aj_crawley | (no subject)

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."

"Don't start what, voicing any sort of sentimentality?" he asks, eyes twinkling.

"I'd hate for you to leave. For one thing, I have no idea how to turn on anything other than the lights. And the kettle."

"And what else could you possibly need?"

"Oh, I don't know. Music, perhaps? I'd need something to fill the silence."

"Well, you'd have your Christmas present to keep you company."

"Oh, yes," he says brightly. "What is it?"

"It," Crowley says, tone theatrically matter-of-fact, "is a book."

Aziraphael's eyes widen, and take on an unnatural shine that would be frightening if you didn't know him.

"A book," he repeats reverently.

"Yep," he replies, informatively. "A book."

"What sort of book?" he asks, desperately curious. "An old one?"

"Er," Crowley says, with the good grace (or something like that) to look a little sheepish. "Actually, it only hit the market a few months ago."

"Ooh," he says. If anything, he looks even more intrigued. "If it's new, it may have been something I didn't know about. And if you knew about it, as a layperson, then you certainly did your homework."

Crowley blinks (just the once) and then levels a rather confused squint at Aziraphael.

" - Sorry?"