(Untitled)

[aj_crawley]

The rain falls like white noise: a soft and curiously enveloping sound, like all of grey, grey London sighing hush. The headlights of cars glow like halos outside the bookshop window, and their tyres swish softly down the road, and Crowley imagines that - even inside - he can still taste the sharp, clean smell coming off the uneven Soho cobbles.

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[a_fell]

"If you truly expect me to don any sort of bathing attire whilst we're away, it's going to be another thirty seconds," the angel's voice floats down.

He's holding up two truly terrible options, debating between them with more worry than is really warranted. Perhaps Crowley's case of the fidgets is contagious.

[aj_crawley]

"You can buy some when we get there," Crowley replies, perhaps half a second before a much cleverer answer presents itself.

He scowls at the 'CLOSED' sign on the door, which curls a little around the edges.

[a_fell]

"All right," comes the voice, "I'm coming down now." He throws both options into his suitcase, slams it shut and buckles it, hauls it to the landing, goes back for his hat, can't find it in the top of the closet, digs under the bed with a determined expression, pulls it out and plops it on his head (trailing dust bunnies), and hauls the suitcase down the stairs.

"All ready!" he announces.

[aj_crawley]

Inner peace, thinks Crowley, slithering down off the counter and pulling his scarf a little tighter. He looks Aziraphael up, and then down, and then up again, and then says, "Dust yourself off; you're not getting into my car like that."

[a_fell]

"I'm hardly - oh," he says, as a dust bunny half-dislodges from the hat to dangle down in front of his face. He takes it off and shakes it vigorously.

"Cheer up, my dear," he says carefully, "it's your holiday. There'll be warm water and rum and... gardens and things."

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah."

Crowley doesn't sound terribly enthused, but then, he's otherwise occupied, snatching up Aziraphael's suitcase before the angel can change his mind about its contents.

He's maybe halfway to the door before he gives an irritated hiss and, with a wave of his hand, banishes the case to the Bentley's trunk.

[a_fell]

Aziraphael trails after him, glancing around the shop as he goes.

"Unplugged the lamps, turned off the outlets, closed the blinds," he's muttering. He looks wistfully at another book or two as he passes, slowing, but after a glance at Crowley he resigns himself to the ones he's already bringing with a sigh.

[aj_crawley]

It may not have been a particularly pointed sigh, but when Crowley's in this sort of mood, such distinctions become more or less academic. He pauses, one hand on the doorknob, and looks back over his shoulder.

"What."

[a_fell]

"Oh," he says, blinking, "nothing, really. I'm sure I won't even get through the reading I'm bringing. The rest of them will be here when I get back."

It sounds like he's trying to convince himself - or that he's just fretting over nothing.

[aj_crawley]

"No," Crowley says flatly, "you won't. And yes, they will."

There's a finality to his tone, one that suggests Aziraphael would be wise not to contradict him - but when the doorknob clicks and the bell jingles and the cold wind slips in off the street, Crowley stands back and gestures Aziraphael ahead of him.

(He's not being chivalrous.)

[a_fell]

Aziraphael wouldn't dream of thinking that he was, in spite of copious evidence. Even the angel pulls his coat a little tighter against the chill wind and rain, filtering through the greyish mist outside. Not that the rain touches him - he's learnt at least that much respect for Crowley's car, over the years - but it certainly looks like a miserable day.

[aj_crawley]

With Aziraphael safely out of the shop ahead of him, Crowley closes the door with slightly more force than strictly necessary, and lopes swiftly around to the driver's side.

This door, of course, Crowley closes with rather more care, and he watches narrowly to make sure that Aziraphael does the same.

The inside of the car is still warm from the drive over, but he's been waiting in the shop long enough for the windows to have fogged up a little. Pulling off one of his gloves, the demon turns the keys in the ignition, and directs the hot air vents onto the windshield. As the engine rumbles to life around them, then settles into a deep, steady purr, and as the vents begin to hum, Crowley leans his head back against the smooth upholstery, and exhales.

[a_fell]

There's nothing else for the moment, and Aziraphael glances over at him with a hint of worry in his blue eyes. He reaches over with one hand, fingers barely brushing the demon's tightly-wrapped scarf.

"All right?" he asks.

[aj_crawley]

"Hm?" he says, opening his eyes behind his sunglasses. And then, "Yeah. Just - "

He gestures at the windows, at the falling rain outside, at the odd Soho denizen scurrying along the streets, hands deep in their pockets and chins tucked into their scarves.

"January," he says expressively.

[a_fell]

"Yes," he agrees, glancing around. "And then some. It's this dratted rain; the dampness makes it worse, they say."

He's had the heat up lately, but that doesn't mean he's some sort of expert.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley shrugs, the movement blunted by the heavy wool of his coat.

"If it's raining, it isn't snowing."

After a moment, he pulls off his other glove, and curls his hands around the old, rich leather of the steering-wheel. It makes his fingers seem paler than they are.

"Okay," he says, as the last bit of mist evaporates from the windows.

He shifts gear, doesn't check his mirrors, and pulls out.