un_fallen | (no subject)

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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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"Interesting times," he replies dryly; without saying much of anything at all, it's curiously succinct.

As the last little flame winks out, leaving the shrub in the same, scraggly state as before, Crowley fans out his wings again.

"Ladies first," he says with a bow.

"Considering that there's only one of us here who can take female form and it's not me, I'm not sure where you're getting that."

It doesn't seem to bother him too much, though; his wings are still out from trying to catch his balance earlier, so he takes off without hesitation.

"Why," Crowley says, ostensibly to himself but certainly loud enough to carry, "am I drawn to people with a pathological inability to take a joke?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, though, launching himself after Raguel and catching up easily.

"You saying I'm ladylike, then?" he calls across over the whistling of the wind.

"Dunno - always thought I lacked something in the way of manners."

"You'd think married life would've trained you better," Crowley retorts, beating up for altitude until he can settle into a long, easy glide towards the mountains, and the glow of city lights.

"I think I was teachable once," he says, following Crowley's path into the glide. "Domestication didn't sit too well. I could do it for a while, but after she died I figured that moving around suited me better."

"And now?" he replies, deceptively casual. "I mean, I know you don't exactly love Los Angeles, but you have to admit, it's nice having a takeaway place where they know you."

"Yeah. At least this time they didn't ask if I had money today. Like I don't always." He shakes his head, but it's probably lost in their movement through the sky.

"I still move around, just within the city. Or... did. Guess I have another chance to get domesticated, what with the home base."

He's pretty sure he looks like a deer in headlights, and is grateful once again for the darkness.

"You can always move again," Crowley reminds him, sounding faintly reassured. "Within the city, I mean. I think you'll like it, though. You can't fight indoor plumbing forever."

"Oh, I can," he says, laughing. "Just because I've got it doesn't mean I have to like it. And yeah, I can move again, but it's something about having more stuff than will fit in the bag." He nods at the canvas bag over his shoulder, which currently only contains a few things for their trip.

"Maybe Aziraphael can teach me that Mary Poppins thing."

"Oh fuck, please don't ask him to," Crowley blurts, looking dismayed. "He'll be singing 'A Spoonful of Sugar' for weeks."

"Hmm," Raguel says, trying keep the laughter this image brings to mind under control. "Well, do you know how to do it, then?"

"Hire a bloody van," Crowley says, with a look that, even in the dark, conveys an admirable sense of what the fuck is wrong with you. "Or - 'borrow' one, if that's what you're more comfortable with."

Crowley's protestations aren't exactly hypocritical; he definitely wouldn't entrust his possessions to a disreputable-looking carpet-bag. It's simply that - when he does move - Crowley doesn't really tend to bring that much with him.

"But what if there's not time to get a van? I might need to go right then. Without anyone knowing where I'm headed. Hell, half the time I don't know where I'm headed."

In the past, this was generally because the building he was in was either being condemned or flooded or had burnt down due to arson. But still, he's had several thousand years to get used to being able to pick up and go.

"Er," Crowley says. "If there's a reason you need to leave right then without telling anybody, then chances are you have more important things to be worrying about than what's going to happen to your couch."

"I guess," he concedes. "Maybe in a decent building the place'll be less likely to just burn down, or whatever."

"Unless," Crowley concludes, with an indefinable air of satisfaction, "you get careless with the marshmallows."

"Damn it," he says amiably, "there go all my plans for a barbecue with the neighbors. It was going to be good, too."

"Why? Were you going to go pick up another wife to do the cooking, or - ?"

For a moment he looks badly stricken, but it's hard to see given the darkness and their angles in the air.

"I, uh. It was kind of a cook-your-own thing."

Indeed, Crowley doesn't see it. And yet... not quite the witty rejoinder he was expecting.

"Fair enough," he says calmly, even a little cautiously.

(He's not even sure that there's something amiss - but on a subject like this, he knows from personal experience that it's best not to assume.)

They fly in silence for a little while at a relaxed pace, and the sparkling lights of Los Angeles come closer little by little.

"I don't think I will, you know," Raguel says, as if there'd been no interruption. "It was stupid enough the first time. In a lot of ways."

"Yeah," says Crowley (surprised, even gratified, though it's hardly to be heard in his voice). "I understand."

"Having - having done it, you wouldn't change it, but... that doesn't mean you'd do it for a second time."

"Yeah," he says, sounding relieved. "Exactly. It's no reflection on her, it just. I'm not exactly suited to it, you know?"

Not quite what Crowley'd meant, perhaps - or at least, not entirely. Still:

"That too," he replies, nod lost in the darkness.