Aziraphale draws in a breath at the sight of her wings—oh, but they are beautiful, sleek and black, the feathers gleaming with a faint iridescence like a raven’s. It takes genuine effort for him not to reach out and stroke along the gorgeous dark sweep of them with a finger, or with one of his own primary feathers. But this is Crowley’s moment, and so he simply watches her in reverent silence.
Raven Queen, serpent, best friend, best beloved. Sometimes when he’s fallen asleep he finds himself waking all at once, heart pounding, certain he’s dreamed every loving word and caress that’s passed between them, absolutely sure he’s gone back to being his former self, cowardly and lonely. Lord knows Aziraphale had gotten used to keeping his love silent and secret, had learned to let it out only in tiny fragments, shyly hidden in glances and daydreams and acts of kindness.
And every time he wakes panicked, terrified he’s been wrapped in the strangling vines of I can’t again, there’s an arm around his waist or long warm breaths stirring against his skin, or a familiar voice drowsily murmuring to him. Like the North Star she forged millennia ago, Crowley lights his way, orients him in the world.
The starlight that spills between her fingers limns her face, its sharp and lovely contours; not for the first time he imagines her brilliant against the night sky, spinning clouds of energy and fire into endless points of light. And when she opens her hands the ring she reveals is dark and glimmering with the promise of heat, like the heart of a star, every scale of the serpent’s small body perfectly formed.
It’s beautiful, and immeasurably so for being a part of Crowley. When his trembling fingers curl gently around it he discovers it’s also every bit as warm as her hands.
In silence he slips it onto his finger, and despite the other slight cosmetic changes it does dispel that sense of incompleteness. The ring settles perfectly where his old one used to sit; the scales wink as he turns his hand a little to examine it.
Only then does he let his own wings show—it seems somehow in keeping with the importance and solemnity of the occasion. They stay folded, of course, and their glow is no more intrusive than the moonlight and street light that slants across their faces, but they’re there all the same.
Love, joyful and certain, fills his gaze as he steps in close to her again.
I love it and so does Aziraphale.
Raven Queen, serpent, best friend, best beloved. Sometimes when he’s fallen asleep he finds himself waking all at once, heart pounding, certain he’s dreamed every loving word and caress that’s passed between them, absolutely sure he’s gone back to being his former self, cowardly and lonely. Lord knows Aziraphale had gotten used to keeping his love silent and secret, had learned to let it out only in tiny fragments, shyly hidden in glances and daydreams and acts of kindness.
And every time he wakes panicked, terrified he’s been wrapped in the strangling vines of I can’t again, there’s an arm around his waist or long warm breaths stirring against his skin, or a familiar voice drowsily murmuring to him. Like the North Star she forged millennia ago, Crowley lights his way, orients him in the world.
The starlight that spills between her fingers limns her face, its sharp and lovely contours; not for the first time he imagines her brilliant against the night sky, spinning clouds of energy and fire into endless points of light. And when she opens her hands the ring she reveals is dark and glimmering with the promise of heat, like the heart of a star, every scale of the serpent’s small body perfectly formed.
It’s beautiful, and immeasurably so for being a part of Crowley. When his trembling fingers curl gently around it he discovers it’s also every bit as warm as her hands.
In silence he slips it onto his finger, and despite the other slight cosmetic changes it does dispel that sense of incompleteness. The ring settles perfectly where his old one used to sit; the scales wink as he turns his hand a little to examine it.
Only then does he let his own wings show—it seems somehow in keeping with the importance and solemnity of the occasion. They stay folded, of course, and their glow is no more intrusive than the moonlight and street light that slants across their faces, but they’re there all the same.
Love, joyful and certain, fills his gaze as he steps in close to her again.