#though I added more grey and made the tail feathers a different colour to pull the dark blue through the whole design

[catzgam3rz]

Another QSMP Design! The beloved! Jaiden!!

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

Please, keep me. (currently)

Going to give NaNoWriMo a go with this idea that I’ve been playing with for a while. I’m not trying to write a proper novel, I just want to try writing more regularly. Spending time with these two cuties is a nice way to do that, and I hope it will free me up creatively to just play inside their world for a bit. 

Crowley/Aziraphale, sort of AU? World building as I go along, hopefully will get to the meat of the idea soon. Mostly pining and companionship, will tag as I go along. 

Waking was never pleasant. Not when sleep had some much more room to breathe, to feel nothing and just be. Crowley knew sloth was a wasteful thing, but he loved to sleep. Why even have an invention like a bed if not to sleep in it? 

He woke on his front this time, his face buried in between the crook of his arm and the linen of his bed. What followed was a long groan and a rubbing of his hands across his face, rubbing away the faint trail of drool at the corner of his mouth and brushing his hair from his eyes. He rolled onto his back, kicking the twisted cover off of his body and stretching in a long, languid motion. After this he just lay there staring up at his ceiling with the usual waking glumness descending onto him. 

Waking up wasn’t pleasant. Being awake was worse. 

With a critical sigh, as if to an unseen voice telling him to rise, he rolled up and off of the bed and began yet another day in Paradise. 

Crowley had a mental list that he added to every day, ticking off each tiny annoyance and dislike that he found himself suffering through on a daily basis. It always starting with waking, followed quickly by getting up and not long after that came the initial chill of his leaving his small room and walking the corridors towards the washrooms. At least the washroom itself wasn’t too disappointing, although he felt the closed in walls and endless white tile a bit uninspired. At this time of the afternoon there was no one left on his level and he had the circular dipped room to himself. It was more of a dome than a room, with a circular track of tile lining the walls with a ridge to sit, whether to wait for a turn or to put robes to one side. To the inside of the track the floor dipped in a gentle slope, creating a pool in the centre of the washroom. The walls curved up and over to finish off the egg shape, with a glowing circle at the very top giving the room a bright, oddly cool and clinical tone. 

Crowley walked the track to no particular spot, pulling his robe free and bundling it onto the ridge before descending into the pool. Once he reached the centre he looked up and raised one arm, and the glowing circle above him began to pour down. Light flowed from the ceiling in a steady stream like fluid, and he closed his eyes as it covered him. This never made the list, he loved this feeling almost as much as he loved to sleep. 

Crowley turned, letting the stream of light cascade across his shoulders and down his back. It felt warm with a slight tingling buzz that he loved. He rubbed his hands across his skin, winding through the tendrils of light and feeling it slip through his fingers with a tickle. The light gathered at the bottom of the pool around his feet, swirling and lapping gently like a fog. Despite the steady stream, it never seemed to fill beyond his ankles unless he wanted it to. He knew he should wash quickly, but instead he pulled his wings into this plane and spread them wide for another long and lazy stretch, the tip of each primary brushing each side of the washroom. He felt a shiver pass from his skin into his wings, the feathers ruffling slightly as he pulled them back towards himself, moving so the light poured across them. Twisting his body a little he was able to reach to touch his wings and smooth the light clinging to the feathers in between each shaft. He worked quickly, keeping one ear on any signs of others from the door.    

Once fully bathed and shining with the light he stood away from the stream of light and raised a hand again. The last of the stream of light trickled down, the pool already fading. He shook his wings quickly, smoothing his hands across the main flight feathers and lying them flat, before shrugging them away unseen again. 

He dressed quickly, aware he was likely to be late. There were no bells in the lower layers, he somehow managed to wake up close to the beginning of the dusk. He moved quickly through the expansive corridors of rooms and stairs upwards, his bare feet gathering stone dust as he hurried. He climbed one of the many spiral staircases before suddenly finding himself out on the floor of the grand hall. He didn’t stop, moving again to one of the spiral staircases that lined the lower refractory hall. He didn’t stop until he was at his usual haunting spot, tucked behind one of the arching pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling above the hall. He sat low in the stool he always sat in, crossing his arms along the ledge that overlooked the hall and leant his chin on his arms, confident that once again he would blend into the elaborate carved surroundings and could watch in peace. 

The hall was long - almost stupidly long, being one of those buildings that seemed to expand and contract depending on the needs of its many occupants. The downstairs level was lined with row after row of wooden tables and pews, all carved wood and polished to a high shine. The walls underneath the overlooking floor Crowley liked to hide himself on were lined with dramatic and ridiculous paintings of Paradise and all of its mighty achievements. These expansive murals didn’t seem to start or end in any particular order, but it wasn’t likely any of the visiting angels to the hall even noticed them after so much time seeing them. The stories of the might and majesty of Her and all of Her achievements and great deeds, and triumphs. Not a whole lot of narrative tension when your God was the only one writing history and the angels being told it are the only ones painting the murals. Not that they weren’t beautiful, in their own way, but Crowley found them all a little bit holy than thou, which he supposed grumpily was the point. He added this grumble to his mental list and kept these thoughts to himself. 

The mezzanine Crowley found himself on overlooked the hallway with yet more tables and pews, only they didn’t seem particularly used. The murals up here were a little more to his tastes, showing the world that She was planning. An expansive garden painted with plants and flowers and trees, and dozens of odd looking little creatures - She called them animals. Each one was a little different to the next. One might have two legs with flappy little feet and two things that maybe could have been wings if they weren’t so uselessly tucked up against the body; the next maybe would have dozens of spots all over and something called a tail sprouting from it’s behind. Her imagination was seemingly limitless when it came to variety. Crowley preferred these plans to the ones downstairs, if only because none of these animals were painted with simpering adoring expressions with their eyes cast upwards. Apparently the whole idea would be they wouldn’t know anything about Her or them, or anything outside of eating each other and making more of themselves. He wasn’t so sure what that meant exactly, but it sounded promising. 

Beyond the second layer the pillars branched out and crisscrossed the ceiling with an expansive golden framework of diamonds, filled in with swirling blue and purple sky and dozens of golden stars. It was purely decorative, but still very beautiful. He wasn’t there to admire the colours, although he did cast an appreciative glance above. 

Truthfully Crowley wasn’t late for his work. In fact he was rather early. The rest of his class would not be making their way into the hall for another turn of the hourglass, his peers would only now start leaving their rooms and taking turns in the light-pool. He was here to spy. He didn’t have to wait long. A single toned bell chord rang out from the clock suspended one end of the hallway, a representational orb of the sun marking the end of the day to dusk shift. On cue angels began milling out of doors at the end of the hall, laughter echoing up to Crowley’s hiding spot. They all wore bright robes signifying them as the day shift - golds and orches, whites and tangerine. Many of them had gold in their hair or around their eyes, some on their hands. They walked in groups, smiling and laughing together after a day performing their duties of exaltation, whatever that meant. Crowley tracked a few that he recognised, but he mostly recognised the colours. Light grey for the speakers of the Word, gold for the actions of the Word. The soft yellow and pale green was for the Makers and Growers, fresh faced after a day in the green houses and workshops. A pale orange for the Builders. He ignored them though, looking for cream. There weren’t many of them, the smallest of the Day. One here, one there, but not the right one - ah, there. Near the end of them all, which shouldn’t be a surprise. 

The angel was small by angel’s standards, a little rounded of the shoulder and walking carefully as to not touch any of his peers as he made his way to a side bench of the hall. The Keepers only counted a few in their number, but they rarely sat together. Outside of their duties angels could move freely amongst friends, and this angel seemed to choose to sit alone when he could. He held the same as the others, a small goblet of nectar and a parcel of bread and honey, but he didn’t seem very interested in it once he set it down and sat with his back to the rest of the hall. Crowley tracked him with his eyes and sighed to himself, feeling a small smile prickle his face as watched the angel in cream glance furtively around him to check he wasn’t observed before pulling a book from inside of his robes. He tucked it close to him on the table and bent his head over it, fully absorbed. To anyone glancing his way he only looked as if he were busying himself with his supper, but Crowley knew the truth. 

Crowley sighed a little again, relaxing into his arms as he studied the angel. He liked the way he sat up straight, one elbow on the table and his head resting serenely in his hands like one of those ridiculous cherubs in all the murals. His feet tucked under the bench and crossed together, his bare feet even dustier from his day in the Library than Crowley’s own were from the lower levels. He wore his robes exactly the way he was meant to, looped around him in a fastidious manner, but the patches of dust were easy to spot. Crowley’s eyes traced the shape of his shoulders up into his soft curls, the colour of milk. Crowley watched him for some time, smiling every time the angel carefully turned a page and checked over his shoulder every time. Crowley knew, even if he couldn’t see today, he was smiling softly to himself, face soft on each page.

Before he was ready to give up his little spying post, the next shift of angels started to move into the hall from the lower levels. The volume of chatter increased again, and the little Keeper glanced up, moving the book from the table onto his lap in a careful motion. He tucked it away, before rising with his supper and gave up his table to an approaching group of Weavers in their lilac robes and loud voices who didn’t seem to notice him at all. 

Crowley watched the angel move to the side of the hall, looking around furtively but avoiding any eyes as he slipped away downstairs with his food and his secretive book to keep him company until he was called again. 

Crowley sighed, seeing the last glance of curly white hair disappear and like that, the best day of his day was gone. Now to eat, to work, to sleep and to wait to do it all over again. 

Part 2