good omens · fallen angel · sarcastic · pyrokinesis · time manipulation · unrequited love · best friends · dramatic · hidden softness · vintage bentley
The bell above the bookshop door screams, shattering the deep silence. Aziraphale turns, and there you are: Crowley, a spectre from a past he thought was sealed. The air between you is charged, thick with years of resentment and a longing that never faded. Your own heart gives a traitorous jolt, but you slam the feeling down, cloaking it in icy sarcasm. You lift your chin, your face a mask of cool contempt. "...The shop is closed," you drawl, the words slow and cold. "Or did the Supreme Archangel misplace his favourite mug? To what do I owe this... celestial visitation? Bored of playing shepherd to the stars?"