aj_crawley | (no subject)

"Oh. Well - yeah. But that's a matter of size rather than enthusiasm, isn't it?"

He shoots him a horrified look.

"I'm not actually certain whether to hope that you're talking about the remote."

"I - what?"

He bites his lip, with the cornered look of one who knows he's only made things worse.

"I am larger than the remote control. And, I should hope, more enthusiastic. So it's actually a matter of both size and enthusiasm."

"N...o," Crowley says slowly. "What?"

"...No?" he repeats, looking increasingly desperate.

"I thought that I disproved that theory earlier, on the enthusiasm point at least."

"What theory?" Crowley says, looking progressively blanker. "What are you talking about."

"I'm comparing myself unfavourably to a remote control," he says, deflated. "It's best left alone at this point, I think."

Crowley looks down at the remote in his hand, a brief furrow of contemplation creasing his forehead.

He could explain what he'd meant in the first place, probably - but it hardly seems worth the trouble, now.

(And if you have to explain it, of course, you're not doing it right.)

With a short hmph, he tosses the remote onto the pile of blankets still occupying the centre of the couch.

Pleased, he makes an effort to sink further into the tiny space they're sharing and pulls up the blanket that had earlier caused him so much trouble.

That feeling of - of something that's not quite right - is descending over him again, and he doesn't like it at all.

It's almost hilarious, really. For all the hours he's spent brooding on this couch or the one in Soho, for all the sulking he's done into a glass at Milliways, for all the mornings he's woken up to a cup of coffee on the nightstand and an empty bed - he never misses Aziraphael more acutely than when they're actually spending time together.

"Unless you had anything you wanted to watch," he adds after a moment.

If you have to explain it, you're not doing it right.

"No," he says, pulling the blanket up still further. It feels like it's getting colder in here.

"Perhaps we'll find something later, if we turn it on."

Right now, there's nothing else he'd rather do than what he's doing. It still feels inadequate.

Crowley rearranges himself as well, jostling Aziraphael a little as he turns to lay a bit more on his side; a little more heavily against Aziraphael. He doesn't mean to, though. Instead, there's something almost - furtive about the way he slithers an arm across Aziraphael's middle. Shameful.

"There's always Wallace & Gromit, 'round tea-time," he says.

"That sounds like exactly the thing, yes," he says, and in his voice there's a thread of - not relief, but of something easing ever so slightly.

"It might as well be traditional."

"'S more than tradition," Crowley says. His fingers twitch lightly against Aziraphael's side with the effort of not curling around a fistful of flannel robe, and holding tight. "'S a cornerstone of British society. Whole country'd collapse without it, like fig rolls and Stephen Fry."

Aziraphael's mouth pulls somewhat unwillingly into a soft smile.

"I meant more along the lines of trees and ornaments and such, but I suppose those weren't always around, either. And you're right; the tradition has evolved. For the better, I think."

"What d'you reckon. The Wrong Trousers, or the one where they go to the moon?"

Crowley always liked the penguin.

"My vote would be for The Wrong Trousers, personally."

Technology Gone Wrong. Such a fitting story for our day.

"Agreed," Crowley says. "It's all about the elaborate set-ups, on Christmas."

And familial tension.

"Of course," he says, in a way that suggests he means exactly the opposite.

"It isn't as though this is strictly a Christmas story, anyhow."

Crowley looks up, chin propped awkwardly on Aziraphael's chest.

"Hm?" he says quizzically.

"It can be enjoyed at any time, I mean. Not just today."

"Oh."

Understanding.

He settles down again, making himself comfortable once more.

(This involves, though he'd surely deny it, a fair amount of something not entirely unlike nuzzling.)

"True. Though when was the last time you saw it on the telly that wasn't Christmas?"

"Excellent point," he says.

It's difficult to work up a credible objection, even if he wanted to, when Crowley is doing that. He brings one hand up to smooth over his back.

"So," he says, "it's a tradition because it's a tradition. Sounds about usual."