(no subject)
How long has it been, since he's been back on Park Lane, Mayfair? Long while, Crowley guesses. Long enough that all he can hear, running round in his head, stupidly, is that old Vera Lynn number. When true lovers meet in Mayfair, and all that jazz.
The porter's pleased to see him, at least, but Crowley's just drunk enough that waving off the man's polite questions (where on earth has sir been?) seems the best course. The door opens without too much difficulty; Crowley could have just foregone the keys altogether, but it's his first time back. It seems important, somehow. Symbolic.
Adam hasn't left the place in too bad a state, all things considered. The books and CDs that Crowley'd left there have been disordered, rather, but on the whole it's alright, really. And, strangely, in some undefinable way the apartment feels more lived-in than it has in all the years Crowley's spent here. Lived-in, and utterly alien.
And there are no plants.
That's what bothers him most, through the hazy fog of Atlantean wine. None of his plants are here. They're... somewhere else.
He staggers through to the bedroom, which - had he ever noticed, before, how uselessly big the bed is? He drops his bag by the foot of the bed, and his sunglasses on the empty bedside table. Then, he sits on the edge of the bed, and kicks off his shoes. For a while after that, he just looks at the floor.
Finally, the Atlantean starts to take its final toll for the night, and his eyelids start to droop. That's good, he thinks, muzzily. Hate to lay here awake all night. He swings his legs up, drops his head onto the pillow.
No, this side of the bed feels wrong.
The other, too, but a little less so.
It's cold. He'll have to remember to turn up the heating, in the morning.
The porter's pleased to see him, at least, but Crowley's just drunk enough that waving off the man's polite questions (where on earth has sir been?) seems the best course. The door opens without too much difficulty; Crowley could have just foregone the keys altogether, but it's his first time back. It seems important, somehow. Symbolic.
Adam hasn't left the place in too bad a state, all things considered. The books and CDs that Crowley'd left there have been disordered, rather, but on the whole it's alright, really. And, strangely, in some undefinable way the apartment feels more lived-in than it has in all the years Crowley's spent here. Lived-in, and utterly alien.
And there are no plants.
That's what bothers him most, through the hazy fog of Atlantean wine. None of his plants are here. They're... somewhere else.
He staggers through to the bedroom, which - had he ever noticed, before, how uselessly big the bed is? He drops his bag by the foot of the bed, and his sunglasses on the empty bedside table. Then, he sits on the edge of the bed, and kicks off his shoes. For a while after that, he just looks at the floor.
Finally, the Atlantean starts to take its final toll for the night, and his eyelids start to droop. That's good, he thinks, muzzily. Hate to lay here awake all night. He swings his legs up, drops his head onto the pillow.
No, this side of the bed feels wrong.
The other, too, but a little less so.
It's cold. He'll have to remember to turn up the heating, in the morning.