(Untitled)
I.They arrive in Iceland in near-darkness concealing a dense, freezing fog that gives way to low clouds once outside of Reykjavik. It's a long drive to the tiny village of Laugarvatn, 70 miles in the blackness, and when they finally reach the place they're spending the night (to call it a hotel would imply there are more than six rooms), they're ( Read more... )
The clouds might be lightening up.
For only having had four hours of true daylight, it's been a very long day. At least now, with the black pooling out in front of them, and the ground flowing past under their little island of light, he has something to keep his eyes on - a reason not to cast quick, sharp glances up at the sky every ten minutes.
The clouds might be -
He loosens his grip on the steering wheel, a little. It's neither leather, nor wood, and feels a little unpleasant underneath his fingers.
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"How far can you see, beyond the headlamps?" he asks. He hopes it's farther than he can. For all he can tell, they might be about to drive at full tilt off of a cliff.
On the up side, that's almost certainly a star.
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"Far enough," he says.
(I have been one acquainted with the night)
It sounds like he's just answering Aziraphael's question, but after a few seconds more, he brings the jeep smoothly to a stop. It's an automatic, no gear shift, but Crowley's been driving the same car for the better part of a century; instinctively, he reaches down to put it into park, and jumps a little when he finds Aziraphael's hand instead.
They're miles away from anywhere (far beyond the furthest city light).
(Here, there is no light.)
Far enough.
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The angel gives Crowley's hand a small squeeze.
"Perhaps we could see more clearly if we, er. Turned those off?" He nods at the lights in front.
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A wave of his hand (the other one), and the lights dim, flicker, and go out.
(Here
Shaking his head, he blinks away the afterimage.
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"It's incredible," he says, craning his neck to see them. He doesn't, however, let go of Crowley's hand.
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He's spent too long - much too recently - flying the length of Europe twice a week under the vast expanse of the night sky. He's not much moved by stars.
(But then, the stars aren't what he's looking at.)
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"My dear, I. I don't quite know how to thank you for all this." It's fortunate that he's already holding Crowley's hand, or he'd have taken it.
"Coming out here in the middle of winter. Your doing these astounding things for me, it's not... unfamiliar."
He ducks his head hestitantly, then appears to come to a decision, leans in, and drops a gentle kiss on the corner of Crowley's mouth.
"Thank you."
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Abruptly (and not, at all) he doesn't want to - wants to go back, and have a hot drink, and a hot shower, and fall asleep sated and comfortable with his feet warmed by Aziraphael's legs, and think: it doesn't matter. We have all the time in the world.
There's barely any light; only the faint luminescence of the stars cupping the horizon, and a few blinking pinpricks on the dashboard. The red one reflects off Crowley's sunglasses (on, off); it's the only colour, against black hair, and black coat, and pale skin.
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He looks down at their joined hands, though he can't make them out in the dark. He strokes one finger carefully over Crowley's thumb by touch, soothing. There's a tension running through the demon that he can't quite pinpoint, though he can do his best to ease it. Perhaps it's the cold.
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It's his turn to lean in. The brush of his lips against Aziraphael's is dry, almost absent - but when his hand lifts to the angel's face, it's tentative and deliberate, thumb brushing Aziraphael's cheek and fingers curling into the hair behind his ear.
(It takes a moment, afterwards, for him to figure it out - to realise what it is that Aziraphael's eyes are reflecting so strangely. Very faintly, very slightly, the snow is glowing.)
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He seems to be grasping for words, but nothing comes out; his hand tightens on Crowley's instead.
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It feels like being watched; the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the front of Aziraphael's coat.
He wants -
He's out of the jeep before he can turn the keys and start the engine and bring them back, because there was never any question. It pulls at him, somewhere between throat and ribcage: Come and see.
He keeps his head down, closing the door behind him.
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There's a crunching sound of his shoes hitting the icy ground (sensible boots, once he took them out of the suitcase), the slam of the closing door, and then he's moving toward Crowley to gape alongside him at the heavens.
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It's cold. It's viciously, tearingly cold, and when Crowley (all unthinking) takes a breath, it flows down into his lungs like ice.
(He hasn't turned around; his fingers are still closed around the door-handle, as though he's about to climb straight back in.)
If he makes a sound, a small, sharp sound, he doesn't hear it. His eyes are shut.
In the beginning, the Earth was formless and desolate. The floor might as well be slicked over with ice, it's so cold.
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"Crowley," he says, edging nearer. The landscape is eerily silent, save for a light wind echoing in his ears, and his voice carries. He puts one tentative hand on Crowley's side, allowing it to slide around to his front as Aziraphael's chest brushes the demon's back.
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