Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly

Chapter Six

Did I only mean to have a tiny bit of Crowley PoV internal monologue to lead over to the dialogue section? Yes. But he just wouldn't stop thinking about things, guys. It's totally Crowley's fault that first part turned out so long. Yup. Anyway. Extra long chapter, yay? xD

Also. Emotions are happening in this one. Buckle up, everyone...

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Days pass.

Crowley pretends he doesn't notice.

He pretends he doesn't notice the passage of time. He pretends he doesn't notice the tension in the air. He pretends he doesn't notice the anxious looks Aziraphale gives him.

Most of all, he pretends he doesn't notice how well Aziraphale looks, how clearly he doesn't need to stay in bed as much as he does, how fluidly he moves, how the colour has returned to his cheeks and the light to his eyes.

Of course, he does notice all of this.

It would be hard not to, but for Crowley, for Crowley - who's spent his existence becoming as attuned to the angel as possible, to notice every change in appearance, every shift in demeanour, every smallest detail that could help him predict Aziraphale's needs and cater to them before the angel had even voiced them- it would be downright impossible not to notice.

He notices.

He knows what it means.

He doesn't mention it.

Neither does Aziraphale.

The angel spends his days mostly in bed reading, beaming brightly at Crowley whenever he enters the bedroom, giving him little glances when he thinks Crowley isn't looking, coy smiles when Crowley brings him snacks or orders sushi or puts the tenth cup of tea on the nightstand.

Crowley can barely stand it. He craves it more than anything.

They both know Aziraphale doesn't need to be tended to like this, not anymore.

They both know they can't keep this game of charades going forever, but Crowley is determined to do it for as long as demonly possible.

It's not how it's supposed to be between them. It used to be easy. Used to feel right.

After the Not-Pocalypse, they had finally gotten to a point where they didn't need any excuse anymore to spend time together, they could just...be together because they wanted to.

Now it just feels like they're back to square one.

Worse.

Because everything is tense and uncomfortable between them now, sizzling with unspoken words and unfulfilled hopes. But there's that aching familiarity underneath it all, the times of serene ease Crowley remembers and craves, yet doesn't know how to get back.

Too much has happened. Too much has been broken.

He doesn't know how to go back. He doesn't know if he wants to.

Deep down, he's aware that what they need is to go forward, but that's a much scarier alternative than staying suspended in this state of strained pretence.

Going forward, he'll have two choices.

He can ask Aziraphale to leave. Which, when he actually treats it like a real thing he could choose to do, turns out not to be an option at all.

Or, he can ask Aziraphale to stay. Which, again, does not seem like a real option.

They don't do that. They never have.

Not out loud, anyway.

They say other things instead.

"Another glass of wine?"