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013. Yellow

Somebody was watching him and he knew it.

He did not like it, not at all. It was very unnerving to say the least. Every now and then he thought he knew where it was, turning around as quickly as he could, but always it escaped. And still he could feel it, could feel the eyes on him.

A couple of times he was sure he saw it. A pair of eyes watching him from some shadow. Yellow, reptilian eyes.

"Crawly," he hissed, glaring at the direction where he'd last seen the eyes before they'd disappeared again. However, there was no response, no indication that the demon was around. And yet he knew.

Aziraphale suddenly wished he'd had a sword with him. He would have loved to just attack at the moment, to get rid of his invisible follower. However, he had no weapon, and knew better than to charge at an unseen enemy. That would be a very foolish move indeed.

The other being made no move, but the eyes still stayed on him. After some time he just decided to go on with his business, determined not to show his nervousness. That would do no good. However, his instincts were all at their height, following even the tiniest changes in his surroundings, paranoid.

Crawly did not attack. Neither did he leave.

As soon as Michael fell asleep he knew he wouldn't rest easy.

Most of the time when he slept he would get the rest he craved for. However, some nights, while asleep, he was harassed by dreams that would not let him get any rest. And, apparently, this night was going to be one of those restless ones.

The dream began like it always did, always the same ever since the Fall. He didn't see anything, like he had still just lain there before falling asleep, his eyes closed. He felt somebody drawing away the sheets covering him, leaving his body bare. The bed shifted as another being settled onto it.

A soft touch came first, fingers gently brushing his shoulder. It travelled downwards, wandering over his chest, teasing his nipples, caressing muscles. Finally it settled onto his waist, warm, loving.

The dream was very vivid, like always; had he not known better, he might have thought it was reality. Well, probably not. He didn't know if it was because of his angelic origin or if it was unique to him -- dreams weren't a topic he often discussed with other angels, after all -- but he always knew when he was dreaming. It was like his body, a part of him, had experienced the dream, while his conscious self was observing it from the side. He couldn't change the dream, but he did know it for what it was.

The hand still resting on his waist, next came the mouth. A tiny kiss on his forehead, his both eyelids, cheeks, and finally his lips. Soft lips were pressed against his, the kiss a soft sign of affection at first but soon turning into a more heated, passionate one. His dream self responded to the kiss just as eagerly, his body stirring in reaction to it. Never mind that there had been no such a thing as gender when the memories the dream was based on had been created; his subconsciousness was apparently good at adapting things.

The other mouth left his, placing tiny kisses along his jawline, down his neck, his chest. A tongue flicked out, tasting his left nipple, teasing it. Michael heard a quiet moan coming from himself as the mouth then travelled further down only to return shortly.

He didn't want to do anything, wanted to wake up and forget the whole thing, but he couldn't. Without his wish his hands wandered up, about to tangle themselves in the yellowish golden locks so familiar to him...

Only to sink into soft curls noticeably shorter than those of Lucifer.

Michael -- or at least the little bit of his mind that was still conscious; his dream self didn't seem to find anything amiss -- was surprised. Now, what was this? Was it not Lucifer?

Now, his dream self slowly opened its eyes, and sight was added to the dream. He found himself staring right into deep green eyes looking back at him from a pale face surrounded by short, wild locks of midnight-black hair. A name slipped from his lips, both in the dream and in his real mind.

"Uriel..."

Michael woke up with a startle. He sat up in his bed, shivering slightly. As always after such a dream, the scene continued to play over and over in his mind, refusing to leave. However, unlike all the other times, it was not Lucifer's face smiling at him in his mind that haunted him for the next day.

It was Uriel's. And that was even worse.

Crawly watched the angel, keeping out of sight. A couple of times the angel's eye caught him, making the divine being wary, but never did Aziraphale attack. For that was Crawly glad. He was in no condition to fight right now anyway.

A wrong movement sent a jolt of pain through his body and he grimaced inwardly. He'd just had an encounter with an overzealous angel. The angel hadn't been even close to Aziraphale's level, but enough of a trouble to leave him injured. He was absolutely unable to fight with Aziraphale at the moment.

Well, of course he could have fought. He wasn't that badly injured, thank you very much. The point was, he would have hardly stood a chance against Aziraphale. Much as he hated to admit it, the angel could fight -- and he had gotten even better all the time. Fortunately Crawly himself had also gotten better since the time of the Fall, and under usual circumstances he and Aziraphale were pretty evenly matched. Now, however, he was already beaten -- and yet another angel had to beg for a new corporation, served him right -- and thus could only follow. Observe. Learn.

And perhaps find a new weakness to use on his advantage.

Next Prompt: Green.