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Why do humans get all the love and adoration? They’re the favourite child, the prodigies, the ones who need saving. “God so loved the world…” and all that nepotism. Could it really be called that? Does it really matter? Questions pile up. He simply must stop asking questions.
In the dark of a cold winter night in Soho, there is a bookshop with a demon inside. The wind is blowing and rain is crying down. Is it heaven? Or perhaps just the freak of creation. No, it doesn’t really matter.
Said demon is draped across a beautifully upholstered armchair, bottle of whisky or some other form of alcohol loosely in hand, gazing out of the window. He watched as the people, the humans, Her favourites walked by. They had no clue. He envied them.
He rolled over, taking another sip of his drink as his eyes roamed the shelves in front of him. Glazing over all the great romances: Romeo and Juliet, The Iliad, Pride and Prejudice. Somewhere in there, there was even a book which opened with a nice day, where seemingly enemies could become friends, maybe more… but he new like every other love story on those shelves, it was damned to tragedy.
He wept.
He didn’t allow himself to do that much, but if the sky was dark and crying, why couldn’t he?
Another question. It really didn’t matter.
He didn’t care. Why would he? He’s already fallen and he didn’t think he could fall again, but twice more has he. In love, and now in despair. He should be used to it at this point.
He wasn’t. It sat in him, a fire, eating at his very being and he made a choice. He couldn’t rely on anyone else anymore. No trust, no care, and certainly no love. He was going to change his ending, him and no one else. He would dictate the end to his story. And his end it would be.
—
He just sat there, beholding the building in front of him. Its triangular roof, stained glass windows, and steeple with bells meant for joyous moments inside. But it was something different that he wanted from in this structure which would become his coffin, his final resting place. Would he really ever be at rest?
The clouds were still as heartbroken as he was as he slammed the door to his Bentley, the tears of the sky masking his own. It didn’t matter.
He made his way to the huge double doors that marked the beginning of his end. His finale. And he reached up to those sacred handles that would burn like heaven, and he pushed them open.
—
Each step was agony, but he didn’t bother trying to squirming to avoid it. Last time he felt this pain he was saving his beloved angel. His now not-his-angel. Back then, he thought it would make a difference, help his divine companion see that despite his demonic nature, he cared. It clearly didn’t do much.
Step-by-step, sentence-by-sentence on the last pages of his narrative, he made the agonising journey to the small font of holy water. He was ready, he was tired, and he was just done. Done with his stupid and seeming infinity that gave him hope of love and joy. He should have known that a demon would never be granted those. She was certainly very good at the “taketh away” part of Her job.
He was just about to take the small steps up to the font when he heard the loud click of the doors being opened. He thought he should panic, but couldn’t muster the energy to do so. He just stood there in apathy waiting for another clueless human to interrupt his day, to take away his final moments in the heartbreak he now is sure is some divine irony for his hope of a joyful future.
But as the figure rounded the corner into the main hall of the church, he saw. He was sure he was delusional at this point and he was too tired to care. But he saw, clear as day.
It was his angel.
The tears that had previously been washed by the rain and withheld in his exhaustion began to flow once again. It came crashing down like the sea on pharaoh’s soldiers. His whole body burned on the consecrated ground and he thought vaguely he might be shaking, but was too overwhelmed to truly notice.
His angel’s face softened with worry, as he hurried to meet his demon. His uncalloused hands gently wrapping around Crowley’s upper arms, guiding him away from the font towards the doors through which they had both entered.
They were about half way to the exit when Crowley’s brain decided to join the party once again and a flood of questions leached into his skull. What was he doing here? Why would his angel be here? He had left. Why would he start caring now? He had made his choice, couldn’t he just let Crowley make his choice too? Why would he dare take this awa-
Crowley’s thoughts were interrupted by the loud slap of his hand against his angel’s face. Had he really done that? It didn’t matter, he didn’t care what his angel thought of him at this point.
Aziraphale just stood there, waiting for Crowley’s chest to fall back into a steadier rhythm. A slight sting panging in his left cheek, but he chose to ignore it. It didn’t matter.
Once Crowley’s breaths evened out, the angel took slow steps toward his demon. Crowley lifted his eyes and glared at him, preaching caution. Aziraphale ignored the warning, he had to get through to his Crowley. He gently and ever-so-slowly lifted his arms and held Crowley’s neck.
Crowley froze, unable to comprehend this moment of care that his subconscious had been longing for millennia.
Aziraphale just carefully rubbed his thumbs over the demon’s cheeks, soothing him and wiping away every tear methodically. He dared a look into the beautiful serpentine eyes which had swept him away that first time on the wall of Eden. He gazed into them and saw only suffering and anguish and it filled him with such grief. He had but one plea, one question that did really truly matter.
“Oh Crowley… forgive me.”