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Soft shadows upon barren walls contrasted what little light had made it through the windows to illuminate nothingness. Solitary silence reverberated in ears, uncomfortable and certainly not welcome. There was nothing, not even warmth within the hollowed space.
There was nothing.
It was just as the beginning was.
But there was no creation, no birth.
There were no galaxies cranked into existence. No grand explosions like fireworks bringing it all to be. Nebulae and constellations were far gone memories of the past. Delicate star systems and planets, now a dream of long ago.
The biggest loss though? Light.
No sunshine smiles, with crows feet in the corner of his eyes. No silly quips from hundreds of years ago, or decades past expressions long gone. No dusty book shop, smelling musky, of parchment and ink. No woody cologne as he swooped past to the record player.
No him.
No them.
No us .
No reason either.
The hard truth was they never did talk. Not about one another, really. Never was it about their lives, what they’d been up to. He’d call when bored, when something was wrong, when he’d done something clever, or tremendously good and needed to say something before he exploded. Crowley called for drinks, lunch or dinner, to have a roof over his head when the car was too cramped. They weren’t agents of Heaven or Hell any longer, so what did it matter what they did together? Their time hadn’t become completely mundane, but more just old hat. Four years and a handful of phone calls, it was back to how they were. Somehow, it had begun to feel less free than before.
Crowley had, at one point, succumbed to sleep. Not that he was avoiding, but that perhaps there'd be less silence during their phone calls and more to discuss if it was bottled up for a few months.
Now though, a carefully chosen variety of plants were brought back into his old flat. They’d been packed up years ago, gently placed in cardboard boxes, and settled in the Bentley. Each monstera, spider plant, or pothos were equally cared for as if a child, and treated with extra care inside of the car.
Each box was lifted from the back seat and walked inside the tall, dull, gray building. They were set carefully in the lift one by one. Every trip Crowley made, the door would remain open, waiting for him. By the end it was three boxes of plants. Last, a lightly colored wooden crate, filled with bottles of scotch, was brought along.
Not a word was spoken as the lift doors shut and the ride commenced.
There was a “ding” as they reached the sixth floor, and the doors once again opened.
Black leather boots clicked on the black marble floor as Crowley vacated the lift. One by one, once again, boxes were brought to the sole door that led to what was once his home. After the last box was cleared, the elevator closed and slowly started to drop. It was as if it were watching him, waiting for him to say he was okay.
He wasn’t.
The doorknob was touched, gripped, turned, then pushed. Cool air hit him, straight through his skin, sending shivers down his spine.
There was that silence again.
Each box was carried inside. Plants were set in their prior spots beside floor to ceiling windows, an attempt at sunlight and warmth. They seemed happy to be home, leaves ruffling as they were taken from their confinement and relaxing down, pleased as anything.
The wooden crate was settled in the floor in the plant room, as he’d called it, and Crowley stood inches from the windows. Hands on his hips, he watched outside as the earth continued on. Not one human knew what had happened, nor would they care. The earth kept spinning, and there was nothing he could do.
Technically.
Shadows from the window panes remained unmoving, splayed as a divide on the walls. Cold air seeped through his bones. That damn silence was becoming irritating.
Golden eyes closed.
It was done. That was really it, he really was gone. All those years, every moment they’d spent together. Everything they’d learned.
Pointless.
Crowley felt warm tears glide down his cheeks. His glasses remained on, though unnecessary in his flat. Who was he hiding from? No avoiding what he really felt. Corners of lips curved down, wobbling uncontrollably. His nose tingled with the onslaught of emotions.
Abandonment. Grief. Loss. Anger. Rejection.
Shoulders shook, and hands fisted at his sides. Finally his head dropped forward, and teeth grit together in agony. His heart…
He let out a sob. A soft chortled noise for no one to hear- no. For him to hear between tears. Between breaths and cries in disbelief.
He’d left. He’d really left.
He dropped to his knees and grabbed at the black tiled floor, though there was nothing there to grab for.
He’d lost. Everything.
He was right back to the beginning, right after he fell. He was cold and alone. He was terrified of the unknown and what had happened. His time on Earth, it seemed there was always an idea of what was around the corner. Always a sly way of weaseling out of things. Now that he was gone? Nothing was certain.
Only this pain.
As tears slowed, the bottles began to open. Crowley shuffled himself to lean against the wall, sitting with legs sprawled out before him and the crate of bottles to his side. It began. The first bottle was lifted to his lips, amber liquid quickly drunk. Adam’s apple bobbing, cheeks wet, it burned on the way down. It was the only thing he wanted to feel. Once finished, he threw the empty container to the side, watching it crash against the wall and shatter into pieces.
Another bottle then. This one went down slower than the first. Breaths were taken between, but he knew what the endgame was. Crowley was numb to begin with, and so to get himself piss drunk to the point he blacked out sounded just perfect.
Three bottles down. Four. By five he was unsteady, and drunk by a human’s standards.
Six.
Seven.
Bloody seven.
She loved seven. She liked herself a whole lot. She was the reason they took him away.
The seventh bottle was finished, though with a struggle, then thrown across the room to satisfyingly shatter against the wall with the rest. Glass rained down, spread across the floor, a beautiful mosaic of his pain. Or possibly, garbage.
One more bottle left. He’d forget the pain with one more. Though sitting up was near impossible. Reaching to the side for the final bottle, Crowley cracked it open, but even the small momentum of the twisting top caused him to fall over. He ended up sprawled over the empty crate, groaning as the room spun. Hair, usually coiffed perfectly, deflated across his forehead and eyes. Just one more. He lifted the bottle to his lips and nursed from it, eyes wet and tears falling again. Memories of the wrong three words being said to him flashed through his mind, the look he received after they’d kissed.
A choked sob escaped pursed lips and scotch spluttered everywhere. His shirt, his face, the floor. He was a horrid mess. But who cared? Who was he impressing anymore. Nimble fingers grabbed the crate, the other held the bottle as the tears came, body shaking with the force of sobs escaping him.
One more bottle. He can drown these feelings. He can put them out of their misery.
The bottle was lifted to his lips. He wasn’t sure how to drink and cry at the same time. This was never touched on in millennia. It has to work. He needed them fine.
He sipped, gulped- then his head dropped down onto his arm. Eyes were heavy, but the bottle was still full. He curled it up into his arm, sniffing.
Cold. Alone.
Pathetic.
He’d wake up cleansed. The shattered glass would be gone, the bottles refilled and replaced in their crate. Only a blurred memory would remain, a less painful one at that, of what drove him to drink so heavily in the first place. The cause to this effect.
Images were fuzzy, things were swaying and moving. He could have sworn the room became warmer, but didn’t it always when you were nearly passed out? The scotch bottle was brought to lips and another swig was taken.
Two shining brown oxfords stepped into the room, heels clinking against the dark tile before stopping
Crowley groaned and tipped the bottle up, one last time, gulping down what he could. This could be a reaper, come to take him down for his discorporation paperwork. They were the stupidest of the bunch, but never took ‘no’ for an answer.
The bottle dropped to the ground and rolled away.
It stopped, tapping into the toe of the shoes.
“Crowley…” The voice whispered.
Crowley knew he was hallucinating. Eight bottles deep of scotch was far from normal.
“Aziraphale.” He slurred, attempting his hardest to lift his head. There was a blurred figure before him, all tan and white. Perhaps it was a ghost?
“Oh. Just look at you.” The ghost picked up the bottle and came closer.
“Wha happen?”
The ghost stopped in front of him and squatted down, the bottle of scotch set just out of Crowley’s reach. Warm fingers brushed fire red hair out of his eyes, attempting to tuck it behind an ear so as to inspect his face. It fell back, defiant as the man it sat on. Rosy cheeks, streaks from recent tears present. Golden eyes glazed over, lashes still wet.
“It’s my turn to protect you.”
“No. No, no, no. S’my job.”
“Silly demon.” The ghost sighed, shaking his head, “That was never your job. I should have stopped seeing everything through rose colored lenses.”
“Rosey…”
“Mm.” The ghost continued to pet his hair, “You were my knight.”
“Mm. The black knight.”
“Well, technically. You were always so far ahead of me, I never did get the chance to catch up. Now look at you. You’ve nearly passed out.” The ghost picked up the bottle in question and checked how much was left, muttering, “A half bottle from it, perhaps.”
“Gimme.” Crowley muffled out, hand reaching pathetically over in an attempt to grab the bottle, but instead it just flopped back down. The bottle was set further away, behind where the ghost shifted so he knelt down.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
Crowley grumbled and, albeit slowly, he managed to sit himself up. He wobbled, swaying with nothing to prop himself against but the wall behind. His head dropped down and eyes refocused, blinking, clenching shut, popping open. Head lifting back up, he thunked it back against the wall, groaning.
What was cold and quiet had changed. Though loneliness remained, and a deep emptiness inside.
“I’ve put your rooms back together. Your bedroom is furnished again.” The ghost said quietly, “May I bring you-“
“Stop… taunting me.” Crowley snapped, a hand waving in front of his face, “Just go ‘way. Leave me to be depressed and alone. I don’t want your fake… illusionisms.”
The ghost knew he deserved that.
“Crowley, can you please listen-“
“N-no! I won’t let apparitions or hallucinations or ghosts tell me what to do! I don’t need you. Mind’s playing tricks…” Crowley swung his hand forward to wave the ghost away, when it was met with something rather solid.
Crowley finally opened his eyes, squinting, and frowned. He began to think that was not a ghost. He panned up from where his hand was pressed against the lapels of a tan waistcoat. Up, gradually beyond the tartan bow tie laid between perfectly pressed shirt collars.
“‘s you…” It was as if he’d instantly sobered, yet Crowley was a jigger away from sleep, “Why? Big shot promotion not good enough, gonna rub it in my face? I don’t wanna go back. I don’t want… I don’t… I want…”
Those tears pooled in eyes as hands flailed forward to grab onto the cream jacket before him. He couldn’t cry. Not now, not when he was supposed to be the strong one, wielding his devil-may-care attitude that shielded him from the world. Yet he did. Body trembling, he fought to hold them in but the sobs choked right out.
“Crowley…” Strong hands touched his shoulders, pushing him away.
“I put everything. Everything I was before you, and you deserted me.” He gritted, hands grasping tighter.
Aziraphale paused. He wanted to choose his words wisely, not bringing Her into the equation. It was hard enough trying not to explain too much, keeping Heaven’s deepest secrets part of his new position.
“I ask you have faith in me.”
“There’s no faith in me. I’ve got nothing.” Crowley managed out, teeth snarling, “Faith in wha- Her? Him? Nah. Not even myself, anymore.”
“Crowley, I beg you. Listen to me, if nothing else, please.”
“Why? So you can… can brag s’more about your big fancy job?”
In an act of desperation, Crowley’s hands were pushed off of his jacket, and held between them. There was a squeeze, and thin hands were brought up to plush lips. Aziraphale held tightly as Crowley tried to escape the grasp, but it was no use. A tender kiss was pressed to knuckles, eyes focused solely on Crowley. The next words were a whisper, too low for anyone else to register.
“If I can protect this fragile existence you’ve built for yourself, I will do it, with every fiber of my being.” Aziraphale began, “If this is the difference between leaving you alone, and never having known you a single day… I chose you. Every time.”
Crowley stayed silent as the information sunk in. Just what, and why, to be explained so… damn lovingly. Their hands remained together, unmoving, and eyes searched for something. Anything. What to do next, what was the answer, how do they proceed. Was there a plan? Was there… nothing?
“Angel…” His voice cracked.
“I would never have pushed you away. Given the circumstances… I had no choice.”
“Shh… Can’t they hear you?” Crowley took a hand back, putting it over Aziraphale’s mouth, whispering harshly, “Don’t they listen?”
Aziraphale chuckled, having forgotten he was drunk only a moment, “Not at all.”
“Do you have to go? Can you stay? Stay here with me. Don’t… don’t go. You know how they are. What they’ll do to you.”
“What they’ll do to you is much worse, I’m afraid.”
Crowley gnawed on the inside of his cheeks. Trying to stop lips from curving down, from the emotions, from the blasted feelings he’d always had. Those dormant for centuries now reared their head in hope of awakening something, and they had. There was no fighting. Why bother anymore? What was there left to fight?
He didn’t know, not yet.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Gimme the bottle. Lemme have it. I just want to forget.”
“Crowley-“
“Maybe you’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I can’t stay, Crowley-“
“For fucks sake, Angel, will you just let me have something?!”
Aziraphale stayed quiet, the outburst vibrated through the room, hands gripped a little tighter together. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t, but what if he did. He’d been compliant, he’d been everything they’d asked him. Everything to protect, to be the one to do the saving.
“I’ll stay as long as I can.”
Crowley gave a lopsided smile. Hands tore from hands and he threw himself forward, face pressed against Aziraphale’s soft chest. With an “oomph!”, he fell backwards right into his rear, legs sprawling on either side of the lanky demon. A hand landed on the cold tile behind him, steadying the tumble, and the other was placed on Crowley’s back. A smile, sorrowful even. Gently he stroked over his back, feeling vertebrae and ribs through the thin black shirt as Crowley nestled in, holding on in hope of never losing what he coveted most again.
“Sleep. May you dream of whatever you like best, and wake up with no pain.”
Crowley slept, dreaming of the one whom he did love most.
Sunshine smiles, with crows feet in the corner of eyes. Silly quips from hundreds of years ago, or decades past expressions. A dusty bookshop, smelling musky, of parchment and ink. Woody cologne as Aziraphale swooped past to the record player. Everything Aziraphale.
~**~**~**~
As the sun rose higher in the sky, soft beams of light kissed along the ceiling, playfully moving across the walls casting those shadows but now in different spots, a different light splayed across the cold floor.
As Crowley woke, a smile graced his features. It was as if he really, truly had the most wonderful dream. No- not a dream. Aziraphale had been there, he was solid, it was real. He must have gone to fix the bed, or something for breakfast. All the baking he’d done when the world was locked down ended up being a good idea. Just another phone call he’d received, right before he slept.
Pushing himself to sit, the sudden movement caused a cry to leave him. There was the pain. The glorious hangover had reared its ugly head. He crashed onto his side, curling around a nearly empty bottle that had spilled, creating a pool that soaked through his shirt. The scent of stale liquor was nauseating, his insides churning already from dizziness alone. His head throbbed right through his temple and behind his eyes. Everything was cold, and empty.
Worse- he was sure he was alone.
“Angel…?” His voice, hoarse, called out in a plea.
But there was no trace of anyone else having been in the room. No bed, no statues or paintings. Just his plants, a few stray cardboard boxes, a pile of shattered glass, and an empty wooden crate. Curious to the pain, he touched the side of his head, sucking in air through his teeth. His hand before him, he saw it. There was dried blood. At first it was a bit concerning. Crowley began to remember, even if vaguely, what had happened.
He’d opened that bottle, but was far too wobbly and fell over. His head cracked against the crate and he ended up laying on the floor. Wanting to finish, he really did try to stay awake, but that much liquor, not to mention the physical pain, and the emotions, had drained him.
Crowley hugged his bottle, sighing. It hadn’t been real. His imagination got him again, always had. He’d dreamt of his Angel. He’d come back, said he’d take care of him, protect him. Crowley’s lip curved up, eyes closed as he gripped tighter. It really had been a dream of what he’d liked best. Yet, perhaps he had been there. Even in a dream, or a hallucination. Crowley decided it was real. Though if it was just real for him, so be it. It was enough, for now. A defeated sigh, and he felt forced to allow sleep to overtake him once again.
Soft shadows upon the barren wall contrasted what little light had made it through the windows to illuminate nothingness. Solitary silence once again engulfed the space. There was nothing, not even warmth.
It was vacant.
~**~**~
In the hallway, a single white feather lay outside Crowley’s door. Further down, the elevator chimed as it began its ascent.