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Crowley was tired. So very, very tired. It had been a few days now that his usual sleepiness at the end of each day did not disperse come morning, and he carried the tiredness — which slowly mounted to exhaustion — through an increasingly blurry string of days.
What did he really do today? Crowley could not recall with certainty. He supposed it was Wednesday, but he could be wrong, really. Did he pick up a book for his angel today or was that yesterday? Was the breakfast at the Ritz this morning or three days ago? He could not remember, and it was not like it mattered anyway.
He knew this pattern of behavior, of course, had a distinct six thousand years of getting to know himself and the effect the world had on him, the way his corporation reacted to things.
Crowley knew his tells for a depressive episode. It would have been concerning if he had not figured them out over the centuries. He had noticed that the world tended to lack color in a special way; had noticed the dull coldness normally settled deep inside his chest breaking loose and turning into a void, devouring all emotions and leaving him with an apathy strong enough to rival even Hell’s expectations for him. They would be so proud of him. The thought alone made Crowley feel sick.
The wine he drank with Aziraphale would taste like ash, the books on the bookshelves would be nothing but hollow pages and not the most fascinating accumulation of human knowledge and art. Aziraphale would turn blurry.
Not literally, of course. But Crowley would start to feel himself drift away into his less-than-pleasant thoughts and retreat from the Angel — retreat from the present he now so desperately tried to live in — and return to the past.
His many regrets, his many mistakes.
Crowley could tell when his depression would come back with a vengeance — it always came in waves for him — and he was forced to struggle through the days, weeks, months, years it lasted until the apathy suffocating him would let up for a bit and he could breathe again. Until it would start from new, like an endless cycle.
“Crowley, are you even listening to me?” Aziraphale pouted, the book he had been rambling about for the past half-hour held securely in his hands, opened at a seemingly random page.
Crowley hummed, pouring every ounce of composure he had into sounding believable. This was tedious and Aziraphale should never be tedious . “‘M listening, go on,” he said, because he owed Aziraphale a proper response. He owed the angel more than that, Crowley knew, but he could not muster it at the moment.
“I don’t believe you, actually,” Aziraphale said, shutting the book softly and placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “Thank you for the gift, truly,” he added, gesturing to the book, “but enough of that now. Tell me, my dear, is there something on your mind?”
Crowley sighed. “‘S nothing Angel, leave it.”
“Come now, dear boy, I know you. What is troubling you?” Aziraphale probed gently, taking his cup of tea from the table and taking a generous sip, eyes fixed on Crowley.
With another sigh, Crowley swung his legs over the armrest of the chair he was lounging in — his chair, as Aziraphale insisted on calling it — and placed them firmly on the ground. “Life, y’know?” he said, gesturing around himself wildly in exasperation, “shit is just ngk!”
Aziraphale hummed. “I’d like to remind you, my dear” he said, cup of tea carefully balanced on the saucer and held firmly in his hands, “that things tend to get worse before they get better.”
Crowley scoffed. “Things get worse before they get better before they get bad again.”
And it was time that ended. He was so very tired of this endless cycle of pain and despair.
What did Aziraphale know, truly? What could he know about a demon’s suffering and all the shades of blackness he saw each and every day? What could he know about feeling empty inside when he was filled with Her love to the brim? The angel radiated love, and sometimes Crowley was jealous Aziraphale had so much of it and then some to spare.
“Crowley, I’d love to help—” the angel began.
Well, that was it then.
“Oh, you want to help, do you?” Crowley spit suddenly, patronizingly enough to make Aziraphale flinch, “tell me how you’d like to help when I feel like nothing makes sense? Tell me, what will you do when I say I just want to give up and be done with all this” — he gestured wildly again — “and stop existing because I am so damn tired!”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, his lower lip wobbling, but as if sensing that he wanted to interrupt him, Crowley held up a shaky hand to silence Aziraphale.
“You cannot fathom how much I do not want to live some days, right now, Aziraphale. I’d—” he cut himself off, taking a deep breath and exhaling all the anger that had suddenly boiled up inside him. There was nothing left now, beside the chilling, suffocating apathy. “It’s all meaningless, all ridiculous and so terribly tedious. I don’t think it’s worth the trouble, honestly. You want to help? Oh, what do you know! I wish I was dead. How do you fix me?”
A beat of tense silence passed between them, broken only by the faint clinking of ceramic. Crowley frowned, confused.
“Oh Crowley,” the shakiness in Aziraphale’s words made Crowley’s head snap up, he found his angel’s wet eyes tainted on him — hands shaking enough to cause a few drops of his tea to spill over the edge of the fine china — and the most heart wrenching expression on sorrow and pain etched onto his face. It made Crowley regret ever opening his mouth.
He had made Aziraphale cry. He had made his angel cry. “Aziraphale—” Crowely croaked, voice suddenly strangled. Shitshitshit— idiot, useless waste of space, can’t even—
“Hush, dear,” Aziraphale interrupted him, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, “you said— said all that,” his voice shook again and he cleared his throat, placing his tea unsteadily back on the coffee table, “now I’d like to say a few things of my own.”
“You really don’t— I’m sor—” Crowley tried to interject, guilt churning deep inside him. He cursed himself for speaking to Aziraphale so harshly. He damned himself for not perishing all those centuries ago. There would have been blissful nothingness if he had. Now he was forced to look at his angel crying tears he had summoned into Aziraphale’s eyes himself.
“Don’t,” Aziraphale said sharply, reaching out a hand to take Crowley’s. “It is not your fault.”
“I snapped at you!”
“And I forgive you,” Aziraphale said easily, as if the words alone were not enough to have Crowley’s heart stop in his chest and his trembling increase tenfold. Unforgivable, that’s what I am.
“But that’s not what you’re apologizing for, deep down,” Aziraphale said sadly, “It’s not your fault you feel lost some days, untethered from the world. You did nothing wrong, my dear. Recovery is not a linear progress, you assured me yourself not so long ago. And I understand that it is frustrating when things get bad again — trust me, I know. I understand your pain, I understand— I know what it’s like to— to want it all to stop—”
Aziraphale broke off, taking a shaky breath.
None of them had lived through six-thousand years unscathed. The flood. The crucifixion. Genocides. The Inquisition. Slavery. Famines. Murders. The Plague. Massacres. Wars. Wars. Wars. Wars.
After a while, they all blended together. An endless cycle of human history that seemed to be moving forward, but remained the same regardless. With all the centuries Aziraphale had lived through, with all the things he’d seen— during his lowest moments he wondered how humans could possibly believe the Almighty existed when he, as one of Her angels, could experience enough horror to doubt Her.
“But things get better again, too, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, recalling Crowley’s arm in his as they hurried together through the streets of Alexandria. Crowley’s hands on his back, holding him up as some humans started enslaving others. Crowley’s presence next to him as he watched over decades and centuries, political conflicts developing into wars and massacres and genocides and death. So many dead. So many dead.
Crowley’s fingers brushing through his hair as he gagged, shattered human bodies lying behind him in the medical tent, more to retrieve from the trenches and no-man’s land. Crowley holding him tightly as he screamed and thrashed when Dachau was opened.
Crowley’s eyes glinting in concern, begging him to breathe, as nuclear bombs detonated in Japan. Crowley was there by his side, making endurance a little easier.
“There is hope underneath all the layers of darkness and apathy and chilling frost that things will get better,” Aziraphale said, “and I promise you, it’s always worth it to hold on until you see the light again, no matter how long it takes. No matter how long it takes.”
Crowley did not look at him, could not meet the angel’s gentle and assuring gaze. “Is six-thousand years not long enough?” he asked around the lump in his throat and buried his face in Aziraphale’s soft shoulders as he engulfed Crowley in his arms.
“My dear,” Aziraphale breathed, kissing the top of Crowley’s head and ignoring the tears running down his cheeks. It ripped him apart, knowing the extent of Crowley’s suffering, knowing there was nothing he could do but be there for his demon and offer unrelenting support for as long as he needed him to. Just as Crowley had always done for him.