aj_crawley | (no subject)

"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."

Crowley's eyes close (slowly), and then open again.

"For sleeping, I mean," he says, when he can. "Tomorrow, and - so on."

It's Christmas, he has to keep reminding himself. That's how they have time, all of a sudden, when they had none before. Perfectly logical.

"'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,'" he quotes, but there's a strange edge - like urgency, or perhaps anxiety - to his teasing.

"But today we can have a lie-in. We don't often - well, we can. Today. We can take advantage of it."

"You could sleep," Crowley says, with a crooked, sideways grin. "I'll watch. I need to do something creepy to make up for all that work ethic."

This must be what Aziraphael feels like, when Crowley turns up the heat too high. It's - difficult to breathe, like his chest is crushing inwards under its own weight.

(A good thing, then, that he doesn't technically need to.)

"That would certainly qualify. Perhaps I will, and you'll just have to sit awake - " he yawns widely, for effect - "and watch."

He considers Crowley sideways, both their heads pressed into pillows so that it's the rest of the room that looks like it's been tilted.

"It's peaceful outside, though. This may be the most peaceful it will be all year."

Crowley, of course, immediately has to grit his teeth against another yawn, neck tensing visibly above the duvet as he swallows it back down.

"If you're suggesting we move out to the balcony, you're in for a disappointment."

"My dastardly plan, ruined," he says - rather happily for someone whose plans have just been ruined.

"Ah, well. I suppose that here under the duvet will have to do."

Perversely, though, he wiggles a little more of his leg outside the blankets where it can be exposed to the cooler air.

The movement catches Crowley's eye, and after a moment, he raises his eyebrows at Aziraphael.

"Go on then," he says. "More blanket for me."

He clutches theatrically at the duvet under his hands.

"Perhaps, but only a very small amount of it. I intend to protect what small claim I can stake."

"No," he says, "I meant - "

The blanket rustles again, suggesting a half-formed gesture underneath. And then:

"Never mind."

He looks curious, but doesn't ask what it was he missed. He pulls the blanket up a little farther and releases it so that his arm can once again rest over Crowley's hip.

"There are other ways to keep warm, of course, but they are often less fluffy."

"Often," Crowley agrees, with an entirely respectable attempt at a straight face, considering the hour. "But not always."

Aziraphael is much less adept at such things; he doesn't even bother to try keeping a straight face. The result is rather silly-looking, especially turned sideways.

"Not always," he agrees.

He looks perfect.

"I'm going to make some coffee," Crowley says, pushing abruptly at the duvet. "You want anything?"

They shouldn't start. It's always that much harder to get back on track.

Taken aback by the abruptness of the change in Crowley's mood, there's a moment before he catches up enough to speak.

"I'll come with you and make some tea," he manages at last, scrambling to sit up. A vague hope flutters through his mind that Crowley will bring his coffee back to drink in bed, but that's a rare event, especially these days. Resigned, he swings his legs down to the floor.

Crowley's fingers close around Aziraphael's wrist.

Then, after a pause longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a breath, they move again, fingertips soft and awkward against the inside of the angel's arm - sliding up just a little way so as to rest not quite so near Aziraphael's pulse.

"I'll bring it in," he says.

"Oh," he says, and freezes where he sits, half-out from under the blankets, poised on the edge of the bed with his hair in an awkward spike.

"You're coming back," he says, sounding pleased. "Thank you, my dear."

"Any preference?" he asks.

(He's stretched out a little awkwardly across the mattress, but that doesn't matter. Not yet.)

"Just the usual, if you please. There was plenty of it, the last time I looked, and anything more exotic would be wasted on me at the moment."

Carefully, so as not to dislodge Crowley's hand, he pulls his legs one at a time back into place beneath the blankets.

It's already gone, leaving only the faint ghost of pressure behind it.

"Alright," Crowley says, slithering out from beneath the blankets in turn.

The floor is a dark wood, almost silky in shine and texture. It isn't cold - far from it, with the heating on - but the demon's toes still curl instinctively as he lowers his feet to the glossy boards.