aj_crawley | (no subject)

Aziraphael comes awake with a start and a gasp, certain that something critical has been forgotten. An adjustment he'd meant to make, or some tiny but incredibly significant modification to the-- oh. He props one elbow underneath himself, having half-risen from the mattress in his panic, and gathers his scattered wits. Crowley's bedroom, quiet and mostly dark, warm under the blankets (almost uncomfortably so, but he can ignore it for a bit longer if he shifts one leg out) and Crowley himself fast asleep beside him, slight frown in place and naked eyes tightly closed. He can just make out the circles still present underneath them, even in this light.

There's still more to do, he thinks idly, unconsciously matching Crowley's frown. It's certainly worth all this effort, though; he wouldn't think of doing otherwise. He needs only to try just a little harder, get up just a little earlier. Not today, though; there's something indefinable about the waiting quiet that fairly screams it. Today, he has nothing to do but this. He settles back down, smiling to himself (one leg thrown out from beneath the blankets), and allows one possessive arm to lie across Crowley's waist.

Crowley shifts a little, disturbed by the motion of the mattress, but it's not enough to wake him. Instead, after a moment's snuffling into the pillow, he only curls closer beneath Aziraphael's arm, cool fingers unconsciously seeking out the safety of the angel's skin - the warmth of his side, and the heat hidden between his back and the fine cotton sheets.

The tip of his nose brushes against Aziraphael's shoulder. That's a little cold, too.

He lifts his arm very slightly so that Crowley can curl in, trying not to let the fretting that tends to define him gain a toehold. It's just that Crowley is usually so much warmer, to the point that the angel often spends a good portion of their time in bed seeking escape from the heat.

His lips rest unmoving at Crowley's hairline, which as usual makes it difficult to sustain any sort of logical thought. The weight of his arm falls onto Crowley's waist again, and his fingers press just slightly against Crowley's back as though to pull him closer. As soon as the demon wakes up, he reasons, the unnatural warmth will return.

In the corner of the room, out of arm's reach, the smug red digits of Crowley's clock glow faintly, the colon marking the minutes from the hour pulsing away like a little heartbeat.

The thick feather duvet rustles softly with their movements, slight though they are, and Crowley sighs in his sleep.

Today the clock can be safely ignored, though that endless insistent blinking makes it difficult. Aziraphael's eyes are only half-closed, and he lowers his lids further in an effort to block it out.

It's no good, however, and Crowley's sigh seems to confirm the demon's annoyance as well. Glaring at the clock, he twitches the hand on Crowley's back toward it so that the colon glows a steady, temporary red rather than flashing at him.

Much better. He relaxes, allowing head and face and hands and arms to go limp once again save for the tiny, quiet shaping of his mouth into a kiss to Crowley's forehead, and after that into a tiny, quiet smile.

Nothing happens, exactly. There's no alarm; no beeping or ringing or radio blaring into life, no automated lights turning smoothly on or overpriced kettle clicking into service in the kitchen.

There's just the minute ticking over, a nice round number, and Crowley coming awake with a start.

(But not a gasp.)

He feels Crowley tense, and his own eyes open fully once again with only slightly less urgency than before. The hand behind Crowley presses against his skin in what he hopes is a calming manner.

"All right?" he asks after a moment, aware that he sounds like a mother hen.

"Hng," Crowley says, which doesn't help much at all. He's half-risen from the mattress, blinking around the room in confusion. He didn't hear anything, so either he forgot to set it or he's slept through it again, or -

His eyes settle on the clock in the corner, and he squints at it until the red blur resolves itself into numbers in the dimness.

Oh.

He leans back on one elbow, relaxing a little.

"Mm," he says, not to be outdone in early nonsense syllables since it does seem that Crowley is indeed fine.

"You hardly need the clock, it seems," he adds, a little wryly. If Crowley is going to keep these early hours most days, he really should go to bed earlier. Still, there's no need for any of that this morning.

Crowley grunts in response, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to dispel a little of the pea-souper fogging up the front of his mind.

He breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring and blanket lifting above the swell of his ribs - and then out.

"Okay," he says, and clears his throat. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, a little confused, but he's found that it's easier for everyone if he agrees - quietly - with most of the things Crowley says at this hour.

"You're certain you're feeling all right?" he asks, eyeing the hand on Crowley's forehead. "Want to rest a bit longer? It's early, yet."

"No," he mutters quickly, shaking his head - and then wincing a little when the world doesn't stop its weighty swaying until a second or two afterwards.

"No, I'm up. 'M up."

"There's really no need," he says, a little desperately. If he can't convince Crowley to stay in bed today, of all days, then he really doesn't know what else he might do.

"It's nice and warm, and comfortable here. I can't imagine anything is so urgent that it can't wait at least a couple of hours," he adds, with only a small pang of guilt. It's true for today, at least.

Slowly, Crowley turns to look at Aziraphael - really look at him, as though it's only just now that he's processing the fact that the angel is there beside him, and not across the room getting dressed, or in the kitchen conducting the kettle-toaster-cutlery symphony of breakfast.

(It is.)

He has pillow creases scored into his cheek, and a flicker of muddled suspicion in his eyes.

He watches patiently, waiting for some sign that Crowley is either going to clamber out of the bed (at which point Aziraphael will follow, despite his protests) or relax under the blankets once more.

That look, however, spurs him into gentle action: his expression softens further and he reaches over to sift his fingers through Crowley's hair.

"Stay with me?" he asks.

There's a long silence, broken only by the low swish of another car driving past outside.

When Crowley breathes again, it catches on Aziraphael's pulse; on the clasp of his watch, so near Crowley's mouth.

The thought rises, unbidden: Crowley's still asleep. He is asleep, and this is his first ever dream.

But that's impossible.

He lowers himself slowly back down to the mattress, acutely aware of the soft pressure of Aziraphael's fingers in his hair. Before he can think better of it, he says (mumbles), "'Ss the occasion?"

A warm relief flows through him as Crowley's head lowers itself back to the pillow, and his hand strokes gratefully through Crowley's hair again, then again.

"Thank you, Crowley," he says, resting his own head on the pillow once more with a blissful sigh and then scooting a little closer.

"You don't remember?" he asks, smiling; the question doesn't seem particularly odd, given that today really is a holiday. "Happy Christmas, my dear."

"I knew that," he says.

He looks annoyed, and a little embarrassed - but not much of either.

Aziraphael might have said.

"I know you did; you've mentioned it quite a few times," he says, stilling his hand but not moving it away from Crowley's head.

"I think your work ethic actually increased around the holidays," he adds. "It must be something in the mulled cider."

"Rude," Crowley says automatically, swallowing the yawn that tries to force its way out. The tendons in his jaw stand out for a moment against Aziraphael's hand.

Oh.

"It's only the truth," he says, smiling mischievously, and allows his fingers to trace down the sharp angle of Crowley's jaw. He didn't miss the yawn, but it would be unwise to suggest a nap just now. Crowley would probably only insist he doesn't need to, as he has in the past.

Crowley's silent.

It's not that he has nothing to say - it's just that it's very early, and Crowley's brain is still trying to fit all of this inside.

After a moment, he curls tentative fingers in the duvet, and shrugs and tugs it slowly back up around their shoulders.

...Or perhaps he wouldn't. He shifts a little under the blanket to get more comfortable, and one pyjama-clad leg finds its way out once again.

His hand slips down to rest at the nape of Crowley's neck.

Another low breath ghosts out against Aziraphael's skin, disturbing the tiny hairs along the angel's arm.

Crowley looks uncertain, still, not entirely trusting that this is quite real; that it truly is what it appears to be. It's far too early (he thinks, dazedly) to spring this sort of thing on a fellow.

"Shouldn't go back to ssleep," he ventures, after a short, full pause. "Never get back on track."

Aziraphael is concentrating on the warm, living feel of tender skin under his fingers so it takes him a moment to respond.

"Back on track for what?" he asks mildly. He's no longer quite up to full processing speed, himself. "We can do whatever we want today."