aj_crawley | (no subject)

They have always been creatures of metaphor, subtly shaped not so much by the food they don't need to eat or the exercise they don't need to take as by simply existing in those places where what is real bleeds into what is true. They loom with anger, can sometimes seem a little brighter when glad, or to almost draw the shadows about them when - not. Aziraphael is comfortable around the middle not so much because he has a weakness for desserts as because, in his heart of hearts, he is, in fact, the sort of person who has a weakness for desserts. A reflection, as it were, rather than a symptom.

And these days, Crowley has been feeling a little... eroded.

When the silence spools out for a second or two, he looks up again, chin digging awkwardly into Aziraphael's chest.

"No, you won't," he says, smugly.

"Oh, I won't, won't I?" he asks in a challenging sort of tone. It's the one where normally his eyes would flash to go along with it, but he's hardly past the 'sleepy blinking' stage so a weak glimmer is apparently all he can manage.

"I can certainly make note when I spot it. Which will no doubt happen in -- why are you looking at me like that?" he demands suddenly, fingers curling lazily in Crowley's shirt.

"Like what?"

(After a moment, he wedges an elbow underneath himself, so that he's not quite so - intrusively angular.)

"Like you know something that I don't."

His hand tightens minutely on the worn jumper; he'd rather liked the intrusively angular bit and its sudden, acute association with Crowley.

"I do know something you don't," he says loftily. "Which is that you've no intention of tracking the evolution of the term 'couch potato'."

"I never said I would track its evolution," he points out. "Keep a lookout, that's all. For example, we're doing a fine impression of the modern incarnation right now. On the surface, at least."

"Yes," Crowley says. "But that's the point."

"Hm," he says primly, but shows no inclination to get up and disprove Crowley's point.

"I still think that concept of 'sloth' that you mentioned plays a large part. One can't truly embody the couch potato without it."

He yawns, giving the effect of sinking even more deeply into the cushions.

"No," Crowley says. "I meant - "
(they climb on my old suffering like ivy)
It's like a bruise you forget is there. You knock against it the same way every time, and every time -

He snorts a little, and presses his mouth to Aziraphael's shoulder before settling back against his chest.
(it climbs the same way on damp walls)
"Never mind."

He keeps saying that. Aziraphael sighs lightly and snags Crowley's drink from the table for a sip. The conversation is neatly and effectively severed, time after time, before - before what?

"No?" he mumbles after a moment's silence.

"It's modern," he settles on, finally. "Is the point."

What is Aziraphael even talking about, 'the concept of sloth'. That's the fucking point.

(He's not there. That's the fucking point.)

It doesn't have to be. Was his point.

There's an odd, disoriented feeling in his head like he's just about to lose his balance and topple over whilst sitting down, and he waits for it to pass.

"Mm," he says, setting the cup back on the table with a clink. "Yes. I suppose we'll see about that."

He'd rather lie down in the middle of Oxford Street, he really would, than go around again - than try to give another excruciating explanation for another casual remark that, once upon a time, he never would have had to.

Back before Aziraphael started just saying words at him, instead of tuning in enough to have a conversation.

"I suppose I can give you the benefit of the doubt," he says.

(He used to be so funny. Crowley wishes he didn't remember, sometimes, how much they used to laugh, even when they didn't. In touches and gestures and sly looks; jokes they wouldn't even have to speak aloud because they knew each other so well. Inside and out.)

"Since it's Christmas, and all."

It's just - it's off, the whole thing, and he doesn't know if it's him or it's Crowley or that he's just too tired to work it out or simply that it's so odd to be sitting here, doing nothing but chatting idly and feeling the strange, irregular pattern of heartbeats under his hand.

"I appreciate that," he says, somewhat numbly. It's colder, despite their closeness, and he doesn't know why that's creeping up again, either.

"You haven't mentioned where you'd like to go for the winter holiday this year," he ventures. "Do you still fancy a trip to Kingston?"

" - Oh."

Crowley's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch.

"I, er. I 'spose I'm not married to the idea, really."

"Oh," he repeats, vaguely surprised. It seems to take a lot to feel even that, lately, so he continues.

"Somewhere else is looking better?"

"Not really."

With great precision, his hand detaches itself from Aziraphael's hip, picks at a bit of fluff on the angel's dressing gown, and flicks it onto the floor.

"I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest."

"Oh," he says again. Curiouser and curiouser.

"You'd better hurry, then," he teases. "It'll be summer soon, and there won't be much point in going somewhere warm."

Carefully, he settles his hand back on Aziraphael's hip.

"Well, when I say that," he replies, words light as eggshells, "I mean that I thought I might... not. Might give it a miss this year, you know?"

Taken aback, he blinks at empty air for a moment before craning his head around to look at Crowley. He can't quite see his face.

"You don't want to go away anywhere?"

For a moment he thinks wildly that it's because it's warm enough right here. But nice as it would be, that's ridiculous. It could never be warm 'enough' here in December.

"Busy season," he says mildly, shoulder nudging against Aziraphael's side as he shrugs. "Lots of New Year's resolutions to break, and that."

"I'm sure there are, it's only. This season happens every year, and we still manage a winter holiday," he says, shock still colouring his voice.

"It's your decision, of course," he adds, before it can turn into something that sounds like a whine.

Crowley's decision, certainly. But he can't bring himself to believe that the 'busy season' is actually the reason for this.

"You could still go somewhere, obviously," he continues, nearly clipping the end of Aziraphael's sentence.

"Send me tacky postcards, so I can holiday vicariously."

He's gaping now, honestly gaping with his mouth open.

"I have never gone away on a real holiday without you," he says after a considerable pause, clipping the words coldly, "and I see no reason to start now."

Crowley's arm across Aziraphael's middle tenses.

He doesn't move, except maybe for the fact that his shoulders draw up a little.

Just a little.

"Don't exaggerate," he says airily. "You can argue semantics with me all you like, but you're not fooling anyone into thinking you actually go to all those book fairs for business."