Tuesday (or Thursday)

[a_fell]

It's just past the still-dark phase of the morning when Aziraphael disentangles himself from Crowley for long enough to slip out of the bed and into his fuzzy slippers and a worn bathrobe. Downstairs, he putters around aimlessly for a minute before changing the opening time on the sign to 1pm. He goes to the kitchen and, humming tunelessly, fills the kettle and takes a pair of mugs from the draining board. He's poured the hot water and is pulling a plastic honey bear from the cupboard when it occurs to him that tea might not be quite the thing if he's going back to bed.


Well, waste not. He takes both the mugs as he creaks up the stairs and carefully opens the bedroom door with one shoulder. It's fortunate - or something like that - that it didn't close all the way when he left.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

Not much else has changed, in the time since Aziraphael slipped away. The covers still lie rumpled, half tugged down where the angel slid from under them; the ancient mattress beneath still shows the faint impression of his weight. Crowley's still asleep, and hasn't moved at all - except where his shoulders (bare) have hunched a little tighter against the morning air, the shadow of an old frown between his eyebrows.

(And where his arm is sprawled, fingers loosely curled, across the space where Aziraphael lay.)

He hasn't yet rolled over, spread out to claim the empty space and steal the rest of the blankets - but it could be any moment now. Aziraphael had better hurry.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He first puts one of the mugs (black and oversized) down on the bedside table nearest Crowley, then shuffles over to put the other on the opposite side. Off come the slippers, carefully placed beneath the bed, and the robe is draped over a chair.

By the time he slides back under the covers, he has to move carefully; Crowley surely wasn't in that space a moment ago.

[aj_crawley]

It certainly makes things a little more awkward than they need to be. Though generally tractable when asleep, Crowley tends not to appreciate attempts to wake him up - nor anything that might resemble such, in the cold of an early February morning.

Well, sort of early.

Well, earlier than usual.

Before noon, at least.

When Aziraphael jostles against him, ever so slightly: a grunt of complaint.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"I'm sorry, my dear," he whispers, then after a moment he adds, with a knowing smile, "I did warn you."

A few seconds later it's clear that he hasn't slipped all the way down yet, because there's the soft sound of a slurp from a teacup.

[aj_crawley]

At first there's no response - only another half-mumbled sound, as the jostling subsides and Crowley snuffles sullenly into the pillows.

After a moment, though, instinct kicks back in. Aziraphael is warm and the mattress dips beneath him; slowly and soft, Crowley's arm snakes out again and curls across the angel's waist.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His unoccupied hand drifts over to rest in Crowley's hair; there are more quiet drinking sounds.

The restless movement of his foot - tap-tap, tap-tap is perfectly silent. The vibrations from it, however, carry through the whole mattress.

[aj_crawley]

"Zfl," Crowley says to the pillows, a note of warning in his voice, as five warm fingertips dig into the flesh of Aziraphael's hip.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

You might think that Aziraphael would understand Sleeping Crowley by now. In fact he does, to some extent; he looks down, blinking, and pushes a lock of hair - threateningly close to Crowley's eyebrow - away with his thumb.

He doesn't realise that his foot is still tapping.

[aj_crawley]

"Zrfl," he says - a little louder, a little more distinct, and this time accompanied by what might, though clumsy and leaden and not the least bit forceful, be charitably called a kick to Aziraphael's calf.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Ouch," he says, more out of reflex than from any hint of pain this actually causes. It does focus attention on his leg, though, and the tapping stops.

It isn't long before his thoughts begin to wander, and it starts up again.

[aj_crawley]

It's not even that -

It's only the barest tremor, and Crowley's certainly slept through a thousand and one far more intrusive annoyances. But memory and old habit are insistent, and niggling, and hard to ignore - and even though it's been years now (and decades before that), there are still fraying wires marked 'PAY ATTENTION' attached to disused parts of Crowley's hindbrain; bits that still remember how to snap awake, nought to ninety, when the ground starts shaking in the middle of the night.





Crowley rolls away, and sits up.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He looks over, curious and a little concerned; this is certainly not normal behaviour as far as he knows. The tapping stops as Crowley captures his attention.

"All right, my dear?" he asks, bringing the now unoccupied hand up to join the other in holding his cup steady.

[aj_crawley]

"Mm," he grunts again, though he doesn't look around - instead slouching over his knees and lifting a hand to scratch through his tangled hair.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"There's tea on the table over there, if you'd like."

It wouldn't dare be other than extremely hot, and it's the first thing Aziraphael would reach for, at least. Well, perhaps the second.

[aj_crawley]

The world hasn't yet slid into focus, and it takes a moment for Aziraphael's words to penetrate the thick, sleepy fog around Crowley's brain. A second ticks by, and then another, before the demon twists to look at the bedside table, and then a second ticks by (and then another) before he turns back, looks back over his other shoulder at Aziraphael.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael looks back a little questioningly. He's perfectly calm, sipping his tea, rumpled and unaware that he was the source of any discomfort.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley blinks slowly, hand still in his hair. The covers are puddled around his hips. Cold, he thinks.

"Time," he croaks finally.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Let's see," he says. One gets the feeling he'd be counting on his fingers if his hands weren't otherwise occupied with the cup.

"I got up at the usual time to go and change the opening sign and make tea, and the clock downstairs said seven twenty-three. But that was before the tea. And I admit I didn't wait quite as long as I should have for that to steep, but I've been up here a little while. So it's probably about a quarter to eight now."

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's grimace is unmistakeable, though only partly visible as he lowers his hand to press the heel against his eye.

"Early," he says, a little pathetically.

And cold.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," he says, dredging up a little sympathy. "There's tea," he adds, in case Crowley didn't catch it the first time.

"Or you could go back to sleep if you prefer."

[aj_crawley]

This prompts another scowl - though a milder one this time, as much of Crowley's concentration has gone towards making sure that the heavy weight behind his forehead does not topple him as he (slowly, carefully) shakes his head.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"No... tea?" he translates hesitantly. This does not make any sense. And not going back to sleep - well, it doesn't make any sense for Crowley, at least.

[aj_crawley]

"W' you sstop kicking," Crowley mutters, still a step behind in the conversation.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Actually, I believe you were kicking me," he says primly.

[aj_crawley]

The heating's on. But he'd been under the covers, and of course he'd had -

"You want to get up, get up," Crowley says, rubbing the hair down flat on his arm. Under his skin, his shoulder-blades slide, sharp and distinct in the half-light from the hall. "Don't - "

His other hand plucks crossly at the duvet.

"Shaking the whole. Mattresss."