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[flybywash]

The offered reassurances that he'd sleep in a real bed for once?

Wash kind of lied.

Awake since four in the morning UAPT, charts scattered about and coffee long gone cold at his elbow, he's pillowed his head in his arms, fast asleep at the kitchen table.

Every so often, there's a gentle snore.

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[a_fell]

Aziraphael bustles about, very quietly.

He's only got a small satchel, since missionaries are never taken very seriously if there are luxuries aplenty, but it would be cruel and unusual punishment to expect him to do without his tea.

Eventually he's sitting at the table, one steaming cup in front of him and another set by Wash; although he's no fan of coffee he's not beyond making it for others.

After a moment or two, he politely prods the pilot's arm.

[flybywash]

"Ngshmngh." His arms twitch closer with a tiny, half-audible snort, as he shrinks away from the prodding. "Zo', stoppit, m'sleep."

Silence.

A sniff.

Bleary-eyed and blinking, Wash pivots his head just enough to peek over the edge of his arms at the coffee and Aziraphael both. The angel gets a longer look.

"You," he declares with the gravitas of the half-awake, as he raises his head, "are not my wife."

[a_fell]

"I should jolly well hope not."

[flybywash]

Wash snickers, sleepily, and rubs the heel of his palm across his left eye. There's a crick in his neck; he pulls at it to crack the stiff joints and rolls his shoulders, sitting up all the way.

"Sorry. How long've I -- ooh."

It's fresh coffee. No wonder it smelled so good.

"Did you make that?"