It's so much, so fast. No so much in how many words he puts it in, or how long he talks. Nor for how much he reveals about how long he's been having those thoughts. No, it's all so much because it's there. Because of the realization that it's being said. Of the reality that it's coming from the angel's mouth, and that he can, that they can, that they are, and they're here and things are intrinsically different.
He knew, of course. That things were different. You don't exactly go through intense personal and cosmic events without getting the hint that the sheer foundation of everything you knew has changed, in one way or another. But it's one thing to know that things are different, and it's another to witness them happening, by your hand or someone else's, and seeing just how much work your mind and/or body have to do to catch up with it.
His nails dig into the leather of the book sitting on his lap, now discarding the task of being a distraction, and instead serving as something grounding, for a change. The demon takes in every detail of the angel's face. His eyes, his mouth, the lines on his face. Something, something. There has to be something. There can't not be something.
"If-" His voice falters, and he catches himself. He's known for his eloquence, and this is certainly not the time to stutter and stumble like a young human child trying to recite a text in front of their class. "If this is--if this is a, a jape of some sort, I--I would-I'd--" So much for that. "--I would find it very cruel, angel."
There's a sternness to his face. Not at all real, of course, another mask, a new mask, hiding something a lot more red. A lot more tender. The thing that's making the blue in his eyes threaten to take over, and gets similarly pushed back with a couple of forceful blinks.
"I--I, I don't mean to say you're--" What if he's still reading it wrong? Companionship isn't unheard of, and he's met more than his fair share of humans who relished in it, in pairs or more, who kept different names for it. But it fills him with something quite like dread - perhaps it is dread -, the possibility of being mistaken. Of getting the wrong message. With all worthwhile distractions taken away, he's much too open - he knows, he does, that he would never recover from it.
"I don't, I-- And he stops. And he breathes in, and out. And he clears his throat.
"...I would. Be okay with it, I mean."
And he does, the other thing. He does too. If it counts. If its true.
no subject
It's so much, so fast. No so much in how many words he puts it in, or how long he talks. Nor for how much he reveals about how long he's been having those thoughts. No, it's all so much because it's there. Because of the realization that it's being said. Of the reality that it's coming from the angel's mouth, and that he can, that they can, that they are, and they're here and things are intrinsically different.
He knew, of course. That things were different. You don't exactly go through intense personal and cosmic events without getting the hint that the sheer foundation of everything you knew has changed, in one way or another. But it's one thing to know that things are different, and it's another to witness them happening, by your hand or someone else's, and seeing just how much work your mind and/or body have to do to catch up with it.
His nails dig into the leather of the book sitting on his lap, now discarding the task of being a distraction, and instead serving as something grounding, for a change. The demon takes in every detail of the angel's face. His eyes, his mouth, the lines on his face. Something, something. There has to be something. There can't not be something.
"If-" His voice falters, and he catches himself. He's known for his eloquence, and this is certainly not the time to stutter and stumble like a young human child trying to recite a text in front of their class. "If this is--if this is a, a jape of some sort, I--I would-I'd--" So much for that. "--I would find it very cruel, angel."
There's a sternness to his face. Not at all real, of course, another mask, a new mask, hiding something a lot more red. A lot more tender. The thing that's making the blue in his eyes threaten to take over, and gets similarly pushed back with a couple of forceful blinks.
"I--I, I don't mean to say you're--" What if he's still reading it wrong? Companionship isn't unheard of, and he's met more than his fair share of humans who relished in it, in pairs or more, who kept different names for it. But it fills him with something quite like dread - perhaps it is dread -, the possibility of being mistaken. Of getting the wrong message. With all worthwhile distractions taken away, he's much too open - he knows, he does, that he would never recover from it.
"I don't, I-- And he stops. And he breathes in, and out. And he clears his throat.
"...I would. Be okay with it, I mean."
And he does, the other thing. He does too. If it counts. If its true.