aj_crawley | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's Christmas morning, and the darkness provided by the blinds isn't quite complete. It's dark outside, too, but the faint orange glow of streetlights bounces off the thin rime of not-quite-snow crusting over London and filters in around the edges of Crowley's bedroom window. It's not completely quiet, either - every so often a brighter flare of light outside heralds the low swish of car tyres as one poor unfortunate or another makes their way to wherever it is they have to be. There aren't many though; it's still very early.

And after all, it's Christmas morning.

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He looks away, looks down. The ridiculous bundle is still clutched to his chest like it's the only thing tying him to the here and now.

"It's not what you think," he says in a tiny voice.

That had come out wrong. Like so many other things today.

"Out," Crowley says.

His whole face feels numb.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He backs toward the door even as he protests.

"Crowley. I didn't mean--"

"Get out of my flat. Get out," he shrieks, "of my flat."

"All right," he says, and suddenly he's shaking so hard that something in the bundle of clothes clutched to his chest is rattling faintly.

He backs further and fumbles for the doorknob, manages somehow to pull it open, backs into the hallway.

"It's not what you think," he says again, barely audible. That burning sensation that he felt behind his eyes is on the verge of spilling over.

"When was the last time you knew what I thought."

He's at the door now, though he doesn't remember covering the space in between. A breath shudders in through his teeth, and his fingers close whitely around the doorknob.

"You're reading Austen, because you went on a genre kick after watching Cranford. I buy the milk, because you're a liar, and sometimes you do take it in your tea. Last time we ate out, we went to Scott's - it was after the baseball game, and we shared a platter of oysters. You cracked up this morning, in the kitchen; Barber of Seville. Merry fucking Christmas, angel. Enjoy your book."

The door slams shut hard enough that the floor vibrates.
(so I love you because I know no other way)

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