Chapter Text
Before the end of the world (or, what very well should have been the end of the world), Aziraphale had never understood why human beings were so impatient. He would watch them all at their worst and their best, in ancient days and modern ones, in all four corners of the globe, and everywhere he went, they seemed to only want more faster. Humans couldn't wait for anything. But maybe he was biased- he had been around longer and has surpassed many human beings in life, so time worked a bit differently for him. It was still rather fascinating though.
After what was supposed to be the end, though, he started to understand their impatience very well.
It had been three years since he had saved humanity from complete demise alongside a very tricky demon. Since the Antichrist had defeated the Divine Plan with the power of being an average eleven year old boy at heart, and everything seemed to be oddly at peace. He had slept at Crowley's flat, not knowing that in the aftermath of everything, his sweet bookshop had been restored in perfect condition. For a brief moment, since this had all started eleven years prior to this, Aziraphale had a chance to breathe. Really breathe. And he was more than thankful for the chance. He'd closed his eyes, planning to try out sleep as Crowley had recommended, and let himself relax into the idea that when he woke up, things would be alright.
Of course, it rarely happened that way at the best of times. If only Aziraphale had been a reader instead of a character. Maybe he would have better prepared himself for the emotional blow he was going to receive.
For starters, Crowley was gone from the flat when he woke up. This wasn't in itself unusual, even if Aziraphale missed him, and he waited it out for what seemed like ages. Then, when he wasn't back by the end of the day, and Aziraphale saw The Bentley parked on the side of the street haphazardly with a ticket stuck between the windshield wipers, he figured he must have had some business to attend to and went toward the bookshop. At least he had that. It was relieving to see the old girl back in shape. He didn't even notice the new books tucked away towards the window.
But, then it didn't get much better. He still didn't hear from Crowley for a while, and he very narrowly avoided being destroyed by hellfire (thank the Lord he'd grabbed that last prophecy from Agnes Nutter). Aziraphale tried not to worry. Crowley was a busy man. There were times they didn't talk every day, it was fine. He was fine.
He wasn't reassured when months later, there was still no word, and to make matters even worse, Gabriel showed up on his doorstep.
His smile was disgustingly fake. His eyes gleamed with hate, and Aziraphale felt all sense of love drained from within a five-mile radius of his superior. And yet again, it only worsened.
"You know, I am sorry to hear about what happened to your traitor partner." Gabriel had hissed over a cup of coffee. He never drank coffee before. Aziraphale wondered if maybe he'd let himself go after everything.
"Pardon?" He had asked, hiding his shock well. One could only assume that he meant Crowley, and he certainly hadn't heard about anything happening to him.
Gabriel's eyes sparked. "I thought someone would have told you. He died."
Aziraphale nearly dropped his own cup of tea. It was a very narrow catch. "...Died?"
"Yes, it was a gross sight to find, you know." Gabriel's hissing now sounded like excited whispers, even though they rang in Aziraphale's ears like thunder. "Doused himself in holy water. We were shocked we found anything left of him. Just a pile of wet clothes in a bandstand."
The silence from the principality was enough to make archangel's smile return for a week.
It shook Aziraphale to think that it had only been three years ago since he got the news. From the moment he'd heard it, time had passed him by so slowly and painfully, he would have thought that another thousand years had gone already. But time had barely passed at all, it felt like. The world was still the same. Same technology, same cars, same fashions, same everything. It almost didn't seem fair that the universe wouldn't give him enough time to grieve.
The only thing that had changed was Aziraphale. Not that he was exactly a different person in his heart, but he certainly wasn't the same outside. The tidy appearances he had kept before all disheveled fast and his chipper attitude hadn't poked its head out in a long time. His books were covered in cobwebs, and unclean mugs spilled over the shelves and the floor. He'd gotten into the habit of sleeping, finding it to be the only thing that brought his mind any ease.
When he was awake, he was plagued with questions and images and emotions he didn't know how to handle without crying- and his cheeks already stung so badly, he didn't need to make that worse too. But he couldn't stop wondering. Why? The last time he saw Crowley, things seemed to be just fine. He'd smiled at him. He laughed with him over some drinks. He'd kissed his cheek, and made Aziraphale feel a love coming from himself he hadn't felt in so long.
But then it was gone. And he didn't know what he did, what Crowley was thinking, to lead him to do something so... horrendous.
Aziraphale wondered, three years, eight months, a week and two days since, how humans dealt with this? If he could hardly stand it after what felt like forever to him, did humans ever even begin to heal after a loss like this?
Did they feel this kind of loss?
The questions were newer. They were fresh on Aziraphale's mind as he sat on the couch in the bookshop, curled into himself. His eyes had been focused on a mug across from him for at least an hour. It was his favorite mug, with angel wings. It had gotten chipped on one of the wings quite badly. Why did that feel terribly poetic? He closed his eyes and tried to focus on some other thought. Anything else, just for a moment.
Like the god awful tapping noise he was hearing.
He didn't know where it was coming from, but somewhere, there was a non-rhythmic tapping sound, like a long fingernail on glass. He wouldn't have minded if it at least kept to a certain pace. But no, of course, to inconvenience him further, it was nowhere close to even. He almost motivated himself to investigate, but decided his body felt too weighed to try.
What could he do anyway? In this state, Aziraphale was practically useless. Sighing, he tried to focus again. Something else. Something nicer. Another cup of hot chocolate or tea, or maybe cleaning himself for a visit to the new bakery down the road.
Before he could think about that further, the tapping turned into a very loud crash. Aziraphale shot up, losing his balance and immediately toppling off the couch onto the floor. He didn't get up for at least five seconds, trying to breathe. What in the name of Hell was that? After collecting himself, he stood and rushed around the shop, locating the cause of the crash quickly. A rock had gone through one of the windows, knocking over books and covering the floor with glass. He frowned.
When did he get those books?
Not important, Aziraphale. He huffed and went over to the window, looking out. At first, it was hard to see, since it was so dark out. But then his eyes adjusted, and he spotted something that made everything in his body react. His stomach swirled, his heart-beat became fast and loud, and his head told him he was seeing things, but no, the cause of that stupid rock was as real as anything. The sheepish smile told him that much.
Everything worked so fast, he didn't even feel his hand being torn apart by a piece of glass sticking up from the window.
"Sorry about that, angel, I didn't think I threw it that hard."
Oh, what the fuck?