[Aziraphale has said Crowley's name a thousand different ways, over six thousand years. He's said it with fondness, frustration, exasperation, with joy and relief and surprise.
His eyes aren't visible, but his eyebrows are soft, sad, and his lips part in a soft gasp when Aziraphale breathes his name like that with all the warmth and affection he usually has and then so much more.
It's the much more that does it, that makes his lower lip wobble just slightly before his lips purse together and he leans his cheek into the soft touch of Aziraphale's manicured hand.
You'll forget me again, he thinks, he knows, because it's happened again and again and again. And like a moth, Crowley keeps coming back.]
'S not your fault. Aziraphale- [His voice cracks, strained, and shatters.
Will Aziraphale remember this, here, when he remembers everything else? Will it be washed away in the flood of returning memories, or will it be polished smooth and shining, this moment here that burns like a bath of lemon juice on all the little cuts that Aziraphale's forgetting has left on Crowley's heart?
He cups the hand on his cheek and presses it there, as if the cut of his cheekbone could leave an impression on soft skin the way he can't right now on the smooth glass of Aziraphale's memory. His voice is barely a whisper, and thankfully the screens around them cast an unsteady enough light that Aziraphale can only feel, not see, the tears that slide down to wet his fingers and palm.]
Somebody's got to look after you. Can't imagine the trouble you'd begin to get into otherwise.
[One of the screens next to them shows Aziraphale's memory - the orange glow of a burning night in London, and Aziraphale's distress over books presumed lost.
Crowley's hand reaching out with a leather satchel.
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His eyes aren't visible, but his eyebrows are soft, sad, and his lips part in a soft gasp when Aziraphale breathes his name like that with all the warmth and affection he usually has and then so much more.
It's the much more that does it, that makes his lower lip wobble just slightly before his lips purse together and he leans his cheek into the soft touch of Aziraphale's manicured hand.
You'll forget me again, he thinks, he knows, because it's happened again and again and again. And like a moth, Crowley keeps coming back.]
'S not your fault. Aziraphale- [His voice cracks, strained, and shatters.
Will Aziraphale remember this, here, when he remembers everything else? Will it be washed away in the flood of returning memories, or will it be polished smooth and shining, this moment here that burns like a bath of lemon juice on all the little cuts that Aziraphale's forgetting has left on Crowley's heart?
He cups the hand on his cheek and presses it there, as if the cut of his cheekbone could leave an impression on soft skin the way he can't right now on the smooth glass of Aziraphale's memory. His voice is barely a whisper, and thankfully the screens around them cast an unsteady enough light that Aziraphale can only feel, not see, the tears that slide down to wet his fingers and palm.]
Somebody's got to look after you. Can't imagine the trouble you'd begin to get into otherwise.
[One of the screens next to them shows Aziraphale's memory - the orange glow of a burning night in London, and Aziraphale's distress over books presumed lost.
Crowley's hand reaching out with a leather satchel.
Just a little demonic miracle of my own.]