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Crowley’s hands are shaking. They won’t stop shaking, even when Aziraphale walks in, brimming with excitement.
They don’t stop shaking as Aziraphale tells Crowley what the Metatron wanted.
Crowley feels his soul, blackened and burned, shaking within him. His whole body won’t stop shaking as he starts to speak.
It was supposed to be a team of the two of them. Them against the world.
Crowley reaches his calloused hand out, internally begging Aziraphale to take it and smooth over the frayed edges as he always did.
“Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.”
Crowley draws his hand back, nails digging into his palms.
“No.” Crowley shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t.” Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and he shoves his glasses back on his face. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to see him cry. “Good luck.“ Crowley stalks toward the door, not wanting to stay a moment longer than he had to.
“ Good luck ? Crowley, please! Come to Heaven with me! We could be angels again! Doing good. Please, I need you.” Aziraphale’s voice breaks and Crowley has always had one weakness and it’s him.
He pauses.
Aziraphale’s voice is some combination of desperate and disbelieving as he says, “I don’t think you understand what I’m offering here.”
Crowley knows Aziraphale better than anyone and he knows Heaven better than anyone expected. He remembers the look on Muriel’s face when he opened the file that they couldn’t.
He flew for Heaven. And he Fell for them too.
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