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]

At first, Crowley stiffens.

But then (a second ticks by, and then another), his own hand reaches around and catches Aziraphael's fingers.

His ears are still red, even in the dimness.

Gently, he pulls.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He scoots closer, obligingly, until they're nearly touching. Aziraphael's posture against the headboard at last seems ridiculous next to Crowley's, lying buried in blankets.

He slides down a little.

[aj_crawley]

"Come on," Crowley finally says, so very quiet as to be nearly inaudible.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Well, that's clear enough. He slides the rest of the way down and inches forward until he's right up against Crowley's back. It's difficult without the use of the hand that was captured by Crowley, but he manages.

[aj_crawley]

There.

Crowley has to let go for a minute, just to pull the covers back more securely around them, but then his hand fastens on Aziraphael's again.

It's easy to feel, with the angel curled so close: Crowley breathes in (deep), and out (long, and a little rough).

(Relieved.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's convenient - and familiar - to rest his forehead in the hollow created between the top of Crowley's shoulder and the back of his head.

But it's not long before he tilts his head up to rest his lips there, instead.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley tucks Aziraphael's arm a little more tightly around himself.



Presently:

"Look," he says awkwardly, and then stops.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Mm," he says intelligently, half-words and half-sigh. The fingers of the arm around Crowley tighten very slightly in the vicinity of his ribs.

[aj_crawley]

Aziraphael's bookshop is old, and dusty, and terribly creaky; the bedroom door is gently warped with age, and the grey light of dawn filters in around the edges of the frame. It isn't bright. It smoothes corners, softens edges, makes the wallpaper less horrible and hides the places where it cracks and peels.

Except from Crowley, who can see in the dark.

"I, er," he says, looking at the curling corner above the bedside table.

His shoulders stiffen again.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Mm," he says again, into Crowley's neck. His fingers relax and then start tracing tiny, formless patterns across his ribs.

"'S all right," he adds, mostly coherently.

[aj_crawley]

Another deep breath in; another long breath out.


"Yeah," Crowley says quietly. "All right."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"All right," he repeats, planting a kiss while he's there. His exhale vibrates the short hairs at Crowley's hairline.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's taller than Aziraphael, but it's mostly in the legs; he can sink back against the warm, solid curve of the angel's torso and fit quite, quite well.

(Slowly, of course; bit by bit. But in no time at all, their breathing is in sync.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He doesn't fall asleep; once he's up, he's up - but he drifts, and it's incredible what an unknown experience that is when he isn't on holiday. It's certainly unheard-of in the middle of the week. He concentrates on stillness, and his breathing synchronises without his even thinking of it.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley is a restful sleeper. He doesn't dream (one of God's small mercies); he never tosses, or turns. He tends not to move much at all, unless it's to steal more blankets, to shrink from the cold, to burrow closer to a source of warmth.

But with Aziraphael pressed up against him, arm curled around him, breathing in time with him, it'd be hard - very hard indeed - to get any closer.

So perhaps, when Crowley eventually turns, he's just awake enough to have decided that he should like to have his arm around Aziraphael, as well.

It's almost lost in the squeak of bedsprings, in the space between laying on one side and the other:

"Funny," Crowley murmurs.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Nnmgh?" he says, barely a sound at all. It's more like a nonsensical sleeping murmur with a question stuck on the end of it.

Or possibly like he's trying to speak and get Crowley's hair out of his mouth at the same time.

"Hm? Wha - er. Funny?" he asks, not trying very hard to wake up at all.

[aj_crawley]

Barely on the edge of hearing, the words are little more than shapes against the skin of Aziraphael's chest.

"Thsay 'sss not as cold as it used to be."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Do they?" he asks, not really processing this.

A moment later, though, he frowns slightly.

"'S it used to be when?" he asks.

[aj_crawley]

"Dunno," Crowley exhales.

His arm settles comfortably back around the angel's waist.

"Before."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Hm," he says agreeably.

After a moment:

"Mng. Cold?"

[aj_crawley]

When Crowley edges his toes under Aziraphael's calves, they're ever so slightly cool.

"Must be getting old."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Eyes still closed, he smiles into Crowley's hair.

"I hear that it's all downhill after you hit five thousand or so. Aren't you the one normally complaining about my cold feet?"

[aj_crawley]

No response - only a quiet huff against Aziraphael's skin, and Crowley's arm closing tighter about the angel's waist.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Pr'aps I'm getting old," he mutters after a moment. "Didn't used to be cold."

[aj_crawley]

"Not," Crowley mumbles. Hard to tell whether he's shaking his head, or simply nuzzling further into the curve of Aziraphael's shoulder.