un_fallen | (no subject)

(no subject)

Crowley has been surprisingly charitable for most of the time spent in Raguel's new apartment - criticizing everything, of course, but only in the most general way. He pronounces it barely habitable, which Raguel takes to mean that he's done a decent job. And if the shower (and by necessity, the bathroom) has slightly larger dimensions when Crowley walks out of it than when he walked in, Raguel doesn't mention it.

It's late afternoon when they step out into the hallway and furtively climb the ladder to the roof. It's not much of a view, but the sunlight through dry air casts sharp shadows that make the grunge a little harder to see.

"You don't think anyone will notice us, with the sun still up?" Raguel asks, a little nervously.

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"It seems that we've both survived, in fact," Raguel points out. "You, maybe, because of your thick skin. Me because I wasn't stupid enough to do it."

"Oh, not 'stupid' enough. Well, if that's what you like to tell yourself," Crowley retorts, in a supercilious murmur.

"Not... crazy enough?" he tries, lifting an eyebrow.

"Closer," he allows, "but you should remember that whilst your threats are empty, I really will leave you in the desert."

"Mm," he says, unimpressed, then turns thoughtful.

"Would you leave the marshmallows?"

"I might take them to spite you."

"No! That is... is just cruel," he says, eyes wide.

Crowley spreads his arms.

"Bad to the bone."

"Evil," Raguel agrees, shaking his head. "Depraved. Alone in the desert with no marshmallows. How would I entertain myself? I mean, I'm not roasting the shrubs."

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Crowley asks, eyebrows raised. "Think carefully."

Raguel pauses and seriously considers this.

"I guess you would suggest roasting the bats?" he tries.

"No," Crowley says. "Bats are pretty gamey. You'd probably be able to kill someone with a roasted one."

"Oh," Raguel says, and frowns.

"Should I ask how you know that?"

Pursing his lips, Crowley gives this a slightly disconcerting amount of thought before replying, "Probably not."

Raguel looks like he's torn between laughter and horror.

"Well. I appreciate your honesty."

"You should, you know," Crowley tells him loftily (and coincidentally changing the subject). "You're one of the privileged few who actually gets to see it, once in a while."

"I'm sure I am," he says. "Encouraging me not to roast rodents as entertainment, even - you sure you didn't hit your head?"

"Nnnno," he says slowly, "I'm pretty sure I did hit my head. What with the fairly impressive crash landing and all."

"Mmm. Impressive, yeah, I'll give you that. And if you hit it that hard, then I'm sure you won't remember me saying that it was a very gutsy trick."

"Gosh," Crowley says sarcastically. "Now I feel all... validated."

It's probably best not to mention, though, that he does look a little smug; a tiny bit flattered.

"Yeah," he says, "heady. Don't spend it all in one place."

He looks thoughtfully at the distance to the rock, with a minute shake of his head.

"I'll treasure this moment," he says, following Raguel's gaze uncomprehendingly. "I don't think I've ever been called 'gutsy' before."

"Never, really?" he asks, surprised. "Even if you didn't agree?"

"I suppose I just didn't do anything very brave during the forties," Crowley retorts.

"Hmph," he says, with feeling. "Guess not. It was a good decade for bravery." He thinks.

"Well, mostly stupidity. But there was some bravery too."