aj_crawley: (bentley aeronautics)
aj_crawley ([personal profile] aj_crawley) wrote2009-09-02 06:03 am

(no subject)

On the first day, they don't visit the orchard.

Crowley wakes up in the night; once to the high-pitched screaming of a fox, and again when the bells are jangling out the call to matins, loud and ringing in the dark. The second time, Aziraphael stirs beneath his arm, the sound wired directly to years and years of ingrained habit - but if he, too, wakes, he doesn't show it.

Feeling as though his chest might crush inwards under the sudden weight of his gratitude, Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphael's shoulder through the blankets, and lays his head back down on the pillow.

They spend the day in bed (where Aziraphael reads aloud and tries not to spill his tea when he turns the page), or on the couch (where they talk about nothing, and only one of them is ever sitting up straight at a time), or out against the south wall of the gatehouse (where their fingers tangle loosely in the grass, and their faces turn up to the sun).

"It's funny, you know, foxes," Aziraphael says at one point. "I expect there's a litter of kits down near the river by now; the mother has been an absolute terror to keep away from the henhouse. But they do make such a fuss about their territory, and now it just seems rather more trouble than it's worth to try and get rid of them. Ingenious, really."

Crowley slants a glance sideways, certain that Aziraphael is making fun of him in some obscure way. He finds, though, that he doesn't mind.

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