Chapter Text
What’s the point of it all?
This was the singular thought occupying Crowley’s mind as he stared mindlessly up at the stars above him. He did quick temptations here and there, at Shax’s request, but lately, he began to think that she only gave him minor things to do because she pitied him, of all things.
It’d been almost six months since everything epically crashed and burned in the Angel’s bookshop— six months since Gabriel and Beelzebub got their happily ever after, six months since the Metatron, six months since the failed kiss, six months since….well.
The sting of rejection isn’t as fresh anymore, but it sure as hell is still a soft spot for Crowley. The first few days were the hardest. He didn’t even know why he drove past the bookshop in the first place, but as he saw the young Angel, Muriel, unlocking the door in a pristine white day dress, his chest ached at the sight.
He’d deny it till the day he no longer existed, but he’d blinked back tears, missing Aziraphale’s too familiar silhouette against the window.
He’d even missed seeing the large smile on Jim-Gabriel’s face as he entered the bookshop, which was, he thought to himself, utterly pathetic. Almost as pathetic as having a Grand Duke of Hell pity him.
To make matters even worse, Nina had spotted the Bentley before he could drive off like a coward, and she’d waved him over. Left with no choice but to get out the car and speak with her, he’d cut the engine.
When he went into the coffee shop, he was greeted with a worried frown from Maggie, with an abrupt, “Where’s Mr. Fell? Is everything alright with you two?”
And this led to the first spiral, his feelings so out of control that he couldn’t even say Aziraphale’s name without choking on his words.
Nina and Maggie sat with him, listening intently to his retelling of his disastrous confession. In true Maggie fashion, she didn’t hesitate in adding a gasp with the occasional, “Oh no, Mr. Crowley, I’m so sorry.”
Nina made the decision to head across to The Dirty Donkey, where they managed to get themselves drunk beyond belief.
Mrs. Sandwich found them noisily chattering over their drinks at the table and joined them, Crowley slurring out a half made up story about how after the confession, Aziraphale had decided suddenly to return home indefinitely. She’d squeezed Crowley’s hand, muttering, “Poor dear. You didn’t deserve that, no.”
After they’d all left the pub for the night, Crowley went back to his flat. As he cut the lights, it was the first time he’d realized— Aziraphale had left him. He had his human friends, of course, but his longest, deepest connection to his world, to Heaven and Hell, was no longer with him.
And that night, for the first time in a very long time, Crowley realized he was well and truly alone.
•••
Checking in on Muriel had become a sort of hobby of his. They hadn’t known the human world, and Crowley thought that since they both worked well together before, perhaps he could be something like their guide.
They were even more oblivious than the Angel was, having an almost inexistent belief that humans could be anything other than good, and that their boss’ plan upstairs was nothing deeper than what it was at face value. They had their orders and carried them out without fault or fail.
Sales at the bookshop had been at an all time high, and it rubbed Crowley the wrong way to see the books go, but he didn’t protest.
Sighing, he walked into Maggie’s record shop.
“How are you today, Mr. Crowley?” the blonde asks, gently.
“I’d be a lot better if she stopped selling his books, but…” he trails off, shrugging carelessly.
”I know,” she mutters, “I’ve never seen the bookshop so busy. It’s been half a year, but I still miss him so much.”
Crowley doesn’t say anything. The world was simply dull without Aziraphale’s soft, kind smiles, and his capacity for warmth and goodness.
There’s a sudden, loud rumble of thunder that brings a torrential downpour of rain. He smiles bitterly, thinking back to the days where they were trying to matchmake Nina and Maggie.
”I think I’d better head back to my flat,” Crowley says, “Before I get stuck here because of the rain.”
“Of course,” Maggie says, understandingly, “Take care, Mr. Crowley.”
The windshield wipers on the Bentley work overtime. The speedometer rises as he presses on the gas, anxious to get back to his flat.
•••
At the door to the flat, Crowley freezes. There’s another presence inside, but he can’t tell who, or what, it is.
Cautiously, he enters, swiping a spray bottle from the counter. This trick hadn’t worked on Hastur and Ligur, but he has hope it’ll work this time.
“This can is full of Holy Water,” he calls loudly, making a show of squeezing the trigger, “And I’m not afraid to use it. Show yourself, you bastard!”
He scans the flat for any sudden movement.
Nothing.
”Come out, come out,” he taunts, making his way out to the balcony.
There’s a sudden flash of lightning, and a silhouette is outlined in the shadows.
Despite the finely tailored suit, Crowley can recognize the person anywhere. After all, he is the person Crowley’s been desperately trying to forget for the past six months.
Aziraphale stands in his balcony, under the awning. His bright blue eyes are emotionless, almost hollow. His fists are clenched tightly to his side, jaw set in stubborn determination. Whatever happened in the past six months seemed to have had a draining effect on him— Crowley can no longer spot the sensitive, expressive Angel he once was.
”What the f—“
”Crowley,” Aziraphale says, cutting him off, voice steady, “I need your help.”