(no subject)
There's a stack of books on the floor by the sofa, piled unevenly and teetering. Aziraphael's tried Wilde, Dampier, Woolf, Rilke and Whitman, none of which have quite managed to distract him from the fact that the sun is starting to slant through the glass that fronts the shop, a rectangle of warm light creeping slowly across the floor of the back room towards the sofa. He drops the Rossetti he's been staring fruitlessly at for the past hour and a half next to the pile on the floor and runs a hand through his hair.
Judging by the state of it, he's been doing that rather a lot, tonight.
After making Crowley coffee last night, after helping him up the stairs and tucking him into bed (he made sure to put a large glass of water on the bedside table; Atlantean hangovers can be quite fierce), Aziraphael had settled himself onto the sofa and proceeded to emphatically Not Think about what a foolish idea this most probably had been. He's been Not Thinking about it all night.
And now it's morning.
The angel sighs, rolls to his feet and stretches, shuffling to the kitchen to put the coffee on and make himself a cup of tea; Crowley will most likely be emerging soon, and he rather thinks he's going to need it.
Judging by the state of it, he's been doing that rather a lot, tonight.
After making Crowley coffee last night, after helping him up the stairs and tucking him into bed (he made sure to put a large glass of water on the bedside table; Atlantean hangovers can be quite fierce), Aziraphael had settled himself onto the sofa and proceeded to emphatically Not Think about what a foolish idea this most probably had been. He's been Not Thinking about it all night.
And now it's morning.
The angel sighs, rolls to his feet and stretches, shuffling to the kitchen to put the coffee on and make himself a cup of tea; Crowley will most likely be emerging soon, and he rather thinks he's going to need it.