aj_crawley | (no subject)

"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.

He looks mildly disappointed, but not upset; he reaches forward to pull a blanket of his own out of the pile and drapes it around his legs as well.

He's looking at Crowley, the smile lingering on his face, as he raises the mug for a sip.

The pile in the middle shifts and wobbles, seemingly of its own accord.

After a moment, beneath the blankets, Crowley's feet fetch up against Aziraphael's shins.

"So," he says. "What did you get me?"

"I'll never tell," he insists loftily. "You'll just have to wait until Christmas."

Beneath the blankets, his toes flex and curl rhythmically.

"I don't think wilfully enjoying my not knowing is very angelic of you," he points out. "It's practically malicious."

"I feel that I'm allowed, today," he says. "It isn't as though you won't find out soon, anyhow."

"That seems a bit skewed," Crowley replies, toes curling idly in the worn flannel of Aziraphael's dressing-gown. "I'd've thought you'd have to be on your best behaviour today. The world is watching, and that."

"The world is distracted today," he points out, trying to ignore the tiny voice of guilt that needles at him.

"Though, er. I suppose it depends who it is you're talking to. This year, of all days, I'm taking a lesson from those I usually look after."

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Crowley says lightly, palm open. "I'm just saying that I don't think you should be relishing my torment, either."

"'Relishing your torment' is a little much," he says. "It's hidden away precisely so it won't be a temptation. I'm spending the day with my loved ones, no torment involved."

"Don't start that," Crowley says, nudging Aziraphael with his foot in a way that isn't quite hard enough to be termed a kick.

"I may be forced to leave."