throughthesearch
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“It’s pretty comfortable, you know.” Crowley rounds out each syllable the way he does when he’s savouring a word, biting them off - com-for-ta-ble, you know. Aziraphale starts, just a little. He’s been ... reminiscing. “This old thing.”
“I suppose you -” There’s some remark about hedonism and sin and comfort that’s always sat ill with Aziraphale, and he can’t quite finish it now. (Not with his ... recent ... voyage. Not to Crowley.) “I suppose you must be - Would you like anything?” When in doubt, dither. “Tea, biscuits - I have some of that wine you bought me back in, oh, when was it? Sixteen -”
“Angel.” It’s fond enough that it almost glows in the air between them.
After everything goes wrong, Aziraphale comes home.
Bookmarked by throughthesearch
03 Sep 2023