flybywash | (no subject)

(no subject)

The offered reassurances that he'd sleep in a real bed for once?

Wash kind of lied.

Awake since four in the morning UAPT, charts scattered about and coffee long gone cold at his elbow, he's pillowed his head in his arms, fast asleep at the kitchen table.

Every so often, there's a gentle snore.

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"It's a wise plan; business and pleasure rarely mix well." His voice is rather wry.

"What have you been up to that's tired you out so? I hope you're taking proper care of yourself; if you undo all my hard work I might be forced to smite you."

A weak smile. "Um."

Another sip of coffee. It's a good way to forestall.

"Anybody fill you in on our little adventure in the bar last week?"

"This would be 'the Niska thing', would it?" He frowns, slightly. "Refresh my memory?"

Wash rakes a hand through the hair above his left temple.

"Taking the longer story and chopping it up into ittybitty pieces...Niska shows up, I see him, I try to stab him, Jayne actually stabs him, Mal punches him, we all wind up in the very small and windowless cells for a while while he's still walking around."

"I could lecture about violence not being the answer, I suppose, but I think the circumstances illustrate that far better than I'd manage."

And then for a moment the angelic obligation is pushed aside; it's family, after all.

"And no one else was - you weren't hurt, at all?"

Mutely, he shakes his head.

His coffee's growing more fascinating by the minute.

"Well I'm grateful to hear that at least." He sighs. "I don't suppose you could possibly consider fetching Security, next time? Have mercy on my poor nerves?"

It's never exactly comforting to know that one would be five hundred years too late to help.

He's been dearly, dearly hoping that there's some way there wouldn't be a next time.

But Wash nods, lips twisting into another small, wry smile, and says, "Shi a." An absent gesture follows. "I always get the order confused -- Security first, then threats."

"...or you could always cut out the threats altogether, young man."

He does the stern face rather well.

Well, with six and a half thousand years of practice....

Wash shrinks down in his chair half an inch, completely involuntarily. When he realizes what he's doing, he straightens back up, eyeing Aziraphael.

"You gotta teach me how to do that," he comments weakly. "Maybe I can use it on Naomi when I come in here and find her drawing horses all over the walls."

"I think a few horses would brighten up the place, rather."

Serene, now.

"And how is Zoe? I've not run into her an awful lot."

He clears his throat.

"And... well, to be quite honest, she's always rather intimidated me."

Wash breaks into a grin.

"Zoe's always intimidating. Some of us are just too stupid to notice and don't figure it out 'til after we're falling madly in love with her. She's, ah...." An absent scratch along the edge of his jaw. "Doing okay, for the seven months pregnant version of the word."

"...so it's probably best I continue to make sure I'm out of her way."

Without missing a beat, "Probably, yeah."

"I shall make a note of it. I'd never here the end of it if I returned from Missioning missing vital pieces of my anatomy, you know."

Wash, in mid-sip, chokes a little on his coffee.

Once he's recovered (well, mostly): "I thought angels didn't have anatomy."

Aziraphael sips his tea, smiling very slightly.

"Then you have a far higher opinion of Crowley's self control than is perhaps deserved."

"But I like this lack-of-anatomy theory better. It means I get to pretend you don't actually have sex and therefore never, ever, ever have to think about it." Lightly.

They're his uncles. It's almost as bad as parents: you know it happens, you accept that it happens, but you don't ever actually want to dwell on it happening.

With the added benefit that they're old.

And yet, still so pretty.

Aziraphael's slightly pink along the cheekbones.

"Yes, I'd thank you not to. I realise that with your wife at seven months you might start considering new things, but I'd far rather you left me out of it."

He's not quite managing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

And Wash has given up entirely.

He props his forehead against the heel of his palm, caught in a horrified, full-out snickerfit.

"I will never," he tries to say, attempting to cobble together what little dignity he has left, "be that desperate, Aziraphael."

"...somehow I'm not quite managing to feel offended."

"I'm sorry. I just."

He glances up, still working to smother his laughter, and there is a decidedly wicked gleam in his eye.

Waving a hand, airily, "Guys with chubby hands, you know. I don't go for that."

You can't call down lightning in outer space, right?

"I'm going to let that slide."

Such control!

"This once."

Wash?

Beams.

Innocently.

Somewhere in there, there's another demure sip of coffee.

"But Crowley will be getting a piece of my mind, that's for certain."

"Oh, he wasn't the one who told me first."

Beat.

"Told me it annoyed you, yeah, but -- "

Aziraphael facepalms.

"Oh heck, you haven't read it?"

"I had to do something to pass the time when I was locked up for a week!" He's cackling. "It was reading material. I wasn't going to turn down reading material."

"Well it was a very nice dress."

"And I'm sure you pulled it off beautifully."

Straight-faced.

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