cgreenleaf

Crowley awoke with a start to the sound of something clattering out in the hall. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but gradually the worn wooden slats of Aziraphale’s bedroom ceiling, shaded greyscale in the dark, came into focus as he stared upwards. Whatever he had been dreaming about was dissipating from his memory like so much smoke in the wind, leaving only a faint queasiness behind. He lay there for a while longer, trying to steady his breathing, before he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Aziraphale?” he called, feeling at the still-warm, yet unoccupied spot beside him on the bed. It took another moment, but the door creaked open and Aziraphale shuffled in, clutching a mug and looking sheepish.

“My apologies,” he whispered as he set the mug down on the bedside table. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well, I’m up now,” Crowley said, though he wasn’t annoyed, not really. He scooted closer to Aziraphale as the angel slipped beneath the covers, then touched Aziraphale’s forehead with the back of his hand before he could protest.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m feeling much better already. You needn’t worry so.”

“I’m not,” Crowley insisted, pushing another pillow behind Aziraphale’s back. “But you look tired. What are you doing awake?”