#my whole heart
Because in my world, I’m constantly, constantly having a breakthrough
here’s mike farrell in an 80s commercial about loving gay ppl
fuck he’s so hot
We are all connected.
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
And he wasn’t slowing down.
Aziraphale stood in the center of Berwick Street on a chilly night in 1967 and watched the Bentley’s tail lights bleed into the dark, blinking out like a pair of dying dwarf stars at the end of the road before turning down a path he couldn’t follow. The flickering neon of the shop windows that boxed in the bookshop illuminated his visage, a lonely guardian of humanity, but his eyes remained dim. The blue once bright with unshed tears turned as dull and grey as the stone wall of Eden.
If only his heart was as impenetrable, but Crowley found his cracks. He always did. He knew where the fault lines carved through the core of any defense, knew how to weaken it with little more than a tremor from a precise tap of his pointer finger, providing that he chose to have appendages at all.
Anywhere you want to go.
Oh, yes. Crowley knew how to break him. They both knew very well Aziraphale was not free to go about anywhere, let alone where he wanted. Nor was Crowley free to make such an offer, or he wouldn’t need his death sentence packaged so prettily, complete destruction a simple twist of the wrist away.
Promises, promises. Placating him at best. A paltry peace offering in exchange for what just might have been the biggest regret of Aziraphale’s entire existence. Greater even than the Garden itself. A poisoned chalice. A silver dagger. A pool with which to drown oneself. Would there be anything left of his love to drift face down among the flowers?
He didn’t know.
He supposed it didn’t matter, in the end.
Here he stood in the center of Soho, the hilt of a sword firm in hand as he waited for the day Crowley would deign to draw near enough to him to feel the blade’s point against his abdomen just before he willingly walked closer, while Aziraphale did nothing more than turn his head away. Did that make him Crowley’s truest friend, a Strato to his Brutus? Or the worst, for not instead extending a hand to pull him out of the dark. What sort of angel did that make him, that he could more easily hold out a sword to him than his own hand?
What sort of demon did that make Crowley that he turned to an angel to seek salvation? What did Crowley see in him that made him think he could place his everlasting destruction in his hands? When golden eyes settled on his holy light, watched him through dark-tinted lenses rather than rose, did he see him at his worst?
Well, Aziraphale couldn’t rightly blame him. If there were ever anyone who he let see the worst parts of him, it had been Crowley, because surely it was safe to let a demon know his flaws. Surely a demon had done worse things than Aziraphale, and yet…
And yet it was the very goodness in Crowley that drew Aziraphale to him anyway, the warmth he exuded, the safety, the promise that he could tell him anything and no judgment would strike him down.
The worst of angels and the best of demons… what a pair they might’ve made.
The neon buzzed above Aziraphale’s head, then died. Cast in shadow, Aziraphale went unnoticed until all the windows were dark and the sky lightened. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, there in the middle of a street in Soho, but whatever it was, it did not happen.
