Sneak peak Friday?
You did send this on friday but I just saw it now :V sorry 'bout that
Ya didn't say from which wip you want it, so Imma throw both at ya, just to cover all the bases
Here ya go
This Is How You Lose The Biblical War:
I've got memories of you stretching across centuries, each one showing you on the move. But this image of you in your element, cozy in a bookshop, sipping rosehip tea with the sunset reflecting on your hair, it warms my heart. I can picture you walking around, sharing laughs, observing the geese, and stubbornly refusing to part with any of your books. I'll definitely have to try some rosehip tea myself at some point. Perhaps someday they'll pair us up, stationed in a quaint little English village, deep undercover, keeping an eye on each other. We could brew tea together, you could try to talk me into picking up a book, and we'd send back sanitized reports about what the other is up to. Even then, I reckon I'd still be writing letters.
Unamed WIP:
"I've been doing some research on Edinburgh. I haven't come across anything particularly relevant yet, but a few older books look promising." He raises a hand as if to place it on Crowley's arm but hesitates. "I appreciate your concern, my dear, but I have full confidence that we'll get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later. So try not to dwell on it too much." Aziraphale clasps his hands together, his posture rigid and tense, as if he's made of intricate knots. Crowley feels a wave of nausea and a tightness around his chest, but—damn it. The way Aziraphale looks up at him, as though waiting for something, only intensifies his discomfort. Crowley knew. He knew Aziraphale was dying, albeit slowly, but dying nonetheless. And it was because of him. "Crowley?" Shit. He'd been staring silently for too long, hadn't he? Shit. "I—" Swallow, speak, just leave. It’s not that difficult; Crowley’s done it countless times before. He’s walked away from Aziraphale more times than he can count, so he should be accustomed to it by now. "I have to go." Aziraphale nods in response, and Crowley returns the gesture, gripping the box tightly against his chest as he heads back to the car. Inside his head, he repeats "it's my fault" over and over, varying the tone to avoid sounding like he's choking on his words. Then, he drives back to Mayfair.
