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When Aziraphale had mentioned taking a break, Crowley had imagined a nice, long vacation to somewhere far away (maybe even a beach, or somewhere equally tropical, where they could escape the gloomy London weather for a little awhile—or even longer than that, who knows, they have all eternity after all). With that in mind, Crowley gave his enthusiastic consent to the idea, to a beaming Aziraphale's satisfaction. Having no further information about their plans, Crowley had assumed Aziraphale was taking his time planning it all out to the smallest details, in that fussy way of his that he insisted it did not exist.
So, it was expected that Crowley (who was still reflecting on what he should wear to some nice beach that looked summery enough while still maintaining his preferred aesthetic) would be caught by surprise when he, one day, woke up to a cold bed, and complete, ringing silence. He only had a brief second to enjoy the grogginess of a long, restful sleep. Then, he rolled to the side, patted the empty space of the bed, and murmured a quiet "Aziraphale?" in beckoning.
When there was no response, Crowley sat up, finally, frowning at the room at large with his eyes still closed. "Aziraphale?" He tried again, in case Aziraphale was puttering about in the kitchen already.
No response again; it was so quiet he could hear his ears ringing. His eyes snapped open.
Crowley was out of bed faster than he can blink his eyes against the glare of sunlight and the sting, while highly unpleasant, went unnoticed as he did a sort of half-jog through the rooms of his own flat. He looked in the bathroom, under the bed, walked the corridor to the living room. The radio was on, though the reception seemed to be quite bad that day, as it was only letting out a string of white noise. He ignored it in favor of entering the kitchen, then doing another circle around the house.
His calls, however, continued to receive only its own echo in response, and Crowley hissed in distress as he checked if there was any kind of note Aziraphale left for Crowley to find informing him of his whereabouts (there was none).
He paced in circles, thinking where the hell Aziraphale could've gone and chewing on his thumbnail, all while calling Aziraphale's mobile phone (which Crowley had forced him to use). That proved to be useless as well, as he soon heard the cheesy dial tone from somewhere in their shared room. Crowley paced some more.
Aziraphale couldn't have just gone away without saying anything, leaving Crowley behind to worry about whatever he was up to. Not that he worried, really. It was just that they were past that, the walking different ways without a word, meeting again only by fate or whatever other stupid power thought necessary to have them clash. So, he wasn't left behind, surely.
But then, what ?
Crowley was just about to turn on his heel and make another circle around the room when the faulty transmission of the newscast finally got on his already frayed nerves, and he stalked in its direction with the sure steps of someone who is about to smash one of their belongings on the nearest wall.
One hand curling around the annoying thing, Crowley was preoccupied calculating the trajectory of it when something just sort of clicked. He stared down at the radio, modeled like an antique one but possessing modern features like USB ports. It was such an Aziraphale thing Crowley had bought it as a joke, then never used it. Aziraphale, however, had loved the thing, and got into the habit of leaving it to play music in the background, or listening to the news early in the mornings—in fact, if Crowley paid attention to what was being said under all the irritating white noise, he could just make out the voice of that one journalist Aziraphale had taken a liking to.
He frowned at it, this time more puzzled than angry. The only person who could have turned on the thing would've been Aziraphale himself, and he never forgot to turn it off before leaving the house. Crowley turned the radio this and that way, gave the flat a last glance and tried again, quite unsure of himself: "... Aziraphale?"
A high-pitched noise came from the radio in response, sudden enough that Crowley almost dropped it and had to scramble to hold on to it while cursing under his breath. Just to be safe, he put it back down on the table, hands going to his hips now that they were unoccupied.
"Well, that explains why my ears feels weird," Crowley commented lightly. "You couldn't leave a note or something?"
A shrill from the radio, a sequence of noises high and low, which could mean anything, but at the moment it meant wincing when it cut into his ears—Crowley was glad his body wasn't actually human, knowing his eardrums would've shattered already otherwise.
"Listen, angel, I know you probably have words to say right now, but I can't understand them," Crowley said. "I see Heaven never bothered to find ways to communicate when you guys go all flaming wheel and multiple eyes, so for the time being, just avoid talking in general."
Aziraphale, who was never one to go quiet without complaining first, tried to voice his discontent, but as he did so, the nearest window let out a whine. Crowley whirled around to find fine cracks spreading from the center to the edges.
"Oh my G—" Crowley interrupted himself with an irritated noise. He threw his hands up, hoping Aziraphale could feel his frustration. "You're gonna break all the windows in the house, for fuck's sake! Then who's gonna take care of the mess, huh? Me?"
This time, there was no attempt to talk, though the radio was still spewing incomprehensible bullshit—and would probably continue to do so for the foreseeable future, at least until Aziraphale decided to have two legs and two arms again, instead of uncountable eyes.
Well, this sure wasn't a trip to some southern beach, but Crowley could deal with it.
"Where are you, by the way? I don't see any balls of flame, so I'm guessing you're hiding somewhere."
Crowley waited for some sort of signal to indicate the reply, and it did eventually come, but in quite the unpleasant fashion: there was tug to his stomach, sharp enough that he bent and curled down with a hand clutching at the point where the pain was strongest. Due to this, Crowley caught a glimpse of his own shadow just as something weird was happening to it. Quickly straightening up, he craned his neck to look behind himself, peering down at the dark spot in his shape, staring at it to find an eye staring back at him, and a couple others opening to do the same.
"Are you in me ?!" Crowley shrieked, a bit horrified. Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "You know what I mean!"
Crowley sneered, shaking his arms discontentedly like that was enough to shake Aziraphale off.
There was probably a better explanation to it, something about wedging oneself in the limits that separated dark and light, the meeting point so small it couldn't be perceived by mortals, and therefore safe because they couldn't gaze at Aziraphale and get themselves blinded (or a permanent spot at the therapist's office).
There was an explanation, but right now Crowley was too preoccupied by the sight of way too many blue eyes, gathering like big, weird bugs in his shadow and making pointed gestures that suggested it did not approve of Crowley's behavior.
Crowley realized he had yet to close his gaping mouth, which had been open for a whole minute.
"Right. Happy vacation, angel."
Because there was nothing much else to do, Crowley attempted to take a walk at the park; emphasis on attempted.
By all means, it should've been an eventful enough endeavor. It was a nice day, the sun was shining, people were happily walking about—all the stuff that made a day a "walk in the park" kind of day.
First, it was the animals.
Having animals be suspicious of him wasn't a new development, Crowley was familiar with it as a consequence of being a demon. But this , with dogs tugging at their leashes to put distance between them and cats scrambling to get up on a tree where they could safely hiss at him, well now that was just a bit excessive.
As for the birds, they were downright unsettling. There was no other word for when you're just minding your business only to come face to face with a pigeon who had decided your shoulder was a good resting place. When Crowley scowled at it, the bird had tilted its head and continued looking at him like nothing was amiss.
It was goddamn weird, that's what it was.
Just as Crowley had managed to shoo the pigeon away and thought to himself he could roll with this new development, he saw a little girl drop her bag, and crouched to take it for her without thinking much of it. A dismissive wave of his hand prepared for the upcoming gratitude, Crowley had froze when he looked up at the girl to find her face crumpling in what looked like quite the crying session. He hurried to shove the bag into her hands and walk away before anyone could decide he had hurt the girl somehow, but he didn't fail to notice that the next person he passed had burst into spontaneous tears as well.
Crowley glared down at shadow. "This is your fault, isn't it?" He hissed under his breath, sure that Aziraphale could hear him. The angel had no means to respond, which meant that Crowley got to fume by himself instead.
By the time he had left a disconcertingly long trail of sobbing humans behind him, Crowley had firmly decided going home was the best decision (for his own sanity and the health of all those people who would end up dying from dehydration due to all the excessive crying).
Half an hour later, Crowley was back on his couch with a tired sigh. He hadn't been out for long, but turned out that keeping himself away from the trajectory of curious birds could really exhaust someone.
Dropping his head back on the cushions, he relaxed against the softness of it and closed his eyes.
He had already survived two days, this couldn't be too hard after all.
Here's the thing about the whole ordeal.
Crowley, who had often gone centuries without even hearing about Aziraphale, was sure this would be nothing in comparison, especially since Aziraphale wasn't actually gone, just non-corporeal.
And just like many times before in his long lifespan, Crowley spends the next four days being proven very, very wrong.
The bed was too big; with only himself in it, his limbs stretched and sprawled to unlimited distances without ever reaching the edges. The sheets went untouched where he did not reach, and there were too many pillows when he only had one head to lie on them.
The house was too silent; any electronics shrieked in Aziraphale's presence, so they were never on these days. Not the radio, nor the TV. There was no cheesy, old music, nor the voice of a talk show host.
The days were too long. Going out turned out to be a problem, but there was nothing to be done inside, either. Aziraphale tried to keep him company, moving his eyes meaningfully while Crowley talked his ear (eye?) off, but listening to himself was not as fun as some narcissists may have made it seem.
To make it worse, there was always this strange heat that followed him to every room, and every time he mentioned it, Aziraphale looked away apologetically (with every single one of his eyes).
Point was, Crowley was starting to sound like one of the tragic protagonists of one of those period romances Aziraphale liked to read sometimes.
Even the way he walked was becoming forlorn, and that was the true tragedy.
Crowley wanted to wake up to tangled limbs or the smell of cocoa. Wanted to turn and find a poorly hidden smile when he told a joke. Wanted to reach out and be reached for in return, have hand touch hand.
Simply put, Crowley wanted Aziraphale back, and with a ferocity that consumed him even as he slept. The only reason that kept Crowley from admitting that out loud, with the knowledge that Aziraphale would return if he asked, was the fact that deep down (under all the irritation, boredom, and inconvenient longing) he understood.
Crowley had slept centuries away, for no other reason than to let things run its course while he rested. Aziraphale, as far as he was aware, had never taken time to himself like that, and six millennia of no rest was too much for anyone. Aziraphale deserved to let his body and mind rest and Crowley respected that, even if he didn't particularly like the absence.
And he was coping, in a way—or that's what he told himself, as he slipped into the bathtub and sunk into the lukewarm water.
This kind of indulgence was usually more Aziraphale's thing than Crowley's—he was, after all, endearingly fascinated by any human invention that involved enjoying oneself at their own leisure. Crowley tended to tip to the other side, to something a bit more reckless than experimenting a country's cuisine and popping a bath bomb into the water.
However, desperate times called for desperate measures, and Crowley wasn't actually averse to this kind of thing, so he allowed himself to go lax against the porcelain, glad that this wouldn't try to hiss or sob or bark at him.
Crowley sprawled as he wished, one leg thrown over the edge of the bathtub, torso submerged deep enough that the water touched the tip of his nose. Quietly ( not forlornly), Crowley reflected over how much more enjoyable the bathtub was when Aziraphale was there to make witty quips and laugh from under all the bubbles.
Which seemed to do something , because in the next second the water started vibrating, breaking in ripples even though Crowley had not moved. He raised his eyebrows at the display, but didn't have time to question it before a row of eyes opened around the rim of the bathtub, so perfectly aligned it almost looked like decorations. Then, the water moved a bit more rapidly, little shockwaves spreading all across it, and Crowley could feel it cross the threshold from lukewarm to hot. It'b be uncomfortable for anyone else, Crowley didn't even feel it all that much.
The fact that the water began to turn from its translucent state to a bright golden that glittered when it caught the light, now that's… Well, it's something.
Crowley locked gaze with one blue eye, which was upturned in a very obviously self-satisfied way.
"You just turned the water golden," Crowley said. "Of course you turned the water golden, you're an angel. Angels like golden things I guess. I can't tell if you miracled this into existence or if your angelness caused it just by existing."
Crowley poked at the water with some suspicion, wondering if it was anything like holy water (he hadn't dissolved into nothingness yet, so he was willing to bet that was a no). Aziraphale continued to look at him expectantly.
"Well," Crowley shuffled about until his shoulder blades weren't digging into the porcelain. There was that weird warmth again, in the form of a breeze blowing at his neck. "Now you're here, so that's good."
Next day, not only did Crowley wake up with the grossest taste in his mouth (falling asleep without miracling away the effects of the alcohol were a grave mistake, then, duly noted), but his shirt was also clinging to his chest like a wet rag—which was exactly what it was at the moment, all disgustingly damp with sweat. He had a vague memory of getting dressed in his pajamas and padding into the living room brandishing the first bottle of alcohol his fingers had gotten ahold of (which turned out to be wine, but not one of Aziraphale's more favored ones).
After drinking way too many glasses, he had proceeded to pass out without even sobering up first. Crowley smacked his lips and stuck his tongue out, groaning at the horrible feeling of it all.
He noticed that, just to top it all off, there was a flock of birds perched outside the window, looking straight at him and shuffling about like they were considering going in. Not for the first time that week, Crowley contemplated yelling at everything in the room, but, imagining Aziraphale's apologetic and ashamed face, promptly gave up on the notion.
Too impatient to take another bath and go through the ever too troublesome mortal styled hygiene routine, Crowley snapped his fingers and got rid of everything currently wrong with his body, getting a fresh change of clothes in the process.
The room was still too hot. Crowley groaned out loud and ruffled his hair harshly. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Aziraphale peering up at him with a concerned look. Crowley flashed him a smile, which was 90% a grimace and 10% an irritated show of teeth, so of course it didn't help the situation much.
There was still sweat running down his temple and the curve of his spine, and a look at the window told there was now a whole eagle trying to get itself between two goddamned goldfinches (red spot on its head and everything). He decided then that enough was enough.
"We're going for a drive," Crowley announced loudly.
He was out of the flat before Aziraphale could make the mistake of voicing his concerns and finally bringing the entire place down. Driving the Bentley didn't solve all of his problems, of course: there were still dogs making themselves as loud as dogly possible, a bird perched on the hood and watching him, and what sounded suspiciously like sobbing following him everywhere he went, but at least he was out and about with the wind on his face, instead of being cooped up inside with Aziraphale's stupid heat. That, at least, was already a great improvement in his book—even if he couldn't listen to Queen without Freddy Mercury sounding like he recorded underwater with a shitty (and not waterproof) mic.
He was sure he caught a glimpse of a face frowning heavily in disapproval from inside the left side mirror, but if he did, Crowley firmly ignored it in favor of upping the speed with little care.
For a brief moment, Crowley thought of driving to Aziraphale's bookshop; he had the keys, securely dangling from his keychain. Aziraphale wouldn't mind if he did, he knew that. There, Crowley could run his fingers along the spines of the books, find evidence of Aziraphale's essence and existence in the dust that surely would be gathering by now. Sit on his favorite armchair, curl up where his scent would probably still linger despite the days of separation. Maybe even pour a drink into his mug, press his lips to the rim, where Aziraphale himself would have put his mouth.
Crowley swallowed on a noise that clawed at his throat. He realized it had just completed a week since Aziraphale retreated into his natural form and Crowley was already losing it completely. It's that thought that makes him resolutely drive out of town instead.
Crowley was well aware that stopping at the sight of a church was ironic, considering his status as a demon. In his defense, it was an abandoned church, and one that had been deconsecrated enough that it barely hurt: less walking barefoot on the beach, more wood porch after some soaking in the midday sun. The threat of burning him was there, but not strong enough to really do anything.
Not that Crowley had even thought of that, or known it until he was already stepping onto the property, crushing too high grass under his shoes.
It was the kind of place that could easily fit both in a beautiful, emotional drama or in a terrifying horror scene. The greenery grew unrestrained without human intervention, enough to crawl into the cracks of the skeleton of the mostly caved in church, and covering Crowley up to his thighs. In fact, the plants covered everything.
Including the statues. Angel statues.
Crowley was still debating if he would ever admit that he saw them, thought of Aziraphale and immediately stopped, completely disregarding any possible effects of stepping on holy ground.
He passed by the first statue, standing right at the entrance; the angel had a feminine face and long hair flowing down to the hip, and Crowley walked right past it, also ignoring the other two statues on each side of the church.
At the back, however, there was another one. Hidden from sight when facing the church like he was now, but that had been visible when seen from the side like he did as he drove by. It was for that one that Crowley rounded a corner, beelining to it without hesitation.
The stone angel had short curls on it head, and though it had a sword on its belt, its arms were open, smiling down benevolently at Crowley. Crowley gazed up at it almost wistfully.
"I feel like I'm going crazy, angel," Crowley said to Aziraphale, but looked at the statue's eyes. "Look at me," he spread his arms wide, "what the hell am I doing at a church? I look like a lunatic. You've made such a mess of me, Aziraphale."
Crowley took a step forward, his hands twitching at his side. He stood frozen, not making any further movements, instead looking at the statue and… Waiting. Simply waiting. For anything.
Then, on the next blink, the statue blinked back. It should be unsettling, maybe, when the stone eyes of the statue blinks, and the human looking eye did the same on the statue's cheek. Crowley, however, only smiled. Like a spell taking ahold of him, he was propelled forward.
His fingers touched stone, and the stone was warm against his skin. Crowley didn't stop looking into its eyes, but perhaps he should, because he barely noticed when its wing moved to spread behind its back, then a second and third pair appeared.
Crowley approached further, stepping onto the pedestal to bring him to eye level with the statue. His breath was too loud, he realized, but pressed on, until his lips touched the stone.
"Aziraphale."
Three pairs of wings wrapped him in a cocoon, shielding him from anyone's sight. Crowley briefly glanced up, but only saw the tip of a wing.
He exhales.