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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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."
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"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.