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Crowley watches silently as Furfur hands over the envelope, curiosity eating away inside of him as to what it may contain. He turns it over, the blocky letters reading EVIDENCE, does nothing to quell the worry that fills him like a bucket, dangerously close to the top and threatening to spill its contents over. With deft, trembling fingers, he opens it, pulling out the black and white Polaroid picture of Aziraphale handing the shotgun over to him, the phantom memory of knowing he’d be powerless to prohibit any harm coming to his angel slices through him like a sharp knife, one he fears will become infected and left to blister and fester in holy water.
He sees himself reflected in the gloss, stares upon that brilliant smile Aziraphale has on his face, the fact that he was the one that made him like that does nothing to soothe over his scales that threaten to bubble to the surface. His gaze shifts to himself, can read his own body language as if it was written upon his skin, his clothes. Before he had even agreed to Aziraphale’s proposition he had already told himself that he would do every single miracle it took to protect the angel. The faux boom of the shotgun going off, the bullet that never leaves the barrel, and the smell of gunfire that would prove he did nothing. And Aziraphle would show the bullet between his teeth, and he would be safe. But now, the bucket is at capacity and the water spills over, cascading into a never ending waterfall and for everything he has within himself, he can’t turn it off.
He gulps, handing it silently over to Aziraphale. Their fingers brush against each other, Aziraphale’s hand caressing the back of his knuckles. He wants to find comfort in the touch, he always does when it’s the angel doing it. But all he can do is watch as Aziraphale looks down upon it, blue eyes going wide as he takes in the evidence that has been presented against them.
He tries to act like it doesn’t bother him, remarking upon Furfur’s comment of greater authority with a devil may care attitude. But he doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale holds it to his chest, eerily reminiscent of the tumor he clutched to himself in Edinburgh all those moons ago. Hell had wrung him a new one that night he saved Elspith’s life. He had originally gotten himself out of that particular conundrum, wove some fancy words about a greater plan he had schemed and after a while Hell had finally been convinced.
But now? He wasn’t sure exactly how, but now, he had to. He didn’t have a choice, because if they dragged him down, they would no doubt send a message to Heaven and Aziraphale would be in just as much danger. He would figure something out, for both their sakes. He had to.