he still trips me up here and there, but i think i'm starting to get it!!!! gonna keep on with screencaps to hone the muscle memory for a bit longer, but i'm getting real keen to stylise him.... 👀
Crowley stops with one hand pressed against the door, held back by a nauseating pull in his stomach.
"Do you-" he hesitates, refusing to turn around, and yet there is nothing he wants to do more than retrace his steps and keep trying.
"Do you want that angel back?"
Behind his shades, the world grows blurry with uncried tears he refuses to allow to fall, and his breaths tremble slightly, seeking a familiar smell, taste, the touch of lips against his. He doesn't know why he asks now, the question has been stuck in his head since Eden and turned into a cruel whisper after Job. Centuries of silence and swallowed words, but he opened the gates, and the unasked question is spilling out of his throat without much control.
"I- what?"
Aziraphale sounds breathless, tears clogging his voice, and he hates that he knows he is crying, hates that he is the one who caused it, hates that he is almost crying too.
He still doesn't turn around.
"The angel I was. Is that who you—who you want?" Bitter and angry, and somehow softer than everything he has said so far. "Do you think you will get him back if I return to heaven?"
"Crowley-"
"Answer the question."
Wet heat traces a path down his cheek, and Crowley lifts his hand from the door to catch them before they drip from his jaw. The tears sting in his eyes and on his skin, and he wonders if they would taste like blood or him.
"No. I don't- Crowley, I want you to come with me. I want you to come with me and-- and be with me. Be happy."
There is no heat behind Aziraphale's words, no desperation, only weak resignation and the sound of sadness on his tongue; the fractures running through them are mirrors of each other, sharp beneath his fingertips. Crowley wants to hold onto his fizzling anger, but it's trickling through his fingers like sand, turning to dust before it even hits the ground.
"They don't want me there. I don't want me there. I want-"
you.
It's always been you.
He can't turn around, not because he doesn't want to (God, does he want to), but he knew how this was going to end the second Aziraphale mentioned the offer. Crowley knows him, knows himself, and heaven would rip him apart in ways he knows he would never be able to fix.
It's them or it's himself, and for the very first time in six thousand years, Crowley chooses himself, and he hates himself for it more than ever before.
Behind him, Aziraphale takes a careful step towards him, then another. Crowley's hand returns to the door, a warning.
Let me leave, please. If you ask me to be with you again, I'll stay; you know I will.
"I'll be waiting, angel."
He savours the taste of it on his tongue, melts it until it mixes with the taste of him, their kiss, and for a second, the world stands still.
Before either of them can say another word, before he can turn around, before Aziraphale's hand can land on his shoulder, Crowley pushes the door open and allows the world to keep turning; he steps outside, and it swallows him whole.