New Year's Day dawned bright and cold, but the cottage bedroom was still warm, and the inhabitants of its bed fast asleep. In fact, the only person who was awake in the cottage was not a person, but a cat. Tug had finished his morning patrol of each room of the house, and now padded back into the bedroom. He sat just inside the doorway for a moment, observing the occupants of the bed with narrowed eyes, tail flicking from side to side. Then, decision made, he trotted up to the bed and hopped up onto it. Crowley stirred. Azariah, no doubt entirely used to this sort of intrusion, did not. Sensing weakness. Tug wriggled his way under the covers and crept up the bed until he reached Crowley's elbow, under which he thrust his nose. Lying on his side, curled up slightly, Crowley was the perfect victim, and Tug insinuated himself inside of Crowley's bent arm.
Crowley awoke with a start, and realised that he was holding a cat. He gave a hnnnnn sort of noise, to which Tug responded by beginning to purr, kneading his paws against the mattress. Ah well, Crowley thought; cats were warm. He blinked a few times and opened his eyes properly, to the sight of Azariah's face. He was still asleep, and his face was utterly relaxed. As he watched, Crowley realised that he had never seen this face exactly like this: up close, completely vulnerable, completely at ease, completely trusting, all at once. Something about the thought made him curl up tighter, hugging Tug to his chest. The vibration of the purrs increased, and they flooded Crowley with a sense of ease. He watch Azariah in silence for quite some time, no sound in the room but Tug's purrs. Just as Crowley began to think that maybe he ought to get up first and start breakfast, or at least make tea, the warmth of the bed and the cat and the lulling effect of the purring caught up with him, and his eyes drifted closed again.
When next Crowley awoke, it was more slowly. At some point he had changed position, and Tug had vanished, and he now found himself lying sprawled on his stomach, a wet patch on the pillow beneath his slightly open mouth. With a soft grunt at the effort of wakefulness, Crowley pushed himself up onto his elbows, and glanced to the side. The bed was empty, and he could hear sounds of movement in the kitchen below. He made a soft noise of amusement through his nose: so much for getting up first. Crowley rolled onto his back, then slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching hard. His body ached pleasantly from the previous night's exertions, and he found that he enjoyed the little spots of soreness that remained from the small nips of Azariah's teeth. There was still a hazy sense about his physical being; something pleasurable and comfortable that lingered.
Crowley glanced down at the nightstand, and saw that Azariah had left the same pyjama trousers he'd worn on Christmas, as well as a baggy, pale blue t-shirt. Crowley smiled. Clearly, Azariah thought he had a colour. He pulled on the trousers and shirt, and made his way into the bathroom. There, Azariah had placed a glass and the same toothbrush he'd given Crowley before. There was something endearingly domestic about it, and Crowley decided to indulge a whim. Locating Azariah's toothbrush, he began cleaning his teeth manually rather than by miracle. As he brushed, he allowed his mind to wander, and predictably, it wandered to the previous night.His reminiscences danced over the various enjoyable memories, until one moment in particular penetrated his consciousness.
"Oh, fuck, angel, I'm gonna—"
Angel
Angel.
Crowley stood frozen, foam dripping from the toothbrush lodged against his molars, staring horrified at himself in the mirror. A cheerful voice called from downstairs,
"Anthony, there's coffee when you're ready!"
Crowley ripped the toothbrush from his mouth. Turning the tap on full, he spat out his mouthful of foam, rinsed the brush, and bent down to suck in a mouthful of water, swishing and spitting to clear his mouth. Put it away, he thought, Put it away, don't deal with that now, don't think about it, don't worry about it, you can do that LATER. When he wanted to be, Crowley was the king of compartmentalization. He shoved that thought firmly into a little box somewhere in the back of his mind and locked it away as he wiped his mouth and left the bathroom. He came yawning and stretching down the stairs, his hair even more tousled than usual after having gone to bed wet. Azariah met him at the bottom of the stairs, and before Crowley could step off the bottom one, slipped his arms around Crowley's waist, tilting his head up expectantly. Crowley inclined his head their lips pressed together firmly, but all softness, a sweet reunion after last night's rigours.
"I could get used to you coming downstairs like that in the morning," Azariah said with a smile, then asked, "How are you?" Crowley tossed his head, clearing the curls from his eyes.
"Oh, I'm great. Better than great," he said, and Azariah grinned. Releasing Crowley, he went back into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Crowley meandered behind him and took it when offered, lounging against the kitchen counter while Azariah checked on something in the oven.
"What's that?" Crowley asked from behind his mug, practically inhaling the coffee.
"Quiche."
"Quiche? You're making pastry at this hour?"
"Anthony, it's ten in the morning."
"That's what I'm saying!" Azariah rolled his eyes.
"If you must know, the pastry is from the shop. But the eggs are from a neighbour's chickens, so it ought to be good." Crowley shook his head. If there was one thing he was not, it was a morning person. But the quiche was starting to smell excellent, and he crossed to sit at the kitchen table when shooed in that direction. And when he put the first forkful of savoury egginess into his mouth, Crowley discovered that it tasted even better than it smelled.
"I just don't understand," Crowley said as he chewed, gesturing with his fork, "how you can not only be so chipper in the morning, but coherent enough to cook."
"We all have different gifts," Azariah said with satisfaction, "You make excellent coffee and read at the speed of light, I wake up early and make quiche."
"At least we balance each other out, then."
"So we do!" They ate and drank coffee and mocked Tug when he appeared with ruffled up fur after rolling about in some of Azariah's decorative pinecones left out from Christmas, to which the cat leapt into Azariah's lap, stole a bit of quiche right off his fork, and demanded petting. This sent Crowley into howls of laughter, and Azariah threw up his hands in defeat, setting about picking bits of cone from Tug's fur and setting it back in order. They migrated to the couch after a time, the last of the coffee in their cups, Crowley leaning against one arm with his legs stretched out across Azariah's lap, and Tug in his own. Eventually Crowley began to feel drowsy again, between the warmth of the cat and Azariah and the coffee and the fire, and his head slowly drooped to the side until it was resting against the back of the couch. A hand shaking his leg lightly brought him back to himself, and Azariah chuckled at him as he shook his head and righted it.
"Do you need to go back to bed?" Azariah asked, amused, and Crowley shook his head again, this time in the negative.
"Nah, but maybe I should head off, I won't be good company if I'm just nodding off on you."
"Oh, I don't mind, stay a while," Azariah squeezed Crowley's knee in reassurance, then gave him an arch look, "And I'm sure we can manage to keep you awake somehow, if you insist." Stamping on his briefest of internal nigglings like an unwelcome bug, Crowley leaned his head on his fist and grinned.
"Ehhh, why not?"