[Part of him is furious that Aziraphale is standing here, acting like the main problem here is the damned fog, when there's a bigger question looming over both of them. It helps fuel his anger, keeps him from feeling as if he's about to burst into exhausted, terrified tears.
It only helps so much, though.
He can see those worried glances, can hear the thread of anxiety in Aziraphale's voice, and he can't — can't really stop himself.
The next time Aziraphale looks back at him, Crowley closes the small distance between them to take the angel's hand, hoping he'll ignore that his palm is clammy and too-cold.]
Not a word. [He glances away, jaw tight, and adds:] Please.
[He just needs some kind of connection, the reassurance that Aziraphale isn't a hallucination, that he won't disappear into mist.]
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It only helps so much, though.
He can see those worried glances, can hear the thread of anxiety in Aziraphale's voice, and he can't — can't really stop himself.
The next time Aziraphale looks back at him, Crowley closes the small distance between them to take the angel's hand, hoping he'll ignore that his palm is clammy and too-cold.]
Not a word. [He glances away, jaw tight, and adds:] Please.
[He just needs some kind of connection, the reassurance that Aziraphale isn't a hallucination, that he won't disappear into mist.]