(no subject)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael is in the bar for once, sitting at a table with a cup of mint-scented tea and a stack of papers. They don't look as yellowed as one might expect, and he's frowning slightly as he pores over them, allowing only the occasional frustrated click of his tongue to express his displeasure.

He looks ever so slightly disheveled, as though a few threads have worked loose in some indefinable inner fabric. It's not so obvious as having circles under his eyes, but any observer would say that he looks tired. Ridiculous, of course. It isn't as though he needs sleep.