It's fitting it begins, sort of, on a bus. There's something very transitional about buses, Crowley thinks. The Bentley, darling car though it is (and oh, how he's missed it), would reek too much of him. Here, now, sitting side-by-side with Aziraphale in a dirty old bus beneath flickering fluorescent lights and a bus driver who doesn't really realize he's headed for London feels . . . normal.
They don't talk about it. It, emphasis and all, because they talk about plenty. Small talk, idle things, things to pass the time that shock neither of them because they've long since learned the ins and outs (literally now, ha ha) of one another. It's a way to pass the time, nothing more. And when they fall silent, he stares out the window, marveling in a quiet sort of way at how ordinary it all is.
He never thought he could marvel at the sight of someone vomiting up their liquor into the city gutter, but here they are, and he is. Delighted by what it represents, if not the sight itself. Of what is, and what so narrowly might not have been.
He isn't anxious. He's never really anxious, or so he would say, but that sick pitch in his stomach that he normally got when they got close to this topic is gone. It isn't that he's as confident about what's to come as he pretends (because he has no idea what's to come, frankly, he hasn't idea), but all his fear is spent. Satan himself could make a reappearance and Crowley imagines he'd still regard him with a dull sort of reaction.
The bus pulls up at his apartment because it's been that sort of day, and they deserve spoiling. He unlocks the door with a wave of his hand, and leads them up, boots clicking lightly against the stairway. His apartment is as it ever was, clean and immaculate and stylish, the lights turned out. There isn't even a trace of eau de Ligur, never mind a stain.
That's nice. It doesn't mean he doesn't have to think of those down Below and up Above, but at least he doesn't have to do it right away.
Nice, too, the liquor is restocked. That's most certainly something they'll need tonight, he thinks, and heads for it, although he pauses as he takes the first bottle. Hesitates, and then turns to face his companion. Takes a breath, and then, tiredly:]
do i have icons, no, am i doing this anyway, yes
It's fitting it begins, sort of, on a bus. There's something very transitional about buses, Crowley thinks. The Bentley, darling car though it is (and oh, how he's missed it), would reek too much of him. Here, now, sitting side-by-side with Aziraphale in a dirty old bus beneath flickering fluorescent lights and a bus driver who doesn't really realize he's headed for London feels . . . normal.
They don't talk about it. It, emphasis and all, because they talk about plenty. Small talk, idle things, things to pass the time that shock neither of them because they've long since learned the ins and outs (literally now, ha ha) of one another. It's a way to pass the time, nothing more. And when they fall silent, he stares out the window, marveling in a quiet sort of way at how ordinary it all is.
He never thought he could marvel at the sight of someone vomiting up their liquor into the city gutter, but here they are, and he is. Delighted by what it represents, if not the sight itself. Of what is, and what so narrowly might not have been.
He isn't anxious. He's never really anxious, or so he would say, but that sick pitch in his stomach that he normally got when they got close to this topic is gone. It isn't that he's as confident about what's to come as he pretends (because he has no idea what's to come, frankly, he hasn't idea), but all his fear is spent. Satan himself could make a reappearance and Crowley imagines he'd still regard him with a dull sort of reaction.
The bus pulls up at his apartment because it's been that sort of day, and they deserve spoiling. He unlocks the door with a wave of his hand, and leads them up, boots clicking lightly against the stairway. His apartment is as it ever was, clean and immaculate and stylish, the lights turned out. There isn't even a trace of eau de Ligur, never mind a stain.
That's nice. It doesn't mean he doesn't have to think of those down Below and up Above, but at least he doesn't have to do it right away.
Nice, too, the liquor is restocked. That's most certainly something they'll need tonight, he thinks, and heads for it, although he pauses as he takes the first bottle. Hesitates, and then turns to face his companion. Takes a breath, and then, tiredly:]
Bed or couch, angel. It's your choice.