Fics like freshly disowned in some frozen devotion (no more alone or myself could i be)

“I choose Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice both soft and firm at the same time. Meets Crowley’s gaze so steadily, as if it’s easy for him to say those words. And it’s as much to Crowley as it is to the Metatron, as much promise as it is a renunciation, and Crowley’s heart hurts. “Very well,” the Metatron says. “You will not like the consequences.” “Damn the consequences.” Aziraphale uses his just-enough-of-a-bastard voice, the one that makes shivers race up and down Crowley’s spine. “You may see yourself out, Voice of God.” There’s a rustle of feathers, and then the Metatron is gone and the bookshop is silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the furious staccato of Crowley’s heartbeat. Aziraphale – an angel of grace and poise and grandeur – stumbles. His expression twists in confusion, first, and then pain – horrible, gut-wrenching, unexpected pain – and then he falls to his knees, voice breaking in a pained whine. “Oh,” he gasps, head thrown back, eyes glazed and unseeing. “Oh, that – damned indeed,” he says, just before he crumples forward and blacks out. (Aziraphale rejects the Metatron's offer and chooses Crowley instead. Crowley helps him through the aftermath.)

Fics like freshly disowned in some frozen devotion (no more alone or myself could i be)

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