Chapter Text
There are some feelings it is impossible to really forget. Usually these feelings are painful: The burn of a stovetop, the sharp prick of a needle, an insect’s sting. Similarly, Crowley suspected he would never quite forget the awful feeling of not being able to find Aziraphale. That loneliness, emptiness, aimlessness, was a top contender for the worst feeling he’d ever known, grappling for the top spot with the sickening sinking agony of falling from heaven (he hadn’t ever forgotten that feeling, either). It could go either way depending on the day.
Certainly, without a doubt, Crowley recognized the feeling when it hit him. (And, coincidentally, when it hit him again it made a compelling case for being the absolute worst thing, beating out falling for at least a few days.) He was driving when it hit him all over again, and it took a lot of self control not to swerve off the road. Instead, he headed straight for the bookshop.
It wasn’t burning, this time, just empty and locked. But the demon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his angel was not there, nor anywhere on earth. Stepping into the abandoned bookshop, it felt unnatural, though it rarely had any customers anyway. The void in Crowley’s heart, such as it was, gnawed at him awfully, and the emptiness and silence did anything but help. He almost wanted to call out for Aziraphale, but it wouldn’t be any use. Demon instincts never lie.
There wasn’t much out of place in the bookshop, really. To the human senses it probably wouldn’t have offered up any clues. But Crowley knew the smell of sulfur, stronger than what came off his own demonic form (it barely smelled at all these days, having spent so little time in hell), confirming his suspicions.
He had to go back to hell.
Crowley didn’t waste much time. He didn’t have enough time to procure holy water, not by a long shot, and it was likely too risky anyway. But he had plenty of demonic power in his own right (older demons had more to work with than newer stock; they had been angels, after all, and that offered a lot of power). Not to mention he had one of the most potent fuels of demonic power, second only to chaos: rage.
He was ready, descending into hell, to destroy anything that opposed him. Anything to relieve the awful feeling of being utterly alone. He would dismantle hell piece by piece if he had to, and he’d certainly have no qualms with killing demons if they had so much as touched Aziraphale. He’d put on his best menacing look, as well: wings unfurled and eyes entirely yellow, save for his slitted pupils. By the time he stepped into Hell proper there was enough pent-up rage just below the surface that he could’ve easily razed a city block, lord help the first demon he came into contact with.
But he didn’t come into contact with a demon.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed, as though Crowley had just walked into the bookshop unannounced, not as though they had just met on the threshold of Hell.
Crowley didn’t know how to respond. The angel stood out distinctly, all neat and off-white colors, juxtaposed with the dark griminess of Hell stretching out behind him. Crowley had half a mind to think it was a trick; demon’s weren’t above shape shifting. But there was an unmistakeable holiness around Aziraphale standing there, undoubtedly a genuine angel. The gnawing emptiness consuming Crowley had shrunk back, fizzling out with his seething rage to be replaced by total and utter confusion.
“A-angel,” he stammered.
“Would you mind if we went somewhere else?” Aziraphale prompted, and didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing Crowley by the wrist and pulling him back out of Hell with him.
For a moment Crowley could only stammer, trying and failing to start words, let alone sentences, and tossing the occasional glance back over his shoulder toward Hell.
“What happened?” he finally managed, “How did you—?”
“They certainly caught me unawares,” Aziraphale admitted, walking with great purpose to the Bentley, which was waiting patiently. “But I happened to have some holy water on me, and that certainly did the trick.”
“It would,” Crowley had to admit, still struggling to keep up, not to mention understand what was happening. “So you just… left?”
“I certainly wasn’t going to stick around any longer than I had to,” Aziraphale pointed out. The pair climbed into the Bentley, and Crowley turned to face him,
“Let me take you to my place. They’re less likely to track you there.”
“Fine,” Aziraphale accepted.
"Are you alright?" Crowley asked, starting up the car.
"Fine." Aziraphale repeated.
The angel made it so far as the front door of the flat before collapsing.