un_fallen | (no subject)

"You walked?" he asks, sounding strangely pleased. "It's hard to get around the whole city in a day, but if you don't stop you can get at least-- okay, how the hell are you doing that?"

He manages an uneven, bouncing glide before the wind drops away and he falls ten feet before beating up again.

"Um," he says, confused, "I dunno? I just am."

Watching Raguel beat up, he tries to adjust his motions to something more obvious, exaggerating the gentle shifting of his wings against the currents, the adjustments in balance to compensate, so that the angel can try to mimic them.

"It's sort of like treading water," he adds unhelpfully, "only different."

Raguel mutters something uncharitable about swimming and tries to mimic Crowley's movements. He does a lot of plummeting down and flapping back up, but eventually manages a badly balanced imitation of Crowley's motions.

"Ha!" he yells, rocking unintentionally back and forth in a current. "I didn't even think this was possible on Earth."

"I find," Crowley shouts over with a grin, "the trick is not to think about it."

He waits, watching as Raguel (sort of) stabilises, before continuing:

"Otherwise, you might start to realise that it's not."

When Crowley starts to lean over backwards, eyes catching a pale yellow from the moonlight, there's a moment of perfect suspension - Raguel lifting to meet the breeze, and Crowley floating on it - before the balance carries over. Before Crowley's lunatic grin disappears, and the demon turns head for foot, wrapping his wings around himself and dropping like a stone.

"Lunatic," Raguel mutters, watching him. He's seen Crowley do this before, but it was at least over water. Never mind that water hit from this height would be just as bad on impact as the hard-packed earth of the desert.

"You can pull up now," he calls down, knowing that he'll be ignored. He keeps watching, trying to keep the concern off his face.

He doesn't, naturally.

Not yet.

If he's making any sound, the rush of his descent is tearing it away, much too fast, much too far to hear, falling out of the sky on a true-line - down, down through shadows towards the flickering pinprick of their fire and suddenly for a split second

CRACK

it disappears.

And then reappears, one solitary light in the flat, unending black.

Raguel stares, unaware at first that he's floating on currents exactly as he'd been trying to do for the last ten minutes. He's not breathing, either, which for Raguel is unusual. He sighs at last and does a few halfhearted flips, but though he's looking, he still can't see any sign of Crowley below.

Finally tiring of gliding in anxious circles (it really has not been long - no more than a minute), he dives after him.

More fool Raguel, because just as suddenly, there, rising out of the far black (on black, on black) into the moonlight in a great, swooping arc, goes Crowley.

It's a little too far to be sure - but it might be, that as they pass each other, Crowley waves.

Raguel's focus is diverted for just a fraction of a second, which at that speed is nearly enough to send him spiraling out of control mid-dive. He manages to calm the wobbling, though (cursing quietly), with a relatively graceful pull up from the dive - quite a bit higher than the point where Crowley caught himself.

When he reaches their previous position to find Crowley hovering again, he's panting just a little through his grin.

"Asshole."

Crowley's hair is wild, his grin even wilder.

"There," he says, a little breathless himself. "Who needs stimulants, right? Still, that said - "

An abrupt flash of silver as Crowley picks his moment, and tosses something across the distance to Raguel.

It's the flask.

He catches it more out of surprise than intention, but he's grateful for the reflexes that have been kicked back into service since he took up the sword again.

"Oh, so there was a purpose to that," he says cheerfully. "Other than adrenaline, I mean."

He unscrews the top and drinks deeply enough that it seems the adrenaline might be getting the better of him.

"Nope," Crowley replies, smiling the same sort of smile that Aziraphael has learned to fear from the passenger seat of the Bentley. "But it was on the ground, I was nearly on the ground... Waste not, and that."

"Point," Raguel says, and screws the top back on to toss the flask back over.

"Hey, I think I figured out the air current thing while you were gone. Sort of."

He tries to demonstrate, but the winds that had been so cooperative a few minutes ago now seem bent on throwing him out of the sky.

"Yeah," Crowley says eventually. "Wow."

"Oh, shut up," he says amiably, "it was working a minute ago."

"No, I believe you," Crowley continues, which wide-eyed look of sincerity might be more effective if he hadn't just taken a large swig from the flask. "I do."

Raguel glares at him a moment longer, then swoops in with a threatening growl. It probably looks from the outside like a very badly-thought-out sort of attack. Actually, he's just after the flask.

Which means it's probably unfortunate that Crowley's immediate reaction is to ~~squawk and~~ clutch it protectively, dropping a few feet in something that's part purposeful dodge, sure - but also a certain measure of dumb surprise.

And it's definitely unfortunate that he hadn't screwed the lid back on, yet.

"Argh," he says, dripping.

Raguel does make some attempt at hiding his laughter, but dodging around behind Crowley and doubled over, holding one hand over his face, is not very secretive.

"Uh. Is there any left?" he manages.

"You know, I don't know," Crowley says levelly, "because I have alcohol in my eyes."

"Oh," Raguel says, but the giggles don't seem to be subsiding.

Eventually, though, he gets himself under control enough to move warily in front of Crowley and offer him... some kind of cloth that might once have been a handkerchief. There's no telling where it came from. It's a little frayed around the edges, but it is, at least, clean.

After a few near-collisions, they manage the clumsy exchange of flask for (possibly) handkerchief; the upside to Crowley's temporary blindness is that he can't really make out what he's wiping his face with until it's done.

Oh well, at least it's clean.

Well, it's certainly not pretty, but if Raguel had come out with monogrammed silk, he'd have been even more surprised than Crowley. As it is, it's practically a miracle (cough) he had anything on him at all.

He takes another few gulps from the flask while Crowley gets himself cleaned up.

"Actually, it doesn't even look like the level has gone down at all," he says, peering at it.

"Oh good," Crowley says dryly, squinting across at Raguel (damply). "I'm so relieved."

There's no real ire in his voice, though - even if Raguel probably shouldn't fall asleep around Crowley any time soon.

"Having more liquor is going to be important very soon," he points out. "Like when it's colder."

He seems to take pity on Crowley, though. He screws the top back onto the flask and prepares to throw it to him.