(Untitled)

[a_fell]

I. II. III.Consciousness descends on him by inches, and with the growing light that has been edging onto his pillow comes the growing awareness that the other side of the bed is empty

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[aj_crawley]

In theory, he's reading. In actual fact, Crowley is Lounging, slouching in a rickety cane chair with more than enough skill and determination to warrant the capital letter. One of Aziraphael's books is lying on his stomach, face down, and his feet are propped up on the equally rickety cane table near the ravaged cores of a pair of apples.

Yesterday (and the day before, and the day before that) he'd been worn, sluggish, a rather greyer shade of pale than usual.

The difference is striking.

The creak of the screen door alerts him; when he sees Aziraphael stick his head out, Crowley's grin is easy, and angular, and bright.

[a_fell]

"Aha," he says mildly. He can't help but return the smile. "The mystery of the apple delivery is solved."

He's still in his flannel pyjamas, but it's already warm enough out that it's not the least bit surprising that he steps casually out the door.

"One of mine?" he asks, leaning down to look at the title of the book, and using the excuse (flimsy at best) to plant a kiss on Crowley's head.

"Good morning, my dear," he says, straightening up.

[aj_crawley]

"Found it in your suitcase," Crowley says blithely. "That's what you get for sleeping in."

[a_fell]

"Sleeping in?" he exclaims in (mostly) mock outrage. "Honestly, I sit up waiting for you half the night, I'm up before you'd normally even turn over in your sleep and you-- what are you doing awake at this hour, anyhow?"

His outraged look turns calculated.

"Finally had enough sleep, have you?"