Aziraphale

NO MATTER WHAT the initial embarrassment he might've felt letting Aziraphale in on this little secret of his, it was entirely worth it to see the angel's face light up like this. It was one thing to indulge in dreams of spinning him around a ballroom, free of any eyes from Above and Below; it was another thing to bear witness to it in reality, even if they weren't in some posh room for it. Crowley can't help but smile back at him, crow's feet crinkling at the edges of his sunglasses.

❝ As many times as you'd like, angel. ❞ The squeeze to his hand has his own boldness coming forth as his thumb brushes along Aziraphale's knuckles in reassurance. The softness in his smile turns amused at that next question, however, and he can't help but lean in to tease, ❝ YOU TELL ME. You're the Shostakovich expert here. I know you have that man's entire bibliography memorized. ❞

Leaning back, Crowley straightens back up for them to start again. ❝ Shostakovich Waltz No. 2—hum it for me? I'll keep us on beat, yeah? ❞

"H- hum it for you?"

It's not that he can't do it, and Crowley has likely heard him hum along to his record player before, but it was an entirely different matter with no music playing. With Crowley this close. While they were dancing. touching. Every mistake, every misstep would be immediately noticed and he isn't sure he can stand feeling more conscious of himself and his corporation than he currently does.

But neither does he want to ruin this frail moment between them with a flat out refusal. Crowley might yet decide that this was not his cup of tea, and nerves aside Aziraphale can't remember the last time he has smiled so easily.

"I - very well", he smiles, although a little self-conscious, as he hums the first few measures. It's so quiet that it would hardly do to keep them on count, and he scrapes his troath, his second attempt much clearer, and by the third they are moving. Not elegantly - but they are, mostly, on beat. The humming actually helps. It keeps him focussed, keeps him from getting in his head about the next step to take and before he realises it, they have completed their little square several times over with few hiccups.

When they come to a stop again, the expression on the angel's face is unguarded, the way often happens when he thinks no one is watching, or when he is so enraptured in an activity that it simply doesn't occur to him to school his excitement. He is breathing a little heavy, and his heart is beating faster than usual, something the minimal excercise demanded by this type of dance had nothing to do with whatsoever.

THERE'S AN AIR OF JUDGEMENT in the angel's voice, that high-horse that Aziraphale sometimes clings to in order to remain resolute in his morals whenever they waver. Thankfully, Crowley's use to taking those sorts of comments on the chin, but he still chugs the rest of his mead to swallow down any snipping remarks. He's come so far from the outright rejection he'd faced back in that foggy bog, he wasn't about to squander all that progress with a biting tone.

❝ How many, ❞ he burps, hitting his chest to alleviate any more air pockets. ❝ Jus' how many humans are you blessing that are actually evil? I'd wager it's a fat ZERO, considering the kinds of humans 'm usually tempting are already going to Hell 'n not the other way around. ❞

Crowley blows out a breath before straightening up in his seat, reaching across to place his empty tankard on the table. ❝ The secret to my job, angel, is that you can only really tempt someone if that temptation is ALREADY IN THEIR MIND. A faithful man isn't going to cheat on his wife, no matter what you throw at him. A selfless woman isn't going to steal, even if you put gold in front of her. ❞

Standing up, the demon stretches out the aches and cramps that don't exist in his corporation and cocks his head down at Aziraphale before pointing out, ❝ If we did each other's jobs, we'd just be blessing those who're already blessed and tempting those already tempted. You wouldn't be "condemning" anyone since they'd already be on a one-way ticket south.

How many lives has he changed in a meaningful way? It is hard to tell, because, with the rare exception, he never actually gets to see the full results of a blessing. It's not a direct sort of influence. But if he truly tries to think on the question, he doesn't believe that he has ever managed to set a truly evil person straight. Or that he has so much as tried such a feat before. His blessings are bestowed on those he considers deserving - on those he believes are a victim of circumstances, instead of ill will.

Crowley doesn't give him much time to think it over, and as the demon stands, Aziraphale's head snaps up with a questioning, slightly disappointed expression. Shouldn't he be glad to have the argument over and done with? Perhaps, but not of that means that his companion is so eager to leave - would prefer a nap over his continued presence.

"I'm not sure about the rooms", he glances over at the bar, then shakes his head, "I suppose you can always ask - or you - I could...well I'm sure we can arrange for you to sleep tonight."

He has an impulse to get to his feet as well, but he does no more than sit up a little more straight, eyes still focussed on Crowley, as, reluctantly, he bites the clearly strung up bait.

FOR A WHILE. They didn’t even have a century left ahead of them until curtains closed, until Earth was no more and eternity in Hell was forever. Furfur thankfully didn’t have any evidence to show the Dark Council, but rumors still spread like hellfire Downstairs. Crowley would have to be at his all-time worst for who knows how many years until the heat of hungry stares waiting for him to slip up again finally grew bored and looked elsewhere. He had already been at his worst since Elspeth…

Crowley was suddenly painfully, irrevocably tired.

It is this bone-deep exhaustion that has the demon caving, briefly leaning against Aziraphale for support as he turns around. Not having the strength nor desire to limp back to the safety of the sofa, Crowley sinks to the floor, bracing his back against the bookshelf as his legs stretch out in front of him. Glazed, golden pools ( without a hint of white in them ) stare up at the angel as he sucks in a breath and admits, ❝ Jus’… BE EASY. On the, on the shoes ‘n socks. Might have to miracle the socks off. ❞

A sense of relief washes over Aziraphale when Crowley caves to his plea to let him see. Help. A little surprised that he chooses to sit on the floor, he kneels down besides him, resting on his knees.

"Of course", he promises at the request to 'go easy', and he holds the other's eyes for a few seconds. They are more snake-like than he had seen them in a long time (perhaps ever, not counting the times he was actually a snake), and when Crowley brings the bottle to his lips his eyes linger on his hands, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he takes note of iridescent scales shimmering in the low lamplight.

"Alright, now uhm- I'm going to take your shoes off. Can you -", he looks around the room, pushing himself up to fetch the pillow that had been propped against his back in his armchair so he can rest Crowley's lower legs on it, keeping his feet slightly elevated from the floor. When he once more kneels beside him, he shoots the demon one more worried glance,

"-tell me if it hurts. I can miracle your shoes off, but I need to see your foot to -- to know what to do about the socks. I don't want to do it wrong." and while no one batted an eye if he performed a miracle or two, the more miracles performed close together, the more likely someone Upstairs asked him to explain what they had been used to accomplish. It would hardly be the first time he got a warning about using miracles for his own enjoyment over the past few centuries. Now that they are getting closer to the end, it seems that Heaven's interest in his work was beginning to increase.

the hand that was moving about the air drops to his side. comment about his thinking for himself finally makes an angry expression appear on his otherwise neutral face. eyebrows knit and mouth thin. azazel was truly pushing his buttons today. and after he offered to help. quite rude. ❝ and who says they will find out? 's not like they keep track of me much. ❞ the angel of the stars didn't have as important of a job now that all the stars had been mapped and created. he mostly just kept an eye and noted phenomenon as they occurred. once an integral part of creating this universe and now on watch ... not that he minded. it meant he could do a lot with his free time. like drop in on a certain demon.

A long, purposefully drawn out sigh leaves Azazel's lips. The more time they spend together, the less Kokabiel takes 'no' for an answer from him, much like one would rather argue with a friend than with a perfect stranger. Neither of them feares chasing away their only friend by something as meaningless as a difference of opinion these days. As angel and demon, such differences are a given. What is more cause for concern are the many times they share the same opinion.

"I never said I didn't need your help. I'm saying I won't let you risk it. This is my assignment (burden)", he argues, hoping that Kokabiel will let it go if he realises it's not his pride stopping him from accepting help. He simply doesn't think he'll be able to focus on the assignment at hand if he has the angel to worry about, and he is the one thing he is not willing to put on the line to avoid going against his principles.

"It's just that the wording doesn't allow me to put much of a twist to it. They are 'to be lost in a roaring fire'. Though I suppose I should be glad she didn't use a word like perish. I suppose there is more than one way to be lost, but the fire tends to pose a problem in either reading," he is thinking out loud, trying to prove, both to himself and to the angel, that he'll figure it out.

"Kokabiel, I -"

HACKLES RAISING at that condescending ( worried ) tone, the light-hearted air previously surrounding them sours like spoiled milk. Just like that, as if no time had passed at all, they’re back at St. James Park, and Crowley was not drunk enough to rehash this old argument again. Planting both feet on the ground, he hides his pained grimace with a sneer as he reaches across the gap between them to swipe the bottle off of Aziraphale’s desk.

❝ You don’t know what that word meansss, ❞ the serpent hisses, discarding his wine glass on the side table. ❝ You dot your i’s ‘n cross your t’s while doing as you pleassse inside this shop of yours. Dangerous isn’t marring the bottoms of my feet on holy ground. Dangerous isn’t aiming a gun I don’t know how to shoot at my best friend with the very real chance of killing ‘im. You wanna know what danger is, angel? ❞

He’s up now, back on his throbbing feet, pacing away from Aziraphale as the lip of the bottle meets his own for a quick, desperate swig.

❝ Dangerous is slicing your hand in shark-infested waters. Dangerous is bein’ the WEAK LINK in a pack of starving wolves. Dangerous is slipping up—showin’ your bloody soft belly to teeth ‘n claws that won’t hesitate to GUT YOU OPEN ‘n have their fill of your misssery. ❞

Crowley doesn’t make it far from their nook, both from his now-apparent injuries and the way the room is starting to sway. He stumbles when a particularly sharp pang shoots up his legs, catching himself on the end of a bookshelf as his forehead comes to rest against the cold wood. A shudder crawls up his spine just as a trembling breath punches out from his lungs.

❝ Tonight… tonight was dangerousss. They almost caught us, angel. AND WHAT THEN? ❞

At first, Crowley's words have him defensive. The assumption that he doesn't know danger is almost insulting in its error, and lips purse together into a thin line as he bites the insides of he cheeks to keep himself from saying something that will undo any and all chances of being allowed close enough to help.

Of course he won't deny that, in general, Hell likely punishes more quickly and more brutally than his side tends to do, but a grave enough transgression in Heaven usually assured that the offense was not repeated with an equal succes rate. He is sure that Crowley hasn't completely forgotten how unforgiving Heaven can be. If his side ever caught wind of the agreement, Aziraphale would be surprised if he were ever allowed to set foot on Earth again.

The way Crowley forces himself to move when, clearly, it was torturous for him to do so has the angel follow him with worried eyes, and as his friend stumbles he all but jumps to his feet, stopping only a few paces short of the other. The last part of Crowley's outburst has his face soften almost instantly.

They almost caught us, angel. AND WHAT THEN?

There is a desperation there that was almost familiar, and when he speaks next, his voice is purposefully calm to counter the other's outburst.

"- but they didn't."

"They are none the wiser than they were before, and I'm certain this won't be the first time you'll have to come up with a clever explanation for being in my presence? We'll just have to be extra careful, for a while."

And that likely meant that, once they parted ways tonight, they would not see each other for a while to come. But that isn't something Aziraphale wishes to consider just yet. He was here now, and his friend was in PAIN. Quite a lot more than the angel had realised, by the looks of it. Without giving either himself or Crowley time to react, he takes another step forward and puts a hand at the other's elbow, trying to help take some of the weight off his feet and get him to sit down again.

"You're hurt -"

It's no longer a question he is asking him to corroborate, but an observation that would be pointless to refute.

being called wonderful is something he didn't expect. crowley had not done much comforting in his life and yet some force within him drove him to act with a quickness and surprising accuracy for just what the angel needed each time. he supposed some of this could be attributed to knowing each other so well and another to people watching.

golden gaze watches the other closely, wishing to do more, but knowing that the initiated contact of their hands had to be enough until aziraphale made it clear that he wanted more. the hug had broke him ( perhaps for the best because even angels and demons needed to cry and certainly had enough to do so over. ) ❝ dont - don't apologize, angel. ❞ the demon speaks as their eyes meet again, another soft squeeze of the fingers held within his own is further reassurance that he didn't feel burdened by these emotions or troubled. well, perhaps in the fact that he'd rarely seen his companion lose composure at all. that was a bit disturbing to him.

There was A LOT to explain. Only he would have to find a way to put the well of feelings and haphazzard thoughts into something more palpable before he would be able to do so, and therefore he is grateful that his companion did not expect him to say anything right now. The 'us' Crowley had suggested all those years ago is now the only semblance of certainty he carries.

Certainty that he wants it, and now also the budding certainty that it is attainable, or has perhaps even been part of his very being all along. Because as the foundations beneath him had started to crack, it was the one thing that had kept him going. That, and a VIOLENT need to protect the home they had built for themselves over the past few millennia.

At the suggestion to sit down, he gives a meek nod and takes a step back to glance at the stiff matress of the antique looking four-poster bed that took up a large part of his bedroom. It doesn't look inviting, though perhaps that was merely because of how unfamiliar he was with making himself comfortable on such a piece of furniture. The only other option in the room was a lush armchair, and while it would certainly be suitable for him to read, it was by no means large enough to accommodate them both.

"Perhaps the living room?" he suggests, his voice flat, and a tad too quiet. He can't help but feel slightly embarrassed about such a display of emotion, even in front of Crowley, but he can no more save his dignity than take back the tears that had fallen (were still falling), so instead of trying to lighten the mood Aziraphale remains silent as he holds onto the other's hand still - he isn't sure he is ever planning on letting go - and makes his way over to the large sofa that formed a barrier between the sitting area and the kitchen.

He sits down next to Crowley, much closer than they ordinarily did, and with their intertwined hands resting in the demon's lap, he allows his head to rest on his shoulder again. It was a safe position. Neither of them would have to face the other's worried scrutiny should their hearts grow even more heavy tonight. As they sit there in silence for a few moments, the angel, perhaps for the first time in his long existence, wishes he could sleep. Shut it all off. Leave his consciousness to fend for itself for a couple hours while he sought comfort in the demon's proximity.

Eventually, he pushes himself to lift his head, turning a little to look at Crowley and he carefully shifts to move his free arm behind the other's back, so that he is no longer simply taking comfort but also offering.

"Are you alright, Crowley?"

being let go after a grip so tight made him dizzy. he finds that he can't cope with anything right now. the angel doesn't want to leave, not at all and he's feeling childish. petulant. like he's going to act out. azazel takes a step away from him. the apology starts the break in a very shoddily built dam and the endearment is the crack in which the emotions burst through like water seeking a new place to fill.

He knows that the mouthed endearment is a mistake the moment he shapes the words and the angel's carefully crafted composure breaks into a million pieces, every heartwrenching emotion openly displayed and there is suddenly something desperate in the other's expression.

Before he can process the shift in Kokabiel, he is pulled forward and the angels lips crush against his with a violence that had never tainted their intimacy before. And yet, he can't bring himself to pull back immediately. In fact, several seconds pass for he regains his senses and the hand that was tangled in the angel's shirt (both out of a surprise and an instinctive need to keep him close) pushes back against the other's chest hard, forcing him to let go.

"You STUPID, stupid angel!" he gasps, bringing a hand up to his mouth to rest against quivering lips before he turns on his heel and all but dashes from the gazebo. Only when he has made it to the edge of the park, all but abandoned at this hour, does he finally stop. His heart aches, and his chest feels impossibly tight, but no tears leave his eyes. He wonders if it would feel like a relief - to be able to cry. Some humans claimed it felt CATHARTIC, but he couldn't imagine something as mundane as tears would do anything to alleviate the sorrow that was currently consuming him.

The child had been, begrudginly, delivered. It simply wasn't the kind of task you could refuse - not that a demon was generally in a position to refuse an assignment. In this case, it wouldn't even do to perform the task half-heartedly, or to give it a spin. Downstairs was rather heavily involved in it's succesful completion, and that left Azazel with no choice but to feign his enthousiasm for bringing about the End of The World (as they know it).

Seated in his drawing room with a large tumblr of Whiskey, there is little left of his act but a looming feeling of utter hopelessness. He might have needed a little time to warm up to Her creation, over the past roughly six thousand years he has come to consider it home. The idea of it being taken from him (and with it, all opportunity to put certain situations to rights) left him feeling more dejected than he had in a long while.

It leaves him in a staring match with his phone, replaying a voicemail several years old, trying to summon up the courage to dial the one number he knew by heart.

WITNESSING THE REVELATION dawning in those cornflower eyes ( and the way Aziraphale's mouth forms that perfect little "o" in his surprise, the way his voice gets all airy and soft ) steals the breath right out from Crowley's lungs. His throat goes bone-dry, and it’s not until Aziraphale squeezes their joined hands that he remembers to breathe… and blink. With the angel straightening his posture, their chests are almost flushed with one another—all it would take is just a slight shift and they would be.

Unfortunately, that would have to wait.

❝ That’s perfect, angel, ❞ he croaks before shifting back slightly, enough for their shoes to be visible when looking down. ❝ That’s about how close we’ll be when we get to actually dancing. No music for now, though; I’ll show you how I was taught. We’ll start with learning the actual steps first, THE FOUNDATION, before building off of it, yeah? Now, watch my feet. I’m leading, so when I take a step forward with my left, I want you to step backwards with your, with your right. Let your heel end at the edge of the square, ‘kay? Simple stuff. ❞ 

Crowley waits for a confirmation before counting them down, ❝ On three. One, two, three—❞ He takes a slow step forward as Aziraphale takes a step back. It’s a single move that leaves behind their other feet at the starting position.

❝ ‘Kay. Here’s the only tricky bit. Your left foot is going to glide diagonally to that opposite corner of the square, ‘n your right is going to meet it there. It sounds more complicated than it is, let’s give it a shot ‘fore you overthink it. READY? One, two, three—❞ It’s not an elegant motion as Crowley guides the angel to the opposing corner of their makeshift dance square, but they both come to a stop with their feet together again just as they’d started. He cracks a smile down at Aziraphale, squeezing their hands in reassurance.

❝ There you go. Now, we’ll do those three steps again ‘n finish up the square. Opposite feet this time: left for you, right for me. I’ll take a step back, you follow me forward, yes? One, two, three—❞ His right foot moves back as Aziraphale’s moves forward. ❝ One, two, three—❞ 

Crowley shifts back, momentarily allowing some distance between them and the instruction to 'watch his feet' gives the angel something to focus on that isn't how close they are currently standing, or how warm his friend's hand feels in his own.

The first step is easy. With Crowley moving forward, it is almost natural for him to move backwards. The follow up is a lot less smooth. Try as he might not to overthink it, Aziraphale waits a moment too long to react when the other starts to move to the left, and he holds on to his hand tightly as he regains his balance and brings his right foot in to join them. There is an apologetic smile on his face as he looks up from their feet to meet Crowley's eyes, and a fondness that he made no effort to cover up.

At the request to repeat the motion, he casts his eyes down again to FOCUS on what his feet are supposed to be doing, and with his tongue between his teeth he takes a step forward, then glides to the right and finds himself back in his original position. When he next looks up, he is grinning proudly at their accomplishment.

"I never thought I'd get to Waltz!"

And that might not have been a big thing to miss out on, but nevertheless he was glad for the opportunity to experience this. With Crowley no less! The comment about spinning or twirling goes unacknowledged, though it doesn't fail to bring a rather vivid image to mind of them dancing in a more animated fashion. In any case, Aziraphale would feel quite accomplished if he manages to repeat the six simple steps they had just ran through at a decent pace without tripping up.

"Can we try that again?" he asks, holding onto Crowley's hand with a boldness that he hadn't possessed before.

"Oh, I'm serious."

That Aziraphale seems irritated by his presence is no surprise, not after the way the tone of his messages had taken a sudden, cold turn. To Crowley's mind, it only serves to reinforce that what he had assumed must be true. That despite their years—thousands of them!—of friendship, the angel still looks down on him for what he is.

Not that Crowley can fully blame him, but it stings all the same...

"You were the one who started that whole conversation last night. You asked me questions, and I answered them."

As he speaks, long strides bring him closer and closer to Aziraphale.

"And then today, when you asked me to delete those stupid messages, I did!" Crowley stops just short of having Aziraphale within arm's reach, knowing if he comes any closer, he may succumb to the urge to curl his fingers into cream-coloured lapels. For good measure, those hands instead curl into fists, the sharp bite of nails into palms keeping him grounded.

Well. As grounded as he can be, given the state he's already worked himself into.

Crowley's intensity surprises him, and a slight frown spreads across the angel's face as the other approaches and slings his defense - or was it an accusation?- at him almost unprompted.

"I don't - ", his hands are fidgeting, so he clasps them together in an attempt not to further give away how nervous this conversation makes him. If he wants to get out of this without having to admit to desires wholly unbefitting an angel, it wouldn't do to get show Crowley how much he dreaded these questions.

"I don't think that's any reason to barge in here like that. And I assure you I am not upset!"

Then, before much else can transpire between them, the smell of burning milk draws Aziraphale's attention back to the kitchen. Thick smoke is rising up to the ceiling, and the bottom of the pan is covered in dark, sticky residu bubbling despite the fact that most of the water has long evaporated.

"Now see what you've done!" he huffs from the doorway, waving his hand to put a stop to the mess that was supposed to become a hot chocolate milk before turning back to Crowley. He is secretly grateful for the space that this little disturbance has created between them.

When he once more tries to placate the other - to convince him that this must all be some big misunderstanding and that he was not (and had not been!) in the least, upset about the other's lack of enthousiasm for human affections - his voice sounds a lot more level than it had before.

THE ANGEL'S SUDDEN INTEREST and flurry of questions knocks Crowley's already unstable attention span off-kilter. None-the-wiser to where this sort of curiosity was coming from ( he likely could've pieced it together if he wasn't several sheets to the wind ) and silently preening underneath that intense silver gaze, the demon lets out a breathy laugh.

❝ 'M not nearly sober enough to answer all those, uh. I don't really know the specifics, s'not really my department, but, generally speaking, most churches aren't really built by saints. Usually jus' normal people doin' a job, innit? As for whether one believer or several impact the, er, holiness? My guess is the many outweigh the few? I dunno, angel; I don't really go 'round testing churches on the daily. ❞

Snorting again, Crowley gestures his glass at Aziraphale as he muses, a twinkle of humor in amber pools, ❝ Stepped in one tonight, didn't I? RESCUING YOU. S'that count? ❞

Knowing it likely wasn't what Aziraphale was aiming for, he tries to think of the last time he desecrated consecrated ground.

❝ Don't 'member the year, but there was this one assignment on a corrupt priest. Man was the definition of evil, tainted the whole church from the inside out. 'Course, men like 'im still SPREAD THE WORD, so he was savin' souls while goin' around murdering people. I put on a real convincin' show one night, made the man into A DEVOUT SATANIST, 'n he started tryin' to convert the rest of his flock. Think someone caught on eventually 'n he was hanged, but—❞ Crowley shrugs. ❝—that's the only other time I was in a church, and it didn't hurt nearly as bad as—❞

"Not nearly as bad as bare feet on hot sand?" Aziraphale finishes with a raised eyebrow, trying to catch Crowley's eyes. He hadn't quite admitted to anything yet, but there weren't too many ways to finish that sentence. Combined with his sudden silence, the angel was almost certain Crowley had given himself away there, and when it came to him, such small giveaways were cause for worry.

Crowley's entire story bothers him, and not for the usual reasons. Turning a murderer away from God wasn't exactly evil - especially not compared to the damage he could have done had he been able to carry on undisturbed withing the church. It was the fact that his friend had taken such a heedless risk not once but twice. There were things inside Churches of which Aziraphale was certain they could do real damage to a demon. The kind that was quite a bit worse than a bit of extra paperwork.

"You have no business going inside Churches," he sighs eventually as he sits up, abandoning his disinterested air for a more serious tone.

"It's DANGEROUS."

the rigidity of the angel's body does concern him. but, giving it a moment longer, there is a softness that comes and they both seem to melt a little. well, he had already because it was just in his nature ( he was finding out ) when it came to aziraphale. as they were leaning into each other, the demon's breathing steadies for a while. the tears that left him were silent. no sobs wracked him yet. though, he could feel them threatening.

crowley senses before he knows what is happening. he wasn't the only one crying. and crying quite hard at that. aziraphale is pulling away, pushing him away. hands are reluctant as they leave from the embrace. there is friction in the way they pass over cream jacket and then fall to his sides limply. that hurts him, but not enough to be angry or act in the ways he used to. they were beyond that and the angel just needed to be reassured. red rims around his own eyes from shedding tears do not leave from the angel's face. if giving him alone time was seriously pressed again, he would. but likely what was happening was aziraphale not understanding that most sought comfort when this type of emotion overcame them. crowley wishes to curl up with him like a snake and hold him until they both got it all out. perhaps, this was too big of a wish whenever they had only just embraced for the first time.

As much as he wills himself to stop this, Aziraphale can't seem to bring a stop to the tears rolling down his cheeks and the quiet sobs that force their way to the surface whenever he thinks he might be able to get a hold of himself. There is a slight pause when Crowley steps closer, and he turns his head away, but the hand holding his is not swatted away but held tightly - like a lifeline - and after what feels like an eternity, the angel takes a deep breath to steady himself.

"I'm sorry - I - you've been so - WONDERFUL", his free hand wipes at his eyes once more.

Slowly, he turns towards Crowley again, finally venturing to look at him only to realise that his eyes are also red, and he looks shaken. Had that embrace meant as much to Crowley as it had to him? Had it overwhelmed him in equal measure? Or, was it merely his disproportionate response that had shaken his friend?

In an almost desparate attempt to rectify the possible miscommunication, he tugs at the hand that was still holding his to draw the other in again, close enough to rest his head against his shoulder. The tears hadn't quite stopped falling, but, at the very least, they were silent now.