Work Text:
“Oh, my dear. You are looking quite lovely today.” Aziraphale reached out and stroked one leaf on the brilliantly green plant that sat on top of his desk. “I swear, you are getting more beautiful each and every day.”
He finished watering the plant and made his way to the rest that were scattered around in the shop. Nowadays the old shop seemed to look more like a jungle that just so happened to house books too. Most of the old decorations that littered the shop had been discarded in the past thirty or so years. There were just so many memories associated with everything, an old playbill from the time they saw Les Misérables, an old clock Aziraphale had seen in an antique shop that he thought was absolutely darling, even a painting that had been somehow managed to get miracled into the bookshop after a party when the overly rich host bragged about how much he paid for such a piece.
All of these items felt too painful to hold onto forever. Eventually each item had been given up, one at a time until there was nothing left to remind him. This was almost all but futile, it wasn’t the items that would trigger Aziraphale’s memories, it was everything. Everything and anything.
The very walls of the bookshop were seeped deep with memories, entrenched with the reminders of what their life had been before. There was the particular seat on the sofa which Crowley loved to recline, the stain on the hardwood floor of red wine from too many drunken nights where they enjoyed each other's company far too much, the books that Crowley claimed to hate but would read silently next to Aziraphale when they just needed a little peace and quiet in the shop. These memories were ingrained in the very core of Aziraphale and of the shop, it wasn’t something so easily rid of.
It happened just a few years after the apocalypse that wasn’t. They thought they would be safe, at least for a while. Heaven and Hell working far too much trying to get everything back in line. It made more sense for them to just leave Aziraphale and Crowley alone, so they did. For a bit.
Apparently Gabriel and Beezlebub had brokered some type of tentative alliance. Just enough of a truce to come after them.
Aziraphale didn’t understand what happened. One moment they were in the shop Crowley sprawled elegantly across the couch, Aziraphale’s hands gently stroking his hair as he read. The next they were facing Gabriel and Beelzebub. The last Crowley was on the floor, his breathing shaking, the light in his eyes fading.
It was only a few moments, just enough time for Crowley to mutter how much he loved Aziraphale, before his eyes closed and never reopened. Aziraphale waited, clutching Crowley’s lifeless body to his chest. He waited until they turned on him, repeating the spell they had used. But it never happened. Beelzebub said he was to be left alone, which was far crueler punishment then anything they could have thought of in Heaven.
The years after that night were not kind to Aziraphale. At first he couldn’t find the strength to continue, everyday was a battle to keep himself from collapsing and crying over the smallest memory of Crowley that would invade his mind so completely. He stopped opening the shop entirely, no energy left to give in pretending it was an actual shop. Everyday he grew more and more distant from the outside world, yet everything inside the shop haunted his mind with memories of Crowley.
So he got rid of anything that he associated with his beloved demon.
Everything except the plants.
They were living creatures, he couldn’t dare just toss them out with the rest of the rubbish. So he kept Crowley’s plants. All the love and care he wished he could have doted on Crowley, he instead gave to his plants. That seemed to help, just a little. The days weren’t so painful, although there were still plenty of times when Aziraphale refused to get out of bed that day, or when he was happily humming along in his shop when the sharp pain of remorse would overwhelm him to the point of breaking. Even through all the hardships, he made sure to find time to care for the plants.
“Perhaps, I could read to all of you.” He spoke kindly to the plants before sitting in his usual arm chair and picking up an old worn copy of ‘A Picture of Dorian Grey’. “Oh, he would have loved his one.”
Aziraphale hadn’t realized he actually spoke the last part aloud until he noticed the snake plant to his right drooping slightly.
“Oh my, sorry. But, um, buck up. I’m sure that…” Aziraphale stared at the plant. He had no idea how to end that sentence.
What would most people say? He’s smiling down on you in Heaven? He’s watching over you? But what can be said when it's a known fact that that is not true?
Whatever Gabriel and Beelzebub had done destroyed Crowley completely. He knew this, he had spent a better part of a decade trying to locate Crowley’s soul in either Heaven or Hell but didn’t find a trace. Crowley was gone, completely and utterly gone. And Aziraphale was alone. From now until the end of time.
“Right,” He spoke far too tightly and set the book down. “You’re right, perhaps something funny is in order.” He exchanged the book for an anthology of Shakespeare’s works.
Just the cover of the book was enough to generate the memories of seeing these plays together. The smile Crowley would cast in his direction during a particular funny line. Aziraphale exhaled a sob and clutched the book to his chest not understanding what was happening. He felt as if he couldn’t breath, ice cold daggers filling his lungs, hot tears tracked down his cheeks in a never ending torrent.
If only they had been given more time, if only Aziraphale hadn’t been so cowardly for thousands of years, if only he could have admitted to himself how much he loved Crowley sooner. If only….
But he hadn’t. That was an oppressive weight that would stay upon his shoulders for all of eternity. He could have had so much more, but he let it slide past him with the assumption they could have time eventually.
So Aziraphale sat there, surrounded by books and plants, feeling utterly alone in his shop. Letting the grief wash over him and hoping that, perhaps one day, Death would be merciful enough to pay him a visit.