aj_crawley | (no subject)

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?"

"It does sound ridiculous."

A gentle brush of fingers, and then Crowley's palm settles against Aziraphael's elbow.

"You know, absurdist humour is huge right now. Have you ever considered stand-up comedy?"

A smile blossoms across his face, unbidden.

"Judging by what I've seen, the times when I'm trying to be funny are not nearly so amusing as the times when I'm not."

"I suppose there's always something to be said in favour of 'so bad it's great'."

He gives Aziraphael's elbow a light squeeze, thumb moving slowly back and forth against the inner crease, near the translucent blue of a vein.

"I can see your cult following now. Seas of vintage tour t-shirts and clove cigarettes, all the way to the club doors."

"More likely it would be a classic novel in every hand and tea in a styrofoam cup."

His breath at this point is not entirely even; Crowley's thumb is tracing over a sensitive spot and it's becoming more difficult to sit still. Smiling to himself, he weaves his fingers, very gently, under the hem of Crowley's (his) woolly jumper.

"Not if you're terrible," Crowley corrects him. "They'd be there ironically."

There's a sort of - there's a queer twisting sensation in Crowley's stomach, but it's easier than one might think to ignore it. His thumb strokes steadily over Aziraphael's skin.

"I thought - "

~~(to make you hear as I want you to hear me)~~

"I mean, look - I thought I was doing your delicate sensibilities a favour, asking for 'a detailed report'." One eyebrow quirks up, over sly yellow. "But I have no problem doing straightforward."

"Ironically," he repeats in disbelief. "It sounds like a terrible waste of time. They're probably the same sort that queue up for live bebop."

Hipsters thus dismissed, he concentrates (to all appearances) on his fingers worrying at the soft edge of the jumper, while not quite touching the skin underneath.

"I was always better at showing you the details than discussing them," he points out, "but I could make an exception. Or do both at once."

"I like to hear you say it."

That's honest enough.

"But I misjudged, I 'spose, so there's no harm in just putting it out there."

He leans up again, wedging an elbow underneath him to bring his mouth up close by Aziraphael's ear.

"I want you. I can't imagine a time when I won't want you. And here," (a kiss just in front of Aziraphael's earlobe), "now," (another), "however you want me - I want that, too. And if that includes not playing the anticipation game or giving me a detailed proposal, then you're more than welcome to surprise me. Provided we're not talking about maid outfits or something, because that's the sort of thing I want to nix at the starting line."

He settles back again, hair fanning and tangling around his face like a nest of snakes.

"I think we can consider receptive an understatement, don't you?"

At last, this pulls an strong, instant reaction out of him. His eyes widen, his breath hitches, his mouth drops open as he turns to see Crowley sink down again.

"I want to--" he begins. In a single, not quite smooth motion he sits up and kicks off the blankets, then clambers toward Crowley and straddles his hips, a knee on each side. The intensity in his eyes is striking and clear, but still he pauses before reaching down with both arms and pulling him into a sitting position.

He fists his hands in the woollen fabric of the jumper, just over the 'A' to bring Crowley closer, so close that Crowley can surely feel the angel's stuttering breath on his lips. And there Aziraphael stops, waging a fierce internal battle. His fingers loosen in the fabric and then clench at it again.

"I can't kiss you," he whispers at last. "That comes later."

"Oh," is all Crowley can muster by way of reply, the rest of his six-thousand-year vocabulary startled clear out of his head.

Aziraphael is - heavy, pinning him to the mattress. Intoxicatingly so. He's solid in a way that makes Crowley's thoughts start to go slippery, and altogether impossible to hold onto; that bypasses his brain and clamps his hands around Aziraphael's thighs without so much as a by your leave.

He -

The slow heat of a flush is prickling up across Crowley's face, he can tell. Hot as a brand; hot as Aziraphael's breath, burning his lips.

(A shiver runs right up his spine, and grounds itself in Aziraphael's fists.)

"You're the boss."

The sun has barely made its tentative appearance by the time they're lying tangled up and relaxed in a jumble of limbs - not that they're paying attention to it. There's an empty glass next to the coffee and tea (still hot, of course) on the table by the bed, but where it came from is anyone's guess.

Their hair in both cases is still a little damp, but their breathing, at least, is normal. Calm. It is, in fact, a new day.

There's still something deceptive in Crowley's laziness; something not quite unwound. But 'relaxed' is as good a word as any, and you'd be hard-pressed to explain why it didn't quite fit.

His hand is still moving, skimming up and down Aziraphael's back and pausing, every now and then, to test the fit of his palm against the angel's side.

And presently, because it's later and because Aziraphael did say, it weaves and curlicues up over Aziraphael's ear and then under his chin, so Crowley can tip it up for a kiss.

He's more than happy to give it, now, and he comes away with a lazy smile and a distinct urge (which he feels no need to suppress) to touch Crowley in return.

If he can sense anything amiss about the demon, he's too wrapped up in their blissful tangle to focus on it, and his mind drifts happily from Crowley's eyes to Crowley's skin to Crowley's hair to Crowley's mouth, pressed against his and as perfect, he thinks, as the rest of him. Words jostle for prominence, all the things he wants to say and rejects one by one. Speech, he feels, would disturb the delicate web they've constructed around themselves.

Christmas, he thinks. The word keeps resurfacing in his mind, only to be chased away again by the blue of Aziraphael's eyes, and the glimpse of a smile that's all the warning he gets before the angel leans in for another idle kiss.

Arm's length.

Eventually, the thought touches off a synapse which sputters tiredly to life, and makes its sluggish rounds of Crowley's brain before returning to present him with an idea.

"Presents now or later?" he enquires.

"I would vote for later," he says, imagining the web crashing down around them. Still, it's not so important. "It's still early, and it isn't as though you won't have any time to twiddle with it."

"Excuse me," Crowley says, sounding offended. "Are you accusing me of last-minute gift-buying?"

"Not at all."

He raises a lazy eyebrow, curious, but still too contented to be truly roused.

"How do you come to that sort of conclusion? I mean a gift for you, nothing you'd buy. You'll have time to, er, examine it. There's no rush."

"Well," Crowley says reasonably, "you said 'twiddle', I assumed... you know, tweak. Fiddle. Make sure it's wrapped and that the price tag is off. Sort of thing."

"Oh," he says, a very slight crease appearing across his forehead.

"Not that sort of twiddling, then. I wouldn't accuse you of such a thing, my dear."

And it can be done with a thought, given their abilities, but that isn't the point. Another kiss, this one lingering and sweet, and Aziraphael closes his eyes for just a moment.