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Crowley remembered the first time he felt the flowers root themselves in his chest.
At first, he brushed it off. It was just a small twinge near his ribs when he looked in the eyes of the other angel as he lit up the universe for the first time. He’s just been told the creation he was so proud of would be destroyed; who wouldn’t be a bit pained by that?
The second time was harder to ignore. He met Aziraphale again at the wall of Eden. Admiration flooded him first when he heard of the angel’s actions to help the humans, followed by a strange new warmth (something he’d later identify as the feeling of love). As they each left each other for their respective duties, this warmth twisted into a familiar pain. This time, however, that small twinge felt much more like he’d imagined Adam would’ve felt had he been awake for the creation of Eve.
Each time they met after this, Crowley felt this same mix of love and pain. Somehow, falling for Aziraphale was worse than falling from heaven. The pain that shot through his lungs was exactly what he deserved for what he was doing– turning an angel against his faith, pushing him towards the same fate he’d earned. A fate that Aziraphale didn’t deserve. If he fell, it would be his fault. This pain was just a reminder of that fact.
He first coughed up a petal after the two of them helped to save Job’s children. Seeing the small bit of the plant that had been growing inside him for years covered in droplets of his blood only made the ache in his lungs twist deeper. He wasn’t just being punished for leading Aziraphale astray; he was being punished because the angel didn’t feel the same way about him. Crowley knew he shouldn’t be surprised by that fact. He was a demon– everything his angel stood against, everything he feared– of course he didn’t love him.
Crowley didn’t know if the cursed flowers growing in his lungs were capable of killing a demon.
He hoped they were.
Over the years, he got used to it. The pain, the coughing fits, even the bloody flowers he kept having to hide; all of it was worth it to see Aziraphale. He accepted his fate, knowing that after all this time, he wouldn’t be able to move on. This was his penance for what he had done. He felt as though he deserved worse anyways.
Oddly enough, he seemed to start getting better in the 1940s. The sharp pain turned to a dull ache, and the flowers he coughed up were rarely more than a small petal. After the two of them teamed up to stop the apocalypse, his symptoms seemed to disappear almost entirely. Crowley knew that he hadn’t lost feelings for the angel; if anything, he loved him even more now. He understood the only other reason he’d no longer be punished for unrequited love. He didn’t acknowledge it. If he was wrong, he wouldn’t just lose the person he’d loved for centuries– he’d lose his best friend.
The curse was gone. He tried to accept that. But every time he looked at his angel and felt nothing but love and joy, he still expected it to twist into that familiar pain. To not be punished felt wrong, unnatural somehow. And yet, as much as he expected it to come back, he still wasn’t prepared for when it did.
After so long without it, feeling the roots burying themselves farther into his lungs was excruciating. Every word Aziraphale said felt like corkscrews digging into his ribs. The way he begged him to come back to heaven, to abandon everything he stood for, that he’d thought they stood for– it was a complete betrayal. It was unforgivable. Whatever they’d had, it was over.
“You idiot. We could’ve been us.”
Crowley pulled Aziraphale in, crashing their mouths together in a desperate kiss. Nothing was stopping him anymore; anything he had to lose was already lost. As he pulled away, he felt one final ripping pain searing through his chest, and then nothing. Driving away in his car, he remembered the innumerable times he'd sat in the same seat, coughing up flowers as pain seared through him. He wished the pain would come back. Anything was better than the cold emptiness that consumed him.
No nightingales, and no flowers.
It was over.
…
Aziraphale didn’t know when the fondness he felt toward the fallen angel had blossomed into something more. As much as each of them would deny it, they enjoyed working together, and they were good at it. Over the years, though, his feelings were far more than he should feel for someone he just collaborated with, more than could even be explained by their unlikely friendship.
He was in love with Crowley.
He knew the demon wasn’t in love with him. He still treated him the same way he had for centuries. There was no way he saw him as more than a friend, and that was okay. As long as they were still together, he could live with that.
So when Metatron came to him with an offer, he truly believed it could work. They could stay by each other’s side, they could return to heaven, and they could do something good. Everything would be okay.
Cowley’s refusal was enough of a surprise to him that Aziraphale could barely understand what he was saying. It felt like a rejection, not of the plan, not of heaven, but of him. He didn’t understand any of it until their lips were pressed together. It wasn’t a gentle expression of love, as he’d expect a kiss to be, it was an act of desperation; more a last kiss than a first.
Crowley had loved him, and now there was nothing he could do about it.
He watched him go, pain sprouted up deep inside his chest. There was so much he felt, so many things he wanted to say; he should confess his love, beg him to stay, to run away together, anything. But as heartbreak seemed to tear his lungs in half, he could only choke out a small sentence.
“I forgive you.”
It wasn’t what he meant to say. As the demon turned to leave, Aziraphale knew he couldn’t stop him; he didn’t deserve to stop him. That thought only made the blossoming pain worse. He forced it back, attempting a smile as he talked with Metatron about their plans.
He hoped to let go, to look back and see the Bentley gone and any hope gone with it. When he saw Crowley waiting for him instead, he realized his mistake. He was in love, and even with everything that happened, that wasn’t going away. He felt something scratching at the back of his throat, but he ignored it, getting in the elevator to leave.
The coughing started when he got to heaven, blood splotching his white coat. Eventually, he coughed a small object into his hand. It was a beautiful yellow, the same color as Crowley’s eyes. A flower– the first of many.
As painful as it was, the flowers were his only reminder of the demon he could keep in heaven. He gently cleaned the petals and put them in a vase. Maybe one day he could give the bouquet to Crowley.
He doubted he’d ever get the chance.