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Crowley sits in the Bentley long after Aziraphale leaves, drumming his fingers along the side of the steering wheel. He watches people slink in and out of all the seedy places that line this stretch of road in Soho. He watches everything absentmindedly and loses track of time. Soon less people are on the sidewalk and there’s even less to focus on. The headlights of the occasional car. The broken neon sign to a liquor store that flickers every so often. A crumbled cigarette that finally loses its last ember.
It’s apparent to Crowley that he doesn’t know where to go.
If Aziraphale stayed with him, he could’ve given him a somewhere to head for. A destination, a reason to start the engine again. But he didn’t. And so now Crowley leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, because he doesn’t want to go home. Not yet.
He wants to talk. Their last conversation hangs heavy in the air and it was not satisfying. He didn’t even get the last word in, for Christ’s sake. Crowley wants to call Aziraphale and bare his soul over the phone, or speed over to the bookshop and bang on the door until Aziraphale flings it open. Maybe it’ll start raining like it does in the movies. Crowley imagines himself, hair slick with rain and his chest heaving, standing before the bewildered angel. And then he’ll tell him everything. That the holy water isn’t for himself, that it’s for whoever comes after him. That what they have together is so precious that someone is bound to try to rip it apart. Aziraphale’s eyes would widen and Crowley wouldn’t stop there. He wouldn’t ask to come inside, he’d stand in the downpour and tell him that there’s something between them, something that they’re both terrified of but that cannot be denied. He’d beg for him to understand that they are the only two beings in the world that truly understand each other. There’s nothing else that has stood the test of time as long as they had. Crowley had walked so much of the earth for so long and every road he’d taken always led back to Aziraphale.
Crowley has never belonged anywhere. Not with the ethereal beings in heaven that did the bidding of an unseen force, not with the malevolent lords of hell that only sought to destroy. He was creative, he was inquisitive. He painted so much of the sky that sometimes he ached for the chance to do it again. Crowley was always drawn towards beauty. And nothing, no sparkling seas or lush green gardens, no fiery gems in the sky could compare to the beautiful soul that resided in the quaint little bookshop just a few blocks over.
The daydream ends there because it has to. Because Crowley can’t imagine a world where he’s loved back. Where he belongs. Aziraphale had made it clear time and time again that there would always be something in their way. “You go too fast for Crowley,” the angel had told him, as if to say “This is too much for me, Crowley. It’s always going to be too much.”
There’s a tear that slips out from under Crowley’s eyes, followed by a second one. Then a third. He opens his eyes and stares at the roof of his car. He falls apart, slowly, all at once, in his own company.
There would be no midnight declaration, no frantic phone call. This is just how things had to be. Crowley adjusts his sunglasses and starts the car. He drives the speed limit, just this once. There’s no rush.
His mind flickers back to Aziraphale and he so desperately wants the thought of him to be fleeting, but it lingers. It’s not all of him, just his eyes. Beautiful blue eyes, brimming with tears. They tear at him, and he swerves to avoid another car. He vaguely recalls hearing a horn blaring but he keeps on driving, cutting through more and more of the night.
Crowley makes it back to his flat. His feet feel like lead as he treads up the staircase. The door opens and everything around him is blackened and dreary. The only light is from the moon and it filters in carefully through the blinds. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, sullen and sunken. He sets his jaw and turns away. Crowley locks away the plaid thermos and slams the safe’s door shut. And then he crumples to the floor.
The night creeps on. Crowley glances over at the window and he stares for a very long time. Eventually he realizes that he’s been crying again, but his hands stay at his sides. Tears flow freely until they’re blinked away.
There’s a reason he’s here and Aziraphale is there. He tells himself that he cant have hope, and yet he hangs onto the idea that maybe someday they would have that picnic. Or that a table for two would miraculously open for them at the Ritz.
But it’s not their time.
It doesn’t rain. And after what feels like eternity, Crowley stands up again.