(Untitled)

[un_fallen]

Morning sunlight creeps gently through a crack between the curtains, illuminating a table, a comfortable-looking chair, a soft rug on the floor. And somehow, it manages to seek out the one position in the room where it can sweetly illuminate a single, peacefully slumbering face

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[a_fell]

"You know, he won't thank you for that."

Aziraphael's voice is tired, more than anything, still with hairline threads of stress running through it - but there's a healthy dose of amusement there, too.

[un_fallen]

There's a single, precious moment of complete stillness before Raguel bolts upright and stares around in a state marginally closer to panic than surprise. He tries unsuccessfully to speak around the rawness in his throat.

No, nothing. Abandoning speech for the moment, he blinks rapidly as his hands form various jerky half-gestures. It's not very effective as they're badly tangled in the sheets.

[aj_crawley]

Aziraphael, it seems, might have been entirely wrong. There's no terribly sudden reaction, no jerking awake as Raguel sits up and tugs the blankets away. There's just a minute movement of Crowley's chill fingers against Aziraphael's back - and the faintest of rusty sounds in his throat - as the demon shrinks very slightly away from the sudden blast of cool air.

[a_fell]

"Careful."

Aziraphael tugs the blanket and tucks it securely back in place, ensuring that Crowley, at least, is entirely covered. Of the angel himself, all that's left visible is his head, blond hair standing every which way and eyes faintly accusing.

(And his mouth, which has somehow relaxed in one way and tightened rather in another. Holding deliberately still, perhaps, although a little less drawn down at the corners than it had been.)

[un_fallen]

Early afternoon. Raguel's got his head propped on one arm, doing his best to appear casual. Somebody's stomach rumbles menacingly in the silence.

"Um. Sorry," he says, suspecting it was his.

[a_fell]

"Mmph?"

He wasn't asleep.

He was resting his eyes.

[un_fallen]

"Oh. Uh, nothing, really."

He eyes Aziraphael's hair, sticking out in even more bizarre patterns than it had this morning, and grins cautiously.

"You always this much of a morning person?"

[a_fell]

Aziraphael yawns.

"It's not as though it's - p-possible to sleep much when in bed with you and Crowley."

[a_fell]

There's a lamp burning by the side of the bed; winter afternoons never last nearly long enough but it always seems faintly off-kilter to think of fourish as 'evening'.

Aziraphael yawns widely, sliding a little further under the covers and tucking himself in closer to Crowley.

"Repetition, my serve. Or do you object?"

[un_fallen]

"Why should I?"

It wouldn't have been repetition if Aziraphael had answered the question the first time. Pout.

[a_fell]

"Do you think me a mind reader?"

Aziraphael is sneaky. It's probably Crowley's influence - or, at least, this is what the both of them like to believe.

[un_fallen]

"Aren't you?"

Raguel is, after all. Well. Sorta.

[a_fell]

Aziraphael assumes every room he stays in to have certain necessities. Curtains, bed, easy chair, at least three clothes hangers (one of which is always inexplicably half under the bed), and tea. Whatever would the world be coming to, if there were no tea?

The Universe has yet to disappoint him.

Admittedly, he didn't actually get out of bed to make said tea. It might just have assembled itself helpfully on the bedside table. However, the accoutrements were in place, therefore the principle is sound; and he really wasn't ready to leave Crowley, just yet.

He takes a contented sip and rests the cup back on his blanket-covered chest.

[un_fallen]

"So you're telling me that tea is actually recommended for hypothermia," Raguel says, in a tone that suggests he's picking up a conversation that's been abandoned for the last few minutes but that he can't quite drop.

He turns toward Aziraphael, resting his own mug on Crowley's shoulder.

Hey, it's warm. What?

[aj_crawley]

It might be that that starts Crowley on another slow drift into consciousness, but more likely it's the smell - the scent of hot Earl Grey that insinuates its way underneath the blankets.

"Hn?" he manages.

(Luckily for Raguel, and Raguel's mug, he hasn't worked up the energy to try to move, yet.)

[a_fell]

Aziraphael was too busy taking a happy sip to hear the soft noise, more's the pity, but he does look askance at Raguel.

"Really, my dear. He's not a coffee table."

[aj_crawley]

Somewhat embarrassingly, it'd been the rumbling of Crowley's stomach that had woken all three of them, sometime around midnight. He'd almost raised a groggy protest, when Aziraphael had slid out from the under the blankets and insisted on going to quickly fetch something to eat, but -

Well. He really is starving.

Conversationally, to Raguel:

"You know."

Pause.

Oh yeah.

"'F I wasn't still sssemi-delirious, this'd prob'ly be pretty awkward."

[un_fallen]

Raguel's looking at Crowley like he's some kind of dangerous animal poised to strike, and trying his best to appear that he's not doing any such thing.

"You know, after that thing with the wings, I'm kind of used to it," he says, with just a touch of despair.

[aj_crawley]

"Oh well," Crowley says, philosophically.

His eyes slip closed again, dozing for a moment or two. Then:

"Thankss, though."

[un_fallen]

Raguel pulls the blanket up higher on himself, folding his arms around it and looking contemplatively at the ceiling.

"Yeah. You're welcome."