𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

Aziraphale doesn’t dream, not then. He doesn’t remember the last time he did, a longer time ago than the last time he’s actually slept (as opposed to being knocked unconscious by brute force or supernatural strain), and it feels like a particularly long blink.

When he wakes, in the demon’s arms, it all feels like a strange and complex dream, and he lingers there for a while. In the silence, in the dimness being slowly overtaken by the sunlight that’s gently pushing through the curtains and into the room. He listens to Crowley breathing, and he thinks.

Eventually, he can’t tell how long after, he gets up carefully and gingerly, taking a moment to look down at the demon and reaching over to gently brush his hair back. He climbs off the bed, finds some of his clothes, and starts getting dressed, calm and meticulous and nowhere in a rush. But he stops soon after he starts, looking at himself in the mirror and at that mark concentrated on the center of his chest.

That’s when he hears Crowley’s voice, softly breaking through his train of thought, and he turns to look over at him. “Oh, good morning.”