It was Aziraphale's turn to lose hold of his breath, as he watched Crowley pull off his sunglasses and tuck them in his pocket. Oh, he loved Crowley's eyes. And the demon only seemed to feel comfortable taking them off in very rare circumstances, when they were hidden away in the safety of the back room of the bookshop where no one could see them. He bit his lip, forcing himself to draw in a slow, shallow breath. Was it obvious? Was he making it weird?
He really hoped he wasn't making it weird.
When Crowley reacted to the light jab, he found it easier to breath if only for the way it made him laugh softly, a small grin spreading across his face despite himself. "Enjoyable it may be, for you-" Aziraphale's currently-dreaming predicament notwithstanding "that is still quite an unnecessary amount of sleeping, and there were quite a few interesting things to happen in the 19th century! The first telegraph, the first light bulb, the first telephone, the first car! Nicola Tesla and Alexander Graham Bell and their absurd feud, the gavotte, and Oscar-...Oscar Wilde" His voice had slowly begun to regain it's usual chipper tone as he spoke, until breaking on that name, the name of one of the only humans he'd allowed himself to become close to, and remembered vividly how badly that had ended. All while he had slept.
Not that he blamed Crowley, of course. The demon was prone to his fits of fascination and a slave to whatever caught his whims. It was just how he was. It had just been lonely. They'd taken to seeing each other more and more frequently over the centuries, until nothing but silence from Crowley, and Aziraphale left to continue on, seeing all of the new wonders of the world as the humans experienced a burst of inventive genius, as their cultures around the world had surged forward in leaps and bounds that left him dazzled with all of it as it happened. And always, in the back of his mind, with a small, niggling worry that something had happened to his friend.
He face he made when the information about the blueberries hit him was offended to say the least, and he curled his nose down at the small basket he'd set next to himself before settling down against the post. He plucked a handful of them from inside, smelling them curiously as if that would tell him what had given them that unusual effect, and then tossed them out with a click of his tongue.
"What absolute rubbish. Why would I dream up berries to put myself to sleep when I was already dreaming???" He glanced back up at Crowley with a small sneer when he teased him about his weakness for the blueberries, though the expression looked more as if he were trying to hide a smile then actually pout. In retaliation, he reached up and wiped the dark, staining juice off of his hands onto a couple of Crowley's wide primary feathers, the expression on his face undeniably playful, now. "That sounds more like something you would concoct. If this weren't my dream, I'd say you had something to do with it! I may even have half a mind to scold the real you for it when I wake up anyway!"
But then he froze as Crowley reached out to pluck the fluff from his wing, his eyes watching the hand sharply, expectantly. He barely felt the contact, but it was enough to make his face flush to a subtle shade darker red, his wings flexing gently, as if they had wanted to follow the hand against his will. It had been such a long time since he'd properly groomed his wings, yes. He always had other things on his mind; books to catalogue, scrolls to decipher, rare tomes to acquire.
It had nothing to do at all with the fact that the way Crowley did it was always so soothing, sent strangely itching, tingling relief through the skin hidden beneath the feathers in such a way that if he forgot himself, it could turn him into a limp heap of limbs and feathers on the sofa. Or with the fact that Crowley always seemed eager to do it, with that same snarking, bemoaning attitude he always had when he was trying to pretend that he didn't want to do something for Aziraphale. He never could understand why, but Crowley had always seemed to enjoy doing things for him, and curse his curly white hair if it didn't make him happy in turn.
"Well-...it can be hard to reach them, sometimes. And the bookshop is rather cramped." That wasn't a small pout on his face, not at all.
"How do you mean? It's difficult to tell how much time has passed since I've been asleep." He pondered the question for a moment, bewildered by what he meant. "Even when I do sleep, it's not for very long. Should I be waking up, now? I wonder what time it is."
And then his eyes narrowed at the way Crowley's mouth fumbled over the words, an eyebrow lifting knowingly at him.
"Crowley. What did you do?"
His voice dropped low into his chest, attempting to sound scolding but sounding far too amused. He'd long since stopped suspecting Crowley of being capable of harming children decades ago, possibly even longer. But the demon certainly had a guilty conscience about something, and that was such a rare event that he was going to enjoy exploiting it.
I know, they're the softest boys and I love them!
He really hoped he wasn't making it weird.
When Crowley reacted to the light jab, he found it easier to breath if only for the way it made him laugh softly, a small grin spreading across his face despite himself. "Enjoyable it may be, for you-" Aziraphale's currently-dreaming predicament notwithstanding "that is still quite an unnecessary amount of sleeping, and there were quite a few interesting things to happen in the 19th century! The first telegraph, the first light bulb, the first telephone, the first car! Nicola Tesla and Alexander Graham Bell and their absurd feud, the gavotte, and Oscar-...Oscar Wilde" His voice had slowly begun to regain it's usual chipper tone as he spoke, until breaking on that name, the name of one of the only humans he'd allowed himself to become close to, and remembered vividly how badly that had ended. All while he had slept.
Not that he blamed Crowley, of course. The demon was prone to his fits of fascination and a slave to whatever caught his whims. It was just how he was. It had just been lonely. They'd taken to seeing each other more and more frequently over the centuries, until nothing but silence from Crowley, and Aziraphale left to continue on, seeing all of the new wonders of the world as the humans experienced a burst of inventive genius, as their cultures around the world had surged forward in leaps and bounds that left him dazzled with all of it as it happened. And always, in the back of his mind, with a small, niggling worry that something had happened to his friend.
He face he made when the information about the blueberries hit him was offended to say the least, and he curled his nose down at the small basket he'd set next to himself before settling down against the post. He plucked a handful of them from inside, smelling them curiously as if that would tell him what had given them that unusual effect, and then tossed them out with a click of his tongue.
"What absolute rubbish. Why would I dream up berries to put myself to sleep when I was already dreaming???" He glanced back up at Crowley with a small sneer when he teased him about his weakness for the blueberries, though the expression looked more as if he were trying to hide a smile then actually pout. In retaliation, he reached up and wiped the dark, staining juice off of his hands onto a couple of Crowley's wide primary feathers, the expression on his face undeniably playful, now. "That sounds more like something you would concoct. If this weren't my dream, I'd say you had something to do with it! I may even have half a mind to scold the real you for it when I wake up anyway!"
But then he froze as Crowley reached out to pluck the fluff from his wing, his eyes watching the hand sharply, expectantly. He barely felt the contact, but it was enough to make his face flush to a subtle shade darker red, his wings flexing gently, as if they had wanted to follow the hand against his will. It had been such a long time since he'd properly groomed his wings, yes. He always had other things on his mind; books to catalogue, scrolls to decipher, rare tomes to acquire.
It had nothing to do at all with the fact that the way Crowley did it was always so soothing, sent strangely itching, tingling relief through the skin hidden beneath the feathers in such a way that if he forgot himself, it could turn him into a limp heap of limbs and feathers on the sofa. Or with the fact that Crowley always seemed eager to do it, with that same snarking, bemoaning attitude he always had when he was trying to pretend that he didn't want to do something for Aziraphale. He never could understand why, but Crowley had always seemed to enjoy doing things for him, and curse his curly white hair if it didn't make him happy in turn.
"Well-...it can be hard to reach them, sometimes. And the bookshop is rather cramped." That wasn't a small pout on his face, not at all.
"How do you mean? It's difficult to tell how much time has passed since I've been asleep." He pondered the question for a moment, bewildered by what he meant. "Even when I do sleep, it's not for very long. Should I be waking up, now? I wonder what time it is."
And then his eyes narrowed at the way Crowley's mouth fumbled over the words, an eyebrow lifting knowingly at him.
"Crowley. What did you do?"
His voice dropped low into his chest, attempting to sound scolding but sounding far too amused. He'd long since stopped suspecting Crowley of being capable of harming children decades ago, possibly even longer. But the demon certainly had a guilty conscience about something, and that was such a rare event that he was going to enjoy exploiting it.