"Oh, swear not by the moon, that inconstant moon," he lobs back dramatically, before laughing. "You know that's what I want. That we're forgiven, and that we have all the rest of our lives to spend together, just like this. Maybe not just like this, I'd hope we get out of bed sometime."
He leans into Crowley's embrace, feeling the need for it in the moment.
"But I suppose we can't have his hanging over our heads waiting to fall at any moment. I do want our freedom." It's still so hard, knowing that he'll have to extricate himself from this position soon. Not soon, but a blink of an eye for a being who's lived thousands of years. "Will you hold me like this a little longer, then? Please, Crowley."
Forgiveness is not something Crowley has ever thought he could have. Not from the angels, not from God, not from anybody. And, frankly, he doesn't see why Aziraphale should have to ask for it now. He didn't do anything wrong. He did what was right. He helped people, he saved the world.
Is it worth it? Prostrating themselves to the Almighty when they were fighting what was wrong? To have this?
Crowley shifts a little, lifting his back off of the bed. He lets his wings extend, long and black, and curls them around the two of them. It doesn't create a perfect cocoon, there's still some light let in from the room, but it's mostly dark, mostly just the two of them, blotted out of the world with the circle of black feathers.
He could stay here for ages. He could ask it of Crowley, and he knows that he would reluctantly get his wish. But he only holds on a little longer, memorizing everything about this moment in the case that things don't go well. He reaches out, and touches feathers gently as if they might burn him.
"Just until morning then," he says, turning his cheek to kiss some feathers. In the moonlight they look almost blue, and he thinks these are the feelings that artists paint, that writers write.
He barely makes any more sound, just basking in this embrace, his possible last days on Earth and he wouldn't want to do anything else with them.
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He leans into Crowley's embrace, feeling the need for it in the moment.
"But I suppose we can't have his hanging over our heads waiting to fall at any moment. I do want our freedom." It's still so hard, knowing that he'll have to extricate himself from this position soon. Not soon, but a blink of an eye for a being who's lived thousands of years. "Will you hold me like this a little longer, then? Please, Crowley."
no subject
Is it worth it? Prostrating themselves to the Almighty when they were fighting what was wrong? To have this?
Crowley shifts a little, lifting his back off of the bed. He lets his wings extend, long and black, and curls them around the two of them. It doesn't create a perfect cocoon, there's still some light let in from the room, but it's mostly dark, mostly just the two of them, blotted out of the world with the circle of black feathers.
He leans his head against Aziraphale's.
"As long as you want, angel."
no subject
"Just until morning then," he says, turning his cheek to kiss some feathers. In the moonlight they look almost blue, and he thinks these are the feelings that artists paint, that writers write.
He barely makes any more sound, just basking in this embrace, his possible last days on Earth and he wouldn't want to do anything else with them.