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Depending on who you ask, there are anywhere between four thousand and one hundred and fifty thousand words made up of four letters. If you asked Aziraphale, you would most likely get a long and involved answer discussing the various dictionaries published throughout history. The conversation would most likely last several minutes and would result in no definite answer.
Importantly, of course, English is a fluctuating language and is far from the only alphabetical language to exist. Despite what some would lead you to believe, English is not the most important or most coherent language in existence. That would be an entirely separate conversation that a certain angel would certainly be happy to entertain with you. Both of said conversations had taken place when “Jim” had decided to task himself with a crossword in order to keep busy.
“First clue. First word across. Four letter word meaning revoked or bygone.”
Aziraphale had provided lots of suggestions. “Past? Or, in French, passé? Dead? Miss? Null?”
Such had gone on and on for innumerable minutes until something had interrupted the conversation (Thank God. Thank Satan?).
Distracted, conversation discarded, and crossword tossed on the desk for later, more pressing issues became apparent. All this is to say, Crowley had heard lots of four letter words in his existence:
Wine. Book. Duck. Ears. Park. Help. Plan. More. Ours. Side. Ritz. Song.
He has also been called various four letter words, all with arguable levels of accuracy:
Nice. Mean. Kind. Evil. Rude. Vile. Foul. Good.
He stopped paying attention long ago, much like he stopped taking note of the comments, exclamations that inevitably followed his supernatural being. There was little good to come of minding others’ opinions - leads to nothing but ruin, he had learned. It wasn’t apathy, per say. Rather, it was a disregard of an otherwise insignificant issue. Had he cared what others thought about him, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
The Bentley had always been a constant. Well, at least for the last ninety years he had owned the thing. It had held his CDs (disregarding that they all turned to Queen eventually), his plants, and his being. Most importantly, it had held long and difficult discussions, often unwise to have without some kind of miraculous shielding. If those conversations revolved around bebop or a coming apocalypse - those were secrets hidden in the seats and walls of the car.
He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. The seat beside him was empty. The radio was silent. There was no conversation happening between driver and passenger. Maybe that was to be the new default state. One rider, one car. The only things that would ever occupy his back seats were ferns and foliage; no tartan picnic basket or Antichrist (who had also, ironically, been in a picnic basket). Just Crowley and the Bentley - as it had always been.
The Bentley sat in silence, maybe as a sign of courtesy, as Aziraphale walked away. The telltale tuft of white curls had disappeared, as had the elevator. With it, went Crowley’s heart. Where was he to go now? What was he to do now?
In his mind, Crowley ran through the options he had. His flat had been occupied by Shax and he was decidedly not going to deal with that now. Neither Heaven nor Hell would take him for obvious reasons - not to mention that he would sooner rather be destroyed than face either of them. The bookshop was also out of the question, for even clearer reasons.
Shame, he reasoned. He had just cleaned the place up.
So Crowley drove. It wasn’t “ninety miles per hour in central London,” but it certainly wasn’t a relaxing drive by any stretch of the imagination. It wasn’t like anyone would comment on the speed anyways. So the snake on the sole of his shoe continued to push on the gas, with little desire to stop. Snakes were supposed to slither, he had been told once. He, however, preferred to ignore the speed limit while driving his 1933 car. Not exactly slithering; not a graceful saunter through the park. Better than a saunter downwards, though.
As he drove, there were many thoughts going through the demon Crowley’s head. A not insignificant portion of them were simply “Why?” with a supporting side of “So that’s it, huh?” He wasn’t going to cry. God - or Satan - no. White knuckles gripped the steering wheel, golden eyes trained on the road.
Demons didn’t cry. They didn’t cry when they fell. They didn’t cry when their beloved Bentley went up in flames. They didn’t cry when toasting at the Ritz. And they certainly, most absolutely, did not cry when abandoned by their other half.
*
He was a little jealous of Ligur right now, if he was honest. Destruction by Holy Water didn’t sound so bad. Not like there was much else keeping him around. Well, maybe the Bentley, but even that wasn’t really a concern at the moment. Maybe he could sell the thing to a vintage car collector beforehand. Not a really smart solution though. No use for the money afterwards… not that it really mattered anyways.
Sold.
That was another four letter word.
*
Died. Lone. Pain. Wing. Eyes. Tree. Gate. Eden. Rain. Kids. Play. Dawn. Last. Fate. Love. Lied.
He snorted. "What a joke!"
If Aziraphale was there, he probably would have said something about “ineffable plans” and not to question God. Crowley would tell him that questioning God never did anything bad. The angel would remark that the statement was decidedly untrue. Crowley would laugh and flick down his sunglasses, winking with slit pupils.
But Aziraphale was not there. He was going… Up and had left Crowley behind. It had taken five minutes and a cup of coffee with oat milk and almond syrup to ruin all of… whatever it was they had. If he wasn’t going through such a state, Crowley would have laughed at the absurdity of it all - how quickly everything had come undone.
Kiss.
Another bloody four letter word.
Demons are not known for their optimism. Angels, one might think, are optimists. However, it is decidedly true that neither group are optimists. Rather, both are aware of the good and bad plaguing the world and allow themselves minimal hope at most for things not terribly concerning to them. The daily weather is one of these things. While some miracles can influence the atmosphere to do certain things, weather is entirely natural - which is to say, incredibly unpredictable.
Thunder and lightning. A small sprinkle of water. A moment of calm. Then, a downpour. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons, there was no awning in the near vicinity. The snake slammed on the brakes, swerving off onto the shoulder of the road. A country road, thankfully. Plenty of space and an inverse amount of traffic. Crowley jolted in his seat at the sudden halt. He was the one who stopped the car, naturally, but hadn’t fully thought about the consequences of inertia. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and took a deep breath.
“FUCK!”
Four letters again. A slam of hands on the steering wheel.
“SHIT!”
There were many swear words Crowley let out that day, many of which would (and had) made an angel blush. Not all of them were four letter words. Not all of them were even English. Counting to ten had been bullshit. Seems that words were too. There was no word in any language anywhere that could truly encapsulate the pain that the demon Crowley was feeling in that particular moment. He allowed himself this pain for only a short while. It would tear him apart (possibility literally) if he didn't get it out.
All thunderstorms have an ending, of course, and the one that plagued Crowley was no exception. He panted, curled over with hands still desperately gripping the wheel. The sunglasses had been abandoned on the passenger side seat. Hard, sharp breaths filled the car. Though the rain outside had slowed to a near stop, small drops hit his jeans darkening the already dark denim. They ran down his nose, past his freckles, and deposited themselves into the demon’s lap. Said demon viciously wiped at his eyes, trying to get the water to stop falling. This rain, it seemed, was out of his control.
Somewhere, an angel was stepping off an elevator, following his supervisor and awaiting instructions. On a country road heading towards Edinburgh, a demon was curled over the steering wheel, crying inside of a Bentley car. While the angel adjusted his coat and his lapels, the demon tried desperately to regain his composure. One stood in holy, blinding light and the other in remorseful, sorrowful darkness.
Crowley clenched his jaw, trying to will himself to stop crying. His best friend, his collaborator, his angel, his… everything was gone now. Gone in a plume of holy light and almond-flavoured coffee. Gone without a moment of hesitation. Gone without… without Crowley.
Gone.
Another four letter word. Like when his best friend had been discorporated.
Crowley being left by circumstances within Aziraphale's control, however? Time had dulled the most painful of memories but Crowley could imagine this feeling was only second to having his wings and halo revoked. His chest ached, his head hurt, his breathing left shallow. If he was a human, one might suggest that he was having a heart attack.
In a sense, he was. But not of the organic kind.
Within minutes, the rain had finally stopped, though dark clouds remained ominous in the sky. Both outside and inside the car, there were no more pattering water drops. Sunglasses had been returned to his nose, adjusted, and then straightened. Hands no longer desperately clung to the steering wheel like a lifeline. Crowley took another deep breath. He shifted the Bentley out of park off the shoulder, cruising back onto the road toward Edinburgh.
Maybe he’d crash. Maybe he’d arrive safely and have some whiskey. It wasn’t his will to decide, he supposed. The Bentley did not dare try to play music at any point. Crowley knew the car was reliable, emotionally and physically. It had never let him down. And then, as lightning had done only a few days before, a realization struck Crowley.
“Lost!” he exclaimed suddenly. That’s the word they had been looking for.
There was no one in the car to hear him, to scribble down the word into those four empty boxes. There was no person, no body, no anything for him to share the revelation with.
“What happened?” the memory recalled, taking the shape of an angel.
“I lost my best friend,” a younger Crowley had responded.
An older demon knew differently now. Even if he made it all the way to Alpha Centauri, he would have no one to appreciate it with - no one to look at his nebulae and exclaim that they looked like animals or other shapes. Yes, even if he made himself a home in another star system, the demon would forever be lost without his angel. The loss of his best friend was the end of whatever domestic bliss he had established for himself on Earth - or anywhere.
In truth, though he knew which direction he was driving and which roads led to Edinburgh, the demon known as Crowley had truly become lost in a world without Aziraphale. This world was one he had never known and never had to know before.
Lost.
“And it shall come to pass afterward,” Crowley recited, pressing his foot down harder on the gas.