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

[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.)