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Crowley was lonely. He didn’t get lonely too often, but when he did, it hit him hard. Over the centuries, when he and Aziraphale went their respective ways, he didn’t get quite lonely, per se, but he felt as though something was missing. He didn’t eat, but watching the angel do it made him feel quite full, so when they were apart he found himself feeling… hungry. He was lonely after St James’ Park, after the holy water fiasco, but, being the optimist he was, he thought it would resolve itself eventually. He didn’t think their fight in the bandstand would resolve itself, but it did. Just another blip in their otherwise smooth-sailing partnership.
This, however, felt quite final.
Since Aziraphale had left the bookshop, Muriel had begun to make themselves at home there. Crowley had to swallow down the lump in his throat when he watched them fuss about the drapes and the bedsheets, miracling them with a snap of their fingers into something that suited them better.
Change is normal, he had told himself, change is fine. But Nina and Maggie had exchanged knowing glances when a lightning storm hit later that day.
He liked Muriel’s company, though. Teaching them things about the world and about humans made him feel like he was learning it all for the first time himself. He couldn’t help but smile when watching them light up at the simplest pleasures. One day, he had made them a hot chocolate, and the gleeful squeal they let out had made him, for a moment, forget how lonely he was feeling.
“How could Heaven be so cruel as to keep this from me?” They had exclaimed, holding their hand over their chest and revelling in the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave them. Crowley’s smile dropped immediately, almost as if it were never there.
“Don’t be saying things like that. You could get into trouble, you know.” He had said solemnly. They didn’t seem to hear him though, gulping down the drink with a ferocity and hunger he had seen before, many years ago in Job’s cellar.
Crowley lived in the bookshop now. Before Muriel had a chance to miracle all of Aziraphale’s blankets and sheets out of existence, he had snatched one up. “What if he comes back?” He had said, and Muriel gave him a sad smile that was uncharacteristically knowing. He slept in the bed in the spare room where Gabirel had been, and most nights he found himself looking up at the window he had told him to jump out of. Aziraphale would be disappointed in him for that. He would love him for stopping it.
One night, when the dreary rain outside contrasted with the warmth and brightness within the bookshop in a way that would make Aziraphale sigh contentedly, Crowley sat on a couch by the window. He stared at one of the battery-powered candles, and then at the fire extinguisher on the wall.
“It looks a bit out of place, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale had said, leaning back and taking in the glaring red. It stuck out like a sore thumb. Crowley nodded.
“You probably won’t need it. The fake candles will be enough. Doesn’t really… fit the aesthetic.”
“No, no, dear boy, I insist.” Aziraphale turned to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think we’d both feel safer with it here.”
Crowley loved him.
Muriel was out. Nina had promised to show them all her favourite records, and Nina said she would make some Eccles cakes especially for them to try. They had agreed to meet at 7, and Muriel stood at the door looking up at the clock for four hours waiting for the time to arrive. They practically floated out the door, yelling an absentminded goodbye to Crowley. He watched them scamper over to the record shop and felt more lonely than he could ever remember feeling. He glanced over at the desk Aziraphale usually sat at, and could nearly hear the scratching of his pen in his diary and the humming of a song that Crowley didn’t recognise. He dreamed about him sometimes. He would walk into the kitchen and see Aziraphale sitting there with the paper and two hot chocolates in front of him; one overflowing with marshmallows, and the other plain. He’d mutter to himself as he flicked through the pages trying to find the crossword. Crowley would go to sit next to him, but the chair would give out under him and he’d find himself on the floor. He’d look up and Aziraphale would laugh.
He told Muriel he didn’t want to talk about it, which was a lie. It’s not that he didn’t want to, it’s just that if he started talking, he might never stop. Digging up 6000 years worth of feelings would take too long, be too hard, and were buried too deep to ever reach. The ground was too hard to bury a shovel into, and he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. He just didn’t know where to start.
The rain outside continued to pour. Relentless.
Crowley heard the front door open and snapped out of a trance he didn’t realize he was in. “Back already, Muriel?” He called. “Don’t blame you. Can’t imagine Maggie’s taste is all that-”
He stopped in his tracks, suddenly face to face with someone who was very clearly not Muriel.
The man in the doorway stood sheepishly, an unreadable expression on his face. He had a beard, but he wasn’t scruffy in the slightest. He wore a neatly pressed grey suit over a blindingly white shirt and a purple tie. Something the Archangel Gabriel would wear.
Not Aziraphale’s style at all. Crowley felt sick.
“Oh,” he said quietly, eyes soft. A small smile crept onto his face. “Hello.”
Crowley screwed his eyes shut. “You’re not here.” He heard the floorboards creak. “You’re not here.” Another creak. “Please.” Aziraphale was close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. It made him dizzy.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale said. He shook his head violently. “Look at me please, Crowley.”
He felt helpless, like he was drowning. He had never needed to breathe, but he felt painfully aware of a new tightness in his chest. Was he dreaming again? Would he open his eyes and Aziraphale would be gone, and he’d be back on the couch? Muriel should shake him awake any minute now. They’ll have lots to tell him about music and eccles cakes. But the angel’s smell, his energy, was unmistakable. Crowley felt it in every inch of his body, piercing his skin and entering his non-existent bloodstream.
He opened his eyes, but kept them fixed on the floor. If he had a heart, it would have beat out of his chest. Without thinking, he brought a hand up to the angel’s shoulder, pressing into it gently before holding his palm flat against it. “You’re here.” He lifted his gaze from where his hand rested up into Aziraphale’s eyes, and jolted away like he had been burned.
Once a soft blue (with flecks of green and orange that made Crowley weak in the knees), his irises were now bright purple. Crowley pulled back and spun around, fisting his hands in his hair in desperation. He couldn’t bear to face him. “Aziraphale. Oh, god.” His voice was thick, barely able to form words over the lump that was quickly forming in his throat. “What have you… your… I don’t…” Aziraphale brought a hand to his shoulder and he let out a choked sound, like it hurt. It hurt more than the angel could possibly know.
“I know, Crowley. I know.”
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His eyes, which Crowley could once look into and see everything good in the world, were now a shocking symbol of what had hurt him; what had cast him out, kept him and his only friend apart, and then tried to kill him. Something that they had agreed, together, to leave behind. Did it mean nothing? It didn’t feel like nothing.
“Crowley…” the angel’s voice broke. “Believe me. I know.” He turned Crowley around to face him, gently holding him by the chin to guide his face up so their eyes could meet. Piercing yellow looked into piercing purple, and light flooded the bookshop as lightning struck outside. Crowley looked hard into his face, trying to find pieces of him he recognised. Try as he might, the angel he knew was gone.
“I’m here. It’s me.” The hand gripping his chin moved to cradle his cheek, his thumb gliding over the snake tattoo. “Oh. Oh,” he murmured.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley said.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to stay.”
Aziraphale’s face crumpled. “Oh, Crowley. Oh, you couldn’t possibly- you don’t even-” He brought his other hand up to the demon’s face. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine.” He pressed their foreheads together and they stayed like that for a moment. It really did burn. It burned in a way that made them forget about holy water and hellfire. Crowley breathed in and Aziraphale kissed him.
The rain outside continued to pour, heavier now. It was not enough to drown out the noise Crowley made; soft and desperate and anguished. He clutched at the lapels of Aziraphale’s suit, crumpling it and ruining its pristine condition. He clung to him harder than he did the first time they kissed, not letting him consider the possibility of pulling away. Aziraphale matched his fervour, curling his fingers into Crowley’s outgrown hair while the other hand dropped to grip his waist. They kissed feverishly, sick with desperation and need. They breathed each other in, saying everything they didn’t know how to put into words with their hands and tongues. Aziraphale lifted his shirt, just slightly, and moved his hand across the newly exposed skin, revelling in the sound Crowley made. It was better than any record Maggie could ever sell him.
He moved to kiss the corner of Crowley’s mouth, then his cheek, his snake tattoo, his jaw, and then his neck, wrapping his arms around his waist to pull him closer. Crowley’s hands moved up to the back of his neck, grabbing gently at the blonde curls. He didn’t look the same, but he felt the same. He smelt the same.
Azriaphale buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, his beard scratching against his skin in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all. “Crowley,” he kissed his collar bone. “You must know-” he kissed his Adam's apple. “How I’ve missed you-” he kissed behind his ear. “I never- I should’ve stayed.” He pulled back to kiss Crowley firmly on the mouth, but felt him falter and pull away. Aziraphale looked at him, eyes big with despair. Crowley pulled his hands out the angel’s hair and rested them on either side of his face.
“But you didn’t.”
He stepped away and walked towards the door. He opened it.
Aziraphale stammered. “Crowley. Crowley, you know I did it for you, right? I thought it was what you wanted. I thought, in heaven, we could be safe. We could be happy, together!” He smiled for a moment. “You know that, don’t you? I see now. I see where I went wrong.”
Crowley looked at the floor again. “Please go. Muriel will be back soon. I don’t want them seeing you.”
They stood in silence for what felt like eternity. Aziraphale walked cautiously to Crowley and took his hand.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
Crowley looked up at him and didn’t flinch when their eyes met. “It’s not my forgiveness you have to worry about.” He said. “It’s Hers.”
Aziraphale’s eyes welled up, a dam about to break. He ran his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles before stepping through the door, into the rain. He remained dry.
“Goodbye, dear.”
Crowley said nothing, just stepped over the threshold and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. He shut the door.
Fallen angel Crowley collapsed on the couch next to the window. He looked from the fire extinguisher to the candles, to the desk and to Aziraphale’s chair. He looked at the marshmallows on the counter from when Muriel had made themselves a hot chocolate that morning. He looked out the window and saw them chatting away with Nina and Maggie, who sat with their shoulders and knees touching. The rain began to clear, and he heard them all laugh. He hoped Muriel would bring him back an Eccles cake - he just realized he was starving.