Crowley does smile, with gratitude, and squeezes Aziraphale's fingers.
There's a small hill behind the inn, and Crowley guides them around it. It's not a far walk, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, enough to give some privacy and enough distance from the road for quiet. On the other side of the hill is a small river, barely more than a creek, and a pleasant copse of trees, near the remnants of a ruin. Impossible to tell what it was from the stones alone, only half a wall and a few odds and ends. There's a faint tinge of holiness to it, but it's so old it only barely registers.
"Thought I remembered this being here," Crowley says. He sits down by the river with a small sigh of relief, pulling Aziraphale down with him to sit between his legs and in his arms, so Aziraphale can lean back against him while Crowley leans against a tree trunk. The river--not really a full river, but more than a mere creek--trickles its way along.
It's a soothing place, and for a while they just sit there in silence, holding each other and enjoying the feeling of not being in a small moving carriage.
"1455," Crowley says finally, apropos of nothing. No, not apropos of nothing; it's the conversation that's been waiting in the wings all these days, it hardly needs a cue. "Maybe 1456? Near then. That's when I came out here." He shifts a little, lowers his face and kisses Aziraphale's neck lightly, not with any ulterior motive but just for his own comfort and because it's there and it's welcome. Because he can. "To Castile, really, not here specifically. Had a list of things to do in the whole area, spent a few decades running around here and there arranging things. Castile, Seville, Aragon..." He stops and shrugs a little, rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder and looks over at the river. "Around. Not a long term assignment, not the sort where you stay in one place for decades on end, but I've kept having to come back here to line up ducks in rows. That type."
Very likely. =) Dunno if they've been stopping at night or changing drivers?
There's a small hill behind the inn, and Crowley guides them around it. It's not a far walk, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, enough to give some privacy and enough distance from the road for quiet. On the other side of the hill is a small river, barely more than a creek, and a pleasant copse of trees, near the remnants of a ruin. Impossible to tell what it was from the stones alone, only half a wall and a few odds and ends. There's a faint tinge of holiness to it, but it's so old it only barely registers.
"Thought I remembered this being here," Crowley says. He sits down by the river with a small sigh of relief, pulling Aziraphale down with him to sit between his legs and in his arms, so Aziraphale can lean back against him while Crowley leans against a tree trunk. The river--not really a full river, but more than a mere creek--trickles its way along.
It's a soothing place, and for a while they just sit there in silence, holding each other and enjoying the feeling of not being in a small moving carriage.
"1455," Crowley says finally, apropos of nothing. No, not apropos of nothing; it's the conversation that's been waiting in the wings all these days, it hardly needs a cue. "Maybe 1456? Near then. That's when I came out here." He shifts a little, lowers his face and kisses Aziraphale's neck lightly, not with any ulterior motive but just for his own comfort and because it's there and it's welcome. Because he can. "To Castile, really, not here specifically. Had a list of things to do in the whole area, spent a few decades running around here and there arranging things. Castile, Seville, Aragon..." He stops and shrugs a little, rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder and looks over at the river. "Around. Not a long term assignment, not the sort where you stay in one place for decades on end, but I've kept having to come back here to line up ducks in rows. That type."