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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Crowley doesn't reply - not beyond a noncommittal grunt - scowling down at the approaching city lights as though they, somehow, are responsible for outing him.

"Kind of makes you wonder what else we're missing out on," he says, looking farther off toward the sea. "Not that I want to go native, or anything. But I'd never have thought to try that."

"You're one to talk about not going native," Crowley sniffs, though there's no real bite in it.

"Nothing wrong with it, anyway. Humans come up with some bloody good ideas."

"I haven't gone native," he says, surprised. "I feel like I know less about it than any of the others I've spoken to. Well, almost." There might be a few things he's observed more than most.
"And yeah, I agree with you there. Takeaway, now. That was real genius."

With a truly heroic effort, Crowley bites back another remark on Raguel's tawdry past (by now forever so labeled in Crowley's mind), and instead supplies, "Velvet Underground."

Raguel's silent for a moment, thinking. It does sound vaguely familiar, but...

"Uh. Okay, what's that?" he asks, mentally bracing himself.

There's a short but very, very expressive silence.

When Crowley speaks, though, it's not so much horrified as it is simply rather resigned - as though, perhaps, this isn't the first time he's had to explain this to a culture-proof angel.

"A band," he says wearily.

"Huh," Raguel says, not quite as expressively.

"One you like, I guess? If you put their genius on the same level as a roasted marshmallow."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Crowley replies dryly. "But they're not exactly something anybody but humanity could have come up with."

"Ah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, that's a pretty high standard. There are a few songs that I like, when I hear them. But I just hear them in passing."

Passing, for example, a gas station.

"A radio," Crowley says, struck with sudden inspiration. "How does that sound, for a housewarming gift? I mean, now that you've a place to keep books that doesn't actually have mildew on the walls, I'm fairly confident Aziraphael will start bombarding you with Literature. It's only fair I should get to corrupt you with modern dross."

"Are you going to ask if I listen to certain stations?" he asks with a grin. "I guess it does make sense that I know what's going on in the world. What people are listening to." He tries to repress the rather silly grin making its way across his face; it's almost as impossible that Crowley would want to give him one as it is improbable that he doesn't have one already.

"Oh. You think he will?" he adds, with the curious anxiety of someone who's just learned that a Very Important Person is paying them a visit and they aren't sure if they have any clean towels. Or in Raguel's case, running water, though that's been taken care of now.

"Yep," Crowley says confidently. "He'll use everything but outright violence to avoid having to sell a book, but give him a fresh mind ready to be illuminated by the great wordsmiths et cetera, et cetera, and he can't give them away fast enough. You have to take good care of them, though," he adds after a moment. "He always knows if you've been dog-earing pages, and that. It's sort of creepy."

"Oh, yeah, I know he doesn't like them to be tossed around. He loaned me a Rilke book once, and I always had to think twice before I stuck it in the bag with the shoes." He jerks his head to indicate the bag he's carrying; it certainly doesn't look like a safe place for books.

"Wow," Crowley says, "and you did anyway? Congrats on still existing on this mortal plane or any other."

"I didn't," he insists, sounding horrified. "If it came with me, I carried it. It's fine. I didn't break the spine or, uh. Anything."

"Preaching to the choir," Crowley says, sniggering. "I lived in a state of terror before I realised I was probably the one person who could get away with leaving a book open, face-down."

"Yeah, well. I suspect I wouldn't be so lucky. I'd get on the blacklist, or whatever he's got. Shunned forever. Couldn't set foot in the bookshop. Not allowed anything with words on it."

"Pretty much," Crowley agrees. "I'd expect surprise inspection tours, if I were you."

Raguel thinks about this for a moment.

"I'll have to add a bookshelf," he says at last, resigned. "Otherwise there'll just be a little pile on the floor. Maybe on the couch if I'm paying attention."

"Don't worry. I hear they assemble very easily."

So easily, in fact, that Crowley is going to have to clear his schedule just to come over and watch.

"Uh huh," Raguel says uneasily, glancing over. "Last time I used anything like a hammer I was knocking out a hole in the wall. As a window."

After a moment:

"You cared enough about having a window to knock a hole in your wall?"

"At the time," he says carefully, "that's how windows were generally made."

The badly suppressed grin on his face suggests that he may not be entirely serious.

"I'm just confused, considering that the window you had in your last place didn't even let any daylight in..."