(Untitled)

[aj_crawley]

The rain falls like white noise: a soft and curiously enveloping sound, like all of grey, grey London sighing hush. The headlights of cars glow like halos outside the bookshop window, and their tyres swish softly down the road, and Crowley imagines that - even inside - he can still taste the sharp, clean smell coming off the uneven Soho cobbles.

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[a_fell]

"If you truly expect me to don any sort of bathing attire whilst we're away, it's going to be another thirty seconds," the angel's voice floats down.

He's holding up two truly terrible options, debating between them with more worry than is really warranted. Perhaps Crowley's case of the fidgets is contagious.

[aj_crawley]

"You can buy some when we get there," Crowley replies, perhaps half a second before a much cleverer answer presents itself.

He scowls at the 'CLOSED' sign on the door, which curls a little around the edges.

[a_fell]

"All right," comes the voice, "I'm coming down now." He throws both options into his suitcase, slams it shut and buckles it, hauls it to the landing, goes back for his hat, can't find it in the top of the closet, digs under the bed with a determined expression, pulls it out and plops it on his head (trailing dust bunnies), and hauls the suitcase down the stairs.

"All ready!" he announces.

[aj_crawley]

Inner peace, thinks Crowley, slithering down off the counter and pulling his scarf a little tighter. He looks Aziraphael up, and then down, and then up again, and then says, "Dust yourself off; you're not getting into my car like that."