He shivers violently all over at the name. He hasn't heard it for a year, hasn't offered it to anyone. Hasn't offered any name. He wanted to be nameless for a while, to be hidden.
He still wants to hide, more than ever. Doesn't want to look up and see grief or pleading or anger or anything in Aziraphale's eyes. Would pity or disappointment be worse?
No. Love would be worst, the hardest to bear, and it's what he knows he'll see. Even now.
Please.
He's never been able to refuse Aziraphale anything. Never.
It takes a long, long time. But finally, inevitably, he pulls out one shaking hand and covers Aziraphale's with it. "'m really, really drunk," he mumbles. Apology, explanation, something.
That was a beautiful moment.
He still wants to hide, more than ever. Doesn't want to look up and see grief or pleading or anger or anything in Aziraphale's eyes. Would pity or disappointment be worse?
No. Love would be worst, the hardest to bear, and it's what he knows he'll see. Even now.
Please.
He's never been able to refuse Aziraphale anything. Never.
It takes a long, long time. But finally, inevitably, he pulls out one shaking hand and covers Aziraphale's with it. "'m really, really drunk," he mumbles. Apology, explanation, something.