aj_crawley | (no subject)

Crowley's shaking his head, nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Nope. Getting colder. Definitely getting colder."

"Only your own, then," he says, satisfied. "It's just as well; you put words like that out into the wild and there's no telling what people will do with them."

"I don't doubt you'd have a hand in it," Crowley retorts, still affecting grumpiness. "You'd be sneaking into printing offices and adding entries to the Oxford English Dictionary, writing in to 'word of the day' columns..."

"Oh, yes," he agrees easily. "No one understands quite how much is involved in something like that. I have to be quite determined."

"Then leaving it be is a win for both of us. I'm glad we've settled that, aren't you?"

"I certainly feel productive. And your name remains unique and self-descriptive. For the better, I think."

"Often copied, never equalled," Crowley says loftily.

"Quite right," he says, equally lofty.

The leg not currently leaning against the arch of a certain foot slides slowly between Crowley's.

Crowley doesn't say a word.

But the look he levels at Aziraphael is... sceptical, perhaps. That'd be one way of putting it.

"...What?" he asks, with calculated innocence. "I'm only getting comfortable."

"If you say so," Crowley says, although his eyebrows don't seem about to come down from his hairline just yet. "Though I thought we'd planned on relocating to the couch, at some point."

"We had, yes," he says, propping himself on an elbow as though he'd forgotten. (He had.)

It's still early, but at least the sun is up. And there seems to be little chance of either of them going back to sleep, at this point.

"Quilts and old films. It's bound to be quite an event."

Given a little space, Crowley uses the opportunity to stretch. Not as long or as large as he usually does - there's no room, and it's not as though he needs to show off quite at the moment - but enough to loosen out some of the muscles in his back.

"And it's not as though the couch isn't, er. Comfortable. Since you bring it up."

"Very comfortable," he agrees, openly staring at the amazing flexibility on display in Crowley's stretching exercises. It doesn't matter a bit that they're the smaller than they often are.

"Well, there should be plenty of blankets. I did promise mulled wine, but it's a little early in the day for that."

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Crowley points out, with complete and unerring accurracy. "But I suppose if you'd rather let the anticipation build, this time..."

"I can wait until it's five o'clock here, I suppose. I'd rather have tea at this time of day, anyhow, and you haven't had a chance to finish your coffee yet."

His carefree expression fades a little - only a little - replaced with something like mild concern.

"I don't know about 'this time'; I was anticipating a kiss, at least, rather strongly a few minutes ago. In fact." He leans in and drops a gentle kiss at the corner of Crowley's mouth.

"Oh?" he mumbles, a little stupidly, against Aziraphael's mouth. He makes up for it though; quick as anything, his hand is curling around the back of the angel's neck, not letting him pull away until Crowley's finished speaking.

"So sorry to have kept you waiting, then."

The concern fades as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something comparatively delighted. When he pulls away, it isn't far.

"It was my own rule, so I can only blame myself," he points out. "I'm more than happy to make up for lost time, though."

"On the couch," Crowley decides. One long finger prods Aziraphael in the side, just below his ribs. "Come on, shove off. There's a hot shower waiting in the bathroom with my name on it."

It's later than it was, of course, and warmer - and they've done more than enough to get the blood flowing, over the past little while. But up though the sun may be, it's shining down on a thick crust of snow and ice, the bright glint still visible from behind the window blind.

And besides, it's not as though you can ever go wrong with a hot shower.

There's a halfhearted moan of protest, but it's weak as protests go, and makes it clear that he agrees in principle.

"On the couch," he agrees, sliding away.

Then he slides back and steals one more kiss. And then he's sliding all the way off the bed to pull on an ancient flannel robe that looks like it would spontaneously combust if it entered Crowley's closet. Tea mysteriously in hand, he makes his slow way out the bedroom door.

Crowley's apartment building is a sturdy Georgian edifice, all fashionable exterior and solid walls. So it speaks to Crowley's own preferences rather than the state of the building that, even from the living room, you can hear the water running when he's in the shower.

As the steam curls up around him, Crowley coaxes the water pressure just a little higher and turns his shoulders to the punishing jet.

His breath makes little eddies in the clouds, long and even.

I thought you'd be more...

It's alright. He probably wouldn't have gotten it out anyway.

Aziraphael wanders around Crowley's flat with a familiarity second only to familiarity with his own bookshop, humming a carol absently to himself while the sound of the shower hisses from the direction of the bedroom.

Crowley has left the honey on the kitchen counter; it looks like he got it out and forgot to take it with him. Aziraphael can't blame him, he thinks as he opens the cupboard and searches for a likely spot for the jar. It was early. Ridiculously early, and cold out, and Christmas to boot. He closes the cupboard door with mild force.

It was strange, that's all.

Especially when one's specialty is 'yes'.

The water batters down, plastering Crowley's hair against his neck and face in weird, black tendrils. It sluices down his back in rivulets and streams, and makes waterfalls of the end of his nose, and the hard jut of his chin.

Aziraphael didn't have to put it like that.

He hums a few tuneless bars, barely audible below the hammering of the water. It's - what is it? It's something old and familiar enough that he can't, at present, actually put a name to it; as though it's only ever existed as a collection of notes inside his head.

Crowley wouldn't have put it like that.

It's warm and quiet, and he strolls to the window to look down at the rather eerie Christmas morning lethargy below. Icy, chilly, but he has it on good authority that it will melt soon. But not today, he reminds himself firmly, and anchors his hands at his elbows. He's worked hard to have one precious day that he can spend with Crowley, and a morning amongst just a smattering of other mornings to lie still and close to him, something that - well, that he'd thought Crowley had enjoyed in the past, when coffee came second to sleeping next to Aziraphael. All of the early mornings when the angel can't stay are stretching before and behind, and today Crowley either didn't notice or didn't care. He hopes it's the former with all his being, because if the latter, well.

He turns away from the window. It isn't as though he has any right to complain, not after that. Or as though he'd have the right to bring it up, anyhow.

It's just about time for another cup of tea.

Then again, if you want to get technical about it, it's not as though Aziraphael is wrong.

The greatest lies are the ones that are true, et cetera.

The steam in the shower is so thick, Crowley can nearly hold it in his hands. But when he turns off the water (finally) and slides back the shower door, it swirls and fades and dissipates quickly enough, leaving only a heavy fog on the bathroom mirror.

There's no reason for Crowley to own towels, not when he can dry himself off with a snap of his fingers. But then, he doesn't technically need to own a microwave, or a fridge, or a bed, either. He doesn't need to sleep.

It's just a hard habit to break.

The towels are thick, and fluffy, and a cool grey, and Crowley scrubs one over his face and hair to do away with the drips. (The rest will make do with a finger-snap.)

His bathroom cabinet is empty, too. Crowley ponders this as he leans against the sink, watching the condensation start to trickle down the mirror. The drops criss-cross, leaving half-translucent tracks over the ghost of his face. There aren't that many things he truly needs, when all is said and done.

After a brief consultation with his vanity, Crowley decides that he has no particular desire to study his reflection at this hour of the morning; instead of wiping the mirror clean, he simply lifts his hand and squeaks one meditative finger-tip through the fog.

Hardly any, really.

Eventually, the demon pushes himself upright, wraps a towel around himself, and goes to see if he can possibly find his pyjamas again.

Behind him, the doodle on the mirror starts to melt away: two dots for eyes, and a big smiley mouth.