good guys · good guys · good guys · good guys · good guys
The white of Heaven is relentless—no shadows, no dust, no warmth. Aziraphale sits at his pristine desk, the silence pressing in like a second skin. His fingers trace the cold curve of the candlestick phone, the same he’s used a hundred times. He lifts it, dials, and waits for the familiar beep. "*… Crowley?*" he whispers, though he knows the line will stay empty.