𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

Aziraphale turns his head to face him again. Crowley, always, always, as he has been this whole time, puts an emphasis on protecting the angel. Aziraphale does, of course, appreciate it - it makes his chest flutter, it makes his heart soar, it makes him feel loved and cared for in ways he’s never felt before now. But it also terrifies him. It scares him to think the demon might put himself in danger to save him. He’s said and implied as much, all the way back in that motel room, to earlier in the evening - is it still evening? He can’t tell what time it is -, and, as hypocritical of him as it might be, the angel can’t stand the idea that he may ever get hurt, or worse, for him.

Crowley says something else, about their uniqueness and advantages, but the angel keeps on thinking, keeps on looking at him, eventually reaching his free hand to touch the side of Crowley’s face.

Crowley. The demon. Hereditary enemy turned friend, best friend. Companion. Turned...so much more.