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This was not how Crowley wanted this to go. Not how anything was supposed to go. And with Aziraphale in front of him, presenting a halo on a celestial platter to him, it was almost like he didn’t know him at all. Falling; watching as the fates of his creations were revealed and the questions he only wanted answers too. The sulfur, dragging him down, and down. Covering him in a darkness that was once his canvas to create beauty; to let there be light. The thick sludge filling his lungs, his halo cracking and breaking, burning in a way that no supernova had ever felt. This was different, wasn’t the divine work he had put his soul into; his whole existence into creating. He was drowning, and there was no way for him to survive. He burned, and all he wanted at that moment was to be doused in holy water.
He never wanted to be a demon; never wanted to regain his angel status back. He had his own path laid out before him, one that wasn't controlled by some ineffable plan. As long as he embellished a few papers to head office, Hell didn't care what he did.
But here Aziraphale was, not even listening to him. Offering to leave his bookshop, leave everything behind. How was it fair that Gabriel and Beelzebub were able to be happy? To fade off together hand in hand to destinations unknown? For them to be a them.
And he stormed back to Aziraphale, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat and bringing their lips together. Pouring his very being, his essence, his everything , into that one action. He feels Aziraphale’s hands on his back, feels the way he shakes under him as his hands explore the expanse of his back.
And then he lets go, and he watches as Aziraphale puts distance between them, tears in his eyes as he looks at Crowley. Silent. And Crowley wants nothing more than for the angel to say something, anything, at that moment.
He just never expected, “I forgive you.” And Crowley feels the all too familiar memory of sulfur flooding his esophagus, filling his lungs. He can’t breathe, not that he ever needed to, but for once, the need is as tangible as the hole that Aziraphale has left in his heart that only beat for the Angel that stood before him.
So he steels himself the best he can, “Don’t bother.” He replies, turning quickly towards the exit. He can’t be here, can’t be anywhere near SoHo, Berwick Street, the bookshop, and especially the holier than thou angel that called the place home.
But he can’t. Not yet. So he stands by the Bentley, just to make sure Aziraphale’s decision is final. That he’s going to realize the mistake he made and come running to him, wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck as he kisses him. Apologies whispered against his lips. Crowley would accept, he would always forgive the angel. Has always forgiven the angel.
But this wasn’t a Jane Austen novel, Aziraphale did not run to embrace him, and there was no rain to wash away the muddied slate and leave them with something fresh.