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mekachu04It’s dark when he wakes up.
It’s dark. And he's alone.
Which isn't unusual, but tonight it’s /wrong/.
He's sore everywhere, and he’s still /so/ tired, and he just wants to go back to sleep. Yesterday was exhausting.
He almost drifts off again, curled alone in his silk sheets, dressed in pajamas....
He jolts upright, body protesting the movement, his (guts) screaming in pain.
He doesn't actually wear his pajamas in bed. What's the point in high count silk sheets if you don't get to feel it on your skin? Pajamas are for when he can't sleep, and wanders his flat; pajamas are for sleeping on the walls, the couch, or behind the entertainment system.
Also…
He laid an egg yesterday. He can tell by how stretched out and gross he feels, but he's not passed out on his living room floor. He's been cleaned up, dressed and tucked into bed. He remembered snuggling up to Azir....
Where the bloody hell is his angel?
Feeling slightly disoriented in his own home, Crowley fights out of his blankets, and starts stalking through his flat. It's quiet and still. He's briefly torn between being mortified he embarrassed himself so badly last night that Aziraphale left, or terrified that something had happened and Azirapale has been taken.
Because if he was so out of it that the angel had /tucked him into bed/ then he was sure Aziraphale wouldn't have just /left him alone/ without a reason!?
The plants whisper as he approaches, trembling and uncertain, and he nearly snarls at them for stepping out of line when they /shuuuush!!!!/ him.
Just past the plants is a settee that definitely doesn't belong in his home - that's his seat from the bookshop! - along with his bookshop throw blanket. The corner of it is visible under the massive wing tucked around the curled angel lying prone on it. Aziraphale’s other wing is carefully tucked under the couch, resting on the floor. His head is buried under white feathers, and his shoes set carefully on the floor, coat and vest folded on top of them.
There's a slight vibration to the air, a low grade miracle in place to build a bubble of warm, moist air over the impromptu nest.
Because Crowley realizes that’s what Aziraphale has made, a nest. By dragging soft worn comforts into the center of Crowley’s otherwise sleek modern home, yet pulling in things that smell strongly of Crowley himself; Aziraphale has constructed a perfect den. He's dozed off, curled around the egg Crowley laid the night before. The egg is a dud, unfertilized and really just fancy trash; but it seems to have triggered something in the angel wrapped in Crowley's favourite bookshop blanket and who has tucked the soft shell in his wings and arms to keep it warm.
It's a silly, worthless gesture. The egg has no life in it to be coddled and protected. But just as nature has demanded Crowley lay the stupid thing in the first place, it seems nature has demanded Aziraphale protect it.
How long has he fought that pull, Crowley wondered. He does faintly remember Aziraphale coming to rest with him after the ordeal yesterday. Had he even known what he was doing?
The couch is not near large enough for two grown human bodies and a fragile, watermelon sized snake egg. However, size and body are both things Crowley is intimately comfortable with changing on a whim, and he slithers along the cushions, careful not to squeeze the egg, and rests his snout up under an angelic jaw line. Aziraphale mutters softly, his wing lifting to allow Crowley to gather his coils up, wrapping around egg and angel equally, a comforting weight on hips and thighs, before the white feathers tuck back in around him, covering them all in a warm fluffy embrace.
It’s dark. And he's alone.
Which isn't unusual, but tonight it’s /wrong/.
He's sore everywhere, and he’s still /so/ tired, and he just wants to go back to sleep. Yesterday was exhausting.
He almost drifts off again, curled alone in his silk sheets, dressed in pajamas....
He jolts upright, body protesting the movement, his (guts) screaming in pain.
He doesn't actually wear his pajamas in bed. What's the point in high count silk sheets if you don't get to feel it on your skin? Pajamas are for when he can't sleep, and wanders his flat; pajamas are for sleeping on the walls, the couch, or behind the entertainment system.
Also…
He laid an egg yesterday. He can tell by how stretched out and gross he feels, but he's not passed out on his living room floor. He's been cleaned up, dressed and tucked into bed. He remembered snuggling up to Azir....
Where the bloody hell is his angel?
Feeling slightly disoriented in his own home, Crowley fights out of his blankets, and starts stalking through his flat. It's quiet and still. He's briefly torn between being mortified he embarrassed himself so badly last night that Aziraphale left, or terrified that something had happened and Azirapale has been taken.
Because if he was so out of it that the angel had /tucked him into bed/ then he was sure Aziraphale wouldn't have just /left him alone/ without a reason!?
The plants whisper as he approaches, trembling and uncertain, and he nearly snarls at them for stepping out of line when they /shuuuush!!!!/ him.
Just past the plants is a settee that definitely doesn't belong in his home - that's his seat from the bookshop! - along with his bookshop throw blanket. The corner of it is visible under the massive wing tucked around the curled angel lying prone on it. Aziraphale’s other wing is carefully tucked under the couch, resting on the floor. His head is buried under white feathers, and his shoes set carefully on the floor, coat and vest folded on top of them.
There's a slight vibration to the air, a low grade miracle in place to build a bubble of warm, moist air over the impromptu nest.
Because Crowley realizes that’s what Aziraphale has made, a nest. By dragging soft worn comforts into the center of Crowley’s otherwise sleek modern home, yet pulling in things that smell strongly of Crowley himself; Aziraphale has constructed a perfect den. He's dozed off, curled around the egg Crowley laid the night before. The egg is a dud, unfertilized and really just fancy trash; but it seems to have triggered something in the angel wrapped in Crowley's favourite bookshop blanket and who has tucked the soft shell in his wings and arms to keep it warm.
It's a silly, worthless gesture. The egg has no life in it to be coddled and protected. But just as nature has demanded Crowley lay the stupid thing in the first place, it seems nature has demanded Aziraphale protect it.
How long has he fought that pull, Crowley wondered. He does faintly remember Aziraphale coming to rest with him after the ordeal yesterday. Had he even known what he was doing?
The couch is not near large enough for two grown human bodies and a fragile, watermelon sized snake egg. However, size and body are both things Crowley is intimately comfortable with changing on a whim, and he slithers along the cushions, careful not to squeeze the egg, and rests his snout up under an angelic jaw line. Aziraphale mutters softly, his wing lifting to allow Crowley to gather his coils up, wrapping around egg and angel equally, a comforting weight on hips and thighs, before the white feathers tuck back in around him, covering them all in a warm fluffy embrace.
