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Summary
“You want me to WHAT?” Crowley had asked. Yelped. Squeaked. Whichever way you choose to describe it, the noise that escaped his throat at 9:08am the previous morning was without a doubt full of a lot of doubt.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Aziraphale had said, not even bothering to slow down in order to navigate the conversation. Like Crowley had learned the ins and outs of London in order to be able to violate its streets at his own (breakneck) pace, Aziraphale had gotten quite comfortable at careening his way through their discussions in a similar manner. The only difference was the lack of miracles it took to keep everyone involved alive and unharmed (Of course, Crowley would vehemently argue this point if interviewed on his own opinion, given the amount of times he’d been very close to discorporating from Aziraphale’s lack of Fucks To Give post-Apocalypse.