Aziraphael had managed to master his disappointment when he'd realised Crowley was still wearing his shoes: a sign of true exhaustion if he'd ever seen one. He'd pulled them off before curling as close as possible and falling asleep himself, too tired even to fight Crowley for the covers.
The next morning hadn't been any better. Crowley was still tired and cranky, the angel oddly rushed and nervous, and since they'd seen what they had come to see, they were only headed straight back to the airport. The angel dressed (he had to take half his clothes off from the night before, first) with even less thought than usual, checking every five minutes to see if Crowley was awake.
It had been a near thing; closer to comatose than asleep, there'd been more colour to the aged, fading bedsheets than there had been in the demon's face. He's needed less excuse in the past to crawl in somewhere dark and warm and sleep off the cold for a few days.
The hot shower had helped - the hot breakfast, less so. Aziraphael had had to steer him down the stairs and to the table by the elbow, and when the angel had set down a plate in front of him (greasy, glistening sausages, more fat than meat; dry and crumbly toast with a pat of butter just a little too fresh; a glass of indescribably foul milk), Crowley had thought, with brief and singular clarity, that he was going to be sick
( ... )
Aziraphael had made no real attempt at conversation as they drove; he assumed that Crowley needed all his powers of focus and concentration for the road, anyhow. He'd picked alternately at his trousers and his fingernails instead, frowning, apparently lost in thought.
Once they'd finally arrived, Crowley's disorientation had seemed worse rather than better. When he had finally wandered off toward 'Arrivals' rather than 'Departures,' Aziraphael had declared that it was Crowley's turn to have a break, set him down with a hot drink on an uncomfortable plastic bench, and went off to check them in himself. It'd been very hard to tell whether the angel was getting huffy, but Crowley was too tired to put much effort into curiosity.
Keflavik airport, though elegant enough, was small - but at least it was quiet. Uncomfortable bench or no, by the time Aziraphael had gotten back, Crowley'd been nodding gently off into his cup. Having decided that, on balance, it was better to risk the demon's ire sooner rather than later (especially when 'later' involved a boarding call), the angel had shepherded them briskly through security. Except insofar as he'd been required to wake up and move again, Crowley hadn't much noticed, glowering at the tiled floor until he'd found himself planted on yet another bench.
(He didn't think he'd ever felt quite so much despair as when he realised that it was sectioned off into separate seats by steel armrests - that he couldn't stretch out horizontally and go back to sleep. In the end, he'd done so sitting up, instead.)
He'd still been more than half-asleep when the angel had guided him off the bench and over to the gate, asking dazedly if their flight had been called. They'd traversed the long hallway between airport and plane without much incident, settled into their seats and been offered drinks, but the first class chair was clearly more comfortable than the one at the gate. By the time the plane had turned toward the runway, Crowley'd been asleep again.
Aziraphael had spent the flight reading a book that he'd pulled from somewhere in his coat, then staring into space, then reading some more. Generally, he'd picked up again at the top of the same page he had been reading before his thoughts had drifted away.
The next thing Crowley had known was Aziraphael's hand on his shoulder and the bustling noise of people gathering their carry-ons. The angel had watched him closely, but Crowley had waved off his hovering, instead turning his sluggish thoughts to mapping out the quickest way to the car.
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The next morning hadn't been any better. Crowley was still tired and cranky, the angel oddly rushed and nervous, and since they'd seen what they had come to see, they were only headed straight back to the airport. The angel dressed (he had to take half his clothes off from the night before, first) with even less thought than usual, checking every five minutes to see if Crowley was awake.
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The hot shower had helped - the hot breakfast, less so. Aziraphael had had to steer him down the stairs and to the table by the elbow, and when the angel had set down a plate in front of him (greasy, glistening sausages, more fat than meat; dry and crumbly toast with a pat of butter just a little too fresh; a glass of indescribably foul milk), Crowley had thought, with brief and singular clarity, that he was going to be sick ( ... )
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Once they'd finally arrived, Crowley's disorientation had seemed worse rather than better. When he had finally wandered off toward 'Arrivals' rather than 'Departures,' Aziraphael had declared that it was Crowley's turn to have a break, set him down with a hot drink on an uncomfortable plastic bench, and went off to check them in himself. It'd been very hard to tell whether the angel was getting huffy, but Crowley was too tired to put much effort into curiosity.
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(He didn't think he'd ever felt quite so much despair as when he realised that it was sectioned off into separate seats by steel armrests - that he couldn't stretch out horizontally and go back to sleep. In the end, he'd done so sitting up, instead.)
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Aziraphael had spent the flight reading a book that he'd pulled from somewhere in his coat, then staring into space, then reading some more. Generally, he'd picked up again at the top of the same page he had been reading before his thoughts had drifted away.
The next thing Crowley had known was Aziraphael's hand on his shoulder and the bustling noise of people gathering their carry-ons. The angel had watched him closely, but Crowley had waved off his hovering, instead turning his sluggish thoughts to mapping out the quickest way to the car.
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