Hiiiiii @nightgoodomens I Read This Post And Then Immediately Started Typing And This Is The Result.

hiiiiii @nightgoodomens i read this post and then immediately started typing and this is the result. either sorry or you're welcome. or both. :)

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Crowley's first instinct is to wrench his arm from Arizaphale's grasp, but his hold on him tightens ever so slightly as if sensing his intentions, so he stays put—for now.

Still, anger rises in his chest like a tidal wave, hot and desperate and tainted by nothing lasts forever and i forgive you. They haven't talked about it yet, and he refuses to when the outcome of that argument could very well mean extinction, not just for the two of them but for the world. He built walls in his mind, keeping out shimmering purple eyes and familiar lips, and stopped breathing so he could pretend Aziraphale didn't smell all wrong.

The reason stretching throughout their foundations turns into vines, forcing them apart stone by stone when he meets his gaze.

"How about we come up with a plan where you don't risk destruction, please?"

Crowley's smile is a mask of bitter disappointment; the slant of his mouth is sharp, almost cruel.

"What do you care?"

"Of course I care," Aziraphale shoots back immediately, his fingers digging into his arm forcefully enough that he can practically taste the bruises forming beneath them.

"You were more than happy to deliver me to heaven all tied up and with a bow on my head, Arseangel Aziraphale. You would have had to find someone to scrape my sorry fucking remains off their pristine floors five minutes later."

A tingling numbness spreads up to his shoulder, pins and needles reminding him that this corporation is starting to get tired of being restrained, but Crowley is too focused on the insulted rage distorting the angel's face. He steps closer, forcing him to look up at him, and he takes minute satisfaction in the heavy swallow running down his throat.

"They wouldn't-"

"Oh, they wouldn't, really? They have already done it once, and now they're planning on ending us all. None of them would know mercy if it hit them in their perfect bloody faces."

Uncaring for the increase in his volume, Crowley mockingly raises an eyebrow, challenging him to disagree, to defend heaven like he has done time and time again, to finally let go of him and let him stomp off to his destruction; this time, he is either going to win or go out on his own terms.

When Aziraphale doesn't respond, his lashes fluttering and his mouth opening and closing several times without expelling a single sound or breath, he channels six thousand years of suppressed frustration and angry humiliation and rips his arm out of his grasp.

"There is no 'we', Aziraphale. There is your side, there is earth, and then there's me."

He remembers the hundred times Aziraphale denied knowing him, called him a demon, his adversary, denounced their friendship and arrangement, and ground their partnership to dust under his heels like a dried-out bug on the verge of death.

Friends, we're not friends.

For a moment, Crowley wants to ask if any of it had been real, but he knows it was—that's why it hurts.

That's why he can't let it go.

The pain as the blood in his arm begins to flow unhindered again is nothing compared to the gaping wound scratching itself open in his chest, forcing him to swallow salted iron and sickly sweet love. He has been wearing his shades every single second they spent together after his return, but he takes them off now, biting back a taunting sneer, biting back tears.

Purple meets gold, the summer-sky blue is long gone, and it helps him deliver the last blow without flinching.

"Nothing lasts forever, right? Good luck with your armageddon."

Crowley does not wait to see the hurt spreading across his face and pretends he doesn't hear the punched-out gasp or the beginnings of a sob.

Instead, he slides his glasses back into place and walks away; the universe will finally grant him rest one way or another.

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