He feels so conscious, so acutely aware of everything - the tiny grains of sand between the boards beneath his feet; the feel of paper against his fingers; the smell of salt on the wind (in his hair, against his face); the tart, sweet taste of apple juice on his tongue. And the bright, wondrous lights, still dancing against the night sky, whenever he closes his eyes. He feels almost like he does after a discorporation. After dying, and coming back to life.
But this - this, the way it's hard to breathe when he doesn't even need to, the way the gentle brush of Aziraphael's lips makes him want to say stupid, irrevocable, unanswerable things, only he can't get them out, because all the room in his throat is taken up by his heart.
This. He'd feel like this anyway. Because Aziraphael didn't have any reason to do this.
He'd just thought that Crowley looked wretched.
(He'd thought of bedsheets, and central heating, and the empty spaces where post-its should have been, and the empty space in the lining of his jacket where a white feather should have been, for - so very long.)
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-17 06:22 am (UTC)He feels so conscious, so acutely aware of everything - the tiny grains of sand between the boards beneath his feet; the feel of paper against his fingers; the smell of salt on the wind (in his hair, against his face); the tart, sweet taste of apple juice on his tongue. And the bright, wondrous lights, still dancing against the night sky, whenever he closes his eyes. He feels almost like he does after a discorporation. After dying, and coming back to life.
But this - this, the way it's hard to breathe when he doesn't even need to, the way the gentle brush of Aziraphael's lips makes him want to say stupid, irrevocable, unanswerable things, only he can't get them out, because all the room in his throat is taken up by his heart.
This. He'd feel like this anyway. Because Aziraphael didn't have any reason to do this.
He'd just thought that Crowley looked wretched.
(He'd thought of bedsheets, and central heating, and the empty spaces where post-its should have been, and the empty space in the lining of his jacket where a white feather should have been, for - so very long.)
Fiat lux.
Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphael's smile.