It's late when he arrives upstairs, so his knock is quiet and hesitant. When there's no answer, he opens the door (it might have been locked, but that is easily circumvented) to find Crowley sound asleep on top of the bedclothes
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Small mercies: there's no window in the room, no sunlight to slant across the bed, slowly creeping up the mattress until it shines through sleeping eyelids. There's only the dimmed lamplight, warmer and more forgiving than the day.
In here, it could be any time at all.
But it isn't; it's morning, and some things are as regular and predictable as the hidden sunrise itself. Although the room is perfectly warm, Crowley huffs silently in unconscious complaint, hunching slightly in something that isn't quite a shiver. Her bare feet curl against the blanket.
After a moment, she reaches out, hand questing instinctively - plaintively - across the bedclothes. Almost entirely insensible or no, Crowley's still a demon, and this much she knows without even needing to be aware: there's an angel in the room.
Aziraphael might be trying not to stare, but he's not entirely successful; from the moment Crowley's breathing changes, he's tensed and watching every movement. When she extends a hand, he's out of the chair and next to the bed before he's even had a chance to think about it.
Once there, he does have that chance to think about it. He takes her hand anyway, holding it delicately in both of his.
"My dear," he begins, and when he can't think of anything else, he leaves it at that.
"Nrghf," comes the intensely familiar grumble, muffled by the pillows. After a moment, when this does not have the usual result (a net increase in the amount of both angel and duvet in Crowley's immediate proximity), her fingers tighten a little between Aziraphael's.
He finally sits on the bed, raising her hand to deliver a quick kiss to the knuckles, then glancing up to see if there's any reaction. He still looks wary, but it's outweighed at the moment by concern.
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In here, it could be any time at all.
But it isn't; it's morning, and some things are as regular and predictable as the hidden sunrise itself. Although the room is perfectly warm, Crowley huffs silently in unconscious complaint, hunching slightly in something that isn't quite a shiver. Her bare feet curl against the blanket.
After a moment, she reaches out, hand questing instinctively - plaintively - across the bedclothes. Almost entirely insensible or no, Crowley's still a demon, and this much she knows without even needing to be aware: there's an angel in the room.
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Once there, he does have that chance to think about it. He takes her hand anyway, holding it delicately in both of his.
"My dear," he begins, and when he can't think of anything else, he leaves it at that.
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