Tuesday (or Thursday)

[a_fell]

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

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[aj_crawley]

Not much else has changed, in the time since Aziraphael slipped away. The covers still lie rumpled, half tugged down where the angel slid from under them; the ancient mattress beneath still shows the faint impression of his weight. Crowley's still asleep, and hasn't moved at all - except where his shoulders (bare) have hunched a little tighter against the morning air, the shadow of an old frown between his eyebrows.

(And where his arm is sprawled, fingers loosely curled, across the space where Aziraphael lay.)

He hasn't yet rolled over, spread out to claim the empty space and steal the rest of the blankets - but it could be any moment now. Aziraphael had better hurry.

[a_fell]

He first puts one of the mugs (black and oversized) down on the bedside table nearest Crowley, then shuffles over to put the other on the opposite side. Off come the slippers, carefully placed beneath the bed, and the robe is draped over a chair.

By the time he slides back under the covers, he has to move carefully; Crowley surely wasn't in that space a moment ago.

[aj_crawley]

It certainly makes things a little more awkward than they need to be. Though generally tractable when asleep, Crowley tends not to appreciate attempts to wake him up - nor anything that might resemble such, in the cold of an early February morning.

Well, sort of early.

Well, earlier than usual.

Before noon, at least.

When Aziraphael jostles against him, ever so slightly: a grunt of complaint.

[a_fell]

"I'm sorry, my dear," he whispers, then after a moment he adds, with a knowing smile, "I did warn you."

A few seconds later it's clear that he hasn't slipped all the way down yet, because there's the soft sound of a slurp from a teacup.