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Mar. 8th, 2006 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyMorning Kisses, A/C, pg-13.
Based entirely on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
linnpuzzle's picture of the same name and dedicated to her with much love.
Huge amounts of beta thanks tocopinggoggles; any remaining errors are to be blamed on the fact that I'm rushing out and will no doubt be corrected tomorrow. ;)
Aziraphale had woken with a demon in his bed.
He is sneaking around, now, trying to dress in time to open the bookshop without disturbing Crowley. The way he is arranged against the sheets is exceedingly aesthetically pleasing: the way the blanket falls against his gently moving chest, the splash of sunlight on his shoulder where they hadn't quite managed to get the curtains fully closed, sleek black hair against crisp red sheets.
He thinks in terms of aestheticism because thoughts that start in 'last' and continue with 'night' take a little working up to. Perhaps, then, it is best to take it in steps.
Item: Aziraphale had woken.
This is not entirely unprecedented.
Around the ninth century, back when curiosity had started to take the place of casual and unstudied contempt, he'd given it a try. He'd arranged himself comfortably, closed his eyes, waited. After about an hour, he'd laced his hands across his stomach. Much of the rest of the night had been spent alternating between lying on his left and right side, with the occasional period on his back for variety. He'd lasted all of ten minutes on his front; the involuntary nasal insertion of a piece of straw had almost been the death of - had really been exceedingly uncomfortable.
Eventually, a little while before dawn, there had been a period of confused and jumbled activity. He wasn't entirely sure quite what had happened; he'd been inclined to blame the oysters he'd ventured the night before and had taken great care not to think any more about the state in which he'd found himself. And had avoided Crowley, rather, for around fifteen years.
It had taken a good forty before he'd worked up the courage to ask about it.
"Sounds like a dream, angel."
Crowley's eyebrow was arched, a hint of a smile on his face, and Aziraphale had taken great care to ensure his focus was entirely on the carrot he was nibbling.
"'Sounds like'?"
Crowley shrugged.
"Demons don't."
"I don't think you're missing an awful lot." Or, rather: perhaps it was something best missed.
"Good on you, though." Crowley stretched his legs out, crushing one of the very few tufts of grass struggling through the cracked, dry earth. He lounged, weight resting on his elbows, one side of his mouth curling upwards. "Don't suppose I can convince you to emulate me elsewhere? Vent a little, maybe? You could always covet your neighbour's ass, I've never thought of that as one of the major ones."
"Begone, foul serpent," Aziraphale said primly.
Crowley considered for a moment or two.
"Nah," he decided eventually. "I'm comfy."
-
Aziraphale has napped, in the many years since. Every now and again it's rather comforting, and the guilt at so wasting his time has rather lessened, what with dinners at the Ritz and ducks that need feeding and the little inessentials that become so important. However, it has tended not to be in beds; that always felt, somehow, entirely too much of an indulgence. He has tended towards leather armchairs, firm settees; in more recent years, the drooping sofa that inhabits the back room of his shop, a book tented on the floor at his side.
Item the second, then: Aziraphale had woken in his bed.
A moment's pause in the train of thought as he manages not to let out a crow of triumph - he has found his other sock, although how it came to end up flung half-under the chest of drawers is perhaps best left to be considered until a station or two down the line.
The angel has his little rituals, of course.
Each night, around eleven, he makes himself the last cup of tea of the day. He turns off the bright kitchen light first, waters the plant that the demon had pressed upon him last summer, and leaves the room, making sure to turn off all three lamps in the back room as he goes. The hallway light he always leaves on, in order to deter burglars; Crowley really had been quite unkind to the last fellow who'd tried it, once he'd caught up to him.
He climbs the stairs to what is nominally his bedroom, unlacing his shoes and setting them neatly in front of the old wooden chest of drawers before he settles himself comfortably on the bed. His watch is unfastened and wound precisely six and a half times before it is placed neatly in a bedside drawer; if he's wearing a tie it's laid neatly in front of the lamp, next to the pile of well-thumbed books.
Just now, though, the pile is teetering, rather. Although the ancient leather bookmark is still carefully in place, his Dorian has been knocked off the bedside table entirely and is lying in a highly reproachful manner on the floor beside the bed.
Crowley had been quite -
Which is where, of course, the careful mental monologue stutters to an uncomfortable stop. Because it's not as though one can itemise when one is struggling to find the words. He has always rather disliked the phrase 'can't get my head around it' but suddenly it feels somewhat less like hyperbole.
Waking up, yes. Waking up in his own bed, certainly. But the activity that had resulted in the need for quite so much rest - the fact that Crowley's skin, against red sheets, looks almost gold and manages to make his mouth quite extraordinarily dry -
The enormity of it is rather difficult to squeeze into his head all in one piece.
He sighs slightly and folds the socks around one another, bending to tuck them inside one of his shoes. It's one of the few pairs he owns which don't have holes in at least one of the socks, and he doesn't intend on losing them again if he can possibly help it.
Even asleep, Crowley shifts a little towards him as his weight depresses the mattress. It's enough to return the smile that hasn't been far from his face since he'd woken. With a demon in his bed.
Aziraphael bends his head to touch his lips gently to Crowley's. And when he tries to pull away the demon follows, not even bothering to open his eyes as he sits up a little way, one hand lifting to wind into Aziraphael's hair.
The angel shifts a little further onto the bed, one hand creeping across to curl possessively against Crowley's ribcage.
He decides, if waking up can be like this, that rather more sleep might well be in order.
Afterward, perhaps.
Based entirely on
linnpuzzle's picture of the same name and dedicated to her with much love.Huge amounts of beta thanks to
copinggoggles; any remaining errors are to be blamed on the fact that I'm rushing out and will no doubt be corrected tomorrow. ;)Aziraphale had woken with a demon in his bed.
He is sneaking around, now, trying to dress in time to open the bookshop without disturbing Crowley. The way he is arranged against the sheets is exceedingly aesthetically pleasing: the way the blanket falls against his gently moving chest, the splash of sunlight on his shoulder where they hadn't quite managed to get the curtains fully closed, sleek black hair against crisp red sheets.
He thinks in terms of aestheticism because thoughts that start in 'last' and continue with 'night' take a little working up to. Perhaps, then, it is best to take it in steps.
Item: Aziraphale had woken.
This is not entirely unprecedented.
Around the ninth century, back when curiosity had started to take the place of casual and unstudied contempt, he'd given it a try. He'd arranged himself comfortably, closed his eyes, waited. After about an hour, he'd laced his hands across his stomach. Much of the rest of the night had been spent alternating between lying on his left and right side, with the occasional period on his back for variety. He'd lasted all of ten minutes on his front; the involuntary nasal insertion of a piece of straw had almost been the death of - had really been exceedingly uncomfortable.
Eventually, a little while before dawn, there had been a period of confused and jumbled activity. He wasn't entirely sure quite what had happened; he'd been inclined to blame the oysters he'd ventured the night before and had taken great care not to think any more about the state in which he'd found himself. And had avoided Crowley, rather, for around fifteen years.
It had taken a good forty before he'd worked up the courage to ask about it.
"Sounds like a dream, angel."
Crowley's eyebrow was arched, a hint of a smile on his face, and Aziraphale had taken great care to ensure his focus was entirely on the carrot he was nibbling.
"'Sounds like'?"
Crowley shrugged.
"Demons don't."
"I don't think you're missing an awful lot." Or, rather: perhaps it was something best missed.
"Good on you, though." Crowley stretched his legs out, crushing one of the very few tufts of grass struggling through the cracked, dry earth. He lounged, weight resting on his elbows, one side of his mouth curling upwards. "Don't suppose I can convince you to emulate me elsewhere? Vent a little, maybe? You could always covet your neighbour's ass, I've never thought of that as one of the major ones."
"Begone, foul serpent," Aziraphale said primly.
Crowley considered for a moment or two.
"Nah," he decided eventually. "I'm comfy."
-
Aziraphale has napped, in the many years since. Every now and again it's rather comforting, and the guilt at so wasting his time has rather lessened, what with dinners at the Ritz and ducks that need feeding and the little inessentials that become so important. However, it has tended not to be in beds; that always felt, somehow, entirely too much of an indulgence. He has tended towards leather armchairs, firm settees; in more recent years, the drooping sofa that inhabits the back room of his shop, a book tented on the floor at his side.
Item the second, then: Aziraphale had woken in his bed.
A moment's pause in the train of thought as he manages not to let out a crow of triumph - he has found his other sock, although how it came to end up flung half-under the chest of drawers is perhaps best left to be considered until a station or two down the line.
The angel has his little rituals, of course.
Each night, around eleven, he makes himself the last cup of tea of the day. He turns off the bright kitchen light first, waters the plant that the demon had pressed upon him last summer, and leaves the room, making sure to turn off all three lamps in the back room as he goes. The hallway light he always leaves on, in order to deter burglars; Crowley really had been quite unkind to the last fellow who'd tried it, once he'd caught up to him.
He climbs the stairs to what is nominally his bedroom, unlacing his shoes and setting them neatly in front of the old wooden chest of drawers before he settles himself comfortably on the bed. His watch is unfastened and wound precisely six and a half times before it is placed neatly in a bedside drawer; if he's wearing a tie it's laid neatly in front of the lamp, next to the pile of well-thumbed books.
Just now, though, the pile is teetering, rather. Although the ancient leather bookmark is still carefully in place, his Dorian has been knocked off the bedside table entirely and is lying in a highly reproachful manner on the floor beside the bed.
Crowley had been quite -
Which is where, of course, the careful mental monologue stutters to an uncomfortable stop. Because it's not as though one can itemise when one is struggling to find the words. He has always rather disliked the phrase 'can't get my head around it' but suddenly it feels somewhat less like hyperbole.
Waking up, yes. Waking up in his own bed, certainly. But the activity that had resulted in the need for quite so much rest - the fact that Crowley's skin, against red sheets, looks almost gold and manages to make his mouth quite extraordinarily dry -
The enormity of it is rather difficult to squeeze into his head all in one piece.
He sighs slightly and folds the socks around one another, bending to tuck them inside one of his shoes. It's one of the few pairs he owns which don't have holes in at least one of the socks, and he doesn't intend on losing them again if he can possibly help it.
Even asleep, Crowley shifts a little towards him as his weight depresses the mattress. It's enough to return the smile that hasn't been far from his face since he'd woken. With a demon in his bed.
Aziraphael bends his head to touch his lips gently to Crowley's. And when he tries to pull away the demon follows, not even bothering to open his eyes as he sits up a little way, one hand lifting to wind into Aziraphael's hair.
The angel shifts a little further onto the bed, one hand creeping across to curl possessively against Crowley's ribcage.
He decides, if waking up can be like this, that rather more sleep might well be in order.
Afterward, perhaps.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 11:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 11:59 am (UTC)? Reads like there's a word missing.
Elsewise: *SQUEE* Confused morning angel!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 12:10 pm (UTC)Very cute!!!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 12:37 pm (UTC)fabulous dear. grand on catching of tension in mood between unholy joy and uh-ohness. and nicely structured round thought train and demon in his bed, which bodes well for being able to make longer writings hang together well < hints, pokes with sticks >:)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 07:06 am (UTC)*restrains self*
♥!!
*reads it again and loves it more*
no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 07:10 am (UTC)But I really, truly adore Aziraphale's reaction to his first dream, the fact that he didn't like to sleep in beds and the way he's carefully, carefully circling around what happened last night. And Dorian--
*restrains herself again*
Yes. This is me shutting up. But thank you so much for writing it, it made me giddy and happy.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 09:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 09:31 am (UTC)I'm memory-ing this.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 09:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 09:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 10:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 12:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-09 12:36 pm (UTC)If you go and join
I'm really glad you liked the fic, thanks.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-10 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-12 08:07 pm (UTC)I especially like the part where Aziraphale tries to pull away and Crowley just follows. There's no escaping that demon. ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-20 01:13 pm (UTC)I love how even though he's being so careful to NOT think about what happened last night, it's still so apparent... watching Crowley, thinking how pretty he looks, and then leaning down to kiss him and Crowley following.... ::totally melted::
Ok, I'm done. You're brilliant, I'm dead. All is right with the world.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-15 11:08 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing, this is wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-14 03:28 am (UTC)