[ No one is watching. No one is watching, and now no one else is listening, and Crowley is close enough that Aziraphale doesn't need to try to look at him. Crowley closes in the world around them and Aziraphale thinks it must be a relief.
Must be, somewhere, in the span of the complete breath that he's finally able to gasp through, in being able to clutch at Crowley's jacket with stiff fingers while he can't stop making pieces of reality creak around them like old wood.
Crowley and his stable familiarity, his reliability, his- his impossible and unending well of patience and indulgence for someone who never earned it. Who says things like 'don't apologize' and 'I've got you,' even after everything he's had to endure.
How could God have ever looked at this creation and seen something to cast aside? It never made sense, not really. So many things never make sense, but it's not his place to ask about them, he's supposed to just-- know. Believe.
He never knows. He always seems to do a poor job of believing.
Crowley is the only thing in the whole of creation that's never truly let him down. The only one. He can't say that, he can't say that, but it's not fair, it's not fair-
Aziraphale presses his face into Crowley's chest like he's considering trying to crawl into it, and rattles his way through the next terrible noise that refuses to go in any direction but outwards, as many directions as he can provide. Then through the ones in line after that, because giving one an inch just seems to give the rest of them a mile, and he's starting to think the only turning point will be when his vocal cords give out and all that's left is crying. He doesn't want it. He doesn't like it.
He can't make it stop.
(He can, he can apologize again later, he'll do it properly, he'll say thank you properly later, he'll pretend he knows how he's supposed to look Crowley in the eyes again after this properly later. Humiliating, ridiculous thing. He'll fix it. He can fix it.)
For now he has a metaphorical life raft to cling to, and no bandwidth to worry whether it's fair to be making it take the extra weight, so Aziraphale will go ahead and cling.
The floor is going to be home base for now. There are worse places. ]
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Must be, somewhere, in the span of the complete breath that he's finally able to gasp through, in being able to clutch at Crowley's jacket with stiff fingers while he can't stop making pieces of reality creak around them like old wood.
Crowley and his stable familiarity, his reliability, his- his impossible and unending well of patience and indulgence for someone who never earned it. Who says things like 'don't apologize' and 'I've got you,' even after everything he's had to endure.
How could God have ever looked at this creation and seen something to cast aside? It never made sense, not really. So many things never make sense, but it's not his place to ask about them, he's supposed to just-- know. Believe.
He never knows. He always seems to do a poor job of believing.
Crowley is the only thing in the whole of creation that's never truly let him down. The only one. He can't say that, he can't say that, but it's not fair, it's not fair-
Aziraphale presses his face into Crowley's chest like he's considering trying to crawl into it, and rattles his way through the next terrible noise that refuses to go in any direction but outwards, as many directions as he can provide. Then through the ones in line after that, because giving one an inch just seems to give the rest of them a mile, and he's starting to think the only turning point will be when his vocal cords give out and all that's left is crying. He doesn't want it. He doesn't like it.
He can't make it stop.
(He can, he can apologize again later, he'll do it properly, he'll say thank you properly later, he'll pretend he knows how he's supposed to look Crowley in the eyes again after this properly later. Humiliating, ridiculous thing. He'll fix it. He can fix it.)
For now he has a metaphorical life raft to cling to, and no bandwidth to worry whether it's fair to be making it take the extra weight, so Aziraphale will go ahead and cling.
The floor is going to be home base for now. There are worse places. ]