He's looking at Aziraphale, at the lines of his face this close. At the gentle way the glow of the interface highlights it, casts shadows. He's thinking about the brush of their shoulders instead of how garish this faux-technology magic is. He's thinking about the fingers of one hand still tightly wound through Aziraphale's, about alright, fine, about then no more waiting.
He's thinking about a story the humans tell. A vase, or a box, containing all the troubles of the world and also hope. Hope, coiled up at the bottom. Heavy, slithering, waiting.
The thing they rarely understand is that hope is trouble. Here Crowley is, filled with hope. Hope is insidious. Hope says it won't be that bad, and they'll forgive you, and of course they'll listen. Despair doesn't work unless you've had hope. When you think about it, hope was in the stupid container because it belonged there with all the other nasty things. Not as any sort of reprieve.
His fingers tighten around the angel's, his thumb rubs an absent pattern.
"Yeah," he says, "it is. Not that great anyway. People just talking about... strawberries and things."
Nothing worth paying attention to, not when compared to Aziraphale. Aziraphale who Crowley would much rather be focusing on, intently.
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He's looking at Aziraphale, at the lines of his face this close. At the gentle way the glow of the interface highlights it, casts shadows. He's thinking about the brush of their shoulders instead of how garish this faux-technology magic is. He's thinking about the fingers of one hand still tightly wound through Aziraphale's, about alright, fine, about then no more waiting.
He's thinking about a story the humans tell. A vase, or a box, containing all the troubles of the world and also hope. Hope, coiled up at the bottom. Heavy, slithering, waiting.
The thing they rarely understand is that hope is trouble. Here Crowley is, filled with hope. Hope is insidious. Hope says it won't be that bad, and they'll forgive you, and of course they'll listen. Despair doesn't work unless you've had hope. When you think about it, hope was in the stupid container because it belonged there with all the other nasty things. Not as any sort of reprieve.
His fingers tighten around the angel's, his thumb rubs an absent pattern.
"Yeah," he says, "it is. Not that great anyway. People just talking about... strawberries and things."
Nothing worth paying attention to, not when compared to Aziraphale. Aziraphale who Crowley would much rather be focusing on, intently.