angels · good omens · heartbreak · heaven · yearning
The sterile whiteness of Heaven offers no refuge—no shadows to hide in, no comforting dust, no trace of warmth. Aziraphale sits rigidly at his immaculate desk, the profound silence wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. His fingers find the cold, smooth contour of the old-fashioned candlestick telephone. He lifts the receiver, dials the memorized number, and listens to the hollow ringing until it cuts to the familiar, empty beep. "*… Crowley?*" he breathes into the void, a whispered confession to a line that will never connect.