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Sometimes being a demon just sucks. As much as Crowley has tried dealing with feelings the way that humans do, it just doesn’t work that way for him. There is no ‘regulation’ without a nervous system. There’s human emotions and then there’s infernal ones, which are like trying to contain a natural disaster in a bottle. Counting to ten or deep breathing barely touches the surface of the maelstrom that is his pain. He has actually made a lot of progress in learning about himself and good coping skills since Aziraphale went back to heaven (the first time) but he had no idea that seeing him for a quick visit, and then having him leave again would be so devastating. It doesn't make sense, why he feels so devastated, but then again, nothing about his life had ever made much sense.
Crowley thinks to distract himself, drinks to forget, drives to get lost, and the very last thing he has wanted to do when feeling this way is remember. But after seeing Aziraphale and holding him close, even for just one night, he deeply craves being close to any tangible reminder of what they have. Staying at the bookshop until Aziraphale came home was comforting and familiar. But now it’s so empty without him. Muriel said they would continue staying there and keeping an eye on things . Crowley had forgotten that Shax had gone back to Hell, so he can return to his flat. He had a sudden panicked thought that she could have let all of his plants die (a truly demonic act), and rushed to return to them, driving even more recklessly than usual.
He parks the Bentley on the street and goes right in to survey any potential damage. The flat is orderly, a bit dusty, but all the plants are still alive. What a relief. He goes to the kitchen to fill up various sizes and shapes of watering cans and misters. Some of the ‘naughtier’ plants (who have a bit of mold, a few that have mites) begin trembling, and he talks them down. “No punishment today. Count yourselves lucky.” He surveys the plants and is grateful that yes, Shax must have watered them at least a few times, but was uneducated about the finer points of more delicate varieties of epiphytes and succulents.
Resolved to immerse himself in plant care, Crowley sets the mood by putting on a my bloody valentine record, just the right sound for his despair (not that he would ever tell anyone this), and turning up the volume until his cabinets are buzzing. After mixing some liquid fertilizer and a vinegar-neem oil blend, Crowley went around administering the remedies to those who needed it, and delicately removing leaves and moldy soil. After he had finished with all the plants in the parlor, the study and his office, Crowley refilled a more delicate mister for the orchid wall that he had in his bedroom. He was really quite proud of it, having created a floating wall of orchids in strips of tree bark, woven with ferns and bromeliads, and grow lights on a timer. He switched them off, to save his sensitive eyes and greeted each of the flowers. Not all of them were flowering, and that normally made him furious, but he didn’t really care now. If he was an orchid, he would be nothing but a brown shriveled leaf, so he understood. At least they were green, and those that were flowering were gorgeous. He had picked up some exotic varieties that mimicked the shapes of hummingbirds and they were truly a marvel. Well done You, he was thinking to God, which wasn’t unusual, but he felt no conflicted anger mixed in, just the kind of awe you have for someone who is Ineffable.
On a low wooden bench opposite the orchids, Crowley had created a kind of altar. Not to God or Satan, but to Aziraphale. He didn’t really think of it as an altar, but there wasn’t another word for this type of collection of precious relics, organized in a pleasant pattern and grouped around small succulents and statuettes. Some of the objects would be heirlooms if he was human, as he had kept them for many human lifetimes, preserved with a bit of demon magic to not age or weather. Each object held a special memory; oyster shells from the first time he ate them with Aziraphale in Ancient Rome, letters they had written each other in the early 1800’s when Crowley was spending a lot of time away from London, various theatre tickets, and the framed polaroid photograph of the almost-disaster that was Aziraphale’s West End Stage debut.
Occasionally, he would feel moved to hold each one and remember. It had happened rarely in the last few years, since he spent so much time with Aziraphale, but in his absence, anything remaining was infinitely more precious. The bench was framed by soft leather ottomans, and Crowley sat down to look at the orchids.
On the altar to his left, there was a stack of poetry books that Aziraphale had given him over the years, when Aziraphale was desperately trying to get him to read anything, he thought that it was about the length, which that was it partially, but written words just never gripped Crowley they way they did Aziraphale. Neruda was the only poet Crowley actually enjoyed, because there was so much magic in his words that it was a visceral experience for him, he could only imagine humans reading these poems. How did they not explode? He reached for Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, and opened to his favorite poem. He had the last paragraph underlined and highlighted, the page dog eared, and the spine of the book was broken, to be held open in that spot, Sonnet 17:
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams.”
He remembers dining with Aziraphale that night in 1927 at Boulestin, a fancy French restaurant that had just opened. They hadn’t met in a few years, and were both in town for various blessings and temptations that the Arrangement was insufficient for. Although at this point, they both secretly wanted to be in the same place at the same time. It was lovely watching him absolutely savor (to the point of indecency really!) the food, and Crowley thoroughly enjoyed the wine. At the end of the night, they went back to the bookshop, and Aziraphale, in such a good and generous mood, handed him the small book of poetry. “I think you might enjoy this, dear.” Crowley held his breath as their hands touched and lingered in the exchange. He looked at the title of the book and scoffed, “ Yeah right. Demons don’t care about love.” “Well you can keep telling yourself that, but I don’t believe you anymore.” Aziraphale had his teasing face on, but his eyes were so soft. Crowley swallowed, “Ngk, alright angel.” As soon as he left, he read the entire book of poetry underneath a streetlamp, and cried for the first time in many decades, to think that Aziraphale thought him capable of any kind of love, let alone the kind written about in this book. He had treasured it ever since, almost 100 years later.
He hadn’t even realized he was crying, but came back into his body from the memory and sobs were wracking his body. This is what he had wanted, to wallow, to let it out. But it’s endless. His whole existence led to nothing but abandonment. Aziraphale was his constant companion, even through the decades when they didn’t speak, just knowing that he existed was a comforting support. But now it’s time to support himself, Aziraphale told him that he didn’t know how often he could visit. That it may be a long time before he could come back. Taking some deep breaths did help him to stop sobbing so hard, and he remembers something Nina told him about self-abandonment and codependency. Such a stupid human concept, but he did identify with it after Nina explained that codependents are always living for others instead of themselves. All the demonic deeds he had ever done were for someone else’s approval, namely Hell’s, not that it matters now.
He remembers the feeling of awe that he had for the hummingbird orchid, how rare of a feeling that is for him, but how good it feels to remember that part of himself, it still exists! Even after his Fall, he can be awestruck by beauty, even in the midst of pain. He gets up, turns to look at the altar, replaces the book and walks over to the orchid. It is almost sparkling from the fine mist he had sprayed, all peachy fuchsia and with all the parts of a hummingbird. It’s so silent in his flat that if he bends down and gets really close, he can hear the flower’s song. Why doesn’t he listen more often? The world is so loud and fast, but as an angel (and apparently a demon too) everything has a song if you stop to listen. It’s not usually Crowley’s mode of being, receptivity. But this heartbreak has drained and broken him in a way that is so vulnerable and new, he wonders what could possibly be next. Moving toward beauty is an acceptable next step, at least.