[Just that he'd look, which is a crime in and of itself, when Crowley's place here isn't as stark as his one in Mayfair, which means it gives far too much away.
There's some anxiety there, about all that, but Crowley keeps it tucked away as he ushers Aziraphale into the elevator, leaning his shoulder against the angel's to maintain a point of contact without being too affectionate. The whole place screams expense, but the more subtle kind. There's some warmth in the wood finishes, nothing too gaudy in the halls or elevator.
Crowley is, naturally, quite high up. Once they're out of the lift, he leads Aziraphale to his door, which opens without any need for a key, and then it's — into the flat. Like the rest of the place, it's expensive without being over the top. It isn't the harsh concrete of Mayfair, and there are clearly personal touches. A hand-knitted blanket folded over the back of the couch, the aforementioned mice (who are brightly colored and well looked after), the books and art that he's collected in his time here so far.
It doesn't occur to Crowley that there might be some trace of love in the place, considering the time Martin spends here. It isn't something he can sense, so it slips to the back of his mind, most days.]
Right, home sweet home, I suppose. You want that tea, or something stronger?
no subject
[Just that he'd look, which is a crime in and of itself, when Crowley's place here isn't as stark as his one in Mayfair, which means it gives far too much away.
There's some anxiety there, about all that, but Crowley keeps it tucked away as he ushers Aziraphale into the elevator, leaning his shoulder against the angel's to maintain a point of contact without being too affectionate. The whole place screams expense, but the more subtle kind. There's some warmth in the wood finishes, nothing too gaudy in the halls or elevator.
Crowley is, naturally, quite high up. Once they're out of the lift, he leads Aziraphale to his door, which opens without any need for a key, and then it's — into the flat. Like the rest of the place, it's expensive without being over the top. It isn't the harsh concrete of Mayfair, and there are clearly personal touches. A hand-knitted blanket folded over the back of the couch, the aforementioned mice (who are brightly colored and well looked after), the books and art that he's collected in his time here so far.
It doesn't occur to Crowley that there might be some trace of love in the place, considering the time Martin spends here. It isn't something he can sense, so it slips to the back of his mind, most days.]
Right, home sweet home, I suppose. You want that tea, or something stronger?