Her fingers knot gently with his, and his wings spread and curve a little, as if to embrace her or shield her or both. The space between them has grown heavy with quiet, every breath full of meaning, every touch a silent message.
Crowley looks rapt, and perhaps a little frightened—exactly how Aziraphale feels, exactly how most souls would feel upon glimpsing their own personal Paradise. Aziraphale reaches up to trail the fingers of his free hand over her cheekbone, feather-light touch stroking gently over the serpent mark beneath the soft red wave of her hair, in a slow progression down to her jaw. He can remember the first time he wanted to touch her like this—a quiet moment before they’d parted in Rome, laughing about something together.
Thousands of years, and for all that’s changed they have always been a constant for one another, have always belonged. Tonight is just an acknowledgement of that.
(In the kitchen at the Ritz, a champagne flute an angel’s lips have touched suddenly breaks during the dishwashing process. Just crumbles all at once, the confused kitchen staff attest, like someone stepped on it.)
“My beloved is mine,” he whispers, knowing this moment is too sacred to exist in anything but a hush, “and I am hers.”
Hers, his, theirs, as long as the heart and soul are Crowley’s he’ll follow and protect, tease and share. Aziraphale can think of no better way to spend eternity than this: giving and accepting love, defending their side. Together, his heart sings, and somewhere in space a scattered choir of stars whisper it to each other in wonder.
Another eternal moment of watching those beloved gold eyes, and then he leans forward, up just a little, to seal their unspoken vows with a kiss.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-01-16 05:26 am (UTC)Crowley looks rapt, and perhaps a little frightened—exactly how Aziraphale feels, exactly how most souls would feel upon glimpsing their own personal Paradise. Aziraphale reaches up to trail the fingers of his free hand over her cheekbone, feather-light touch stroking gently over the serpent mark beneath the soft red wave of her hair, in a slow progression down to her jaw. He can remember the first time he wanted to touch her like this—a quiet moment before they’d parted in Rome, laughing about something together.
Thousands of years, and for all that’s changed they have always been a constant for one another, have always belonged. Tonight is just an acknowledgement of that.
(In the kitchen at the Ritz, a champagne flute an angel’s lips have touched suddenly breaks during the dishwashing process. Just crumbles all at once, the confused kitchen staff attest, like someone stepped on it.)
“My beloved is mine,” he whispers, knowing this moment is too sacred to exist in anything but a hush, “and I am hers.”
Hers, his, theirs, as long as the heart and soul are Crowley’s he’ll follow and protect, tease and share. Aziraphale can think of no better way to spend eternity than this: giving and accepting love, defending their side. Together, his heart sings, and somewhere in space a scattered choir of stars whisper it to each other in wonder.
Another eternal moment of watching those beloved gold eyes, and then he leans forward, up just a little, to seal their unspoken vows with a kiss.