aj_crawley | (no subject)

"Yes," he says, because he isn't sure what else to say. He's beginning to get a little uncomfortable himself.

"Whatever it is, I don't doubt that it will be perfect," he adds with a little more confidence.

"Right, well." By now, Crowley looks rather as though he wishes - emphatically - that he'd never started this particular conversation.

His grin is... a little fixed.

"Would you judge me if I did go out and do some last-minute gift shopping? Since we're apparently taking our cues from the rest of the world, today."

Aziraphael's eyes widen - for a different reason, this time.

"You are under no circumstances leaving this house today," he insists. "If you want to go gift shopping then we can exchange presents next week."

"I'm joking, you pillock," Crowley says - though that grin of his is still, perhaps, just a little too... toothy. "You'll get your present today, and you'll bloody well like it."

"Well. Good," he says, eyeing Crowley's grin. "So long as you aren't going anywhere on my account."

"Please." The faint pressure of Crowley's toes again. "As if I'd go outside on a day like today if I could possibly avoid it."

"Yes," he says, rather subdued, and turns his attention to the frost on the window.

"It won't be this bad for long, though. Just a cold snap."

"I dunno," he muses, instinctively slouching a little lower beneath his throw. "The weather forecasts are all over the place, last I checked. Though since you can never trust the forecast, I'm not sure where that leaves us. Rains of fish, possibly. Again."

"Pssh, forecasters. What do they know?" A worried crease has crossed his brow, though, and his gaze doesn't stray from the window.

"I'm sure it will get better. And before you say it, yes, I mean earlier than spring," he adds, finally looking back at Crowley.

Dry:

"Thank you, ministry of hope. Though at this stage, I don't think anything'd surprise me. I mean, I'm not saying I miss properly cold winters, exactly, but I'm not a fan of this wheel of bloody fortune stuff, either."

The slightly worried look has, unfortunately, not entirely left.

"Better that than it being 'properly cold' all the time, though, isn't it? The occasional warmer day balances out all of this." He waves a hand toward the window.

Crowley shrugs a little, following Aziraphael's gaze to the window.

"Apples and oranges. Having to - adjust every day can be a bit..."

What it is a bit doesn't seem to be forthcoming. Instead, Crowley's face only registers a hint of a frown, whatever he was about to say (or to not say) lost in the grey-white glistening of the snow on his windowsill.

After a moment, he shakes his head; shrugs again.

"Winter. If I wanted a reliably warm one that badly, I'd be living a damn sight closer to the equator."

"Oh," he says, looking rather more distressed than is warranted. "It is rather unpredictable." He hesitates, staring at the windowpane and obviously not actually seeing it.

"Yes, I suppose you would be. But since you aren't, we shall have to deal with the uncertainty outside in a different way."

"Oh?" Crowley says, attention shifting back to the angel on the other end of the couch. He seems... still.
(especially when one's specialty is 'yes')
"We shall, shall we?"

"Yes, as much as we can. Today, for example." He slides his tea as far as he can reach down the table toward Crowley, then unfolds his legs (careful not to disturb the demon's) and sets them on the floor to brace himself to stand. He's still wrapped in a blanket, and has to sit back down heavily during his journey across the couch because the blanket tangles his feet.

There's very little room at Crowley's end, but he can just squeeze onto the edge of the cushion. He hardly has to twist, though, to drape an arm comfortably across Crowley's shoulders.

It would be so easy to ask. One question, and then another, leading to another, and that way ruin. Crowley won't make this into a choice. Not ever.

(That way, ruin.)

Instead, he wriggles as far into the corner of the couch as he can, making (space) room, and turns his head briefly into the crook of Aziraphael's neck.

"This had better not be a come-on," he says. "I do still have some recharging to do."

"No," he assures him firmly, settling into the empty space. "I have some recharging to do, myself. Er. Quite a bit."

He turns to press a kiss to the top of Crowley's head anyway, because he can't feel Crowley turn toward him that way and not respond.

"It's warmer this way."

In more ways than one, he thinks.

"You did say."

It comes out quicker than Crowley would like.

(And quieter.)

"I did," he says, breaking into a soft (and oddly private) smile. His arm around Crowley's shoulders tightens just a little without apparently consulting him at all.

Crowley -

- makes a rather odd sound, and all of a sudden is pressing up against Aziraphael in a very strange way indeed.

Odd behaviour or not, it's an opportunity too good to miss. He tilts his head down again so that his nose is buried in Crowley's hair.

Really, he could do this all day.

"Ng," Crowley says.

His hand (the other one, the one pressed against the couch cushions) finally appears, brandishing an intimidatingly large remote control.

"Ah."

He smiles into Crowley's hair for a moment, eyes closed, then lifts his head and looks pointedly at the remote control.

"Have something in mind to watch?" he asks.

"It was trying to crush at least two of my vertebrae," Crowley explains.

"Or at least, I hope that's what it was trying to do."

He laughs softly. From here, he realises, he can see the bottom edge of Crowley's hairline, still wet from his shower.

"I don't want to know what the alternative is, do I?"