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“Oh the dawn won’t stop weighing a tonne,
I’ve done some things that I shouldn’t have done,
But I haven’t stopped loving you once.”
Arctic Monkeys, The Ultracheese.
It had been a lonely few months.
Or had it been years? Crowley had given up counting a long time ago. A lingering intoxication had warped his sense of time and of… vaguely everything else as a matter of fact. His tongue had been tainted with the eternal sting of whiskey, the crook of his neck had gone mysteriously cold, and his eyes had been rendered strangely wet. It had remained this way for an unfathomable amount of time, and he hated it. All this self loathing, this crying, this drinking. She felt unhinged, and at unease, and unbelievably angry, at himself as well as Aziraphale, but mostly herself. It took all his strength to not explode into jagged bolts of lightning the afternoon he left that bookshop. It had taken the will of both God and Satan themselves to keep him grounded, and to stop him from storming into Heaven and dragging Aziraphale back down to reality herself.
Muriel had done their best to keep Crowley’s head on, literally and figuratively, to no avail. He’d come round, with his sporadic visits to the bookshop, when she considered himself sober enough to stand on her own two feet. Muriel was cheery enough, good enough company, a good owner, but had no chance at helping Crowley. They were too new to the world, unaccustomed to the intense emotions that Crowley experienced, but nevertheless, they tried their best. Aziraphale wouldn’t take kindly to the actual selling of the books, mind you, but Crowley was sure he would be eternally grateful of the upkeep of the shop. The place had become almost unrecognisable without Aziraphale’s kind spirit hovering about however - not to say that Muriel wasn’t kind, or spirited, as they were actually rather delightful in fact - but to Crowley, nothing could quite compare to his Angel’s presence. He was a soft light that wasn’t quite blinding, a little, elegant flame that danced on the heads of candles rather than amongst the eruptions of wildfires. Aziraphale was a flame that illuminated the pages they used to read, a flame that churned and spluttered in Crowley’s chest whenever he was near, one that had withered since his disappearance.
The sunlight didn’t stream through the windows like it did when Aziraphale was here; it felt fake, as if the Sun in the sky was rather a giant lightbulb, not the bundle of glowing gases that Crowley had once helped create. It was as if it was screwed into the socket of space, a false warmth that Crowley felt rather cold in. He couldn’t sense the presence of any love either. It was stifling with the stuff before Aziraphale left, especially when Crowley was around. Now it has gone completely. Well, no that is a lie, there is still some floating about the bookshop, but nothing like the sort she’d sensed before. It radiated around Muriel now, who had a certain love that made them irresistible to the human kindness. Muriel loved humans, and humans loved them back. It was almost sickeningly sweet, one that left a bitter taste on Crowley’s tongue, but it was sweet nonetheless. At least a fortunate soul like theirs was bringing light to the shadowed darkness Crowley exuded in toxic plumes.
The smell had changed too. Crowley knew too well what Aziraphale smelled like. Or, well, she did . Maybe the Archangels had changed that too, who knows. It was the smell of old books, of the pages he’d spend hours carefully turning well into the dimness of the night, of dust and dirt he’d blow off of the front cover of the hard paperbacks he’d collect, that giddy smile on his face as he rambled on and on about this particular edition, that particular author. Crowley hadn’t the slightest idea about books, and the interest that Aziraphale had with them, but the way his smile highlighted his cherub cheeks when he’d ask if Crowley would like to know more, how could Crowley say no? If Crowley could go back one more time, to listen to his voice again, let him trip over his words as he spoke with wit and glee about Jane Austen or whoever it was that was on his mind at the moment.
He’d be happy. Ineffably so.
He also was the smell of rain, and then when the sun began to shine as the grey clouds moved to subside. A humid scent, that was laced in his raincoats, in his white tuft of hair that carried the truest and most golden of halo’s, a perfume that was once hidden in the crook of Crowley’s neck. A gentle downpour that the two would often find themselves in, fleeing in their times of trouble. In their times.
“Where is Aziraphale anyway, Crowley? I thought he’d come to visit by now.”
Crowley felt the muscles tense in her jaw, teeth clenching out of pure reaction from his name. This was the first time since Aziraphale had left that they had asked where he was. What was Crowley to say? He was frolicking in Heaven with the angels now, Muriel, doing good deeds and smiting those who dare cross their path. Dealing miracles and keeping Hell and its loathsome abominations in its rightful place, forgetting the six-thousands years that he and I had spent together, going against everything that we were designed for, for the sake of maintaining just a few more years with one another. Why would he come visit the likes of us? Crowley wanted to scream at them, she really did, to knock some sense into them, but Muriel was too much like… him. Inquisitive, perhaps a little more naive than his Angel, mind you, but oh-so innocent. Pure intentions radiated from them with every step, the folds in their skin from their furrowed brow out of concentration a carbon copy of Aziraphale’s own expressions. There were times he found himself slipping, almost calling them Aziraphale, almost calling them Angel. He’d bite his snaked tongue before he could, and try to forget all about angels and demons and Hell and Heaven and all of that drabble by drowning her sorrows through the Devil’s drink.
“Archangel-y business, Muriel. Important stuff us lower beings don’t need to worry about as such,” Crowley muttered, staring into a space in the shadows, trying not to focus on Muriel’s expression falling to a frown. They missed him too, she was sure of it.
That was a couple months ago, and Muriel had seen how Aziraphale’s disappearance had taken its toll and pained her so, and thus they refused to talk about it in any future conversations.
He hadn’t seen Muriel for two weeks now, give or take. He couldn’t muster any energy to move these days, other than his hand to reach for another bottle of vodka or a glass of pure whiskey to bring to his lips. Hell had given his apartment back, sure enough, but hadn’t bothered to contact her whatsoever. The line was silent on their end. Maybe Shax was an awful Duke of Hell after all, and all that prideful, gluttonous gloating was a show for very little. He wasn’t hard to track whatsoever. Maybe they had finally given up on her. Thank Satan for that. If it were down to Beelzebub they'd be here by now, with their swarm of flies and that piercing look if they hadn’t gone soft and fled with Gabriel to Alpha Centauri, or wherever the Hell they went.
Crowley felt a scowl tug at his lips. Alpha Centauri was his idea, for her and Aziraphale, not for those two bloody morons.
The plants in his apartment were on the brink of dying, much like his will to live. It began with the holes, those horrid disease-like spots that made the leaves turn brown, as opposed to its luxurious green that was the only thing that gave his apartment any kind of colour. No matter how hard he yelled, how loud he screamed, no matter how pathetically he grovelled at the plant pots and begged and cried and pleaded for them to turn back, they never grew back. They were all this greyish-brown colour now, after months of neglect. Frail and withered, limp as they let the wind pass right through the holes of the hems of their leaf skirts. Crowley couldn’t bring herself to perform a little miracle and turn them back, so he left them there, to rot and to starve and eventually, to die.
He watched them, atop his throne, waver in his presence, cowering in fear of the idea of being blended down the garbage chute because one of them looked at her funny. Of course, plants couldn’t do that, but with Crowley so on edge these days, the slightest noise could send him in a flurry of psychotic madness. There was one evening that Crowley had somehow gained access to a tiny bottle of Laudanum which really sent her in a frenzy. The plants had never shook that hard before, and neither did Crowley. The last time he was off her head on Laudanum, he had Aziraphale’s careful hand wrapped around his waist and arm. Oh how safe she felt in his presence, his mere smile a comfort nothing else could quite equate to. Their lips were as sweet as cherry wine, his skin as soft as the wings of their angelic form, his breath the faint scent of a lemon travel-sweet. If only Crowley could take one more taste of their lips, just a gentle brush of their cheek, a tiny grab of their waist, just one more instance where they were caught just a little too close together…
The sound of the door knocked him from the footing of her daydreams.
Who the Hell was up knocking at this time? It was a dreary evening, where the rain had warped the windows with its drops, and the darkness lingered in the cracks of the pavement. Crowley was half alive, sprawled out on his throne, legs dangling off of one of the arms, head resting on the other. Glasses of alcohol had gathered on his table, and eventually had begun to clutter the floor in bundles, some excess leaking out of the tops. It was most certainly not suitable for visitors, especially in her hours of loathing. The stench of alcohol was almost vomit inducing, but Crowley had given up trying to patten that a while ago. Why bother, when there was no one about to pester you about it? A low growl, almost a snarl, rumbled in her throat, the messy tuft of red hair that was left misshapen laying limp as his head rolled back on the arm of the chair. He couldn’t be bothered, whoever it was would have to wait until she was sober, and by the looks of things, that wouldn’t happen any time soon.
Another knock rattled Crowley’s apartment a few moments later, and pissed her right off to the core. It was harder, the rattles louder, more desperate for his attention.
“Ngk..”
He groaned loudly out of annoyance, as he attempted to gain his footing without accidentally stumbling on a rogue bottle and falling over. A list of names flew through his mind, his first landing on Muriel. There had been times where they had simply just… showed up somehow, despite Crowley not ever giving them his address. When confronted, Muriel simply shrugged, and said that they just followed her, with a cheery tone indicating that they had no idea that that was not a normal thing for humans to do. On the contrary, she had sent his address to Maggie and Nina, who had done their best to keep Crowley’s hands moving. Idle hands meant an idle mind, which was significantly more susceptible to the painful aching that came with losing a loved one than an active mind. Not a lot of what Nina and Maggie suggested particularly stuck with Crowley, to which they both came to a mutual understanding of. Sometimes it is best to let your feelings out, to wallow in sorrow every once in a while, or so they said. Nevertheless, those two had no reason to be here, especially at this hour. Maybe it was Shax, coming to drag Crowley back down to Hell? In all honesty, that wouldn’t matter much to her anymore, because he no longer had very much else to stay on Earth for, and whatever revolting punishment Shax had ready for Crowley surely couldn’t combat the pain he already felt. No Holy Water could burn Crowley’s heart as hard as losing Aziraphale did.
“Crowley? Please, answer the door?”
It was a voice that Crowley didn’t recognise. It was warbled, drowned out by the harsh splatters of the rain that slashed against the windows of his apartment with vigour. The sound was violent, threatening. She wasn’t quite sure how the windows hadn’t caved in yet. He could have said the same thing about his patience. Stamping through his apartment, Crowley’s anger caused his plants to shake with fear. He had not bothered to put his glass down. She had the right mind to throw the drink at whoever dared to knock on his door. His anger was leaping and bounding into a violent crescendo with each swift step down the stairs, patience thinning with each stride along the dimly lit corridor, her fist pounding the light switch, causing the walls to rumble as he did so, her hand swinging the door open, ready to release this hellish fury upon whomever had the guts to come knocking on his door in his time of self-loathing.
She paused.
There was an odd familiarity in the figure that stood before him, like how you’d remember an old memory, but it was so long ago that it skips and cuts into black in some places, like a warped record. A golden umbrella circled above their head, like a halo. Crowley swayed from side to side, the world rocking with her, mouth slightly ajar, half from his tipsiness, half from her mind trying to churn the cogs of thought. The person before him had begun to grow weary, their hands fiddling nervously, eyes desperately widening, following Crowley’s drunken gaze with hunger. It was as if there was something that caught their eye, buried deep within Crowley’s soul, something that they were trying to reel up to bob along the surface. Crowley’s head rolled to the side, wobbling a bit, eyebrows furrowing in concentration, eyes following suit beneath his thick, dark glasses.
“Crowley?”
It was the movement of their lips that caught Crowley’s attention, and the sweet sound that came forth. A voice that sobered him up in an instant.
Suddenly, the world had come into focus, her vision no longer hazy.
Her body caught the breath in her throat, and let it cling there, threatening to choke him.
The figure had reeled Crowley above to the surface. Hook, line and sinker.
It was Aziraphale.
It was Aziraphale…
There he was, Crowley’s Angel, upon his doorstep.
He was still as disastrously beautiful as the day he left for what Crowley thought was for good.
His eyes had changed, that was the first thing that Crowley noticed. They say the eyes are the windows to one's soul, and Heaven had smashed the panes into tiny pieces, and boarded them up like they do to windows of abandoned, rundown buildings. They were purple now, a rich, deep, velvety colour. Expensive and lavish, like the twinkle of an amethyst geode. They were pretty, but they weren’t Aziraphale’s eyes. They were just a by-product of becoming a Supreme Archangel, something that was unavoidable, something that was unchangeable, she was sure.
Aziraphale’s face looked more rosy, a heavenly touch of colour, but his cheeks were a little less rounder, not so cherub-like anymore. Aziraphale had more important, more archangel-y matters to attend to, so he had little reason, or little time, to go back down to Earth again, or so Crowley thought. He didn’t get to indulge in his favourite desserts or share a glass over a table in the Ritz where the nightingales sang anymore, so it made sense. His hair had grown longer however, a pure silken nest, the white curls looking softer and curlier. A sharp suit, tie and blazer replaced his signature pairing of a cream jacket and tartan bow tie, the clothes that had his smell in. The beard was a choice that Crowley did not expect Aziraphale to take, but it suited him almost too well. It was short, but soft. He looked so handsome there, so perfect.
Did he grow taller? Was there a height limit on how tall you had to be to become an Archangel? When he got up there, did they just bend and change his beautiful form to fit the mould that Gabriel had left behind? Is that what they expected him to be, another Gabriel? Who knew what torturous methods that Heaven had in store for him. Would he have been threatened with another round in the fiery pits of the damned, or would he have had his wings clipped off, one feather at a time, she wondered. Oh, if anything happened to him up there…
His thoughts trailed off, as he became suddenly aware of the spontaneous burning that stung his cheeks. Thank Satan he had his glasses on. Thank Satan Aziraphale couldn’t see the tears brim and his eyes take in every inch of his being, slowly and steadily. Heaven had made many mistakes, but none of them were Aziraphale. Crowley’s body went stiff, the glass that he held almost slipping from his grasp. His Angel had left her starstruck. Aziraphale looked so out of place in the night sky beyond Crowley’s apartment, like a firefly against the canvas of darkness, drifting aimlessly yet so elegantly in the endless void that Crowley had enveloped himself in. Crowley’s chest beneath his dark jacket had begun to rise and fall at a heavy pace, as she silently begged for Aziraphale to meet his gaze in the moments of silence that felt like hours.
“Hello, Crowley.”
He blinked in response to Aziraphale’s voice, that was deep with authority, an authority that didn’t suit him at all. What happened to that sweet, angelic tone? His voice was once so soft it sounded like a lullaby each time they spoke. Their words sung like the hymns of God, words that Crowley would hang on to because they were his words, his voice. In Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale was not an angel, he was The Angel. Her angel.
Crowley could have screamed, cried, doused himself in the holiest water he could find, set alight his plants, grovelled at Aziraphale’s feet, begged for forgiveness.
Crowley could have kissed him again there and then, harder and longer, and held them there, so he had no choice but to stay.
But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t because Crowley was still angry, at least, he was supposed to be angry. Crowley was battling between the two halves of himself; one that loved Aziraphale, and the other that resented him for leaving her for Heaven, in pursuit of Satan knows what. After the eventful afternoon in the bookshop, Crowley had spiralled into insanity, stranded himself on an island he built to wallow on, one that would try to conceal the rage boiling in his chest. If he were alone, that way no one could comment on his destructive behaviours, and no one could try to pry him out of it. She had done a decent job at concealing it from Muriel, and did a better job at lying to Maggie and Nina, who were now awfully in love at this point.
Love. What a sick thing.
“I… suppose I had better let you in, hadn’t I?”
That was all Crowley could manage. He forbade his forked tongue from saying anything else. Admittedly, Crowley’s hands began to shake. From anger, excitement or nervousness, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe a mix of all three. He was feeling a whole spectrum of emotions. She was gobsmacked, really. Crowley didn’t bother with formalities, and just beckoned him to enter, with a slight nod of his head. Aziraphale nodded, pursing their lips together, following behind Crowley, shutting the door as he did so.
It was strange. Aziraphale was so used to them walking as a pair. Now their sides felt cold and empty.
The walk up the stairs and into Crowley’s apartment was only moments, but the silence elongated each step Aziraphale took. Regardless, Aziraphale took those moments, and used them, snatching at this precious time to allow them to think, to analyse, to calm their nerves. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley had pitifully attempted to conjure a miracle, which only ended up half-working, to clean her apartment. It only seemed to get rid of half of the bottles of alcohol that lay strewn across the floors and her table. Even half ended up being alot.
“Welcome home.” Crowley muttered, simply turning his throne to face Aziraphale, who was now standing with the very dead plants. Sarcasm. Aziraphale learnt that language the human way.
Silence fell again, as Aziraphale struggled to position himself in a place that felt comfortable to them, his hands grasping the hem of his blazer and scrunching it up, as he nervously stepped from one foot to another. Crowley was well in his right to be angry, to push Aziraphale to a limit, to let Aziraphale see the damage he had done. Indeed, Aziraphale could smell the damage too, the stinging scent of liquor and booze and whatever strong stuff Crowley would drink in her lowest moods wafted about in the air. Aziraphale’s heart ached. Was all of this all his doing? My God, and the plants… All of this self pity, this personal loathing, was all his doing? The feeling of crying threatened to well up in the back of his throat at the realisation. If he were human, the hands resting above his stomach would have begun to sweat, and if Crowley were human, she surely would have drunk herself to death by now.
“How long has it been, Aziraphale?”
Crowley’s voice remained distant, monotone, like a blank canvas.
“Seven months and five days, Crowley,” Aziraphale responded after a moment, nodding, with a little smile, causing little bursts of flames to churn in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. “Believe it or not, I have been counting.”
Crowley scoffed, bringing the glass of pure whiskey to his mouth, muttering against it, trying to ignore the fact that Aziraphale had actually been counting, unlike herself. Crowley misplaced his rising panic onto Aziraphale, and turned it into sarcasm and anger, a true trait of Hell’s most prominent Demons. “Of course. Of course! Heaven has always liked that bloody number seven. Was that intentional, Aziraphale? Seemed like something your lot would have done on purpose. Wait till it hits seven months Aziraphale, you know how we like those bloody sevens!! ”
Aziraphale only shook their head, closing his eyes as he did so, attempting to ignore Crowley’s mocking tone. He just hoped Heaven wasn’t listening. When their eyes opened, they set their gaze forlornly at the floor, pretending to not notice Crowley grab another bottle of Whiskey and down half the contents in mere seconds. In all truths, Aziraphale had been deathly afraid. After the.. kiss .. Aziraphale knew he could not view the relationship he had with Crowley the same way again, and it scared them. It had sent it soaring in the stars, in a completely new direction, on a completely new trajectory amongst the white dwarfs and stardust mingling in the endless void above. The next steps were completely unbeknownst to either of them, and Aziraphale was afraid. It had taken a hundred years for him to come to terms with the feelings he felt, but somehow it was never enough. Aziraphale was an angel, and Crowley was a demon, and the two had been fraternising with one another more than they should have for thousands of years. A relationship with him would break everything , and he was sure the kiss alone caused a rupture in Heaven somewhere. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to be with Crowley - it was quite the opposite in fact - but what would that cause?
“Why are you here, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked bluntly, standing tall, jutting his chin out, trying his very best to assert his dominance, to make it clear that Aziraphale’s sudden appearance didn’t phase him one bit, even when in reality it did. Alot. “Because you haven’t bothered to contact me in a very long time, you know that? Seven months and five days without you has been…” His voice trailed off, tears threatening to swell. “Well, you can imagine how it's been. So if you would kindly tell me what it is you want, Aziraphale, so I can go back to my life and you can return to your… Archangel-y business.” Crowley’s body wavered about, his slim form struggling to stand still, which indicated to Aziraphale that she was drunk, or very close to being drunk, at least.
“It has been hard on me too, Crowley, you should know that.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, mimicking Crowley in his stance, attempting to gain a level of authority, despite his body trembling. A glacial silence settled like bitter mist between them, this hostility making one another almost unrecognisable. Crowley did not care for it, and scoffed.
“Another Armageddon is scheduled to arrive soon, Crowley, they call it The Second Coming. I… wanted to warn you personally, so you could escape, before you know..” Aziraphale waves their arms about vaguely, “...The Second Coming comes. ”
Crowley laughed, and snorted not long afterwards, the movement causing his body to warble a little, to and fro, like a pendulum. Another Armageddon? What the Hell was the reason for a second one? Had God and Satan really come to an agreement on another one, even when the first one had gone to utter shit? Well, that admittedly was a rather big team effort, but nonetheless, Crowley had played a big part in that - had neither Heaven or Hell learnt their lesson? But then she thought about it. Crowley had a lot to lose back then: the bookshop, the world, his world, none of that particularly mattered anymore, nothing in general mattered anymore. Her love for the world had begun to dissipate at a rapid pace when the only person who understood it left to participate in its destruction. So much for needing her.
“I say bring it on!” He concluded, her hands extending outwards, a toothy yet almost sinister grin plastered on his face. Aziraphale looked utterly stunted, their eyes widening at Crowley’s unwarranted and worrying response. That was certainly not the reaction they were expecting, nor was it the one they were hoping for. They were half expecting for him to turn psychotic, burst in a gale of hellfire, a creature of Lucifer, whose unquenchable anger alone could thwart the will of God. But he didn’t. Aziraphale furrowed their eyebrows, breath becoming unsteady. For the first time in the thousands of years they had known Crowley, he was afraid of her. Not because of their unfathomably wicked smile or their uncaringness of the world, but because he was stepping closer and closer to Hell.
Because of Aziraphale, she had aligned himself closer and closer to Hell’s ideologies. His disregard for the world surely, was only the beginning.
“Well, that’s unlike you at all, Crowley.” Aziraphale stated, eyebrows upturned to a curve, concerned.
“Well, you know…” Crowley mumbled, words trailing off, as he shrugged, turning his head to the side, unbothered.
“I thought that you were better than that.” Aziraphale blurted out, scrunching up their face immediately in regret.
Crowley’s expression faded to anger. There was a nerve that Aziraphale had struck. A pluck of a harp’s string, strummed far too hard.
“Better? Better ? Really?” He snapped, “It’s a shame you thought so highly of me, Aziraphale. It’s such a bloody shame.” Crowley began stepping closer, her skinny body that Aziraphale had once explored ( to certain degrees ) was suddenly too tall, too intimidating. Aziraphale’s own body stiffened, shoulders locked into place, frozen just below his ear lobes, their left hand rubbing nervously against the right, eyes unmoving from the frames of Crowley’s dark glasses.
“Because this…” Crowley’s pointed fingers glide against her own frame, up and down, thigh to collarbone in a rapid fashion. “It is your fault. I am unlike myself because of you. I mean.. Heaven? All that Archangel stuff? I thought we were under an agreement, Aziraphale. I thought you were better than that. Heaven is toxic, Hell is toxic, I don’t understand why you ran in pursuit of something we built our entire existences on avoiding. ” Crowley did not shout, but spoke with razors upon her tongue. Each word ended with a sharp edge, slicing tiny cuts on Aziraphale’s skin. He winced. He winced because Crowley was right. They had spent their lives simply going along with each other’s respective factions as far as they could, and distancing themselves away from it where possible. Aziraphale’s choice was the final curtain call, the ultimate choice, and they had chosen wrong. Both Crowley and Aziraphale knew that he had chosen wrong.
“You made your choice. And I cannot compete - I understand that now, Aziraphale. I get it. Crystal clear. Over and out.” Crowley maintained his distance, pacing himself back and forth from one end of the room to the other, the plants shaking violently at this point. Aziraphale shook their head in disbelief, a gasp billowing from his lungs. The choking sensation had grown heavy within Crowley’s throat, growing significantly difficult to combat with each breath she took. When Crowley was passionate about something, or something bugged her in a painful way, he found himself unable to stop speaking. Words slither together into an incoherent trail into pretty much nowhere. Not to mention, his tendency to hiss would thrive in her anger.
“Was I just a demon you knew? Did those days at the Ritz mean nothing to you? I mean, they certainly meant something to me, Aziraphale. They meant the world. Look at all of what we have seen , Aziraphale. For Satan’s sake, we have known each other since the dawn of bloody time. We created the universe together. There’s not alotta people who can claim that feat, that's for sure.”
“Crowley, please!”
Aziraphale’s pleas cut off Crowley’s ramble in an instant. Now both of them had gone teary eyed. Crowley’s lips frowned, eyes buried in his glasses, empty and full of defeat. A palimpsest of memories turned on a wheel of film in Aziraphale’s head. Of the good and the bad, the sweet ones and the horrid ones, but they all held one similarity; Crowley was a part of all of them, one way or another. Aziraphale had not forgotten any moment he spent with Crowley on Earth, and right till the end of time, they would never forget.
“Every moment I have spent with you on this Earth was bliss, Crowley. I want to make that very clear.” Aziraphale stated, almost yelling, making sure to emphasise the word ‘bliss.’
“Then why did you leave?” Crowley’s voice was breaking now. It was quiet, almost like a whisper. She was defeated, because she knew what the answer was, just like back then, seven months and five days ago.
“I didn’t have a choice, and it pains me that you can’t see that.” Aziraphale stepped closer, his hand bundled into a fist, the other resting atop, as if they were praying.
“Alpha Centauri. That was a choice.” Crowley's stone heart was crumbling, as her voice began to crack.
"They would have found us! They- Who knows what they would have done to us, if they knew we fled to a different planet. It was enough for them to lose Gabriel and Beelzebub, but now with Shax and Metatron I... I wanted you to see that joining me was the only way in stopping everything. I needed you then, and I need you now Crowley. I need you to be safe. I have grovelled all those months in making sure any plan that Heaven had would not affect you in the slightest, I have made sure that Metatron and Michael and everyone else steered clear from you. They tried to come for you, but I had to convince them that you weren't worth killing. They threatened to remove your name from the Book Of Life. I have put my existence on the line for you in ways I don't think you quite understand, as you had once done for me. Now let me do it for you one last time, Crowley. Please."
Crowley's fingers dragged across his eyes, secretly wiping the brimming tears from her waterline. As he put her glasses back on, he sighed, keeping his sight away from Aziraphale. They were too close now. Too close for comfort, too close to see Crowley's tearful eyes, too close to see the collateral damage caused by the mess they both had made. Thunder rolled above their heads, a likely effect of Crowley's foul, foul mood. It rumbled the walls, the rain flushing endless streams along the windows. The plants vibrated in fear again, their dead leaves shaking with what little life they had left. Aziraphale desperately tried to follow Crowley's gaze, whose head was rolled back, trying horridly to avoid it. A look from Aziraphale would break Crowley completely. Especially now. Aziraphale was losing him. One by one, piece by piece, moment by moment, Crowley was being lost, drifting further out to sea, and it wouldn't be long until the Crowley that Aziraphale loved would become unrecognisable, a tiny speck amongst the endless waves of blue.
"You need to go, Aziraphale. Now. It's over. Let it come, whatever you and your chums Upstairs have planned, I'll be here to put up a good fight. Now go." Crowley's face was long and forlorn, the lines tracing her mouth sharp with his frown. Aziraphale's creased with defeat, their lips trembling.
"No, Crowley, I won't let you I-"
"Aziraphale."
"But you need to understand that-"
"Angel." Crowley's lips trembled with uncertainty, with fear.
Aziraphale's face scrunched with sadness, yet a gentle rosiness shone upon their cheeks. It had been far too long since he had been called that little name, and they would be lying if they said that he didn’t have a little bit of satisfaction from it, even with the current situation. Nevertheless, Aziraphale’s heart churned with an ache, his body begging him to plea for forgiveness, to pray for Crowley to listen and to understand. The two had inched closer now, their faces barely a meter apart. The closeness was stomach-turning, reminiscent of the times passed. Aziraphale knew Crowley's face like the palm of his own hand. They have seen each trough and peak of her skin, how the ripples of wrinkles would line in uniform each time he'd raise an eyebrow, how the imperfections of her complexion only made him more alluring. The frowns, the smiles, the snarls; he saw how each expression painted her face like a work of art, like the ones they'd spend hours pouring over in their many outings to museums. It wasn't just museums either, it was the nights in the graveyards, evenings in the bookshop, early mornings in the Ritz, dining and clanking glasses together in cheers to the world. Each one drew Aziraphale deeper into temptation, each second under Crowley's wing had caused them to sink deeper into the sulphur pit that resided in the slit of Crowley's snaked eyes. Crowley was not Aziraphale's Heaven, nor was Aziraphale Crowley's Hell, but they were each other's worlds. Crowley was the absence of light, the darkest substance in the world, a roughened surface with no possible way of allowing light to reflect upon him, until Aziraphale, the absolute light of his life came along and turned the black and white world into shades of dark grey. They were harmonious, the perfect halves for one another.
They spun on their own axis, waltzed upon their own gravity, created their own existences, and that, to Aziraphale, was love.
"I'd rather burn in Hellfire for six thousand years than see you suffer under the wrath of my doing."
Aziraphale whispered, letting the rain outside overtake their hushed voices, the backing track to Aziraphale's confession. His hands snaked to cusp Crowley's cheeks, which was a sin in itself. Crowley shook her head in Aziraphale's hands, in disbelief of disagreement, neither of them were quite sure.
"Let me do what I am supposed to, one last time, and save you. Please I have done some things that I shouldn't have done, and you were right. With everything. Heaven, the toxicity, the danger - you were right, and you have every right to be angry at me, to resent for me for leaving, but i implore you to try to understand that I had no choice."
Aziraphale's voice was soft, like a lullaby, and in an instant, Crowley's anger melted away into nothingness, her cheeks gently glowing in Aziraphale's grasp. It was the closest he'd get to Heaven, being held so gently like this, with love and kindness. Crowley's hands lay atop theirs. The skin to skin contact, the closeness, the kindness, it felt all too bittersweet for her. He shook her head again. This time, it was clear to Aziraphale that it was out of disagreement.
"Crowley. Please. I love you."
A mix of laughter and the attempt of stifling sobs escaped Crowley’s nostrils, as she shook her head for a third time.
“I love you, Crowley.”
Crowley sucked in her bottom lip, biting his top teeth down on it, before puffing out a sigh.
"Nothing lasts forever," was Crowley's only response. Crowley had once believed in forever; she had once believed in the idea that him and Aziraphale could make it, that fleeing to Alpha Centauri was a plan as solid as Crowley made it so. Forever now, to her, was something unachievable. That, in order to reach forever, Crowley would have to make sacrifices, to change, to oblige and blindly obey, to succumb to the torturous endeavours of Heaven just so she could have a chance of seeing Aziraphale again. That is what pained her most.
“But I want it to last forever. And it has. And I was a coward for not admitting it sooner. For Heaven's sake, Crowley, I love you." Aziraphale removed his hands from Crowley's, and placed them on his shoulders instead, giving them a little shake. The tears were evidently brimming in Aziraphale's eyes, and had now grown uncontrollable.
That is, when, Crowley's body slammed against Aziraphale, and her arms were smothering them, embracing them into a hug. This moment was six thousand years in the making. Six thousand years of yearning silently with small glimpses across benches and dinner tables, each one a silent, unseen declaration of their absolute total adoration for one another. Six thousand years of torture, of sweet acts and favours for one another, of miracles and the lack thereof. Six thousand years of feeling the urge to bring their lips a few inches closer to one another, to drag their palms down their skin just an inch further than they should, to breathe heavier upon the glass of the Bentley on the lifts home, thinking and wallowing about what could have been if they were just born on the same side. And yet, their love was impenetrable, indestructible, ineffable, and had defied every rule-book from both Upstairs and Downstairs. Crowley's body lay limp against Aziraphale's plump form, her head lulled on his shoulder. A lone stream trickled from Aziraphale's waterline, down to his cheek, and round their chin, dripping on to Crowley's blazer. A tender moment, after what felt like millennia apart. Their embrace was warm, the hands on each other's neck and waist, the trembling of Crowley's body, the gentle stroking of Aziraphale's hand along Crowley's back, the hushed words exchanged between one another; it was bliss.
"M'sorry for snapping at you, Angel." Crowley mumbled, still clinging onto his angel for dear life, "N'I'm sorry for saying all that stuff about you earlier. Wasn't particularly nice of me, was it?"
"Oh Crowley, you old serpent, you don't me owe an apology. Besides, I think this makes up for it, don't you think?"
Crowley chuckled, resting her forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder.
"You'll have to leave me again soon, won'tcha?" Crowley whispered, after a moment.
Aziraphale's heart panged. "I'm afraid so, my dear. Duty calls."
Crowley pulled away, revealing that he had taken his glasses off, the golden circles of his iris beady and wet, rimmed with tears. Aziraphale couldn't help but smile. They were like waves of a yellow sea, a kind, soft yellow, the illumination of the sun at dawn. Aziraphale's thumb ran across Crowley's cheek, collecting the wet tears with a swipe, causing her to melt like butter in their hands. It felt good to finally share such intimacies freely. It felt good to touch each other's skin with love rather than friendship. It felt good to look into one another's eyes with love, pure love.
"I believe I may have gotten your blazer a bit soggy, Crowley." Aziraphale sniffed, mingled between giggles.
"Well y'know whats I said about people getting wet and staring into each other's eyes, Angel." Crowley responded, smirking, the giggles erupting again. Crowley pulled Aziraphale close, letting his hands cusp their cheeks this time, pushing their foreheads together.
"What now, Angel?"
"I don't know, truly, I don't. I think we need to talk everything out first, there is a - lot I believe you need to catch up on."
"Then do I have permission to tempt you to stay the night?" Crowley teased.
Aziraphale nodded, and placed a kiss upon Crowley's cheek. "Well then, permission granted."
Amidst the rain of the night, the two spent hours breaking into dawn about the future, which also included a lot of apologising, from both ends. The air around them had grown warm, the silence inviting and gentle, rather than cold. It was true, they both had a lot to tell; Aziraphale had the important details about the Second Coming, which sounded far worse than the first, and Crowley reported on both Maggie and Nina, as well as Muriel's upkeep of A.Z.Fell's Bookshop, which they were operating swimmingly. Every now and again, they'd hold each other's hand, or gently sweep a lone strand of hair out of one another's face, or make tiny excuses just to edge closer to one another, as if they were bashful teenagers in love. They may as well have been, it wouldn't have made a difference. They were in love, and no Great Ineffable plan could thwart it.
Crowley wasn't sure when Aziraphale left, but when she woke in the morning, with the light streaming from the windows with such intensity, her arms felt cold. But, in the first time in seven months and six days, Crowley's body was at ease. There was no craving for alcohol the first second he opened her eyes, and there was no sign of any lingering about in his apartment regardless. Aziraphale must have wiped the place clean during his sleep. She didn't remember much of what Aziraphale said whilst he was drifting in and out of consciousness, but did distinctly remember the promise Aziraphale made to return, and that it would be a lot sooner than seven months. That, followed by a string of "I love you's" probably.
Whilst all wasn't perfect, everything was okay. Crowley was okay, Aziraphale was safe, and the plants had begun to grow their youthful glow back.
Perhaps he'd visit the bookshop today.