[ Aziraphale pushes hope and love and warmth into his kiss; his lips were made for praise and joy and lightness. His hands were made to hold, to raise, to comfort. He can't be cruel because he doesn't understand it, can't bring himself to do it. But love, he has endlessly, all his stores of it earmarked with Crowley's name. He looks at Crowley taking his hand and kissing his palm, and his breath hitches. They'd been so close together all these years, yet with artificial distance between them that it felt as if they might be on different solar systems. That was Aziraphale's fault. ]
I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]
no subject
I missed you too.
[ Every night when the moon came out, every time he saw a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness, every time he heard the clack and drag of sauntering feet behind him, passing by any shop window with fancy sleek trinkets and rows and rows of inky sunglasses. The bed still smelt of Crowley, cleaned of sweat but holding onto him the same way that the food in Crowley's refrigerator always stayed fresh. And sometimes Aziraphale would climb into bed, miracle away the fade, and tempt himself to sleep, because whenever he awoke he could almost feel a phantom brush along his cheek and a firm chest pillowed under his head. No one could come for his dreams. ]
Every day.
[ He confesses so sadly, thinking of all the time he'd wasted being haunted by the ghost of a friend he could have held in his arms instead. He's always been making a right mess of things, which is perhaps how he got demoted to this position in the first place. But how lucky that was, and how lucky he was that six thousand years later, Crowley is still here and still accepting of him, cock-ups and all. ]