his request for a proposal, no tiny, electric catch of breath by Crowley's pulse at Good. Eight minutes.) -

Well. It happens.

There's no need to be difficult about this.

"Not exactly," he says, pausing his rather close inspection. "I've four minutes before I put my plan into action."

Something about Crowley's voice, though, makes him draw back a little, as though he's being obliquely scolded.

"Is this... all right?"

It's not quite what he wants to say, but it's close enough.

Crowley's breath catches in his throat. The sound is covered, hidden in the soft noise of ceramic on wood as he sets Aziraphael's mug by his own.

The tiny hitch in his shoulders that accompanies it - that's not.

"I think I meant to ask you the same thing," he says finally.

That's not precisely an answer, he thinks.

"It's more than all right," he says, startled into a hushed tone. "Why do - what do you mean?"