[ Crowley complains loudly when Aziraphale scurries off. Something ridiculous about the air being too cold to go without his wonderful body heat and woe is him, abandoned and forgotten, all the while draping himself across the cushions like a forlorn Victorian maiden having a bout of hysteria and fainting. The theatrics stop almost as soon as Aziraphale returns, and he nearly fumbles the catch as the book lands in his arms.
He opens it curiously; a handwritten manuscript of some sort. He wasn't surprised; Aziraphale kept a number of pieces that had never seen a publishing house for one reason or another. But then, it dawns on him just who the writing belongs to, and he looks up at Aziraphale with both love and astonishment. ]
You wrote this...?
[ He beckons for Aziraphale to come back to bed, eager (for once) to read something. His heart is doing that strange thrumming as he skims the thick parchment. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2020-04-03 01:21 am (UTC)He opens it curiously; a handwritten manuscript of some sort. He wasn't surprised; Aziraphale kept a number of pieces that had never seen a publishing house for one reason or another. But then, it dawns on him just who the writing belongs to, and he looks up at Aziraphale with both love and astonishment. ]
You wrote this...?
[ He beckons for Aziraphale to come back to bed, eager (for once) to read something. His heart is doing that strange thrumming as he skims the thick parchment. ]