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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"Oh? And what'll you tell Aziraphael when it's your turn to make up a story? I have a feeling he's gotten sort of attached to me. 'Course, you know how it is."

"You were attacked by bats," he says loftily. "You were recovering at my place with all the curtains closed because you couldn't stand daylight. And when you come in after either finding a door or taking a ride in first-class, I'll say that it was so traumatic that you blocked out the whole thing." He looks briefly very proud of this little tale.

"But, er. As to that, I don't think I do."

"No?"

No. Raguel isn't that stupid. Not with a human, not like -

Not like himself and Aziraphael.

The thought of it is nearly enough to make Crowley cringe in horror (instinctive, and particularly undemonic).

Instead:

"Let me guess - you got lost in the desert once, except someone propped a cactus in your chair and drew a frowny face with dirt, and she didn't notice the difference."

"No," he says with finality. And he doesn't intend to, either.

"All right," he admits, with a passable attempt at a stormy expression. "I wasn't there a lot of the time, but it wasn't that bad. Anyway, I wouldn't get lost in the desert."

As defenses go, this one is... not very good. And Raguel knows it.

"You're only encouraging me to test your desert survival skills."

(Of all the things - in this context, anyhow - that Crowley's qualified to talk about, human entanglements and not being there are probably amongst the top few.

But 'qualified to talk about' isn't quite the same as 'can talk about'.

Crack-crack, again, go Crowley's knuckles.)

"Probably not, though," he agrees. "Not that bad, I mean. You're at least reasonably distinguishable from a cactus. And I wouldn't necessarily take that as a compliment," he adds, for form's sake.

"I'd be more worried if I wasn't distinguishable, because I could be in pieces scattered across the desert right now like that thing." He gestures to the trail of destruction leading away from them toward the mountains.

"Desert survival skills," he repeats in a mutter.

Pointedly ignoring Raguel's last comment:

"True, but at least I wouldn't have some unknown amount of needles stuck under my feathers. Probably."

"Yeah, there is that. Probably. Which would be great except for the part where I'm in pieces."

"I survived the collision, and I'm not in pieces. I mean, unless you really think you're that much more fragile than I am, which, let's be honest, you could be forgiven for supposing..."

"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."