[Crowley panics for a good minute, tearing through vines in search of Aziraphale before his single fucking brain cell kicks in and he realizes, oh yeah, angels sort of give off a general sense of holiness and goodness that he can find if he tries hard enough.
And try he does, letting the sensation pull him almost a twenty minute trek north, until he spots white hair and tan clothes. That stupid bowtie.
He feels sick at the sight of it, there's so much death here and he can almost see the way the vines are draining energy from Aziraphale. Crowley thinks knife and thinks sharp, and there's a blade in his hand, allowing him to start cutting away the offending vines. Despite his worry, he's being ever-so-careful not to bring the blade too close to Aziraphale.]
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And try he does, letting the sensation pull him almost a twenty minute trek north, until he spots white hair and tan clothes. That stupid bowtie.
He feels sick at the sight of it, there's so much death here and he can almost see the way the vines are draining energy from Aziraphale. Crowley thinks knife and thinks sharp, and there's a blade in his hand, allowing him to start cutting away the offending vines. Despite his worry, he's being ever-so-careful not to bring the blade too close to Aziraphale.]
Wake up, you stupid angel.