Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. "Let me remind you, dear boy, that you don't actually need to breathe. So I don't see, really, why I should shoulder any particular responsibility for this unfortunate... incident."
"You. Suffocated me." Crowley does something with his arms that resembles an inflatable plastic figurine advertising used cars in perfect condition. Crowley, on the other hand, is not in perfect condition at all.
Crowley, in fact, just had to claw his way out of a figurative grave in real hell, which involved more torturous paperwork than even a demon ever deserved or delighted in.
Crowley looks, actually, like he has just been through a car wash in the very same carpark that so haughtily advertises used cars in perfect condition.
Crowley is scowling. Aziraphale is reading a book.
Aziraphale is still in the same bed he had been in an earthly hour earlier (time passes differently if you are literally in hell, or maybe it only feels like it), still naked as the day he had been kind-of-born, still blissfully post-coital. Aziraphale, in fact, seems not bothered at all.
About having murdered him.
The bastard of an angel lowers his reading glasses and deigns to look his way.
"And was it not worth it, dear?"
"...that's besides the point."
"Surely. Is that why you were confessing your undying love to me in a rather... fervent manner not an hour ago?"
"Oh, you mean shortly before your hands closed around my throat?"
"Because you begged me to?"
"This conversation is over."
"If I'm not mistaken, you started it. May I ask--"
"Spit it out. Hey, let me back in. Make some space. Shoo."
"This revived body of yours, is it... re-set?"
"Re...? Aziraphale. Ah.. I see. It is mmhhhmm..."
Aziraphale, after a moment of prolonged professional inflation, retracts his expert hand. (This has nothing to do with car parks.) "Forgive me now?"
"Do I get to murder you in return?"
"No." Aziraphale smiles against his throat. "My lot don't have the same sense of humor. They would not laugh at me, and instead issue me the body of a ninety year old."
"I could work with that."
"Oh, wily demon." Aziraphale kisses him, silently conveying an apology, at last, by the gentle movement of his lips. "Welcome back."
(The movements that follow this conversation coincidentally also resemble those of two inflatable plastic figurines advertising used cars in perfect condition, but in a slightly more sexy manner. If barely.)
This time, they only die a little death -- together.
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
2087
titsay
gummygunk
annaxmalina
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
