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There’s a span of about 275 years where Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley at all.
(Two hundred and seventy-three years and ninety-six days, to be precise, but Crowley is a demon and it would be ridiculous for Aziraphale to keep track, of course. It would be ridiculous to count how long it had been. On day number ninety-nine-thousand, five hundred and fifty-two, he considers that he has spent entirely too much time thinking about a demon that really has nothing to do with him. He’s off cavorting with his demon friends, surely, or causing havoc in some remote corner of the world. Whatever he’s doing, it’s none of Aziraphale’s business.
He puts another tally mark on his calendar, anyways.)
Being, well, an angel who doesn’t die, Aziraphale is used to being alone. For all that humans liked to glorify immortality and holiness, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. There were even occasions where he considered that it might be more punishment than divine gift, but that would be sacrilege to contemplate too deeply, so he tried to keep those thoughts to a minimum.
Spending too much time around too many philosophers often led Aziraphale closer to sacrilege than the higher ups would probably be comfortable with, to be honest.
During these years, Aziraphale travels around. He doesn’t look for Crowley, because that would be insane. Rather, he chooses to become a patron of the arts, visiting different theaters and taking in as much as he can.
(Every few decades, humans go through another existential phase, where they write poems and books and musicals and operas speculating about Hell and their place on Earth. These are the years that Aziraphale hates the most, the times when he feels the most alone. He walks out of many performances during this time, which feels rude and against his angel nature, but at least relieves him of the queasy feeling that fills his stomach whenever he thinks too much about demons or friendship. Around the fifty-five thousand day mark, he pledges to stop going to any show that explicitly advertises itself as being about anything to do with an afterlife.)
So Aziraphale is truly alone, with the exception of his visits to the bosses to report on how he’s doing. He avoids any mention of Crowley in his reports, which is just as well, since they’d been rather nosy about the demon’s involvement with him in the past. He sees other demons over the years, ones who haven’t been nearly as concerned with keeping up their appearances, and he spreads good to overpower their bad and tries not to let himself become too nauseous at the sight of boils and pus and maggots when he does have to interact with other demons.
His bosses seem to lose interest in him once Crowley disappears. His visits from Gabriel decrease significantly in frequency, and the archangel’s attitude towards him mostly shifts from one of anger and irritation and general disappointment to indifference. Aziraphale had always figured that once Crowley left and he started doing much better at his job, Gabriel might even be proud of him. He finds that the indifference is almost as freeing.
(He almost rages at Gabriel, just once. It’s not the first time he’s thought about it, but it’s the closest he comes to doing it. Usually he’s more preoccupied with fearing the wrath of God than with telling Gabriel to shove it. When Gabriel comes this time, however, it is seventy-three thousand days since Aziraphale had last seen Crowley – 200 years on the dot. He’s standing in a crowded shop somewhere in Spain when he catches a glimpse of ginger hair across the room.
“C-Crowley?” he stammers out, and it takes him just a second longer to start pushing through the crowd. The crowd stubbornly stays in place, and Aziraphale, even after centuries on Earth, has still not quite grasped the way humans bob and dodge through crowds with no problems. “Excuse me,” he snaps exasperatedly at one man beside him, and when he turns back, the shock of red hair is gone, hidden in the sea of other people. He lets out a generic noise of frustration and tries to shove through another person, who reaches out and places a hand on his chest.
“Whoa, there, bud, where are you running off to?”
“I- Gabriel?” Aziraphale stares at the taller man.
“Hi,” Gabriel responds, giving him a smile. “Got a minute?”
“I…” Aziraphale darts a look back towards where the flash of hair had disappeared. “I can’t-”
“Great,” he interrupts. “Stop and chat with me.”
The door to the store swings open, the sound drawing Aziraphale’s attention. His head jerks back towards the door. The view of whoever is leaving or entering is completely hidden by the crowd. His heart sinks, and when he looks back at Gabriel, he feels lightheaded. Gabriel is yammering on about something that’s probably divine and important, but Aziraphale’s ears are ringing and whatever he’s saying sounds far away. His breath sounds loud to his own ears, and he clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth together to control himself before speaking.
“This really isn’t a good time for me; I actually-”
“Why are you in such a rush? I’m your boss. There’s nothing too important that can be going on.” Aziraphale’s hands ball up into fists. The door opens and shuts again. “So, what have y-”
“Shut up!” he exclaims, and Gabriel’s mouth shuts, his eyebrows shooting up. “I’m very busy right now and you truly have the worst timing and there are more important things than-” He cuts himself off this time, slamming his mouth shut and staggering back a step. “Gabriel, I’m sorry, I-”
“Listen,” Gabriel says, drawing himself up to his full height. Aziraphale shrinks back instinctively, wincing before Gabriel even continues. “We’ll chalk this up to you forgetting who you’re talking to. Don’t cross me, Aziraphale. Trust me. That’s something you really don’t want to do.”)
He’s standing on the side of the road, watching traffic go by, when it ends.
He doesn’t notice when someone comes to stand next to him, a fact which makes him jump with surprise when that someone starts talking.
“Been a while,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale jumps, his head whipping around to look at the demon, tightness spreading in his chest. “Hey, angel.”
“Crowley,” he manages. “Where have you been?”
Crowley tilts his head. His hair is shorter now, and Aziraphale drinks in his appearance, from the jacket to his stupid expensive shoes. “Ehh, here and there. Got in a bit of trouble. The usual.”
“The usual,” Aziraphale echoes.
Crowley nods. “I couldn’t find you.”
“C-couldn’t…” He swallows. “What do you mean you couldn’t find me? I’ve been around.”
“Long story,” Crowley says, shrugging him off. He looks at the road. Aziraphale looks at him until he turns his head to give the angel a tight smile. “Got held up by management, if you will. By the time I got back here, I was out of sync. Couldn’t find you. Thought I saw you in Spain once, actually. Early after I got back. Thought it must’ve been my imagination.”
“It wasn’t,” Aziraphale answers, and his mind spins trying to process the information. He thinks about Crowley, stuck in Hell for one hundred years. He thinks about the disgusting demons he’s met over the last years. He tries to imagine Crowley with them, in some basement somewhere surrounded by demons with rotting flesh and mutilated faces. It makes him shiver. “I tried to… Gabriel held me up.”
Crowley makes a face. “Ah. And how is the old Gabriel? As horrible as ever?”
“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale reprimands automatically, and Crowley smirks. It’s familiar, it’s comfortable, it’s Crowley. “I missed you, you know.”
“Of course you did,” Crowley shoots back, and they’re okay again.
They stand in silence on the edge of the road for a few moments, staring at the traffic, comfortable in each other’s presence.
It’s Crowley who breaks the silence first.
“Do you ever wonder about the point of this all?” Crowley asks, gesturing vaguely at the air in front of them.
“The point of what all?” Aziraphale responds, squinting across the road they were standing by to make out the word Pinkberry printed on the storefront on the other side. He somehow doubts that Crowley is questioning the purpose of frozen yogurt, although Aziraphale is more traditionally the one with the sweet tooth.
“You. Me. Heaven, Hell, monitoring the Earth. This back and forth, knowing it’s not going anywhere. Half my job is done by humanity themselves, anyways.” Crowley cracks his knuckles loudly. Aziraphale winces. “Besides, your bosses don’t exactly fit the be kind to others narrative.”
Aziraphale considers him. “Yes, well.” It’s not quite an articulate response, but it’s hard to say much when you’re an angel whose demon best friend has just returned after being stuck in Hell for God-knows-why and he’s insulting your archangel boss.
“They don’t deserve you, you know. You’re much better than the rest of them.”
Aziraphale sniffs. “Well. You’re too good for Hell, too.”
“Too good? No need to be mean,” Crowley shoots back, but when Aziraphale glances over, the side of his mouth is quirked up in a smile. Seeing him smile again makes Aziraphale’s stomach do a flip.
“There’s the Great Plan,” Aziraphale tells him, swallowing hard.
“Oh, sure, the Great Plan .” Crowley’s voice is mocking. He scrunches up his nose and Aziraphale looks away again, looking back at the frozen yogurt store.
They’re silent again for a while more. It’s Aziraphale who speaks first this time.
“Does there have to be more?” Crowley doesn’t say anything, and he continues. “I mean, it’s you and me. You do things, I undo them. That’s us. Why does there have to be more?” Crowley still doesn’t say anything, and maybe it’s the silence and maybe it’s the almost-three-centuries of separation and maybe it’s just that the words are true that makes Aziraphale feel like confessing. “I’d be just fine with back-and-forth with you for the rest of eternity.”
They’re silent again for a while longer, angel and demon, standing on the edge of a road in London and observing the world.
“I don’t think I’d mind that either,” Crowley finally says.
It starts raining, after a while. Aziraphale pulls out an umbrella. Crowley moves closer and Aziraphale shifts to hold the umbrella over both their heads.
“I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”