(no subject)
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.
He's quiet crossing over to the bed, and his movements are every bit as hesitant as his knock had been. He looks her over from head to toe; she seems to be breathing normally, hissing very slightly, and she's obviously in one piece aside from the empty - and half-empty - Atlantean bottles in the vicinity of the room's two armchairs.
Aziraphael lets out a small sigh - somewhere between relief and despair - and cups his hands over Crowley's head. He can't clear the Atlantean out, but at least he can ease the hangover that's sure to come.
A few minutes later, after an intense internal debate, he settles in one of the armchairs. At first, he turns to a discarded paperback for distraction; it's sufficiently terrible that, two chapters in, it finds itself suddenly replaced by a volume of poetry from Aziraphael's back room. But not even Neruda can hold the angel's attention for long, not when every few lines, his gaze flicks anxiously to Crowley's face instead. Eventually, resignedly, he sets the book down again, and whiles away the time until she wakes picking at his new manicure and trying not to stare.
He's quiet crossing over to the bed, and his movements are every bit as hesitant as his knock had been. He looks her over from head to toe; she seems to be breathing normally, hissing very slightly, and she's obviously in one piece aside from the empty - and half-empty - Atlantean bottles in the vicinity of the room's two armchairs.
Aziraphael lets out a small sigh - somewhere between relief and despair - and cups his hands over Crowley's head. He can't clear the Atlantean out, but at least he can ease the hangover that's sure to come.
A few minutes later, after an intense internal debate, he settles in one of the armchairs. At first, he turns to a discarded paperback for distraction; it's sufficiently terrible that, two chapters in, it finds itself suddenly replaced by a volume of poetry from Aziraphael's back room. But not even Neruda can hold the angel's attention for long, not when every few lines, his gaze flicks anxiously to Crowley's face instead. Eventually, resignedly, he sets the book down again, and whiles away the time until she wakes picking at his new manicure and trying not to stare.