Nine Inch Scales - Epilogue
Cover art by @and-his-hands-were-24-crows Thank you so much, Crows! Please show them some support by checking out their work on Instagram and ao3!
And a huge thank you to my beta harem, who have been with me on this journey for over a year now: @totheendtimes, @Nightshiftcaffeine, @ineffable-xenanigans, @nosferatini, @moderndayklutz, @Savyl and @TansyOggAdditional in story art by Demented_DeMeown, @avadoingart-imus and @divinitydemon
CW for this chapter: Genderfluid Crowley, changing pronouns for Crowley
After long months of touring, Crowley finally comes home.
Aziraphale is waiting for him, and finally there is no audience to impress. Exhausted from the weight of performance and the burden of being who everyone expects him to be, Crowley makes a choice to set aside his armour and return to a shape he reserves for the person he trusts most.
In the safety of home, Crowley allows himself to be vulnerable, and Aziraphale responds as he always has: with unwavering love, acceptance and understanding.
By the time the last flightcase was latched shut and loaded away, Crowley was vibrating with impatience.
He didnāt linger. He couldnāt.
Newt and Silvia talked about logistics: when the crew could be expected to return their equipment to them, hotel reservations, the sensible unwinding talk of a triumphant finale, but Crowley barely heard them. His goodbyes were abrupt, but still warm. He proudly squeezed Silviaās shoulder, smiled at Newt, and promised to call after heād rested and the ringing in his ears had stopped.
Then, he was gone, racing to the Bentley, shrugging his coat into place as he went.
London was awake and glittering behind him, but he didnāt look back.
The Bentley readily roared awake as if sheād been waiting for this exact moment.
Crowley drove as though he could outrun time, the streetlights blurring into molten lines of gold, the engine responding not just to pressure on the pedal but to want. The car would always take him where he intended to go. They cut through the night together, fast enough that thought and driver input fell away, leaving only instinct and yearning in its wake.
He should have been exhausted. Two months of performances, of crowds and noise. And then tonight, fully giving himself over to the audience, and all the emotional upheaval that involved. His body and soul ached with it, in a surprisingly cathartic way. But beneath the fatigue was a spark of excitement that wouldnāt be extinguished.
Read the rest here on ao3!
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In memory, always, of Xenanigans.
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