Work Text:
Crowley never expected to stand among the survivors when the dust settled on the apocalypse. Even more surprising was the fact that Hell had won the war. After all, Hell was just Heaven’s rejects.
The battle had been swift. After completely razing the Earth together, leaving no human alive, Heaven and Hell had turned on each other. The rubble of the Earth had decayed into a battleground, the bodies of angels and demons soon joining those of the humans.
Crowley hadn’t fought for Hell. That was what everyone believed he would do, but he didn’t. He’d been fond of Earth, and humans, but Heaven and Hell had taken that away. In retaliation, Crowley had killed indiscriminately on both sides, not caring if they were an angel or a demon. He had been focused on protecting both himself and Aziraphale, but wasn’t sure if the angel had noticed.
About halfway through, he had lost track of Aziraphale. Crowley wondered if he was among the dead, but immediately pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t dwell on that, not if he wanted to survive.
Now, he stood next to Lord Beelzebub in Hell’s judgement hall, blood staining his clothes, hands, and face. It was time for the Final Judgement. He hadn’t had time to clean up, but Lord Beelzebub had forced him to attend the audience for the prisoners of war. She had ordered for Crowley to be put in chains to deal with later, his punishment for murdering those who he was supposed to be siding with, he supposed. The iron shackles dug into his wrists, the infernal metal searing his skin, but he refused to show any pain.
Crowley watched passively as angels were dragged into the throne room and offered a choice: fall or die. Many chose the latter, but a brave few embraced their chance to survive, albeit as a demon.
It wasn’t until Aziraphale, bloody and bruised, was dragged in that Crowley lost any semblance of apathy.
He strained against the chains, managing to snap one free of its bolts before Hastur physically restrained him. No matter how hard he fought against him, he couldn’t gain any traction to break free.
Aziraphale caught his eye and shook his head before returning his gaze to the floor. Though it was probably an attempt to placate him, all it succeeded in was angering him further.
“Let me go!” Crowley hissed, and something in his voice must have scared Hastur. His grip loosened, just for a moment, and Crowley was able to break free and lunge towards Aziraphale again.
The chain on his wrist jerked him backwards, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. He tugged again at the chain, trying to break it, before Aziraphale’s voice gave him pause.
“Stop, Crowley. Please.”
Crowley locked eyes with Aziraphale, and saw the pleading in the angel’s gaze. Reluctantly, he stopped fighting, but his posture never loosened.
“Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate,” Lord Beelzebub drawled. “For your transgressions against Hell and the demons who reside in it, you have been found guilty. You are now faced with a choice.” Lord Beelzebub leaned forward in her throne as Aziraphale met her eyes. “You can rebel against Heaven, fall into Hell, and join the legions of demons, or you can die.”
“After what Hell has done?” Aziraphale scoffed. “Your lot has prompted the worst atrocities in history. You have killed trillions. I can’t condone your actions, and there is no way for me to reconcile my beliefs with yours. Kill me, if you must, for I will not fall.”
While Crowley admired Aziraphale’s adherence to his ideals, he hated that Aziraphale couldn’t bend them to save his own skin. Aziraphale didn’t seem to grasp that there would be no coming back.
“Angel, please,” Crowley begged. He pulled again at his remaining shackle, now slick with his own blood. “You have to accept this chance. You’ll die if you don’t. And I don’t- I don’t want to go through eternity without you by my side.” Crowley’s voice cracked, a heartbroken whisper. “Please.”
Aziraphale’s eyes softened, a sad smile impressing itself on his features. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but that is something I cannot do.” Aziraphale turned back to Lord Beelzebub. “I shall face my death with honor, whenever it may be.”
Lord Beelzebub frowned. “If you refuse to fall, you are sentenced to death.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale stated. There was no hint of despair in his voice.
Knife in hand, Lord Beelzebub stepped off the dais. She took two steps before she paused and turned back, a wicked smile on her face. “Duke Hastur. Please release the demon Crowley.”
“What?” Hastur sounded just as confused as Crowley felt.
“You heard me. Release him.”
Hastur snapped his fingers, and the remaining chain on Crowley’s wrist dropped away. He wanted to run to Aziraphale’s side, but something held him back.
“It is time for you to make a choice, Crowley. To be accepted, without any reservations, back into the good graces of Hell, we ask one thing of you,” Lord Beelzebub began. Crowley had a sick feeling that he knew what was coming. “Take this knife and execute the angel Aziraphale. Show that your loyalty to Hell is greater than that of any falsely-conceived friendship you may have formed with the enemy.” She offered Crowley an ebony blade, the tip already stained with the blood of angels.
Hands shaking, Crowley accepted the knife and turned it over in his hands. He had half a mind to drop it, grab Aziraphale, and run. Maybe they’d be able to escape to Alpha Centauri, or Gallifrey, or any of the other hundreds of planets that were not Earth. Maybe Hell wouldn’t follow them.
But that was just wishful thinking, so Crowley shoved it aside.
He approached Aziraphale and dropped to his knees by the angel, letting the knife slip from his grasp and clatter to the tile floor.
He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. After everything that had occurred, Aziraphale was all he had. He had lost everything before, and he wouldn’t survive losing everything again.
Crowley was prepared to stand and fight his way out, with his bare hands if necessary, but Aziraphale laid a hand on his knee to stop him.
“Don’t do this, my dear. You won’t win. I may have to die, but you have the opportunity to live. Don’t squander it.”
“We can make it, Aziraphale. We can go far away. We don’t have to do their bidding.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s not!” Crowley was getting desperate. “I swear to you, I wouldn’t let them take you.”
“They already have.”
Lord Beelzebub motioned for Crowley to speed up. “I’m losing my patience. Hurry it up, or you both die.”
Crowley thought that was preferable, but he knew Aziraphale would think otherwise.
“Please, my dear.” Crowley tuned back to Aziraphale, who was offering him the ebony blade once again. “I’d rather it be you. You, at least, are merciful enough to make it quick.”
Crowley accepted the blade, the weight of what he was about to do finally settling in. “Are you sure?” He tried to keep his voice from trembling.
“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled, then tilted his head up to the sky, a peaceful expression on his face.
Before Crowley could have any further second thoughts, he stabbed forward with the blade, piercing Aziraphale’s chest. Hell murmured its approval, but he didn’t care. He drew the knife out and pulled Aziraphale close, the angel’s body flush against him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley murmured, fighting back tears. He could feel Aziraphale’s blood seeping through his shirt and staining Crowley’s own. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It seems that this- this was ineffable.” Aziraphale coughed, a wet cough, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“Why didn’t you run away with me, all those years ago? We might have- we could have been-” Crowley’s voice cracked.
Aziraphale’s smile contained mingled pain and acceptance. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes before Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut. Crowley rubbed his hand up and down Aziraphale’s back in a last-ditch attempt to comfort him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice wavering.
“It’s alright, my dear. I- forgive you.” Aziraphale’s lips gently brushed Crowley’s forehead as his aura dimmed to nothing.
“Aziraphale, angel, please, no!” Crowley bowed his head over Aziraphale’s body, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. “I never told you that I- I lo-”
Crowley broke down into sobs, cradling Aziraphale’s body in his arms. Not even the demons of Hell were heartless enough to drag him away.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Five months and countless bottles of alcohol later, Crowley had made his choice. He would admit that he was drunk when he made it, but honestly, this was the most clear-headed he had felt since Az- his best friend had died.
Hell had left him with the angel’s body, with which to dispose of however he pleased. Now that the war was over, they didn’t care much what he did. Eventually, Crowley had settled on cremation, and watched as Az- his angel’s ashes scattered up into the sky.
After that, it had been easy, disappearing. Hell’s reign was chaotic at best, in complete disarray at worst, but Crowley did his best to avoid it either way. He had shut himself off from the world, isolating his interactions to him and alcohol.
A few times, other demons had come and tried to pull him out of his drunken haze, but Crowley had refused to speak to them. Eventually, they got the notice to leave him well enough alone.
There were whispers that something inside Crowley had broken, and Crowley honestly couldn’t argue with that.
He stared down at the half-empty whiskey bottle in front of him. Had it really been worth it? The war, the death, Hell’s triumph? Everyone seemed to think it was, but the Earth, the angels, and Azi- who knows what else had been lost.
He really missed his angel. He missed everything about him. His smile, his laugh, the way his eyes lit up, even his stupid bookshop that didn’t actually sell any books. It was like a hole had been ripped in his heart, one that could never be filled.
Crowley buried his face in his hands. He was spiraling. Memories of Azir- his best friend were flooding back, and he couldn’t take it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m so, so sorry.”
A memory, the angel in his arms, blood pouring from an open wound in his chest.
“I- forgive you.”
Crowley shot out of his seat and stumbled to the bathroom, vomiting the contents of his stomach into the toilet. The alcohol burned just as much on the way up as it did on the way down.
When he was finished, he sat back, basking in the feeling of cold concrete against his back. He pulled the piece of tartan fabric that had once been Azira- his angel’s bow-tie from his pocket and squeezed in his fist.
God- Satan- somebody, he hated that bow-tie, but Azira- his best friend had loved it. Crowley could remember the proud look on his face when he displayed it for the first time, along with his own eye roll and mutterings.
But it was all that was left of his angel, save the memories.
He missed Aziraph- his best friend, so much that it hurt almost physically. He couldn’t go on like this, the alcohol was only a temporary fix. He needed something more permanent.
And he knew just what to do.
Crowley forged to his safe with a purpose, twirling the lock until the door swung open. Inside was a thermos, printed with a tartan pattern. He extracted it carefully and placed it on the table beside the whiskey before locking the safe up once again.
He collapsed into his “throne”, pouring himself one last shot of whiskey. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. Savoring the pain as the liquid traveled down his throat, Crowley put away the remaining alcohol and contemplated the thermos in front of him.
There was only enough for one attempt. He had to commit to this.
Carefully, Crowley removed the lid from the thermos and poured its contents into the whiskey tumbler. There was just enough for him to take one shot of it.
He removed his angel’s bow-tie from his pocket one last time and pressed his lips to the fabric before tying it around his wrist. A little something of his best friend to keep with him, until the end.
Crowley grabbed the tumbler in front of him and downed the holy water inside of it.
The blessed liquid seared his throat as it went down. His mouth filled up with coppery liquid, and he started coughing, watching as his blood stained the rug in front of him.
He was in agony. Every nerve in his body was alight, burning in the presence of the holy water. He fell out of his chair onto his knees, choking on his own blood.
He wondered if this was how Azirapha- his best friend had felt.
His vision was growing fuzzy, the pain too much to handle. He was dying. It was too late for anyone to save him, if they even cared enough to do anything.
As Crowley slipped into eternal night, only one thought ran through his mind.
See you soon, Aziraphale.