Fics like and in the ripe evening i wanted to be a nightingale

“Crowley.” “Angel.” “What's wrong?” Crowley fidgets. “You can be really annoying sometimes, you know that." Aziraphale holds his silence. “I’m not… hurt.” “But you,” Aziraphale starts, then bites his lip. “You keep… flinching. Is it—has it always…?” “What?” Crowley’s face is really so lovingly expressive. “No! No, you—you’re fine. It’s me.” “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, exasperated, “explain.” “I, er, drank some poison. On accident.” “Oh! You should have told me earlier! What is it—do you need—“ “Aziraphale. I’m not dying. But I,” and he swallows, and falls silent again. “Would you like me to guess?” “No! How would that be helpful? No.” “Well what is it then?” Crowley grumbles something. Aziraphale is quickly coming to the end of his very, very long, almost endless patience—he steps forward and grabs Crowley’s wrist and Crowley makes a noise. It all goes very still. Aziraphale stays frozen in place, staring at Crowley with wide eyes. “Are you,” he starts. “You’re not hurting me,” Crowley mumbles, his face in his hands. Aziraphale makes an inquisitive noise. “I said, you’re not hurting me.”

Fics like and in the ripe evening i wanted to be a nightingale

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