Ever since that day, even now, he wonders how much different a path he would had walked if Crowley hadn't been there by his side through most of it. Pointless thoughts, he's well aware, as the past cannot be changed - not by most creatures, anyway, safe for a couple of special cases -, but simply as something to be kept in his mind, what-ifs used to keep one well aware of the conditions of their reality.
He wouldn't be here, he doesn't think. Wouldn't have broken free from the heavenly mentality, not fully, even if the questions were there since the beginning. Certainly wouldn't have led as much of an interesting life as he did. Less late night conversations about something or other, less of travelling the world as he saw fit. And he wouldn't have someone to hold, or to hold him, or to share a home with, someone to hold his hand, someone to share the deepest parts of his mind, which he so often ignored when left to his own devices. He wouldn't have the part of his world that he cherishes the most. Wouldn't have someone who knows him better than he knows himself.
Nerves begin to settle, at least on the surface. In any other level, they may never settle down, for as much as he can tell. There are concepts that shake even immortal, ageless creatures to their core, for even they share traces of the humanity that a lot of them disdain. That Aziraphale and Crowley have observed, both admired and criticized, but with interested curiosity. May have absorbed. May have always been there.
Endless wings and feathers cover scales. Hundreds, thousands of eyes, most of them, close, calm. Here, the angel takes a long, deep breath. They're here. They've returned, and he holds no regrets for his choices. He isn't entirely sure of all that he may have sacrificed, but nothing could give him as much as being here, like this, with him, does. He will do it again, if he has to. As many times as it takes.
He shifts, brings a hand into Crowley's hair, thumb brushing over his ear. Opens his eyes just barely, and brings himself back to what's real. The darkness can't take them again. Not yet.
hhhhhhhhhhhh
He wouldn't be here, he doesn't think. Wouldn't have broken free from the heavenly mentality, not fully, even if the questions were there since the beginning. Certainly wouldn't have led as much of an interesting life as he did. Less late night conversations about something or other, less of travelling the world as he saw fit. And he wouldn't have someone to hold, or to hold him, or to share a home with, someone to hold his hand, someone to share the deepest parts of his mind, which he so often ignored when left to his own devices. He wouldn't have the part of his world that he cherishes the most. Wouldn't have someone who knows him better than he knows himself.
Nerves begin to settle, at least on the surface. In any other level, they may never settle down, for as much as he can tell. There are concepts that shake even immortal, ageless creatures to their core, for even they share traces of the humanity that a lot of them disdain. That Aziraphale and Crowley have observed, both admired and criticized, but with interested curiosity. May have absorbed. May have always been there.
Endless wings and feathers cover scales. Hundreds, thousands of eyes, most of them, close, calm. Here, the angel takes a long, deep breath. They're here. They've returned, and he holds no regrets for his choices. He isn't entirely sure of all that he may have sacrificed, but nothing could give him as much as being here, like this, with him, does. He will do it again, if he has to. As many times as it takes.
He shifts, brings a hand into Crowley's hair, thumb brushing over his ear. Opens his eyes just barely, and brings himself back to what's real. The darkness can't take them again. Not yet.