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]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Not cold? Or. Not old?"

These are the questions which plague the wakeful in the early hours of the morning.

[aj_crawley]

He squeezes a little tighter - pointedly, perhaps, but to what purpose?

"Cold."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Ah," he says, and there's a quiet pause.

"Good."

"Except for your toes."

[aj_crawley]

"Hm," Crowley agrees softly.

He doesn't seem about to do anything to ameliorate the situation.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Neither does Aziraphael. He does shift his fingers from Crowley's back into his hair again, pausing for a wide, lengthy yawn.

[aj_crawley]

It's brighter outside now, daylight plainly visible in the hall beyond the door. And yet strangely, it doesn't change the light in the bedroom at all.

There: a dry brush of lips that can't be put down to words.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He doesn't move, but there's an almost imperceptible alteration in his face. One side of his mouth tightens, pulling it into the tiny implication of a smile.

[aj_crawley]

He loves -

He loves the feeling of Aziraphael's hand in his hair, and Aziraphael's steady heartbeat, near enough to hear above his own slow breathing. How warm it is (here, now), compared to the rest of the world (here, now). He'll sleep better. Wake up warmer. Be... better, for the day.

They say it's not as cold as it used to be.

Crowley must be getting old.

  (Getting warmer.)