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Newt Pulsifer had always harbored a peculiar superstition. Born into a family steeped in a long tradition of occult mishaps and misadventures, he couldn't help but absorb a few quirks. One such quirk was his deep-seated belief that sleeping with one leg out of the covers was an open invitation for all manner of mischief from the supernatural realm.
It was a crisp, autumn evening, and the little group of unlikely companions had gathered in the cozy living room of Tadfield Manor. The fireplace crackled merrily, casting warm golden light over the mismatched furniture. Newt sat on the worn sofa, gesturing animatedly as he tried to make his point. Across from him, Anathema Device, the no-nonsense witch, rolled her eyes, her patience clearly wearing thin.
“I’m just saying,” Newt insisted, “leaving one leg out is like putting up a neon sign for demons. ‘Come on in, free real estate!’”
Anathema sighed, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “Newt, that’s ridiculous. No demon is going to care about your leg.”
“You don’t know that!” Newt shot back, his voice rising an octave. “They’re sneaky! They’re opportunistic! One leg out, and bam—they’ve got you!”
At that moment, Aziraphale, the angel with a fondness for earthly comforts, entered the room, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits. His soft, round face held an expression of mild concern.
“What’s all this fuss about?” Aziraphale asked as he set the tray down on the coffee table.
“Newt thinks sleeping with one leg out from under the covers invites demons into your bed,” Anathema explained, her tone dripping with exasperation.
Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. He glanced at Newt, then at Anathema, then back at Newt. “Well,” he began delicately, “that does seem a bit... unlikely.”
“It’s not just a superstition!” Newt insisted. “There’s logic to it! Demons are drawn to vulnerability, and what’s more vulnerable than an unprotected foot dangling in the dark?”
Anathema groaned and threw up her hands. “Nothing is going to happen, Newt. For heaven’s sake, grow up.”
Newt looked hurt, but before he could retort, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should leave the matter to rest for now,” he suggested diplomatically.
The evening wore on, the argument fading into the background as the group shared tea and laughter. By the time the grandfather clock chimed eleven, they were all yawning and ready for bed.
Aziraphale retired to his guest room, a cozy little space with a four-poster bed and a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. He changed into his silk pajamas and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. For a moment, he lay there in peaceful silence, the events of the day drifting through his mind like leaves on a stream.
But then, Newt’s words came back to him. “Demons are drawn to vulnerability.”
Aziraphale frowned. As an angel, he was well-acquainted with demons. He knew their tricks, their petty schemes. He also knew that they weren’t particularly interested in people’s sleeping habits. And yet...
He glanced down at his neatly tucked-in legs. A small, mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Slowly, deliberately, he slid one leg out from under the covers.
The cool air brushed against his skin, sending a shiver up his spine. He lay there, one leg exposed, waiting for... well, he wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for.
Minutes passed. The room remained still. No sudden shadows crept across the walls, no guttural whispers echoed in the dark. Aziraphale chuckled softly to himself. Of course nothing would happen. It was a silly notion.
And yet, as he began to drift off to sleep, he couldn’t shake the faintest sensation of being watched.
---
The next morning, the group reconvened in the kitchen for breakfast. The smell of freshly baked scones filled the air, and the sun streamed through the windows, casting everything in a warm, golden light.
Aziraphale sipped his tea, his expression thoughtful. Anathema noticed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind, angel?”
“Well,” Aziraphale began, choosing his words carefully, “I did a little experiment last night. Slept with one leg out from under the covers.”
Newt’s fork clattered onto his plate. “What? Why would you do that?”
“Curiosity,” Aziraphale replied with a shrug. “I wanted to see if anything would happen.”
“And?” Anathema asked, her tone half-amused, half-skeptical.
“Nothing happened,” Aziraphale said, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his voice.
Newt narrowed his eyes. “Nothing at all?”
“Well,” Aziraphale admitted, “I did feel a bit... odd. As if someone—or something—was watching me.”
Newt paled. “I told you! I told you it’s real!”
Anathema rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, you’re just encouraging him.”
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but that night, as Aziraphale prepared for bed, he found himself lingering over the memory of that strange sensation. Could there be some truth to Newt’s fears? It seemed unlikely, but Aziraphale had learned long ago not to dismiss the improbable outright.
Once again, he slid one leg out from under the covers. The cool air felt familiar now, almost comforting. He closed his eyes and waited.
---
Somewhere in the depths of the unseen realm, a demon named Crowley leaned against the threshold of Aziraphale’s room, arms crossed and a bemused smirk on his face. He had been watching the angel’s peculiar little experiment with growing amusement.
“What are you up to, angel?” Crowley muttered to himself.
He considered playing a prank—perhaps tugging at Aziraphale’s exposed foot just to see him jump. But then he thought better of it. The angel looked so peaceful, so content. It wasn’t often that Crowley saw him like this, and he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Instead, he stepped closer, his movements silent and deliberate. He reached out, hesitated, and then gently pulled the blanket back over Aziraphale’s leg.
“There,” he whispered. “Can’t have you catching cold.”
As Crowley retreated into the shadows, a faint smile played on Aziraphale’s lips.
---
By the time morning came, Aziraphale had all but forgotten the strange sensation. He awoke feeling rested, his dreams filled with warmth and comfort.
At breakfast, he noticed Newt eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you try it again?” Newt asked.
Aziraphale smiled. “As a matter of fact, I did. And I must say, it was quite... illuminating.”
Newt looked alarmed, but Aziraphale simply sipped his tea, his thoughts drifting to the mysterious comforter in the night. Perhaps there was more to this world—and the next—than even he fully understood.
And perhaps, just perhaps, there were forces at work that cared more for him than he realized.
---
This whimsical tale of superstition and subtle connection reminds us that even in the smallest gestures, there is magic to be found. Whether it’s in the warmth of a blanket or the quiet presence of a friend, we are never truly alone.