Work Text:
Aziraphale still isn’t accustomed
to the idea of sleep,
not even after well over a year
in their little cottage.
He slips into bed
with his demon
every night,
listens to the sounds
of Crowley’s breath
evening out,
feels the comfort
of limbs and souls*
intertwining.
But it’s inevitable he’s up before the sun–
tiding up,
making tea,
reading
(or rereading)
a book.**
He’s sitting in the garden
with his tea, listening to the birds
greet the day–
a few sparrows,
a lark,
the gold of a finch.
He tosses a handful of the seed
he keeps hidden away,
but is sure to miss by a wide margin
Crowley’s rather verdant
patch of vegetables.
It just wouldn’t do
to teach the birds
to find food there.
He’s finishing
his second cup of tea,
debating whether to make scones
or muffins
when a kiss
drops onto the crown of his head.
Perhaps biscuits, he thinks.
Crowley makes a fuss,
but Aziraphale knows
he’s become quite
fond.
...
*Yes, he’s got a soul, and so has Crowley, no matter what the man himself has to say about it. Aziraphale knows, so don’t argue.
**He’s toyed with the idea of writing his own, but even marketed as fiction, who would believe even a bit of the life he’s shared with Crowley? Perhaps he’s best off sticking with reading.