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Crowley doesn’t fear death.
That isn’t to say he doesn't fear discorporation -though, he doesn’t,- hell, that isn't even to say he wants to die. He just doesn’t fear it. The permanent kind.
And it had been, what? Six months? Seven? Since Aziraphale had left the bookshop, left him, and… sauntered vaguely upwards again. And Crowley had been dealing… well.
Really, he had. He’d bought a cottage in the South-Downs, like he’d planned to, made a terrarium (without miracles, he hired a human construction company and everything), and filled it with all the plants he’d been keeping in the back of his Bentley. It was progress, and yelling at his plants whenever they got spots gave him something to do. Nina would be proud.
Plus, the new couch he’d bought (he’d burned the old one, it had smelt too much like him-) was the perfect place to curl up and cry while watching Golden Girls. Just plush enough to sink into, just defected enough that it takes awhile to get used to sitting on it, and just waterproof enough that any tears simply slid off the armrests.
(No, it wasn’t unhealthy, he’d limited his crying sessions to only twice per-week, thank-him-very-much.)
But then, of course, there’s their bookstore. The bookstore.
Muriel was still caring for it, as far as Crowley is aware. He’d trained’ the, of course, taught them what he could about humanity. And taxes. The first rule was never sell any of the books, of course- the second was what ‘selling’ meant. Then what money was.
It had been one migraine after the other. Not even Aziraphale’s left-behind stash of antique bourbon whiskey had helped.
Their- the bookstore had seemed so dead. Like the scarlet-red wall curtains from the ball they’d thrown had disappeared a second time, once when he’d cleaned them and once more when his light had left. Like the chair his Angel had sat in oh-so-many times had sun-bleached the second it had been left unoccupied.
He’d like to say he wasn’t the emotional one in their little ‘relationship’, would like to say he wasn’t the one who wrote elaborate love letters that he never sent, would like to say he wasn't the one who stared up at the sky. The one who reminisced, wishing so desperately to create, to feel burning-hot stars in his hands again. Wasn’t the one who stared at mirrors and wished that he’d been something different.
Wished even harder that it was something he’d said that made Aziraphale reject him and not who he was.
But it was like after he’d left, everything had suddenly been snuffed out. And Crowley didn’t have the energy to pretend like ‘good’ demons did.
(Its been seven months, eighteen days, six hours, and forty-nine minutes since Aziraphale left)
So, no. Crowley doesn’t really fear death.
Not anymore.
***
“You should talk to him.”
Crowley almost laughs, but he subdues it into an amused snort.
It comes out bitter.
“That's the advice that got me into this scenario, Nina.” He scoffs, taking another sip of his six-shot espresso. Usually he’d have downed the thing by now, but the idea of slow consumption had been growing on him. He shrugs. “Besides, how would I even do that?”
Nina rolls her eyes. “That was just bad timing.”
This time he actually does laugh, dark and dripping like the coffee catches on the rim of his cup. “He called me evil. You don’t get called evil for bad timing.” He almost does down his drink this time. “...Not by him, anyway. No, he’s been thinking that for a long time.” And if Crowley was a snake, he’s sure he’d be lashing his tail (where does his tail begin and his body end? It might be more similar to full-body thrashing).
When Nina actually pauses, her gaze is disgustingly close to pity. Maggie sighs from behind the counter.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean that,”
“Oh yes he did.” He interrupts. Then he falters. “Look, I appreciate you trying, and I understand you’re upset about Az- about him and I messing around in your lives. But him and I? We’re different. We were different.” He stares pointedly.
There’s silence in the Cafe, and Crowley rubs the bridge of his nose. Nina hesitates briefly before biting back yet another sigh and starting to stack her industrial dishwasher.
The Bentley hasn’t stopped playing “Careless Whisper” since yesterday.
He cleans the very last of his coffee from the take-away cup, standing up to leave, licking his lips with a forked tongue.
It tastes bitter.
***
“He’s kind of an ass, isn’t he?”
To everybody's surprise, even her own, it's Maggie who says that. Crowley stares at her, his glasses almost falling off his face.
It’s almost a ritual, at this point. Crowley drives into London twice a week, at his own disclosure, and walks through St. James park. Then he visits Maggie in the record shop, if she’s not already stationed next to Nina in what is definitively their coffee shop. If she is, he stops by for a coffee and to catch up. If she's not, he drags her over to drop by with him.
(He’ll never admit it, but sometimes the way Nina lights up when she sees Maggie makes Crowley burn.)
“Fuck!” Nina curses, rushing to grab a paper towel to wipe up the coffee she just overpoured. Maggie quickly assists her, but Nina brushes her off.
“Wh- what did you just say?” Crowley croaks, coughing as he tries to actually swallow the espresso shots and not inhale them. Maggie hesitates.
“Aziraphale. Or, y’know, ‘him’. He’s kind of an ass.” Crowley blinks at her, one eye at a time. She looks away, flustered. “Leaving you, for heaven. It’s like having a dick ex.”
Nina’s staring at her too now, but not with the mild horror Crowley is. No, Nina stares with fond exasperation and admiration that tugs at Crowley’s shattered heart. Then she turns to him. “Maggie’s right. Sort of, anyway.” She re-pours the coffee and hands it to the very disgruntled customer. “Aziraphale loves you. Don’t give me that look, he does. He’s not even subtle about it. But, well, he was kind of an ass.”
Crowley lets those words sink in, testing them around in his mind for a bit. Then he sighs, and throws his to-go cup in the bin. He’s been sighing far too much recently.
“It’s not really his fault.” And it’s not. Because he always knew, really, that Aziraphale could never love a demon. “I’ll see you later. When my head’s… clearer.”
He leaves before they can say anything.
***
Two days after his somewhat disastrous last visit to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, he receives his first real mail since he moved to South-Downs.
It's a wedding invite. Anathema and Newt’s wedding invite, for three months time.
Addressed to ‘Anthony J. Crowley and Mr. Fell, Occult Cottage, South-Downs’.
He has to take off his sunglasses just so he can cover his eyes again, to stop the tears from ruining the ink.
He miracles himself three bottles of wine and texts Anathema the next day.
***
Let it be known that the ex-demon Crowley, snake that tempted Eve, stopped the apocalypse and delivered the antichrist, hates weddings.
Of course, there was the fact that they- he hadn't been to any since that absolute disaster of a wedding ceremony in 1795 for King Goerge IV (who had been drunk and crying; it had been incredibly awkward). But that would’ve been fine if all he’d had to do was show up and be sober.
Well, maybe not fine, but doable.
But then, suddenly, he was getting fitted for suits and asked about decorations and rituals and being told he was Newt's best man. He very much was not suited to be a best man; he wasn’t even human!
He’d told Newt as such, but that had simply gained him the title ‘Best Ex-Demon’, which was arguably worse, but sadly it had stuck.
Adam seemed as lively as ever, apparently he and Dog were going to be the flower boys(?). Something about Pepper wanting to ‘subvert patriarchal expectations’.
Good for her.
And after Anathema’s rather pro ‘give-your-life-up-for-old-prophecies’ parents mysteriously canceled their attendance, Nina and Maggie had nowhere to be that weekend and therefore made their way onto the guest list.
Overall, it looked like it was going to be a very successful wedding.
Which was also why Crowley was dreading it.
Being around so much love and affection and friendship felt… unmanageable. A lot of things did, actually, now that his Angel wasn’t around. He’d never really gotten used to being alone; it was always him and Aziraphale, even when they weren’t speaking. He’d always waited, always chased after the other.
But Aziraphale had gone somewhere he couldn’t follow, where he wouldn’t, follow him. Crowley wouldn’t go back to Heaven, back to being an Angel, not again. Not after so long. He’d never be able to live like that.
Nonetheless, a decision had been made. Crowley had said he wouldn’t go, and Aziraphale went anyway. He’d chosen Heaven over Crowley, and it was only his own fault believing he’d ever choose differently.
(It hurt. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt, ever conceptualized. It hurt like an exploding supernova, like dropping a burning star onto fresh skin.)
(It hurt worse than falling ever did.)
He expected this. But he wished he’d expected how much it would hurt.
***
It's been nine months, thirty days, seventeen hours, and twenty-six minutes since Aziraphale left the Bookstore down in Soho. And Crowley is, dealing.
Not well, not without uncertainty. But he’s living. He’s ‘coping’, in a way.
Healing, Nina said it was. Crowley refuses to call it that.
***
It's been nine months, thirty days, nineteen hours, and twenty-two minutes since Aziraphale left his Bookstore in Soho, London, and he is miserable.
When he’d accepted his position as Supreme Archangel, he’d done it to reform Heaven. He’d done it to make it a better place for the thousands, if not millions, of low-class Muriels. He’d done it to prevent the Second Coming from even starting up in the first place, and then to stop it in its tracks if he failed.
Most importantly, he’d done it for Crowley.
Crowley, who’d stuck by his side. Crowley, who’d come to save him, even while they were fighting. Crowley, who’d kissed him. Who he’d forgiven and had said in return, “don't bother”.
Crowley who, despite everything, had refused him.
Aziraphale sighs, covering his eyes to protect them from Heaven's blindingly bright lights.
He’d done this for Crowley, and he couldn’t help but think he’d made the biggest mistake in the world. He hadn’t even so much as seen the demon since he’d left earth, even though the entire point had been to have him close, to make sure he was safe. Go- sata- someone he hoped Crowley was safe, somewhere.
Wherever he may be.
Muriel had been reporting directly to him about the happenings of earth, as he’d requested. Apparently Crowley had hung around for about a month and a half, teaching Muriel about Earth (taxes seem to fascinate the other angel) and bookselling, before he’d practically vanished. Muriel saw him maybe once every three weeks, if that.
It made Aziraphale want to scream.
Being stranded up in Heaven, alone, without even knowing if Crowley was alive, relying on letters delivered via miracle for information? It was almost too much.
But he was alive. He was safe, and that was enough. It had to be.
***
In Aziraphale’s defense, that had been enough. In the beginning.
About two months in, it had stopped being enough. He missed Earth. He missed good food and better wine, missed London and ducks and the ritz. He missed Anathema, Nina, and Maggie.
He missed Crowley. He missed talking to him, laughing with him. Sitting in comfortable silence with him. And using the seemingly endless resources of Heaven, well, he could have the next best thing. The globe floating in one of the many non-hallways of Heaven was useful for many things; spying on Earth's inhabitants was one of them.
Aziraphale has spent… far too long, staring at that globe. Ignored his duties for it, on the occasion, not that he’d admit to it. But the Metatron always seemed to know, though he never confronted the other about it. His displeased silence said enough.
But seeing Crowley was worth it. Crowley was worth it, and Aziraphale wished he’d never stepped out with Metatron after the almost-second-coming.
He’d watched the Demon since, watched him move out of London and into a cottage in the South-Downs. He’d caught the end of conversations with Nina and Maggie, seen him yell at his plants with no anger. And Crowley had been…
Crowley had been better.
Not good, even Aziraphale could tell that. Crowley hadn’t been good, or fine, or even alright. But he was doing better. He was gardening, and driving into London, and he was helping Muriel with the bookstore or Maggie with the record shop. Crowley was doing things, changing and growing.
Yet Aziraphale was not. He had come to Heaven to reform it, to grow and change. Yet he felt rooted to his open office space, filling forms and attending pointless meetings that did nothing but grow the migraine he shouldn’t even have in the first place.
It was infuriating. Because he’d been warned this would happen.
And he hadn’t listened. He’d left anyway, and every day he felt less and less in control of Heaven, and more and more like he was being used.
So when the other Archangels ‘outvote’ his decision to stop the Second Coming and instead roll out the new trials without his permission or even his input, Aziraphale knows exactly what he has to do.
He has to find his demon.
***
It’s a cold night in December, not a cloud in the endless sky, when Crowley receives a letter from Beelzebub. And it reads;
‘Crowley,
Alpha Centauri is an excellently passable galaxy. Gabriel and I have spent the last nine or so months moving in and exploring, and the meteor showers in the region are of fine quality. So, I would like to… thank you, Crowley. Gabriel insists I must.
Don’t be still mad about the holy water incident. It was all business.
On that note, Gabriel thought we should warn you about something; earlier today (or what we hope is today, we don’t know how well this letter is going to deliver), there were some major alarm bells ringing in Heaven.
Now if it was up to me I wouldn’t give a shit, but Gabriel insists they’re the same ones that went off when he abandoned his post, so. Look into that.
Please don’t visit.’
Crowley blinked at the letter, staring in disbelief.
Beelzebub had thanked him, even if on Gabriels command. Sata- someone he’d forgotten all about Alpha Centauri. He’d forgotten all about who he’d sent there, at least. And what did Beelze even mean, ‘alarm bells’? Did Heaven have honest-to-someone actual red, blaring alarms?
And the same ones that went off when Gabriel left office? That would imply Aziraphale had left his position as His Holiness. But the angel wouldn’t do that, right?
Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He miracled the letter onto his kitchen counter, before picking up the spray bottle once again. “What the fuck are they doing, sending me letters like that? Huh?’ The demon murmured absentmindedly, blowing off steam as he spritzed his plants a little more forcefully than usual. “Making me worry about Heaven again.”
Then he huffed. “You remember what I did to the last plant with a spot!? He didn't come back did he? Don’t think a new place changes things, you’ll go even worse around here!” It’s what he’d been saying for the past six or so months now, but he couldn’t seem to summon the same ferocity he could before He’d left.
A knock on the door startled him. Had Anathema come by already? She wasn’t meant to come around until the morning, but perhaps Crowley had forgotten to pick her up from somewhere. He hoped not; that’d be awkward, and he didn't feel like dealing with any more negative emotions until his scheduled crying time.
He leaves his terrarium sluggishly, wishing he’d slept the Century away not for the first time. The knockings back, more desperate this time. He disgruntledly swings open the door looking away from the frame to fix his glasses
“Yeah yeah, thought you weren't here until…” He stops speaking as he turns to face the unexpected guest, as standing in front of his door, with six pairs of perfectly groomed yet still disheveled wings, is Aziraphale.
***
Neither of them know how long they stand there, staring at each other. It could be minutes, it could be hours. It could’ve been centuries, and Aziraphale would’ve loved each second.
Yet the sun still hasn’t risen when Crowley eventually reaches forward and pulls him inside, wordlessly.
Crowley sets the kettle going after Aziraphale is settled down on the couch. The angel watches as, for the first time, Crowley makes the tea instead of him. It seemed he’d been practicing in his free time.
He wants to read into this. He wants to feel touched, to think that the other had spent the time practicing to make his favorite tea, just in case he ever returned. Wants to believe Crowley bought this cottage thinking of them, thinking of Aziraphale.
Instead, he distracts himself with the fact that the couch is new and ignoring the fact that the walls are the same yellow the Bentley likes to turn when Aziraphale is driving.
When Crowley finally sets the tea down on the coffee table and settles into an armchair across the room, Valentino sunglasses sitting firmly on his face, Aziraphale already feels like he’s overstayed his welcome.
The demon sighs, and he looks very much like he’d like to bury his face in his hands. Instead, he moves both to his mug. “Aziraphale.” said angel swallows harder than he should.
“Crowley.” He whispers back, words falling off his tongue like water off a duck's back. “I- how’ve you been?”
“Fine, angel. What’re you doing here?” The shortness hurts, but it feels… deserved, almost.
“I… you were right,” Aziraphale admits. His throat feels dry, so he drinks some tea. It's scalding. “about Heaven. About everything.” Crowley doesn't seem surprised. “I- I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
Aziraphale breaths heavier. He thought being forgiven would make him feel better. He just feels worse.
“Crowley, you don’t have to forgive me, I-”
“Angel, it’s not your fault,” The demon interrupts, “it was mine. I was being stupid. You could never resist Heaven.”
This time, Aziraphale bristles. “What's that supposed to mean?”
He sighs again. “You love Heaven, Angel. Always have, even when it's done nothing but poison us.” Crowley takes a drink of his tea. He lets it burn his tongue for a bit too long before he heals it. “You never could’ve stayed. I’m too evil for that. For you.”
“That's not true!”
“It is. You know it is, you said it yourself.” he rubs his eyes from under his sunglasses. “And you were right to. But I’m not gonna change, Angel. I never did. You can’t- can’t love me like this. I wish you would, but you don’t, and I can’t change that.”
Silence settles across the room like fresh snow, tentative and fresh. It fills unused lungs, suffocating Aziraphale with its weight. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he wishes he did, just so he could cough it up. Not for the first time since leaving Earth, or even since returning to it, he feels tears pricking at his eyes.
“That's not true,” He says, voice coming out horrible distended, “you’ve got it wrong.”
“I don’t think I have.”
“Then stop thinking!” Aziraphale demands, and he has to retract his wings to stop them from flaring all the way out. “You- that isn’t what I meant.”
Crowley hesitates, before crossing his legs and falling silent. An invitation to explain.
“I agreed to go to Heaven for you,” He bursts out, and wilts when the other snorts incredulously. “I did. The metatron offered me the position and I turned it down, but then he said you could be an angel. And I didnt think of you being evil, or even being forgiven, or any of that,” He has to take a breath after that, just for the need to take a break. “and Crowley, all I could think of was how happy you were when you created the stars.”
He’d looked so beautiful when he’d created. And Aziraphale had ended that, had crushed that happiness. Not intentionally, of course, he’d have found out anyway, but it had hurt. It had hurt to be the one to take away so much joy. It wasn’t what he had been made for; not what either of them had been made for.
“All I could think about was how carefree you were, how happy you seemed to just create. I wanted to give that back to you- I still do. But Heaven isn’t the way to do it, I get that now, I get that.” Aziraphale explains desperately. “I never wanted you to change, Crowley. Never ever.”
An intake of breath, and the demon had to swallow before he sobbed. This was… not, what he had been expecting, when Aziraphale had shown up on his doorstep. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting- maybe an apology, then going back to how it’d always been. Maybe he’d been expecting fighting, or information of the second-coming. Maybe even begging for him to become an angel again- but not this.
“Come on.” Aziraphale urged, gently pulling him from his seat. “Lets go outside.”
They did, side-by-side, watching the barely encroaching dawn crawl over the hills of the South-Downs.
“Angel…” Crowley started, his voice failing him. Aziraphale took the demon's face in his hands, carefully removing the sunglasses to stare into his snake-like eyes. He shuddered out a breath, and then, for the second time, he kissed the angel.
As the stars shone overhead, a Demon and an Angel finally embraced each other and allowed themselves to live.
***
It’s been three minutes and eight seconds since the rest of their lives, and they can’t wait to get started.
“I love you, Aziraphale.” He grumbled lightly, eyes closing briefly.
“I love you too, Crowley.”