"Oh, you will," Crowley says, and tries to work out what to do next.
The being close is nice. The touching is nice. He has no idea if he's doing it properly, but it's nice. It's nice and yet terrifying, but Crowley's fear isn't the fear of losing this by force -- Crowley's fear is of doing the wrong thing. Of somehow upsetting Aziraphale and causing him to retreat. He loves him so much he feels a little nauseous, which isn't at all romantic but it's true -- the mix of nerves and adoration and fear really is overwhelming to the point of making him feel borderline ill. Don't write that one in romance novels, do they? I love you so much I might throw up?
Crowley studies the glass of wine he's still got and wonders if it's silly to have a nervous breakdown over where hands go. Over how fast is too fast, over warmth and how much he wants to press close. To bask in Aziraphale's heat like he's still in his other form, to wind around him and cling. He's so tired, suddenly. Tired from the several rushes of adrenaline he's gone through, the near death experience then the confrontation with Odin then with Aziraphale then with Aziraphale again, differently, and --
And he can't even just stay here tonight, he could have a nap but he'd have to get up again and leave before the night sets in. Which somehow hurts, when he wants to stay so much and now knows he even might be welcome.
"Can we sit?" he prompts, and he feels like a child asking permission for something. It would be nice, though, to just... sit together, pressed side by side. To relax, for just a minute.
no subject
The being close is nice. The touching is nice. He has no idea if he's doing it properly, but it's nice. It's nice and yet terrifying, but Crowley's fear isn't the fear of losing this by force -- Crowley's fear is of doing the wrong thing. Of somehow upsetting Aziraphale and causing him to retreat. He loves him so much he feels a little nauseous, which isn't at all romantic but it's true -- the mix of nerves and adoration and fear really is overwhelming to the point of making him feel borderline ill. Don't write that one in romance novels, do they? I love you so much I might throw up?
Crowley studies the glass of wine he's still got and wonders if it's silly to have a nervous breakdown over where hands go. Over how fast is too fast, over warmth and how much he wants to press close. To bask in Aziraphale's heat like he's still in his other form, to wind around him and cling. He's so tired, suddenly. Tired from the several rushes of adrenaline he's gone through, the near death experience then the confrontation with Odin then with Aziraphale then with Aziraphale again, differently, and --
And he can't even just stay here tonight, he could have a nap but he'd have to get up again and leave before the night sets in. Which somehow hurts, when he wants to stay so much and now knows he even might be welcome.
"Can we sit?" he prompts, and he feels like a child asking permission for something. It would be nice, though, to just... sit together, pressed side by side. To relax, for just a minute.