Tuesday (or Thursday)
It's just past the still-dark phase of the morning when Aziraphael disentangles himself from Crowley for long enough to slip out of the bed and into his fuzzy slippers and a worn bathrobe. Downstairs, he putters around aimlessly for a minute before changing the opening time on the sign to 1pm. He goes to the kitchen and, humming tunelessly, fills the kettle and takes a pair of mugs from the draining board. He's poured the hot water and is pulling a plastic honey bear from the cupboard when it occurs to him that tea might not be quite the thing if he's going back to bed.
Well, waste not. He takes both the mugs as he creaks up the stairs and carefully opens the bedroom door with one shoulder. It's fortunate - or something like that - that it didn't close all the way when he left.
Well, waste not. He takes both the mugs as he creaks up the stairs and carefully opens the bedroom door with one shoulder. It's fortunate - or something like that - that it didn't close all the way when he left.