Chapter Text
Goodness is not necessary to respect the dead. In fact, it is often the promise of an Afterlife that is the motivator for many an act of Goodness. Whether the promise is real, no one has yet to declare. Regardless of its truth, the level of belief in the promise itself may as well have manifested its reality. Peace is but one way to rest - and a way many would prefer.
It is often suggested that the dead ought to stay dead. If not only for the express purpose of not terrifying those around them, the reintroduction of one thought to be dead is often more or less an awkward affair. It is not difficult to understand why, of course. The buried ought to stay that way.
(Unless an unfortunate grave robbing is to occur, in which case, a moment of reanimation might serve a body well.)
The dead, contrary to common belief, do not necessarily have to be those for whom life has departed. Of course, a corpse is an example of the dead but it is not the only form or capacity for Death that exists. Bodies buried are dead, but so are broken relationships. The phrase “dead to me” is not just for those whom we grieve in Death - it may also refer to those we grieve who remain living.
Grief, much like Death, is a stubborn thing. It stuck to his clothing, tangled in his hair, clung to his flesh. It smelled of sulfur and salt and burning wood. No matter the amount of scrubbing or cleaning, Grief was to linger in the air.
Stubborn bastard.
Such had also been the last words heard before the metaphorical hammer fell. Something about needing to learn and stop asking questions, and then something about never giving up and just accepting things as they were. That simply would not do, it seemed.
Walking felt painful, as if the world deemed him the new Atlas. Heaviness weighed on his shoulders, dragging him closer and closer to the ground, pulling him further under. His clothing felt disgusting clinging to his body. The smell of sulfur and brimstone filled his nose and made him cough in a weak attempt to recenter himself. Breathing was unnecessary for a being of his capacity, but it did feel as though a weight was sitting upon his chest. His vision was blurry, but he didn’t dare rub his eyes for fear of only worsening the situation. Squinting around, he determined that he was alone. At least for now.
“That all went down like a lead balloon,” he grumbled. Even his voice was raspy.
(Had those bastards tried to take that from him too? No matter.)
Fire burned at the edges of his being. It felt as if heat was licking at his heels, threatening to consume the ends of his robe. It’s not like it would have made a difference. This robe was never going to be clean or whole again. Might as well just let the old him burn away anyways.
“Crowley?”
It startled him back to the present moment. A very concerned looking angel was looking at him, slightly leaning over to meet his eyeline while seated. A steaming cup of tea had been forgotten, placed precariously on the edge of the desk.
“Mmm, yes, angel?” Crowley tried to sound casual, clearing his throat and adjusting his position in the chair. He could still smell the sulfur.
“Are you quite alright? I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last few minutes.”
The demon took off his sunglasses, rubbing at his eyes as if to clear away the dust and smoke from memory. If this was going where he thought it was, this was not going to be a conversation he was going to want to have.
“Yes, right. I was just thinking and it seems I wandered off there.”
Everything felt uncomfortable: the chair was too firm, the shoulders of his blazer too tight, the sun shining right into his eyes, and, of course, his companion looking at him as if he had caught on fire. Well, metaphorically this time.
(Lightning, fire, etc. All the same in theory. Nothing too drastically different.)
Despite the assurances provided, Crowley’s thoughts had done little to soothe his companion’s concerned expression. God- no, Satan- no… Someone damnit. Aziraphale was thinking - and no good had come of that, historically speaking. His hands were clasped in that gentle and angelic way that looked natural, but the stress contained within them was nothing short of supernatural. If he didn’t know any better, Crowley might have expected the angel to discorporate from stress.
“Crowley? You know you don’t need to lie to me.”
Oh, this speech again. Something about the Arrangement, something about time spent together, something about Heaven and Hell - all wrapped up under a thinly veiled lecture about expressing one’s feelings being a healthy habit. They had had this conversation at least once a century.
“Yes, yes, angel,” the demon said with a hand wave. “It’s truly nothing to be worried about. Promise.”
Aziraphale, the bastard, was still skeptical. “Is this the same kind of promise as the time with the holy water, or is this a promise like when you assure we’re going to a movie that’s ‘actually not that scary, angel’?”
Crowley snorted at that one. Neither had been issues, as far as he was concerned. But both times Aziraphale had found himself red faced and upset to some degree.
“It’s nothing that concerns you, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He placed the sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose, straightening them with one hand. “I’m perfectly fine.”
No supernatural ability was needed to deduce the angel did not believe him. However, it was clear there would be nothing more coming from the conversation, so little could be done aside from a “harumph” and a passive aggressive sip of tea (if such a thing was even possible).
Placing his cup back on the desk, Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a look of affectionate exhaustion - the same look given to young children and dogs when there was no level of discipline or lecturing that could solve the problem instantaneously.
“Well, if you ever think of anything, you know that I am always happy to lend an ear.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Another hand wave and the demon reclined further into the chair, relaxing his spine further into an otherwise obscenely uncomfortable position.