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There are a lot of things that can happen in a fraction of a second. A hummingbird beats its wings multiple times. The sound of a camera’s shutter as it takes a burst of photos. The second hand of a clock moving halfway to its next destination.
But for angels and demons, it’s much more, it feels like an eternity. Crowley is shaking, the gun in hands that have never not been as steady as they were in that moment. He feels his heart jackhammering in his chest that he almost fears a heart attack would kill him, if he hasn’t accidentally killed his angel first. He tries to hold his gaze, portray a calm sense of command where clearly he has none left whatsoever.
Aziraphale’s eyes are wide as he looks directly at Crowley, seeming to pierce through the dark of his shades and into his very being. This was never supposed to happen. He was going to do every miracle in the book during this performance. To miracle the bullet out of its chamber and safely into his pocket. To create the loud clap that the gun would make had it been fired, the smoke that would wisp from the barrel to further support the illusion. And of course, would let Aziraphale thing the bullet grazed past his ear, just like the manual had said. And he’s open his mouth to reveal the bullet between his teeth and that would be the end of this. And they’d go back to the bookstore, and Crowley would make a stop at the angel’s favorite Italian restaurant and pick up food for them. And they would sit upstairs in his flat and drink vintage wine and Crowley would allow himself to bask in the comfort of just having Aziraphale near him and alive.
But neither of their miracles are working tonight. And Aziraphale looks at him with so much apprehension and his lips are moving. And Crowley knows he’s not speaking aloud to the crowd. He’s looking at Crowley, and he squints. And oh . That blasted angel is trying to ease him. He must sense the anxiety wafting off Crowley like rotten eggs. Trust me . He’s saying. Once. Twice. And thrice. Trust me .
And he does, and if Aziraphale can still trust him, Crowley can trust himself as well. So he takes aim. He can taste sulfur in his mouth as the viewpoint lines up to Aziraphale’s head. He wants to be sick, to throw the gun down and refuse to carry on any further with this. And Aziraphale is scared too. Crowley can read him oh so clearly, and yet, he still trusts the demon. And well, Crowley would always trust his angel.
So he moves it slightly to the right and takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger upon Aziraphale’s command. He can’t bear to close his eyes, to allow a single fraction of a second go by where his gaze isn’t tracking that bullet. Where he doesn’t breathe. Where he isn’t desperately praying to Her to protect Aziraphale in this moment. And the bullet flies by, almost hitting the Ladies of Camelot and Mrs. H. Crowley’s sure to hear of his shoddy marksmanship from her later, but hopefully by then their miracles will be working, and he’ll clean the mess that they’ve made. But for now, Aziraphale is alive, and Crowley wants nothing more than to throw the gun to the floor.
Aziraphale smiled in triumph, the bullet between his teeth and Crowley’s heart is still erratic in his chest. But he doesn’t care right now, Aziraphale is so close to him right now. He wants desperately to pull him tight, to kiss the bullet catching lips that belong to the angel. He wants a lot of things in that moment.
He especially wants to throw up.