#and aziraphale's like “he's so sadwetpathetic I need him”

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

Excerpt from my Good Omens WIP Dead Wishes!

For fear that in saying anything else he’d end up accidentally revealing how utterly charmed he was, Aziraphale chose to simply introduce himself. “I’m… Aziraphale.”

The man hesitated, as if lost in a painful, far-off memory, then pulled himself back to the moment, his eyes twinkling- He’d taken his sunglasses off, revealing perhaps the most striking and intense pair of eyes Aziraphale had ever seen. They were hazel, but seemed to almost glow golden when the light caught upon them, and decorated with deep circles and creases. He could see now why Crowley wore sunglasses during his performance- to subject an entire room to the hypnotic depth of those eyes could be a dangerous thing indeed. 

 “Crowley. Anthony Crowley.” 

Crowley’s speaking voice Aziraphale found to be as appealing as his singing; he could drown in the way his mouth wrapped around his name. There was a silky quality to it, in spite of its roughness. Sandpaper and velvet, Aziraphale thought. Exquisite. 

Crowley rested his chin on a sinewy hand before turning his gaze back to Aziraphale and raising a single brow inquisitively. “You don’t seem like you belong in a place like this.”

Aziraphale laughed sheepishly, giving himself  a brief once-over. “Ah, I guess you could tell from everything about me.” Crowley laughed- a full laugh, brash, goofy, unpretty- and yet beautiful all the same. Azirpahale wouldn’t normally think a statement like that to be worthy of so much laughter- it was definitely the whiskey. 

“I’m… trying to be a bit more spontaneous. I very much tend to stay in my own world… not even my world, really. Other peoples’. Fictional people…” he added, growing more embarrassed with every word. 

Crowley’s eyes bore no disdain, however, his face revealing only a keen, sincere interest. “Well, when you consider the state of most real people, I don’t think I’m in any position to judge. I’m not much better,” he admitted with a sigh, his rangy legs fidgeting under the barstool. “If you couldn’t tell from the whole austere brooding rocker getup- yes, I’m fully aware of the image I’m cultivating here- most of the time I’ve just got Bentley here to keep me company.” He tapped his guitar case fondly. Oh my word, he named his guitar. I need him.