Thousands of years ago, Aziraphale witnessed an angel weeping, body folded in agony and wings gleaming black in the smoky light of a too-quiet morning. Now he’s in the middle of a city street, surrounded by human life, watching gaps in an angel’s ragged and stained tunic reveal long red lines on his back when he cringes in on himself. Crowley’s voice is tight and cracking with shame, a heavy stench of sour wine rolling off him, and he curls up as if he can somehow make himself vanish.
And yet there’s no whiff of brimstone under the alcohol stink. Grace still shimmers slyly in his matted hair and his bruised dry skin.
For just a moment, Aziraphale’s entire being is lit up with purposeful rage. His throat aches to pour out battle song and condemnation; his palms itch with the absence of a sword hilt or a ball of flame. He could make war on all of Heaven by himself, could burn the Gates and tear the wings from archangels, could scream down the Almighty off Her throne.
But it’s only a moment, and then it’s broken by another ragged repetition of Crowley’s plea—don’t look, don’t look.
Aziraphale reaches out, rests soft fingers on the backs of Crowley’s hands where they clutch at the nape of his neck.
“Crowley.”
The word is itself another gentle touch, meant to soothe and settle and let him know he’s safe.
“Please,” he adds, not even really knowing what he’s asking. Please stand up, please don’t be ashamed, please don’t let them have broken you.
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timeasmymeasure
Back atcha! I’m still giggling over the Benny Hill footnote months later. <3 <3 <3
Date: 2020-04-07 11:23 pm (UTC)And yet there’s no whiff of brimstone under the alcohol stink. Grace still shimmers slyly in his matted hair and his bruised dry skin.
For just a moment, Aziraphale’s entire being is lit up with purposeful rage. His throat aches to pour out battle song and condemnation; his palms itch with the absence of a sword hilt or a ball of flame. He could make war on all of Heaven by himself, could burn the Gates and tear the wings from archangels, could scream down the Almighty off Her throne.
But it’s only a moment, and then it’s broken by another ragged repetition of Crowley’s plea—don’t look, don’t look.
Aziraphale reaches out, rests soft fingers on the backs of Crowley’s hands where they clutch at the nape of his neck.
“Crowley.”
The word is itself another gentle touch, meant to soothe and settle and let him know he’s safe.
“Please,” he adds, not even really knowing what he’s asking. Please stand up, please don’t be ashamed, please don’t let them have broken you.