Time freezes, and the war pauses.
Everything is still and motionless, frozen in place like a mosaic. This is Aziraphale’s power, Crowley recognizes. The gentle hold it has. It’s powerful and mighty but simultaneously careful and calming. Through the frozen chaos, Crowley spots the angel. He’s standing just as Crowley remembered him. Except this time, there’s a crack in his eyes.
Crowley starts moving toward him.
Aziraphale is looking straight ahead. His portrait maintaining the living image of a leading archangel holding confidence in his tasks. But his lip was trembling. And there was tears in his eyes. And his fist was clenched. He was doubting. (Crowley recognized that look quite well).
Crowley slowly approaches him, the angel still not making eye contact with them.
Aziraphale stares ahead, glancing ever so briefly at Crowley, “they….” He swallowed, steadying his voice. “I don’t… I need a moment.”
“You’re doubting.” Crowley said, moving into his line of vision. Aziraphale gazed through the demon, “I can see it. I know.”
“You froze everyone but me, why?” Crowley desperately tries to maintain Aziraphales focus, but the angel was clearly slipping.
“Just a moment so I can… it was getting quite loud wasn’t it?”
“Please—“ Crowley watches as the angel trembles, “I need… I’m …asking… for strength… to do this.”
A moment passes, and Crowley takes a step closer. Aziraphales eyes widen slightly, taking a step back in response.
“Look at me.” The demon says.
“No—crowle—“ Aziraphales breath quickens, his posture straightens, falling back into his brave angelic image.
“Don’t do this.” Crowley said softly. Begging. Pleading.
Aziraphales breath slows, a tear falls down his cheek, his eyes slowly turning to meet the demons gaze.
“Please, Angel… don’t do this.”
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