un_fallen | (no subject)

"Yeah?" Crowley asks, interested. "What do you dr- er."

The question trails away quickly, though, as Crowley realises that he might not actually want to know.

(And besides, if it doesn't go fast, what's the point?)

Raguel grins, amused.

"Whatever I can find that no one else wants. Abandoned cars, usually. Trucks. Once an 18-wheeler with only six wheels. They usually need a little help getting started, but they get me there okay."

"Wow," Crowley says, uncertainly. "That's so... industrious of you."

He approves of the stealing part, certainly - or at least, the sort-of-stealing part. But really, abandoned cars?

(This is all rather transparently legible on his face.)

"I put them back," he says defensively, completely misinterpreting the look on Crowley's face.

"Well, usually. When I can."

And when they're worth returning, which isn't actually very often.

This, at least, gets an understanding snort from Crowley.

"Fair play," he says, lowering his hand and looking down at his fingers, remembering the feel of melting leather underneath, then of steel: red, then white-hot, and finally chipping, corroded black.

(On black, on black.)

"It's not always a picnic, driving cars that aren't in any shape to be driven."

"No," he says. "They tend to lose pieces and I'm never sure if they were important. And then they get run over by someone else, so it's not like I can leave them in the passenger seat and hope the owner is a mechanic."

"I... see," Crowley says. "Well, whilst I admire the spirit of it, I'm telling you right now, you are never, ever getting your hands on my car."

Ever since the Incident, Crowley's become (if possible) even more protective of his beloved Bentley; the persistent image of what might happen with Raguel in the driver's seat, rattling towards the desert, makes him blanch slightly.

"Never say never," he says, sounding oddly cheerful about the whole thing.

"They only lose pieces because they were going to lose them, anyway. It's not like I pried them off with a crowbar."

Crowley actually shudders a little at this, and, quickly changing the subject, gestures out at the city sprawling away in front of them (already a little more orange-tinted, as the sun sinks lower in the sky).

"So, since we're not driving," he says firmly, "lead the way."

"Right," he says, straightening.

"Uh." He turns around to face the sun, then turns again. At last he settles on a direction and fans his wings out.

"If carrying the bag throws me off balance, I'll try not to run into you," he says, and dives off the building.

He was almost certainly joking.

Crowley mutters something in response, but it's lost under the soft sound of reality (and his coat) rearranging itself to accommodate a second set of massive wings - and in any case, Raguel is quickly out of earshot.

Sighing, he slips his sunglasses into a breast pocket, and then steps out into space.

They follow Liberty north, gaining altitude over someone's neglected outdoor pool, and within a few blocks the houses have blended into a series of large squares bounded by streets. Within a few minutes even these have faded, and they're crossing a series of rocky hills, each one higher than the last, that come right up to the edge of the city.

Crowley's seen six thousand years of breath-taking vistas, but even he's forced to admit that what greets them as they finally clear the peaks is an impressive sight; a vast, harsh expanse, the face of an old and weary god, pockmarked and stubbled from this great height with canyons and jagged outcrops, and the dry and unlovely scrub that distorts the edges of their shadows as they glide silently overhead.

Raguel keeps going, veering slightly to the southeast, until the scrub thins out a little and the scattered houses and little towns disappear altogether. They land in a rocky flatland bounded on two sides by shallow valleys, and aside from the few scraggly plants there's not another living creature in sight.

"Nice, isn't it?" Raguel says as Crowley touches down beside him. It doesn't sound like a throwaway question.

Crowley doesn't answer at first, turning inside the dusty swirls and eddies of his landing, taking in the full three hundred and sixty degrees. The heels of his snakeskin shoes scuff minutely, deliberately against the ground, like the sound of rasping scales, and his nostrils flare as he breathes in the scorched air.

(There's a whisper of a breeze, stunned by their landing; unconsciously, or unselfconsciously, his tongue flickers out to taste it.)

It has been a very long time since Crowley was last out here. On each horizon, fading slowly with the light, the smudge of mountains. This is a crucible; dry, and immense.

"It's big," he murmurs finally, when the dust has settled.

It doesn't sound like a throwaway answer.

"Yeah," he says happily, and it's pretty rare that Raguel sounds happy about anything.

"You'd have to go for miles to even come to a road. Pretty rare, this close to a city."

The bag settles on the ground with a disgruntled clank, and as he takes in the rest of the view his gaze lands on Crowley's pensive expression.

"You okay?"

"Yes," he says, compelled, for some reason, to speak quietly. "It's just been a while."

There are places - some like this, some not at all, and none for reasons that he can explain - that reach down into Crowley's hindbrain and push buttons that ought never have been there in the first place.

When he turns to Raguel, his eyes are very, very yellow.

"I'd forgotten how... impresssive it is."

He looks pleased, if a little startled; Crowley has seen the wider world much more recently than Raguel has, and he half-expected the scrub-littered emptiness to be met with wisecracks and derision.

"Mm," he says, thoughtful. "Been a while since I was out here myself. Lately when I go it's been places farther east, but that's not quite the same."

There's usually a coyote with a motorcycle, for a start.

Crowley'd been turning away again, angling both face and wings towards the sun, eyes half-shuttered in simple - primitive - pleasure at the heat. At this, though, he slants a look back at Raguel, grinning.

"You have deserts ranked in order of preference?"

Raguel has been facing off toward one of the valleys, half-buried in memories. When he turns back his expression is indignant.

"It's not preference, it's just different."

Raguel's not quite within range for a punch to the arm, so Crowley settles for a genial buffet from one of his wings, raising another gentle puff of dust from the ground.

"Joking," he murmurs. "I know from different."

He makes an attempt to hold the affronted look, and is nearly successful.

"I guess they don't look that different," he allows. "I used to come to this area a lot. Lately... not so much."

This doesn't seem to be particularly good or bad, but he looks thoughtful.

"Any reason?" he asks, speaking over the soft rustle as he fans his feathers out a little further, catching more of the slowly fading sun. "Or just... because?"

He hesitates.

"I used to come because it was away from people. Away from work, you know. Peaceful. I went because I needed to, but I guess I've found other places to do that."

"Hn," Crowley says peaceably, sideways gaze trained steadily on Raguel. A beat, and he looks back out towards the sun. "Well, far be it from me to discourage that."

He sounds curiously sincere - moved to a more than usually mellow candour by the heat, by the sudden heady dose of it after the wet and cold of London winter.

(He's smiling, just a little, and at nothing in particular.)