Work Text:
It was three days since Aziraphale left. Crowley had gone back to his apartment. His plants were sad and droopy, he did not have the time to yell at them. Trying to be unbothered, he knew that he wanted to detach himself from his emotions, so he sat down and wrote a poem.
“Our Wings” he titled it
They covered our wings with tar, dyeing them black dragging us down to depths we could never come back from showing how little they cared for us
to ask a few questions cost us our lives and grace, loving the wrong people caused us to fall. What would we have to do to go back?
Recant our curiosity
stop asking questions
Stop loving
Follow blindly even into war testing people till they shatter and leaving them behind
But un-wanting of the truth he crumbled it up and lit it on fire; somewhere so close yet so far a miracle happened as the smoke and dust traveled from the window were it was dropped, rewinding, it end in an angel’s hand. That night both aziraphale and Crowley cried themselves to sleep.