milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

aziraphael,
crowley

(no subject)

"So are you denying you were involved?"

"Wasn't that the gist of what I was saying?"

"But - if you'll forgive me for saying so, my dear - isn't that rather the sort of silliness you enjoy?"

"Are you suggesting I don't take the election process seriously?"

"Oh, and that gaffe was a part of the election process, was it?"

"Well, public transparency is important in these things, don't you think?"

"You don't feel it was a little... juvenile?"

"Aren't most little old ladies from Manchester bigots anyway?"

"Non-sequitur, I'm afraid. My serve."

"Bugger."

One angel and one demon, feet discreetly tangled under the table, sharing a tall pitcher of something that looks like fruit juice but is, in all probability, considerably more alcoholic.

From the sound of things, they're feeling rather sociable tonight.

(Of course, if you should need to catch either of them alone, you're not entirely out of luck. One of the many benefits of an ethereal constitution is that refreshments that are merely considerably alcoholic needn't slow one down for quite some time. It's more or less a certainty that each of them, at some point or another, will be sallying forth to Bar herself to replenish supplies.)

[OOC: Two occult beings for the price of one! Tag either or tag both - just mention which in your comment.]

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He thinks for a moment, smiles somewhat deviously, and begins again.

"Have you wondered at all where we'll go on our next holiday?"

"Oh," he says, a little... taken aback, perhaps. It takes him a moment to recover.

"Is that still on the table, then?"

Hmm.

"Would you prefer it was taken off the table, so to speak?"

Crowley traces a fingernail around the base of his glass.

"What gives you that impression?"

Under the table, his ankle presses slightly against Aziraphael's.

(After Christmas, and every exhausting thing that went with, they hadn't taken a holiday in the end. Or at least, they hadn't gone abroad to have one. Midway through January, when the decibel levels of the tourists flooding London had abated somewhat, Crowley'd installed them in a Green Park suite at the Ritz for a long weekend: theatre in the evenings, dinner and dancing - or at least, watching the dancing - in the Palm Court, and, er. Taking advantage of the amenities in the evening. It's not what they might have called a holiday a few years ago, perhaps, but - )

It isn't that the last holiday hadn't been wonderful; the bubble baths alone had led to-- well. Never mind what they'd led to; they were delightful in themselves, and it was nothing he'd be forgetting any time soon. The delights of the city had in no way let them down, either; it was only that perhaps they'd benefit from being away from the city this time. And not at a book fair, much as he'd like that. It's a holiday for Crowley, too, after all.

His smile isn't devious this time - delighted would be closer, though that isn't quite it, either. It's not meant for public view.

"Is it not a somewhat delicate time to be away from your gardening duties?"

They'd got bubbles everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

"And we can't go after everything's done... why?"

Arguably, that was one of the best parts.

"Do you really foresee a time when everything is done?"

Crowley endeavours to look at least a little offended, although the jaunty paper umbrella perched in his glass rather undermines the effect.

"What, you don't trust me to know when the place can fend for itself for a bit?"

Unable to keep up a lofty expression, he tops up both of their glasses and takes advantage of the momentary glance down to compose himself.

"So you'll let me know when it's a good time for our holiday, then?"

"Well," he says, tilting his head in feigned thoughtfulness, "where would we be going?"

It all depends, see. Crowley isn't about to give up the comforts of London for a caravan holiday in Wales.

He picks up his drink and leans back.

"Would Cornwall be too far?"

Judges award Crowley's eyebrow-raise a perfect 10.

"Are you planning to go by yourself?"

Oh dear. Well, it isn't as though he expected this to be easy.

"Is that a 'yes?'"

Crowley wrinkles his nose.

"Why Cornwall?"

(Scanning his memory for any summer book fairs of note in Cornwall, Crowley realises two things: one, that he can't think of any off the top of his head, and two, that he has a small mental catalogue of British book fairs.)

He makes a face right back, this one more akin to an eyeroll.

"Are you unaware of the many pleasant things there are to do on holiday in Cornwall?"

"Such as?"

Come on, Aziraphael walked right into that one.

"Have you overlooked the beaches, for example?" he tries.

"Do you really think the beaches are warm enough?" he counters.

"Warm enough for what?" he asks, against his better judgement.

"What do I usually do on beaches?" he replies, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

(Answer: Aziraphael.)

For some reason, he clears his throat at this. For some reason, there's a slow tide of red beginning to darken his face.

"Isn't the general idea behind the summer holiday to go somewhere that's a little cooler?"

"Yes," Crowley replies patiently, "but then why go to a beach?"

"Don't you find it relaxing just to sit back and take in the view?" he asks, somewhat desperately.

"Which view are you talking about?"

(It all depends, see.)

"On this hypothetical public beach, wouldn't it have to be a view of the sea?"

There's a very slight emphasis on the word public.