a_fell | Tuesday (or Thursday)

Tuesday (or Thursday)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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

"Time," he croaks finally.

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

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

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

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."

"Oh, was I?" he says, once he's deciphered what Crowley is trying to say.

"Terribly sorry, I didn't realise." He lowers the cup and taps on the ceramic gently until he realises it's making a clinking noise and stops.

"I'm not getting up early today," he reminds him.

"If you're going to fidget - " Crowley insists, voice thin and tired.

(He's still only half-turned towards Aziraphael, an awkward tangle of knees and blankets, and the profile view only emphasises the mulish set of his chin.)

"I won't fidget," he promises. "See?" He crosses one ankle over the other, which Crowley probably can't see, but he can see the blankets suddenly tent around Aziraphael's feet.

"And I've almost finished my tea," he adds, "so I can lie down again."

Crowley's glower turns distinctly mistrustful (and finally registering the mug of caffeine in Aziraphael's hands does not help) - but after a few moments, he scoots a little way back towards the pillows, tugging the covers with him.

Aziraphael's hand - the one not required to support the cup - drops immediately to the blankets and secures with an iron grip what little hasn't been pulled over toward Crowley.

His eyes look slightly panicked.

He's not about to steal any more - so says the face he makes when Aziraphael reacts. He has enough, or thereabouts, to pull up around his ribs as he leans down against the headboard, watching Aziraphael suspiciously.

Aziraphael takes another sip of his tea; apparently Crowley isn't going to lie down again right away, so he stares back at him (innocently).

"This is rather nice," he says conversationally. "Tea in bed, I mean."

"Not'f it makes you twitchy," Crowley mutters - no doubt trying for pointed, but, with his drawn face and folded arms, landing rather closer to petulant.

"Believe me, my dear, you wouldn't want to see me in the morning without tea," he says, with a mock shudder. "Twitchy is a small price to pay. But I doubt it was the tea, anyhow."

Have, he thinks, but so vaguely that the thought never makes it as far as his throat.

Slowly, groggily, the next one trickles through:

"No?"

"No," he confirms, glad that Crowley seems to be catching on.

"I only made it just now; it couldn't possibly have affected me so quickly. If you're referring to the caffeine content, of course."

"No," Crowley says, fingers curling tighter into the blankets clamped around him.

(He was.)

"Ah. Well, er. The smell of tea has an awakening effect, I suppose, but it's certainly not universal."

He looks uncertain, but rallies with a wave of his hand.

"Regardless, it's not something I can attribute to the tea."

"Don't care why you do it," is Crowley's only response, slumping a little lower and glaring up at Aziraphael. "Long as 's not while I'm trying to sleep."

He just wants -

"All right, yes, all right," he says, placating. He gulps the dregs of his tea and puts the cup carefully back onto the table. He slides down a little, leaning against the headboard at the same height as Crowley.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject