Six Thousand Moments - DISCONTINUED

Chapter Two

AZIRAPHALE, THE NIGHT EARLIER

Flying above the rest of the world, there was a sudden glint of shiny, feathered black.  Demon wings.  He gulped, ducking behind a cloud.  Since when had there been demons in this part of the country?

He couldn't see the demon from where he was hovering, which was both a nuisance and a blessing.  On the one hand, it meant that he could not positively identify said demon, while on the other, it was nice to know that he would not have to look upon the boil-riddled, greasy, winged monstrosity.  Demons were all hideous, as far as Aziraphale knew.  Not that he was particularly obsessed with beauty, that is.  Although, even Aziraphale had to admit that some things were just too far gone to be considered fashionable in any way.

He was also, unfortunately, a coward.  Angels were supposed to be soldiers of The Lord; Aziraphale was barely a soldier of himself, let alone the greatest power in the universe.  He would not be fighting any demons today, nor ever in the future.

What a shame, he thought.  He would have liked to fly for a few more hours, at least.

Aziraphale waited until well after the demon had swooshed out of the sky before he made his own descent.  His wings were light, ivory-coloured and airy.  When he flew downwards, the compensatory lift force was so pleasant that it sent tiny delighted shivers all throughout Aziraphale's wingspan.  After, as he touched ground, Aziraphale settled into it as if soft cushioning had been waiting there instead of road.  He sighed aloud, then began his walk back to school.

It was an absolute blessing to be back in the boys dormitories.  (Not an actual Blessing, of course.  Aziraphale took weeks to orchestrate those.)  Even though the whole building reeked of Axe body spray and B.O., it was better than any of the palaces in the Silver City.  Here Aziraphale had his personal things: his books, his delicately chosen attire, his...

Anthony J. Crowley (sometimes Athena J. Crowley) was squirming about underneath the covers of his bed.  Aziraphale stared at him, with his ever-perfect red hair, his even more perfect cheekbones.  The red was more ruby than anything – or perhaps like a red velvet – and the brown of his eyes seemed to flicker and turn gold on occasion, as if they weren't actually brown at all.  Aziraphale suspected that Crowley was self conscious about his eyes; he always kept his head tilted downward, and wore sunglasses whenever he could afford to.  Aziraphale couldn't understand this in the slightest, of course, because he had always thought that Crowley's eyes were rather beautiful.

But why on Earth was he wiggling about like that?

'Hello,' Aziraphale started, raising one eyebrow, 'how are you still awake?'  He didn't know exactly what time it was.  Past midnight, to be sure.

Crowley's shoulders rose and fell – he was always doing that, it was half infuriating.  'Couldn't sleep,' he mumbled.

That wasn't much of an answer, but then again, Crowley never gave much of an answer about anything.  He was a person of few words and many assorted grumbles that Crowley seemed to think were full sentences.  It was sweet at the best of times, challenging at the worst.  This was, what, worst?  Not really.  Heaven almighty... he hadn't realised how tired he had gotten after his flight, and his near run-in with that demon.  He must have been airborne longer than he should have.

'Okay,' Aziraphale said on an exhale, 'well, goodnight.'  He could barely get his shoes off.  A leaden internal weight was pressing against his insides, pulling him downward toward his bed, which was luckily his intended destination.  He didn't even bother changing into his pyjamas.

'Goodnight,' Crowley replied in an almost-sleepy voice.  'Oh, um, Aziraphale?'

Aziraphale exhaled deeply, letting himself sink into his dormitory mattress.  Mundanity had never felt so good.  'Yes?'