Work Text:
He was gripping the steering wheel tightly in his hands, his eyes on the road, his mind completely silent. Dead, empty. Like the rest of his body, which did not seem to belong to him at all. As if it were just a hollow shell, a dummy, a painted theatre set.
He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think, couldn't feel a thing. He was just driving. He didn't know where, he didn't know why. Away. Further. Faster.
Nothing lasts forever.
That's when the searing pain stopped. That's when his heart, beating naked in his outstretched palm, blackened and died.
He should have known. He should have known, and he had known, for thousands of years, he had known and had made sure to build a wall around himself, strong, impenetrable, not to be breached by anyone. But now... now he faltered. For a moment he opened his black soul to someone, for the first time in his life he admitted aloud what no demon was ever allowed to admit. What he wasn't allowed to feel at all. Or to want. Only he wanted to. He wanted so bad…
So much that he'd betrayed his nature for the first time in his life, foolishly thinking that he - damned, fallen creature - could get away with it. That Hell or Heaven or Satan or the Almighty or someone would look the other way for once, show him mercy and leave him alone, that there would be no cruel punishment for the fleeting moment of happiness in his life.
Oh, how wrong he was.
He blinked furiously, trying to clear the road in front of the car of the hazy blur. How could he have been so naive? Him? A demon? How could he have thought that he could have something so beautiful, so precious? That he could be happy?
He's fallen. Damned. Unforgivable.
Unlovable, added the icy, cruel voice in his head. Unworthy and unable to love.
He gripped the wheel tighter.
Demons are incapable of love. And he is a demon. He doesn't love. Period. He can hate, he can gloat, he can indulge in certain things. Bad things, of course. That's about it.
Whatever he thinks he can do apart from that is a delusion. A glitch in the system. Contamination of his essence by the mortals he's been around for too long. A mere mishap of the corporation, just another of its embarrassing weaknesses. Nothing more.
He pressed his lips together so hard that they turned white.
That's enough. Enough of this nonsense. He had soldiered through six thousand years on earth, through an eternity before that, he survived the fall and damnation, survived Armageddon, survived the attack of Heaven and Hell. He'd always been able to look after himself. Alone. And he'll soldier through this as well.
*
He stopped drinking. And he stopped sleeping.
He had to give up his two favourite activities… As if he hadn't given up enough already.
He was looking forward to the burn of the liquor in his throat, in his stomach, its numbing fog in his head. He started drinking as soon as he got out of the car, but he hadn't even downed the first bottle before the world was swimming in front of his eyes again.
The table in front of him was empty, so empty that it seemed to draw all of his attention to itself again and again. He couldn't see anything but the pale oak tabletop, mocking him to his face. It shouldn't be here, sprawled out like this, screaming at him. It should be hidden beneath a plate of Schwarzwald cake, a glass of sherry, a bowl of chocolate truffles, a bottle of aged wine and an embroidered napkin.
But it wasn't. It was as bleakly empty as the opposite chair, as empty as the air in which there was no laughter, no sighs of gourmet delight, no words of praise. There was no broad-fingered palm to cover his bony one for a second, to fill his insides with a warmth hotter than the finest alcohol - and then to continue to make fleeting, exquisite touches on his forearm, his arm, his shoulder, until the evening was over... He was alone. Completely, utterly alone.
Why, he couldn't help himself as he drained another glass. Why am I not enough for you? Why can I never be good enough? he whispered into the void in front of him.
Tears welled up in his yellow eyes and his mind was flooded with a thousand images of bright blue eyes, nervously gesticulating hands, a beaming smile, tattered clothes, park benches, evenings at the Ritz, chatting, arguing and laughing. The familiar smell of cocoa, cologne and dusty books, rainy London evenings, cakes, sherry and happiness hit his nose, happiness so immense, so exultant, that his crusty, damned heart threatened to burst.
Aziraphale was so clever. He was the best, the cleverest, the kindest creature that had ever seen the light of eternity, so how could he have rejected him? And for heaven, no less? How could he still believe that Heaven was the good guys, after all that had happened? The Heaven that for thousands of years had murdered innocents, including children, sown misery, stood by and watched the suffering of millions?
A cold, cruel Heaven that punished even the most innocent questions without mercy? The Heaven that tried to murder him with the hellfire in cold blood? Without a trial, without a chance to explain, just because he was guilty of having compassion?
Why on earth did he go back there? How could he think that Heaven would change? That anything would change? Hadn't he seen what happened to Gabriel when he interfered with Heaven's plans?
How could he still see the world in black and white? Good angels and bad demons, when he had seen for himself time and time again that no demon was worse than what came from heaven? How could his clever mind not see that?
And how could he still doubt Crowley? Despite the testimony of his own eyes, ears and heart, just because he was a demon? Did he really not know him at all? Hadn't the thousands of years been enough to make him understand? Thousands of years of proving himself again and again?
Proving that he could be trusted, relied upon, that he had his own morals, that he wasn't just a beast from hell. That he had his own side... they had their own. He'd proved it to him over and over again - and it still wasn't enough. Their agreement, their friendship, their... their... he swallowed hard, preferring not to dwell on the missing word, … wasn't enough. He was not enough.
He would never be enough for Aziraphale. Not the way he is. Not even when he had saved the world, not when he had saved Aziraphale - once, ten times or a hundred times - not when... never. He would never be more than a worthless creature in his eyes, a pitiful demon who had thrown away his only chance for salvation.
He sobbed loudly, then flung himself out of his chair, wiped his cheeks with determination and sobered up with a grunt. He kicked the mockingly staring table furiously, sending it crashing to the floor with a satisfying clatter and clink of shattered glass, and walked out into the street.
Sleep should have brought him relief. In the palace that had mysteriously appeared in the middle of nowhere in the woods, looking from the outside like a dilapidated feeding trough, he curled up into a small ball under the satin sheets and closed his eyes. He was determined to sleep through all this misery. At least for a few decades.
Just until it all faded a little, lost its sharp edges and became stale. Everything has to get stale after a while, doesn't it?
But as soon as the merciful blackness had spread around him, the shining light appeared in the corner. Like a lighthouse on a stormy sea, like the rising sun warming the frozen land. The familiar white figure drew closer, closer... until there was no distance left.
My dear Crowley. Dearest, dearest Crowley...
He lost himself eagerly in angels arms, laid his head on his chest and wept. He cried painfully, openly, tears streaming down snow-white robe, strong arms holding him close and stroking his hair soothingly, a voice soft as velvet soothing all his wounds, promising that all would be well. And he believed it.
Full lips pressed against his, soft, hot, intoxicating. He devoured them trembling, inhaling the familiar scent hungrily, his hands running through the blond curls...
Oh, angel. My Angel...
... only to wake up in the darkness of an excessively large bed, fingers clawing at the cool satin, eyes filled with tears.
The pain was so intense that he could barely breathe, and if he hadn't known that, as a demon, he had no soul, he would have felt it ripping to bloody shreds.
After the third attempt, he gave up.
He didn't sleep, didn't drink, didn't eat because food reminded him too much of Aziraphale, he just existed. And most of all, he tried not to think - not to remember, not to brood over what he had lost, not to worry about what was to come.
Because his angel - that clever, kind, brave angel who sometimes wasn't clever in the slightest and, most importantly, wasn't his at all - had gone to meet his dubious fate.
What could be waiting for him? Certainly not his happily ever after, of that he was sure. Heaven was not the good side. Suggestions for improvement never fell on fertile ground there (and boy, did he know) and Metatron was no loving grandfather ready to make the world a better place. No sir. And if Aziraphale-
He let out a deep sigh and firmly cut off any thoughts in that direction. Enough already. Aziraphale had made his choice. Voluntarily. Definitely.
He left him. He left them. For good. It's time to accept that and get him out of his mind once and for all.
He's a demon. Used to being alone, used to being on his own side. He's his own team. A group.
A group of one.