Chapter Text
He’s in the middle of Paris. Well, not the exact middle. He’s nearer to the catacombs. He didn’t choose it to be poetic, or ironic, but it does fit. So, Crowley sits, in the middle of Paris, in a flat that is dim and dank enough to be just shy of a cave.
It’s not that he’s sulking. He doesn’t sulk. But if he did, which he’s not, he is doing so in the middle of Paris in an apartment that he hates with enough wine to drink himself silly for the next hundred years.
It’s been… well. How long now? Long enough, he supposes. Being a being that is immortal tends to wear down your internal clock a bit. It could have been a month since then, it could have been a hundred years. Crowley would be none the wiser.
He’s too busy not sulking.
It’s not that he thought that Aziraphale would accept him. No, they’ve been doing their dance too long for Crowley to dream of that. He was ready to fight, to argue with Aziraphale until he admitted that Crowley was right on this one. That the last thousands of years was proof that they could be… them.
He felt the fight when he took Aziraphale by the collar, the liquid venom pooling in his mouth as he pressed his lips against the angel’s. He could feel the fight in the taught line or Aziraphale’s body. When he pulled back he was prepared to fight for them.
I forgive you.
Crowley has been through literal hell. He’s seen and known how it feels to have all the biggest bad in the universe leveled at you all at once, faced it with nothing a grit of his teeth.
But, somehow, three words hurt worse than anything even the worst hellions could imagine for him.
He would’ve taken anything else. Even nothing. Aziraphale could have said nothing and Crowley would probably at least be in London instead of Paris.
To be forgiven for love. The only thing in his existence that he has ever been sure of. Even when he was sifting through the muck of hell and all, at least he had love . At least he would have Aziraphale…
Had. At least he had Aziraphale.
The worst part of it all is that he’s stuck with the love. He definitely still has the love and even if he were disincorporated today he knows the love would be there still. Maybe it would even become its own thing, separate from his body, sentient in its own massive insistence.
Where is the love to go if Aziraphale is gone?
Crowley can feel it there, sitting snug and tight against his chest. Nestled between his ribs and chafing his lungs every time he breathes. He stares at the ceiling, tries to convince himself that he isn’t trying to stare beyond it to peek into heaven to see what Aziraphale is doing. See if he’s smiling. See if he’s happy. To see him.
Crowley closes his eyes.
The light shifts across his flat, dim and getting dimmer still. Bits of dust flutter aimlessly in the stale air. A bit of it probably falls into Crowley’s wine glass.
He drinks it anyways.
So, what is there to do besides sit. He’s sure Shax is having a grand time in hell, is sure that if he bothered to try he could be doing something. But, it all feels like a bit of a moot point.
Half of the reason he used to do anything in the first place was so he could have a good reason to not be at Aziraphale’s heels twenty four hours a day. It used to be a game for him. To stay away longer and longer each time just so he could feel the rush of showing up wherever Aziraphale was, the angel always giving him a gasp, a smile, a touch.
The tannins in the wine could never be more bitter than the taste of this, how he reminisces and regrets.
They’ve had their tiffs, their fall outs where they get so mad they don’t speak for a century. Crowley has always been fine being in a fight with Aziraphale. But this is not a fight. This is not a disagreement, solved with time and a rare first edition print of some novel Crowley can’t be assed to actually look at the title of before shoving it into the hands of the eager angel.
This is final. This is the end. Nothing lasts forever, Aziraphale was right, and this is the nothing after the forever he’d always thought he’d have.
He’s not sorry. Aziraphale is not sorry. There is no compromise.
He groans and chugs the rest of the wine in his glass.
He stretches his legs, clad in linen pajama pants he purchased at the beginning of… whatever this is. They’re baby blue and have paw prints in various colors printed across them. Crowley hates them.
They’re comfortable.
There is nothing to do and so nothing is what he does. But damn it if it is not boring. He almost starts to wonder what it’s like wherever Beelzebub and Gabriel are. Almost. The thought of them threatens to turn the wine already souring in his stomach.
There’s a knock at the door.
He only barley manages to stop himself from snapping the stem of his wine glass in half when he startles.
He has a landlord. Probably. He lives in a flat on the top floor of his building, no neighbors save for an old woman and her 6 cats. Maybe she wants to borrow a cup of sugar. So, it’s not unlikely that someone could be knocking on his door. Because they are, insistently.
“Just a minute.” He calls. He shuffles to the sink in his tiny kitchenette, dropping the wine glass into it. He approaches the door. The person has stopped knocking now that he’s answered. He doesn’t bother looking through the peep hole. He unbolts the chain lock and opens the door.
It’s an angel.
It’s the angel.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale breaths out heavily.
Crowley blinks.
Then he shuts the door.
It’s not that he slams it so much as he closes it… very quickly with harsh force. He stares at the back of it, almost feeling like he could burn holes into it. He probably could, considering he’s a demon.
There’s no sound from the other side of the door. But he knows, he can tell that Aziraphale is standing there. There’s a long moment before the knocking starts again.
“I’m not interested.” Crowley snaps. Because what else could he be here for. That’s usually Aziraphale’s tactic for getting Crowley to agree to things. Let him cool off for a few hundred years, show up unexpected, and play nice until he gives in.
Except this time is different because Crowley is binge drinking in Paris while Aziraphale is an archangel doing God knows what (literally).
Again the knocking stops and again there is more silence.
“You don’t even know what I’m here to say.” Aziraphale calls through the door. He’s speaking in his meek tone, the kind that says Crowley has caught him in an act. Playing coy for the sake of getting Crowley to go easy on him.
“I think I have a good enough idea. Go.” He tries to be firm but he’s a little tipsy and he’s trying to talk through a door. He’s not even really sure if Aziraphale can hear him.
“Can I come in?” Aziraphale asks. He can practically see what Aziraphale looks like now. Round eyes looking at the door as if it were Crowley himself, fingers twining and untwining, lips pressed into a thin line.
Crowley doesn’t answer.
Aziraphale can never take a hint.
“I’m not… I didn’t come here to. I don’t have any intention of trying to convince you.” Aziraphale says.
Crowley takes a deep breath.
“I don’t care. Leave.” He says. Because he has to. Because Aziraphale isn’t here to convince him to become an angel but he also isn’t here to run away with him. Again, there is no compromise.
“I… please. I need to. You- I. I need to talk to you.” Aziraphale says.
And that feels like a slap to the face. If he tries hard enough, Crowley can almost feel it hot and burning on his cheek. He grips the door handle so hard he’s sure it must have indents in it now.
The door is opened. He looks at Aziraphale again.
He really does look exactly like how Crowley pictured.
“Now you’re ready to talk? What, needed a few years to think on it?” Crowley feels the anger searing through him already. He’s meant to be more controlled than this, but he’s always been known for having a temper when it comes to Aziraphale.
“And what if I did? Is it a crime to need time to collect my thoughts?” Aziraphale scoffs and Crowley can practically feel his blood vessels constricting.
“Angel, this had better be important or I swear I will go down to hell right now and reenlist so that I can make your job miserable for all eternity.” He snarls.
Aziraphale’s face drops a little. Of course, Crowley notices.
“It is important. It’s important to me and it should be important to you.” Aziraphale nods. Matter of fact.
“Should be and is are two different things.” Crowley says.
“It is important. I promise. Do you think… would I come here if it weren’t?” Aziraphale drops his gaze.
“You used to come to me without a second thought. Now I’m a last resort. Wonderful.” Crowley glares and he wonders what he did to deserve this. Probably everything. The whole demon thing. Eternally damned and all.
“Crowley. Please. Just… let me come in. We can talk.” Aziraphale says. He sounds a little impatient.
“We can? Or just you.” Crowley crosses his arms and leans against the door frame. He doesn’t have his glasses on, no reason when he’s alone with no plans for company.
“We can. I mean it, Crowley.” Aziraphale says. And there he goes, the big round eyes and the furrowed eyebrows. Like one more moment standing on the other side of Crowley’s door and he’ll simply melt into the floor.
Crowley stares. He stares for a good long moment before he speaks.
“The moment you bring up me being an angel I’m calling Shax and starting the war with heaven myself.” Crowley turns on his heel and marches into his apartment, not bothering to stop to hear what Aziraphale says in reply.