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[a_fell]

Aziraphael had asked, somewhat plaintively, whether they had anything built to a normal scale in Vienna when he saw the hotel Crowley had booked them into - tall and imposing yet somehow graceful, effortlessly combining function and form in a way that he rather wished modern architects would take note of. The Imperial had originally been a palace

Comments

[aj_crawley]

The silence that follows certainly doesn't help - there's no reply from Crowley (lounging in the opposite corner of the couch in his shirtsleeves and socks, collar unbuttoned and bowtie gone missing sometime between starter and dessert).

The demon's gone very, very still, though, all of a sudden.

And his expression might be a hint.

[a_fell]

Aziraphael swirls his glass idly, taking a sip and humming in satisfaction before the silence really registers as more than the result of entirely too much food.

He turns his head and raises an eyebrow slightly, scanning the demon's expression.

"...Crowley?"

[aj_crawley]

Crowley looks away, down, in order to finish pouring his wine, and then sets the bottle back on the table with a quiet, solid thunk.

He has twin streaks of red painted one across each of his cheekbones, comically vivid against his pale cheeks, but that's alright. Because after a few moments more, it becomes apparent that despite his best efforts, he's losing the fight against what is - it must be said - a quite impressively stupid grin.

"I'm glad you think so," he mutters.

[a_fell]

The setting confuses him a moment.

But there is no crowd in this ridiculous room, no bartenders or cloakroom attendants, and the butler has buttled off to do whatever it is that they do.

Aziraphael slides along the couch until his leg is pressed firmly against Crowley's, takes care to hold his wine steady as his other hand cups Crowley's jaw and he leans in to press his lips against the quite impressively stupid grin that tugs at something just behind his breastbone.