aj_crawley | (no subject)

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.

The soft hiss of the shower stops, and he takes a long, steadying breath before crossing to fill the kettle once more. He tightens the sagging belt on his robe; he really should put some clothes on, he thinks, but this is a day for not doing responsible things like getting dressed until he wants to. And he won't want to until at least after breakfast. It's his day off, so there, and he's determined to enjoy it.

He turns on the kettle and stares blankly around the spotless kitchen, then goes to rinse out his mug. It's not precisely necessary, but the warm water running over his fingers is distracting, calming. Perhaps Crowley is onto something with this shower habit after all.

The kettle clicks off the moment he finishes packing the tea ball (of course), and he sets it back on its cradle after he's poured. Habit has dictated enough water for two.

More fool him.

"Largo al factotum della città!"

Crowley's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, pyjama-clad, with one hand on his hip, his still-steaming coffee in the other, and almost zero ability to sing in-key.

(He's remembered what it was he was humming in the shower.)

He looks up from the counter and it's very fortunate, really, that he's put the hot kettle down. He lasts about half a second trying to keep up a dignified front before dissolving into laughter at the tiny pyjama opera.

"Even better than the version on stage, I think," he manages eventually. He pulls something out of the air and tosses it to Crowley: a rose, obviously silk and somewhat frayed around the edges from decades of being stuffed up a sleeve.

He's feeling markedly better, suddenly.

The rose takes Crowley rather by surprise - it's not really the sort of thing you expect, after all - and he nearly gets a faceful of fading petals before managing to catch it.

"What can I say. It has festive whatsits. Associations."

Crowley's - Crowley's just had a hot shower. It makes sense for him to be feeling better.

"It does," he agrees, now directing his smile at the floor. "Festive, and unforgettable." He pauses, almost imperceptibly, at the assault of memories.

"They didn't get my lucky flowers, though," he continues in a stronger voice. "I'd have hated to take them back afterwards, but who knows what might happen if I did a performance without them."

Almost imperceptibly.

"Such an easy opening," Crowley says. "I want you to take note of how I'm not saying anything; I'll be cashing in these brownie points later."

"Oh, hush," he says, "I've had plenty of performances that went just fine, thank you, and those flowers were present at all of them. You were present at quite a few, actually." He raises a knowing eyebrow, which does not achieve the intended sophisticated effect.

"Perhaps it's just selective memory."

"Right," Crowley replies. He draws the word out; Riiiiight. It's not a drawl, not with those cut London i's,¹ but it's expressive enough for all that.

"My selective memory."

¹N.B: pronunciation humour; slit-pupilled i's.

"Oh, I remember a few mistakes," he says, waving a careless hand, "never think I believe my record to be spotless. But I covered them very well, I think. It's an art."

He adds this last with a certain blushing pride.

"Oh, well that explains it. It isn't proper art unless nobody really understands it until a hundred years later."

"I understand it just fine," he sniffs. "And no one else is supposed to understand it; it's magic."

He gestures here, as though flinging invisible confetti into the air. It doesn't look like much in the flannel robe.

The urge to press Aziraphael up against the kitchen counter, to kiss him and to start all over again, is so sudden and sharp that it feels being knifed.

And he can't -

Still, Aziraphael seems about as blithely cheerful as Crowley could hope for, and there's a sort of pride to be taken in that.

Mission accomplished, he thinks.

"Right," he says again. "And I'm sure in another few decades, they'll understand that when you opened the box and the rabbit hadn't turned up again, it was supposed to be a metaphor."

Head and hands still turned skyward (well... ceilingward), he drops his chin first to shoot a sobering look at Crowley before his arms fall back to his sides.

"I see," he muses, with a knowing look. "It's a skill to be envied, true enough, but it isn't as though you don't have many, many talents of your own."

"So you mentioned."

He gestures to the living room behind him.

"Shall we?"

His expression turns curious, but he nods.

"Oh - one moment," he says with a snap of his fingers, and turns back to his tea to pull out the tea ball. He digs the honey back out from the cupboard where he'd stashed it only a few minutes ago and wonders vaguely what Crowley had meant. It could have been anything; there was certainly no short supply of compliments where Crowley was concerned. As with so many other things this morning, though, something about his response felt slightly off.

Crowley waits in the doorway, leaning idly against the jamb and watching.

(All else aside, Aziraphael is only wearing a flannel robe. And for something so capacious, it nevertheless has a certain strange quality of - well.)

Tea finally perfected, implements cleared away, he turns back to the door with the mug balanced carefully between his hands. He takes slow, gentle steps to avoid spilling it; the liquid sloshes close to the top of the mug anyway, so he keeps his eyes trained on it.

"Just tell me if I'm about to run into anything."

It's probably a surprise, then, when Crowley meets him halfway there.

With a rather long-suffering look on his face, he presses his own free hand to the bottom of Aziraphael's mug - nudging it up (the angel's hands still wrapped around it), tilting it towards him, and leaning down to take a long sip from the top.

It is very much a surprise, and he doesn't realise what's happening until Crowley has leaned down.

"It's very--" he begins warningly, and then subsides.

"Oh. I suppose you don't mind it hot. Thank you, my dear; I never fail to put in too much water."

"Yeah, well."

Grinning, his eyes briefly meet Aziraphael's.

"I'm a problem-solver."

"Hm," he says, noncommittal.

"I think I can agree with that. Today." Smiling, he carries his mug into the next room with much less care than before. And, incidentally, it's much less likely to spill on Crowley's couch.

Hm.

After a second or two, Crowley turns and follows him out, trailing behind him just a little slowly - the better to see where Aziraphael seats himself.

He seats himself at one end of the couch, well within reach of the coffee table that's convenient for putting his tea on. He doesn't make use of it now, though, but pulls his legs up and curls around it, then looks up invitingly.

Crowley does put his coffee on the table, but only for long enough to bend down and retrieve a jumbled armload of blankets and throws from the drawer set into the base of the couch. These he dumps in the middle, before settling himself into the opposite corner of the couch and disentangling a woollen throw enough to tug it up over his legs.