aj_crawley | (no subject)

"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?"

"Well," Crowley says, and then hesitates.

After a moment, fingertips pressing uncertainly into the wood of the bedside table, he moves - shifting and wriggling until he's sort of semi-horizontal, and propped kind of awkwardly against the pillows, and his (Aziraphael's) jumper is bunched up horribly around his middle. But he's facing Aziraphael properly.

"I thought you'd be more..."

He can be upfront about this. Like it's no big deal.

"I wasn't certain that you'd, er."

That looks horribly uncomfortable, some removed portion of his mind points out. He ignores it.

"Nothing this morning seems to be going quite right," he says at last, with a rueful glance down that lands on the blankets. "Perhaps I'm just a little off."

- Or, that.

His lips press thoughtfully together, eyes following Aziraphael's gaze to the blankets and then back up again. And then he cranes up off the pillows and places a considered kiss on Aziraphael's cheek, exactly in the centre.

"You weren't certain that I'd what?" he asks.

His head makes a quarter turn toward the kiss before he's actually thought about it.

"That you'd be entirely receptive. It sounds ridiculous, I suppose."

It certainly sounds ridiculous now.

"Well," Crowley says, looking up at him from the soft, deep jumble of pillows. "You're right."

His eyes snap back up toward Crowley, and there's a flicker of hope in his downcast expression.

"Right about which part?"