(no subject)
Saturday's weather is forecast to be 'sunny', the radio assures him, but he'd almost rather have the threat of rain tomorrow for the sake of the insulation of clouds tonight. The clear sky with its glittering stars - still occasionally lit by the bright flare of fireworks - was beautiful enough, certainly, but he'd had his chin tucked deeply into the collar of his coat on the way home and hadn't dared raise it for more than a second or two.
Friday's newspapers are still neatly piled on the kitchen table and he tucks them under his arm without getting too close a look at the headlines ( - of bodies found - he catches, from the corner of his eye, and winces just a little). He debates for a moment fetching himself a cup of tea, but the heating's been off all evening and he's taken his shoes off - the tiled floor proves a convincing argument against it. Instead he crosses the back room, switching lights off and heating on as he passes on his way to the stairs.
(For a moment, he'll admit, he'd thought rather longingly of Crowley's flat - when he'd seen the frozen drip on the outside of the Sainsburys plant mister he'd left on the kitchen window sill - but there's warmth and then there's sauna, and he knows where he stands as to preference, thank you.)
It's even colder, upstairs, and he changes quickly into pyjama trousers and huddles under the covers, staring balefully at the ceiling for more than an hour.
But it's a weekend, and already it doesn't feel quite right to be tucked up in bed on his own. He can't quite drop off no matter how hard he tries.
At least the heating has clanked and protested effectively enough that his room's well on its way to habitable again, the air a little cool on his skin as he finally sits up in bed, resigned to reading the papers, but getting steadily warmer and not nearly cool enough to make him think longingly of flannel pyjamas.
Well.
No more than usual.
Friday's newspapers are still neatly piled on the kitchen table and he tucks them under his arm without getting too close a look at the headlines ( - of bodies found - he catches, from the corner of his eye, and winces just a little). He debates for a moment fetching himself a cup of tea, but the heating's been off all evening and he's taken his shoes off - the tiled floor proves a convincing argument against it. Instead he crosses the back room, switching lights off and heating on as he passes on his way to the stairs.
(For a moment, he'll admit, he'd thought rather longingly of Crowley's flat - when he'd seen the frozen drip on the outside of the Sainsburys plant mister he'd left on the kitchen window sill - but there's warmth and then there's sauna, and he knows where he stands as to preference, thank you.)
It's even colder, upstairs, and he changes quickly into pyjama trousers and huddles under the covers, staring balefully at the ceiling for more than an hour.
But it's a weekend, and already it doesn't feel quite right to be tucked up in bed on his own. He can't quite drop off no matter how hard he tries.
At least the heating has clanked and protested effectively enough that his room's well on its way to habitable again, the air a little cool on his skin as he finally sits up in bed, resigned to reading the papers, but getting steadily warmer and not nearly cool enough to make him think longingly of flannel pyjamas.
Well.
No more than usual.