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Dec. 28th, 2006 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_fellThe curtains in the bedroom are thick enough that he winces when he opens the door into the rest of the suite, slipping out quickly and shutting it silently behind himself. Without the gentle glow of the lamplight, by natural light pouring in through enormous windows, he'd half expected the room to be revealed as something slightly lesser. Expected wallpaper to be peeling in corners that'd been shadowed, perhaps, or peeling gilt around smeared mirrors. But things this morning are just about as perfect as they'd been last night and he can't help but smile at that.
It seems somehow fitting.
Rubbing his eyes, Aziraphael wanders over to the window, noting with no real surprise (but a good deal of pleasure) that fluffy snowflakes are drifting gently down from a low grey sky; he'd make a mental note to drag Crowley out in it later, were it not for the fact that there are already plans for the day.
(Another smile, at that, and a touch of pink to his cheeks. He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck as he walks over to the table.)
There's coffee and tea on the table, and - he laughs, softly - freshly ironed newspapers; he tucks these last under his arm as he pours out drinks for himself and Crowley.
(He must have left the bedroom door a little way open, since it moves obligingly out of his way without any need for juggling.)
Crowley's coffee he leaves on the bedside table, depositing his tea and newspaper at his own side of the bed before climbing back under the covers, tucking his feet under Crowley's leg - it wasn't cold outside, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't up to the standards of warmth he's starting to find he'd much prefer.
It seems somehow fitting.
Rubbing his eyes, Aziraphael wanders over to the window, noting with no real surprise (but a good deal of pleasure) that fluffy snowflakes are drifting gently down from a low grey sky; he'd make a mental note to drag Crowley out in it later, were it not for the fact that there are already plans for the day.
(Another smile, at that, and a touch of pink to his cheeks. He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck as he walks over to the table.)
There's coffee and tea on the table, and - he laughs, softly - freshly ironed newspapers; he tucks these last under his arm as he pours out drinks for himself and Crowley.
(He must have left the bedroom door a little way open, since it moves obligingly out of his way without any need for juggling.)
Crowley's coffee he leaves on the bedside table, depositing his tea and newspaper at his own side of the bed before climbing back under the covers, tucking his feet under Crowley's leg - it wasn't cold outside, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't up to the standards of warmth he's starting to find he'd much prefer.
