Crowley chokes out something that doesn't quite have enough consonants to be a curse, though it's not for lack of trying.
(The sudden jerk of his wing is rather more pronounced, this time.)
A pause; he sinks back against the mattress again. He's still flushed. His eyes, fever-bright, are wide. But most tellingly, perhaps, for its rarity: the hair at his temples is damp.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2009-01-01 12:01 am (UTC)(The sudden jerk of his wing is rather more pronounced, this time.)
A pause; he sinks back against the mattress again. He's still flushed. His eyes, fever-bright, are wide. But most tellingly, perhaps, for its rarity: the hair at his temples is damp.
"You don't - " he breathes.