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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"Enough to what?" he asks warily.

"Coyote made me pick mine up, too, and I don't even know what the problem was."

Crowley shrugs.

"Sympathetic magic is powerful. I mean, if you're looking at someone who actually knows what they're doing and who they're dealing with. And obviously you've never been... invoked." Crowley pronounces the word with mild distaste. "It's not very pleasant."

"Invoked?" he repeats. "I can't even... I can't imagine. And then they try to make you do things?"

He isn't quite sure what would happen if someone tried to force him to do things who knew what they were doing and had some method of control. Probably nothing good. Nothing good for them, maybe.

"Most bargain," he says vaguely. "One soul for one heart's desire, and so forth. But if someone's got a hold of something like a feather and knows how to use it - well, there are rules."

Foxes in foxholes, and rats down ratholes, they too are hurt.

Even for things like him, there are rules.

"So - yeah. It's not very pleasant. Plus the actual summoning always makes me lose my lunch."

"Augh," he says, looking distressed.

"Well, maybe it wasn't so silly to pick them up. She seemed to think that one would know what he was doing."

He looks around once more, but doesn't see any dark feathers dotting the landscape this time.

"So. Ready to go?"

That one? Crowley wonders - but doesn't press, for now. Another morsel of gossip for another night, possibly.

"When you are," he answers, shuffling his wings in the (vain) hope of dislodging a few more cactus needles.

Raguel nods, and with a few beats of immense grey wings he's in the air, looking almost immediately back down. Crowley is hard to pick out against the darkening surface, black on black on black.

Crowley's a little slow to follow - not least because he'd rather avoid another collision. But a few moments pass, and then there's a muffled, airy contrapunto to the sound of Raguel's wings.

With the moon sinking below the horizon, and the stars darker now, he's little more than a collection of dim highlights - speeding up slightly to draw level with Raguel, and then settling down to the angel's pace, as they beat steadily back across the desert, towards the bright pinprick of their fire.

It's almost the only light visible on the ground now that the points picked out by moonlight are almost gone. A few nearby towns are clearly visible from here with a few weak electrical lights, but there's more of a glow from the stars than anywhere nearby.

The flight back to the fire seems much faster than the flight out. Within a few minutes they're dropping to earth again, the fire still burning cheerfully in the middle of a perfectly healthy bush.

Crowley's the first to touch down, wings folding themselves quickly out of the way to make room. The shifting, altering shape of the demon's profile creates a confusing play of light and shadow as Raguel reaches the ground - just enough, perhaps, to distract from Crowley's smoothly outstretched foot.

Raguel isn't the most graceful being on land; he's marginally better in the sky, but mainly because he's been practicing. Once he touches down he hardly has a chance. He starts, predictably enough, toward the marshmallows, and equally predictably trips over Crowley's outstretched foot.

A few frantic flaps of his wings keep him from falling face-first into the bush. Loose down (even now, there's some left) floats past them as he gets himself back under control and stops flailing long enough to give Crowley a flat look.

"Asshole," he says, with feeling.

"It was worth it," Crowley replies, with an incongruously sweet grin.

"I begin to see why blackmail presents such an attractive option to people," he grumbles, stomping around and picking up the debris from their mini-campsite. There's not a lot to get; he starts by putting the leftover takeout boxes into the bag they came in.

"Hangover food," he says by way of explanation.

"Speak for yourself," Crowley snorts, occupying himself with the eradication of the loose down (making, it should be noted, no comment whatsoever on the state of Raguel's grooming). "I've no intention of being hungover."

Well, that, and he's likely to have burned off any remaining alcohol before sleeping. Details.

"Hey, you suggested cold takeout as an option," he reminds him, smile returning by degrees.

"Is the flask empty, by the way?"

"No," he says, before bothering to check; doing so answers with a satisfying sloshing sound from the bottom of the flask.

(The power of positive thinking.)

He tosses it over.

Raguel brightens and catches it, then takes a drink.

"Good stuff," he concludes, screwing the top back on. "Came from the bar, so. There's more in there if you want it," he adds, tossing it back.

If nothing else, it's quite warming.

For which Crowley has been more than grateful since they cracked it open - though the faint flush to his cheeks is more likely due to the firelight. Probably. In any case, it doesn't perceptibly increase as he takes an appreciative swallow of his own, before stowing the flask back in his capacious pocket.

(It ruins the line of his coat, but Crowley doesn't imagine that Raguel would be much impressed by a stylish silhouette in any case.)

He is very likely correct about that. Raguel's sporting a flush as well, but he would put it down to exertion on a chilly evening. It might even be correct.

"I guess the marshmallows have to go back in the bag," he says sadly, eyeing the leftovers.

"If I say you can keep them, am I going to see L.A. on fire again in the news because you tried to roast them in the middle of your kitchen floor?"

"It'll probably be on fire again. Or somewhere around there," he says honestly.

"I'll try to make sure there's supervision, how's that? It's no fun to roast them alone, anyway."

"Raguel," says Crowley, sounding amazed, "that sounded almost like innuendo. But then, considering your tawdry past, maybe I shouldn't be surprised."

"It wasn't tawdry!" he insists again, pushing the marshmallows hastily into his bag. It's got some strange bulges, but it's not like anyone below them will see it.

"Innuendo," he repeats with a low snort, swinging the bag onto his shoulder. "She'd have liked you."

"I am... comforted by that, in some bizarre way," Crowley mutters, scuffing around the fire to make sure they haven't left anything. "Though I'm not sure if you should be."

"Ahead of her time, no doubt." Raguel glances down to see a tiny pile of ashes sitting serenely on top of the dust, and scatters them with his foot.

"And as for comfort with that, well. I didn't mind any of it at the time."