Who: Aziraphale and Crowley What: Flying. Existential Angels. Here there be talks. When/Where: Tonight, somewhere with cliffs. High cliffs. Mexico, methinks. There's tequila there, too. Warnings: Possible discussion of past traumatic events. Bitchy Angel. Past that, I'll make a note.
Once again, Aziraphale found himself perched on a ledge- this time of a large rock-face, overlooking a beach. It was commonplace for people to jump from such places, so he wasn't concerned with gawkers, which was just how he wanted it. The next human to speak to him would probably be left worse for the experience.
He was done. Sick of it. Sick of feeling empathy, for everything and everyone, at such personal cost. He was the plot device, the convenient aid, not a soul of his own. The only person that seemed to accept him outside his capacity of Guard, was the one who requested to join him, and Aziraphale waited impatiently for Deminian to appear, so he could get the... anxiousness out of his system.