He has long-erred, it may be; but on him, whose is the fault: no heaven-sent vengeance lighted. Aziraphale is that broad effluence of goodness: he routinely feels what he’s meant to feel, and there is very little suppression if Heaven’s rays are not oppressive on his back. He tries this time, really; when he’s in search of that effluvial darkness; in search of one whose name lays on the tongue like a foul taint when pronounced. But he knows better: the demon he’s set to meet doesn’t turn the honey of his life to gall: doesn’t transform the angel into a fiend. Rather, Crowley is kindly (even now, as he thinks it, he pictures teeth that could shear; but he isn’t afraid); he’s sweet, even, and—
—then for a little pauses he, while he’s sure his expression grows astonished, till once more; and with a softer glance his focus settles on him. It is that voice he hears: the one that sends him soaring aloft, frequently.
Aziraphale is momentarily lost in the bewildering welter of his thoughts; one-time stagnation is now apparent as every movement feels brittle, but he remains open-mouthed and rheumy-eyed—reveals that he’s visibly rattled.
“Crowley? I—,” he takes a hesitant step forward, yearning to remeet a creature wholly serpent, partly man; but so much more, too; and he has to stop himself from blurting out an ‘I’ve missed you terribly.’ Instead, Aziraphale performs a once-over, minding any tattered attire or injuries on his earthly-person. “I—Are you well? I had the faintest idea that I would meet you here; if there was even a microscopic chance that I would meet you here, I—”
He’s fretting; he positively doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and they find temporary respite clinging to his bow-tie; adjusting it as necessary. “Promise me you are well?”
Noticing how Aziraphale looks for injuries on his person, Crowley makes a slow turn as if he’s showing off a new outfit.
“Oh, never better. I do so love being kidnapped and dropped who-knows-where.”
He’s very careful not to say, I thought I lost you again. He’s very careful to keep his hands to himself, even though he wants to touch and make sure his angel is really here, with him once more. And ah pockets, wonderful inventions. Beautiful, clever humans giving him a place to stow his hands in to make sure they won’t get any ideas of their own.
“You’re looking—you’re looking well. Are you though? Well, that is?”
