[ His hands are shaking, useless, but if Will thinks he's going to just leave him, he really doesn't know him at all. And if he thinks he can scare Aziraphale even for an instant with those yellow serpent's eyes -
Well, they should scare him, perhaps; they're much more the eyes of a demon than an angel, at least any angel Aziraphale knows. But for some reason, the fierce glare, the stubbornness, only makes him that much more determined to stick by his side.
He's rather got the hang of disobeying, lately. When it's for the greater good. ]
I'm not leaving you, don't be ridiculous. I -
[ He'd only touched the glass for an instant. He tries, as he's been trying, to move his hands, and this time, it works. Just the faintest twitch, but it's enough to send fine hairline cracks spiderwebbing up through the thin coating of glass. And then he tries again, curling his fingers in with all his strength against the weakened, cracked glass.
It shatters, and he cries out again as a million little shards cut into his hands. It doesn't matter. He can miracle them out later. Will is what matters right now, and he hesitates only long enough to think before he's pulling off his jacket, wrapping it around his blood-spattered hands. Tip-top condition for 180 years, but the coat matters even less than his hands do. He pauses with the fabric positioned over the glass, meeting Will's eyes. ]
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[ His hands are shaking, useless, but if Will thinks he's going to just leave him, he really doesn't know him at all. And if he thinks he can scare Aziraphale even for an instant with those yellow serpent's eyes -
Well, they should scare him, perhaps; they're much more the eyes of a demon than an angel, at least any angel Aziraphale knows. But for some reason, the fierce glare, the stubbornness, only makes him that much more determined to stick by his side.
He's rather got the hang of disobeying, lately. When it's for the greater good. ]
I'm not leaving you, don't be ridiculous. I -
[ He'd only touched the glass for an instant. He tries, as he's been trying, to move his hands, and this time, it works. Just the faintest twitch, but it's enough to send fine hairline cracks spiderwebbing up through the thin coating of glass. And then he tries again, curling his fingers in with all his strength against the weakened, cracked glass.
It shatters, and he cries out again as a million little shards cut into his hands. It doesn't matter. He can miracle them out later. Will is what matters right now, and he hesitates only long enough to think before he's pulling off his jacket, wrapping it around his blood-spattered hands. Tip-top condition for 180 years, but the coat matters even less than his hands do. He pauses with the fabric positioned over the glass, meeting Will's eyes. ]
I'm going to try again.