There's a woman standing on the edge of a mountain side. She sways, sunlight bleeding the edge of her silhouette, a dark cloak billowing around her ankles. She leans back, the sky before her a sharp, endless blue. She leans forward and - she's gone, the wind rising up to meet her and greeting her back on the ground.
Crowley stumbles, his feet spraying a thin layer of frost from the top of the snow. The pine trees behind him tremble, darkened branches parting around another form that follows him out into the snow. Crowley stumbles again, staggers and then he's on his knees, palms pressed to the ice beneath the snow with his head is bowed, the chill around him seeping through his skin and mixing with already cold blood.
There's a hand wrapping around his bicep - fingers pressing against a pulse point. Aziraphale's light is seeping through his skin and melting into muscle, weaving around bones, sinew and it burns. Crowley's inhale comes as a gasp, he sinks a little lower in the snow, Aziraphale's grip becoming tighter.
"It shouldn't matter." He spits at the snow, then against the glare of the sun he tilts his head to the side, peering up at Aziraphale, at the strands of golden hair fluttering in the wind, at the skin around his eyes tinged blue, the faint lines around his lips and eyes and he repeats, "It shouldn't matter."
He swallows, chokes, exhales. He drops his head again, stares down at the brilliantly white snow and spits into it. The spit is promptly snatched up by the wind and thrown back into his face, he yanks a hand from the snow and scrubs at his cheeks, falling backwards with the motion. At his side, Aziraphale lowers himself to his knees, hand still curled around Crowley's arm. Crowley's sprawled on his back, half lidded eyes sweeping the sky. "It's one rotten - bloody human. It's," His head jerks and for a moment he glimpses the sunlight along Aziraphale's profile, boxing his features in, outlining his wings in a thin translucent layer, the feathers ruffled and wiping in the wind like his hair. "It's my bloody job and if one fucking human throws herself off - off a cliff, because, because her kids fucking died, well -" The laughter bubbles in his chest, plows through his throat and rises in pillars from his mouth and he laughs and laughs and the light pooling through his bones italic burns.
"It shouldn't matter because it's my job - I should be, I should be ecstatic." He pauses, then continues.
He and Aziraphale speak at the same time, in the same heartbeat.
"And you are - in your own way."
"I shouldn't have doubts."
The wind whistles through the snow, the trees behind them shift and shiver, whispering amongst themselves. Aziraphale and Crowley both sink a little deeper, Aziraphale's grasp convulsing around his upper arm.
Crowley inhales, the air stinging on its way down, curling in his chest, around his - however ironically - bounding heart. He blinks, flakes of snow melting in his lashes and watches as the pale blue sky above his head begins to shimmer, the sound of the wind around him suddenly muted. Aziraphale's grip on his arm loosens, slides to his shoulder and he squeezes. Aziraphale dips his head, wings arched above his head, encircling them both.
"Oh, my dear boy." He whispers, a small smile on his lips. The sunlight gleams against his wings, a few strands passing through and turning his form into a silhouette, the damp sheen of his indigo eyes the only part of him still visible.
"I don't have doubts." Crowley replies, the last syllable morphing into a hiss.