aj_crawley | (no subject)

"Oh, of course," he says, and sits back again.

He thinks vaguely that he hadn't expected to have to talk Crowley, of all people, into staying in bed. His eyes travel around the room but don't land on anything for more than a second or two as he considers his options.

Something odd is going on, he decides, whether Crowley says so or not. He hadn't expected it to be like this at all. Perhaps tomorrow they can talk about it, if there's time.

Or maybe the next day would be better.

Well.

The kettle announces itself with an unobtrusive click. Crowley fills up the cafetière first, out of some deference to logic, then Aziraphael's mug, then fetches a saucer to go with.

"Breakfast?" he calls. "While I'm at it."

At the simple mention of food, Aziraphael's stomach rumbles.

"Er," is all he can manage, torn.

"I'd hate to put you out, my dear. I'm sure we can find something later, once we're up."

Which they are emphatically not now, in any way.

That pause sounded decidedly ambivalent, so after a moment, Crowley simply grabs an apple from the bowl by his refrigerator.

If Aziraphael wants anything else, he'll have to get up.

Plunger down on the cafetière; pour coffee. Tea still brewing; balance apple in mouth of mug, wedged against the handle of the tea ball; mug on saucer. Coffee mug in other hand.

As Crowley backs out of the kitchen door, the debris on the counter-top begins obligingly to clear itself away.

Aziraphael wiggles until he's sitting up a little straighter when he hears Crowley coming back; it wouldn't do to try drinking in bed half-lying down. The door obligingly opens just a little further.

In the light from the hallway, a little brighter and a little truer than that in the bedroom, Crowley's jumper isn't grey at all. It's blue.

And peeking out from behind the assemblage in the demon's hands, just visible at the top and at the bottom, is the ugly yellow 'A' emblazoned across the front.

" - Honey," Crowley says in the doorway.

Aziraphael tries not to smile in a ridiculously fond manner at the sight (given that Crowley doesn't seem to have noticed what he's wearing), and comes reasonably close to success.

"I don't have to have it," he says, waving a nonchalant hand.

"Okay."

He resumes his shuffling pace, circling around to Aziraphael's side of the bed first and profferring his slightly unsteady breakfast.

"I just - forgot."

"It's perfectly all right," he says, taking the cup and saucer with care. He's well aware that it's not like Crowley to forget these things, either, and tries not to let concern show too obviously on his face.

He lets his hand hang there in the air for a moment, leached of colour again in the dimness, then drops it.

The sleeves of Aziraphael's jumper aren't too short for him anymore - or at least, they aren't as short as they were. As Crowley starts around to his own side of the bed, he curls his thumb into an old, sagging bulge in the cuff, tugging it down over his knuckles.

He slides onto the mattress without setting down his own mug - and even manages to scooch up his pillows behind him without spilling anything.

(He knows perfectly well what he's wearing.)

He takes a long, satisfying sip - hot, but not too hot - and sets the cup on the saucer in his lap with a contented sigh.

"Thank you, Crowley," he says, a little belatedly. "It's just what I needed."

Crowley has a big, wide bed, but he manages to scoot a little closer (possibly not quite without supernatural help, but only because of the risk of spilling the tea) before leaning back again.

"Welcome," he replies, slanting a grin over at Aziraphael. "Merry Christmas."

He has a feeling that it wasn't quite the answer Aziraphael was looking for.

But he's not that far gone.

It isn't quite, but he seems satisfied enough with it to reserve complaint; there's a small and understated half-smile on his face. He edges even closer to Crowley so that they're nearly touching.

"I can smell your coffee," he says, nodding at the black mug. "It must be a powerful blend this morning."

"I suppose," Crowley replies, tilting the mug from side to side and watching as the dark brew laps at the edges.

It doesn't smell any stronger than usual to him - but then, perhaps it's simply that Aziraphael doesn't often stop and smell the coffee anymore.

So to speak.

"Careful," he says, and now the teasing edge has seeped into his voice as well as his smile. He tilts his head to the side until it's just resting on Crowley's bony shoulder.

"That's likely to keep you awake until the sun comes up."

Damn him.

Crowley holds his breath a moment before letting it out, resisting the urge to tilt his head further against the hair that's just - just - brushing the bottom of his ear.

"That's sort of the idea."

There's an amused cant to his voice.

But not his smile.

Aziraphael has a sudden, powerful urge to demand to know what in-- what on Earth is going on. Crowley won't stay in bed, won't let himself sleep or relax or touch Aziraphael in any but the most perfunctory way. Sitting so close, the angel imagines that he can feel some awful tension radiating off of Crowley in jagged waves.

"That would be a shame," he says neutrally.

"Like I said."

Carefully, now that he - now that it's deliberate, he turns his head and presses a small kiss to Aziraphael's hair.

"I'd never get back on track."

A pang of sharp disappointment lances through him. Unconsciously, his hand closes around the bottom of Crowley's (his) jumper and squeezes.

"All right," he says, resigned.

If there's a twinge of petty satisfaction at the resignation in Aziraphael's voice, Crowley tries not to acknowledge it.

(And that says as much as anything else.)

"Anything you had in mind for today?" he asks, after a moment.

They hadn't made plans.

A cozy lie-in, he almost shoots back, but tempers it with a pause and a breath.

"Not as such," he says at last. "I thought we could stay in bed for a bit, cover up on the couch with quilts, I could mull something - and perhaps later see what classics they've put on the television today. Just a quiet day, and nothing planned, exactly. Is there something you have in mind?"

Of course.

"No," Crowley says.

Up above Aziraphael's head, his eyes close.

"That sounds nice."

"Mm," he agrees, and after a moment he takes another sip from his cup. He sounds wistful, as if the day he's just described was only a fantasy he's dreamed up, far out of reach.

"It does."

There's no need to be... difficult about this. There's no need to take this whatever-this-is, this offering from Aziraphael and turn it on its head and throw it back in his face.

It's Christmas, after all, and even to Crowley - behind certain closed doors and in relation to a very few people - that means something.

He has his pride. And this (whatever this is) will be gone again tomorrow. That's all he needs to keep in mind.

Again he turns his head, and presses another kiss to Aziraphael's hair.

"Let's do that," he says.

Arm's length.

(His nose crinkles a little bit, and so do the corners of his eyes.)

He turns his head when Crowley pulls back to shoot him a grateful look (a little tired around the edges, if you're looking for it).

"Open to improvisation, of course. Perhaps we'll think of something irresistible to do ten minutes from now."