your colours are my heart

It was a simple miracle really, barely a smidgen of Grace required. But it burned Crowley as it healed the blind man. Crowley began backing away, when a hand around his wrist stopped him, the man staring at him with such pure adoration it hurt.

"Just go," Crowley shooed. Aziraphale was likely to appear at the worst time.

"Angel?" he asked, and that hurt must of all, twisting the knife deeper into Crowley's borrowed heart.

"No."

And he was gone, leaving behind the imprints of his sandals on the dust and possessing a fresh new burn etched across his chest.

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