The blue of Aziraphale’s eyes expands, filling the sclera with color, his slitted pupils also widening. The sight of that blazing golden signature makes everything click into place with the same horrifying juddering snap as a dislocated joint being forced into its socket: Crowley’s desperate plea for hellfire, his insistence on keeping the tangled mess of hair Aziraphale had cut off for him.
Twelve pink lines on an angel’s back from a human whip, the same sort any penitent might receive for crimes against his fellow man.
Aziraphale doesn’t bother with caution as he knocks the commendation aside. It flutters to the grass like the unwanted scrap of detritus it is.
“This wasn’t you.” Aziraphale’s voice is low and insistent. His hands frame Crowley’s face—he needs to look his angel in the eye for this, even if his own eyes smart with sympathy and horror.
(For a moment he remembers the lake, a night that was somehow darker and longer than others. He remembers Crowley holding him while he poured his guilt out in messy sobbing bursts. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it. I only said he’d bring down a king so they’d let me keep him. I didn’t know what would happen.)
Gabriel might get sucker punched after Armageddoesn’t
Twelve pink lines on an angel’s back from a human whip, the same sort any penitent might receive for crimes against his fellow man.
Aziraphale doesn’t bother with caution as he knocks the commendation aside. It flutters to the grass like the unwanted scrap of detritus it is.
“This wasn’t you.” Aziraphale’s voice is low and insistent. His hands frame Crowley’s face—he needs to look his angel in the eye for this, even if his own eyes smart with sympathy and horror.
(For a moment he remembers the lake, a night that was somehow darker and longer than others. He remembers Crowley holding him while he poured his guilt out in messy sobbing bursts. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it. I only said he’d bring down a king so they’d let me keep him. I didn’t know what would happen.)
“Crowley, it’s not your fault.”