Crowley's breath catches as she suddenly feels Aziraphale, not in the now-usual sense of skin on skin, human body touching human body, not even in the vague awareness of ethereal presence. This is something far greater, for all that it's only an echo of a reflection of the reality: Aziraphale, angel, vaster than empires, spread through dimensions in a way no human can conceive. And all that awareness is focused on Crowley, singing praise and devotion.
Crowley's head swims as an overwhelming sense of purest love washes over and through her. She feels it, tastes it, hears it.
She follows, pulled as irresistable as the ocean to the moon, stretching herselfhimselfthemself into a form as much their own as the small corporation that still stands embraced in the room.
Crowley is a bonfire crackling, redgold sparks flying up to dance against the black of the night sky. Crowley is the heat at the heart of a newborn star, a plume of kretek smoke caressing the lungs, the cool smoothness of scales coiling around an arm, the glint of a fang, the unexpected laugh in the dark, the shiver of leaves in an unseen wind. All of it flows towards Aziraphale, engulfs, twines.
I chose this, Crowley says, because they see the world differently but it's still reflections of the same thing, still choices, everything has always been choices. Perhaps even their love for each other is part of God's Ineffable Plan--Aziraphale certainly thinks so--and perhaps not. Crowley doesn't care. It's not what matters. This is. I choose this. I choose you. Then, now, always.
And it's there in those words without voice, there, unquestionable, as inherently a part of Crowley and as undeniable in this form, in this place. Scales and scars, wings and questions, all the things that make up Crowley, and indivisible from the rest of it is love, love, love.
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timeasmymeasure
yessssssssssssssssssssssss also spot the gratuitous Marvell quote I love that poem
Date: 2022-11-15 12:00 pm (UTC)Crowley's head swims as an overwhelming sense of purest love washes over and through her. She feels it, tastes it, hears it.
She follows, pulled as irresistable as the ocean to the moon, stretching herselfhimselfthemself into a form as much their own as the small corporation that still stands embraced in the room.
Crowley is a bonfire crackling, redgold sparks flying up to dance against the black of the night sky. Crowley is the heat at the heart of a newborn star, a plume of kretek smoke caressing the lungs, the cool smoothness of scales coiling around an arm, the glint of a fang, the unexpected laugh in the dark, the shiver of leaves in an unseen wind. All of it flows towards Aziraphale, engulfs, twines.
I chose this, Crowley says, because they see the world differently but it's still reflections of the same thing, still choices, everything has always been choices. Perhaps even their love for each other is part of God's Ineffable Plan--Aziraphale certainly thinks so--and perhaps not. Crowley doesn't care. It's not what matters. This is. I choose this. I choose you. Then, now, always.
And it's there in those words without voice, there, unquestionable, as inherently a part of Crowley and as undeniable in this form, in this place. Scales and scars, wings and questions, all the things that make up Crowley, and indivisible from the rest of it is love, love, love.