Ah. Right. He-- yes. Of course he does. Of course he does? Yes. Six thousand years, it'd be impossible not to, but on the other hand, it's as shocking as a slap to the face. Because it isn't just love, but in love that he means, isn't it? Isn't it? It must be, and yet the instant he thinks that he has doubts. Not because he thinks Aziraphale is lying (oh, he would never, not about this, not because it's a sin but because it's just not him), but it simply-- it's just--
Is he unlovable? He's certainly unforgivable. By definition, and you'd think one would preclude the other, but here they are. And yet here's an angel, telling him the complete opposite. I love you, and he repeats the sentence in his mind, emphasizing a different word in each iteration. I love you, I love you, I love you, each time seems a little more real and a little more stunning all at once.
He hasn't said anything, he realizes abruptly. Nor has he blinked in far too long, a slightly unnerving thing.]
I didn't want to go without you.
[Obviously. What would be the point if he was alone up there? Together, he'd said, and he'd meant it.]
I--
[Why is it so hard to stay? He feels it. He knows he does, and maybe he shouldn't be able to, but he does, and it's more important than anything else in his life.]
Angel.
[It's just a little anguished. How is he supposed to answer something like that? Something so adoring, so loving, so perfect, anything he says can't possibly match it. He'll say it back, he will, but just-- give him a minute.]
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Ah. Right. He-- yes. Of course he does. Of course he does? Yes. Six thousand years, it'd be impossible not to, but on the other hand, it's as shocking as a slap to the face. Because it isn't just love, but in love that he means, isn't it? Isn't it? It must be, and yet the instant he thinks that he has doubts. Not because he thinks Aziraphale is lying (oh, he would never, not about this, not because it's a sin but because it's just not him), but it simply-- it's just--
Is he unlovable? He's certainly unforgivable. By definition, and you'd think one would preclude the other, but here they are. And yet here's an angel, telling him the complete opposite. I love you, and he repeats the sentence in his mind, emphasizing a different word in each iteration. I love you, I love you, I love you, each time seems a little more real and a little more stunning all at once.
He hasn't said anything, he realizes abruptly. Nor has he blinked in far too long, a slightly unnerving thing.]
I didn't want to go without you.
[Obviously. What would be the point if he was alone up there? Together, he'd said, and he'd meant it.]
I--
[Why is it so hard to stay? He feels it. He knows he does, and maybe he shouldn't be able to, but he does, and it's more important than anything else in his life.]
Angel.
[It's just a little anguished. How is he supposed to answer something like that? Something so adoring, so loving, so perfect, anything he says can't possibly match it. He'll say it back, he will, but just-- give him a minute.]