It isn't easy. Even with how long they've been doing this, it's still difficult sometimes to read in the lines of Crowley's back, or the motions of his hands, or the low flickering in his yellow eyes, what might do more harm than good.
The demon looks as though he's about to get up; as though he's on the very edge of doing so. But when Aziraphael does instead, standing to pull back the blankets, Crowley doesn't move at all. He only watches, perched on the mattress, hands folded in the crook of his knee.
Together, they decide that it might be best to forgo the extra blanket after all, since Crowley should not like to get - tangled up in it (and that barely perceptible hesitation before the word twists something hard in Aziraphael's chest); idle discussion determines that although the worn and colourless layers from Jubilee might not rival Aziraphael's pyjamas for comfort, they are, at least, what Crowley has gotten used to against his skin.
And as though it's just all simply conversation, and not what it is - a different sort of communication altogether - they end up with Aziraphael laying beneath the blankets on one side of the bed, and Crowley lounging atop them on the other. And when Aziraphael draws the blankets further up about him, turned expectantly toward the demon, Crowley slowly shifts his weight: hand to elbow, elbow to mattress.
And he rests his head on his arm, and his arm on the pillow.
And Aziraphael... well. Despite his best effort, which is none at all, Aziraphael completely fails to eradicate the ridiculous, unprompted smile that spreads across his face.
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The demon looks as though he's about to get up; as though he's on the very edge of doing so. But when Aziraphael does instead, standing to pull back the blankets, Crowley doesn't move at all. He only watches, perched on the mattress, hands folded in the crook of his knee.
Together, they decide that it might be best to forgo the extra blanket after all, since Crowley should not like to get - tangled up in it (and that barely perceptible hesitation before the word twists something hard in Aziraphael's chest); idle discussion determines that although the worn and colourless layers from Jubilee might not rival Aziraphael's pyjamas for comfort, they are, at least, what Crowley has gotten used to against his skin.
And as though it's just all simply conversation, and not what it is - a different sort of communication altogether - they end up with Aziraphael laying beneath the blankets on one side of the bed, and Crowley lounging atop them on the other. And when Aziraphael draws the blankets further up about him, turned expectantly toward the demon, Crowley slowly shifts his weight: hand to elbow, elbow to mattress.
And he rests his head on his arm, and his arm on the pillow.
And Aziraphael... well. Despite his best effort, which is none at all, Aziraphael completely fails to eradicate the ridiculous, unprompted smile that spreads across his face.