Chapter Text
“Tell me you said no,” the demon hissed.
A painful silence, almost deafening to the ears.
“Tell me you said no.”
“If I’m in charge, I can make a difference,” the cherub tremulously muttered in an almost whisper, his visage faltering at the unadulterated rage burning behind those glisteningly golden eyes.
Crowley’s eyes flickered, the hope in his pupils vanishing in a trice like droplets of mist in the air. He had planned to tell Aziraphale everything. How he felt. How long he loved. Their future together, once everything eventually settled down.
Now everything he ever wanted to say seemed to be reduced to a flimsy scrap of fabric that Aziraphale had so ruthlessly ripped to pieces, his words tugging at each frayed thread until it unsnarled into a mangled mess. His thoughts were scattered - lost in a tempestuous maelstrom, whirling around in his already agonizingly fragile mind. Words he wanted so badly to say pounded against each crevice of his skull like a drill to concrete, and yet not a single one slipped through his cracked lips.
Despite not wanting to, Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t inherently wrong for thinking the way he did. After all, it was in his nature - to do good, even when the ‘good’ in question might have meant demolishing everything they’d ever built together for the past six millenia in a mere second. He couldn’t bring himself to blame the cherub, as much as his heart so desperately yearned to - as much as he wanted to find something, no matter how shallow, that would justify his own selfish desires.
He tried to open his mouth, hoping a flurry of words might start miraculously trickling out. It doesn’t, leaving him bare and empty, his chest eerily hollow. Crowley wasn’t used to being so vulnerable.
Spit it out. You won’t get another chance . His inner voice snarled, each emphatic plosive like hot acid to the scalp, a cacophony of noises blaring in his mind. He gnawed on his lower lip, shifty eyes flitting to the cherub’s as he stared wordlessly at the angel before him, his mockingly reassuring gaze tweezing out chunks of his palpitating heart, bit by bit. An aching pressure plunged into his chest cavity, squeezing it like a vice, Crowley’s agony being masked by a flimsy blank facade.
Tell him everything. Make him stay.
By now, the voice in his head was screaming as loudly as it could muster, almost caterwauling. Crowley tried to shut those guttural shrieks up with a heavy inhale, his shaky breath piercing through the silence in the room like an arrow through feeble prey.
It didn’t work. There was a severe disconnect between his mind and his mouth, both certain to sabotage him at any moment. All he could do was take a tentative step closer to the cherub, eyes glazing over momentarily before he took a proper look at every minuscule detail of Aziraphale’s face - his crow’s feet, his rosy cheeks, his fluffy blonde curls. He found himself in a trance, lost in a delusionally blissful reverie, knowing it might very well be the last time he would ever get this close to his, no, the angel.
“Crowley, we can-”
“I’m not going back,” the demon blurted out, his words bitingly sour - a tone Aziraphale had never heard before. The entire speech he’d prepared - all those years of pent-up emotions at the very brink of endlessly gushing out of his chest, raw and bare only for Aziraphale’s eyes to see - scrapped, ditched, and tossed into the can, only to be replaced by such sickeningly shallow words. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Aziraphale anything he’d been planning to, instead shoving every prickling thought down into the countless fissures that had arisen in his broken body.
Briefly, Crowley considered taking everything back and blindly agreeing to Aziraphale’s proposition, fantasies of them together for the rest of eternity flashing through his mind fleetingly. Of course, he knew things like that were impossible - especially for a demon like him - he wouldn’t deserve it anyway. Whether he agreed to the proposition or not, the outcome would be exactly the same. Their side would be gone, forever - vanish in a trice. He watched as faintly glistening tears brim in the cherub’s glossy eyes, wanting so deeply to reach out and brush a thumb against his cheek. But he couldn’t.
“It can be like you’d never fallen, Crowley! You can leave your demonic past - all your regrets, your wiles, your life of sin , behind! We can be on the same side, for once!” Aziraphale cried, desperation bleeding through the shrill sound of his words, voice almost squeaky.
“What the Hell did you just say?” Crowley snarled, his eyebrows tightly furrowed as a splash of crimson flashed before his serpentine eyes. Subconsciously, he had clenched his fist, sharp fingernails almost mercilessly digging into his flesh, but his rage had drowned out the pain.
“You can be an angel again, dear. Don’t you understand?” Aziraphale pleaded, his eyebrows drawing upwards as a timely tear rolled down his ruddy cheek, searingly hot against his skin.
“Crowley, it’s a chance to go back to what you once were! To the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Are you fucking serious, ang- Aziraphale ?” the demon thundered, his voice breaking at the last syllable, vocal cords burning fiercely against the walls in his throat. Momentarily, he faltered at the sight of the cherub’s trembling lips, ostensible hurt behind his misty azure eyes, the demon slowly unclenching his once tightly-held fist. God, did I go too far?
Aziraphale stood rigidly on the ground, face horridly blanched as Crowley’s unwavering glare almost viciously bored holes into his body, the near ghostly chill in the atmosphere filling the new emptiness in his chest. He couldn’t think of a response - nothing that came to mind would be at all fair for Crowley to hear come out of his lips; it just wouldn’t be humane. In an act of sheer cowardice, Aziraphale chose to remain silent, salty tears prickling his eyes like the sharpest of needles through skin.
“Always you and your holier-than-thou bullshit,” Crowley spat, his face twisting into a scowl as he felt his face flush with heat, the air around them warmer than he’d ever experienced before - and he was someone who had once touched Hellfire.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” the cherub replied through a wet sob, sniffling. Cautiously, he inched closer to Crowley, who imperceptibly tilted his head away from him, the cherub’s visage faltering at the realisation, though trying his best to callously brush away his hurt.
“I just thought it would be better if both of us were angels, working together.”
“Just bloody admit it, Aziraphale. You just wish I never Fell.”
“Of course I do!” Aziraphale shouted, feeling like his guts had been twisted into a morbidly mutilated pile of mush, wincing at the brutality of his own words.
“Right, ‘of course’, because you’re an angel and I’m a demon . You just want to stick your sanctimonious little fingers in everything you deem just a smidge imperfect and fix it,” Crowley hissed, a gnarly vein bulging from his neck as he bared his teeth, chin jutting out.
There was a faint twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye - one Crowley had never once seen before. The cherub pressed his lips together, hoping he could miraculously collect himself and let his emotions seep out of him like water from a soaked sponge.
Instead, he was left helplessly staring down at his trembling hands, fiddling with his fingertips, unsure of what to say. He’d never witnessed Crowley like this before - his wrath was more painful to bear than he’d ever imagined. The way he called him an angel was far different from the countless other times he had in the past - the words now laden with hatred and hurt rather than the usual fondness with which it always so easily rolled off the demon’s tongue.
Gradually, the demon felt regret smouldering in his gut like flames eager to burn, scorching the lining of his stomach as he wished so deeply that She could somehow allow him to retract whatever he’d just said. He knew Aziraphale wasn’t completely devoted to Heaven anyway - he’d never once been a perfect angel. But he couldn’t help feeling so betrayed by the prospect of the cherub dragging him by the collar into the pearly gates, where he’d have to return to the place from which he’d dove headfirst into a excruciatingly boiling pit of sulphur thousands of years back. He’d have to face the rest of those sodding angels who somehow cared no less for Aziraphale than they did for him.
Crowley wanted to say sorry - take it all back like he was rubbing away a stain. Slightly parting his lips, he almost did - but Aziraphale’s voice halted his flow of thought.
“Crowley, if you go back there, you won’t be burdened by your demonic nature any longer,” the cherub whispered, tilting his head timorously to meet the demon at eye level, trying his hardest not to avert his gaze.
“You can let go of everything - you can be good, properly, for once.”
“Aziraphale, are you trying to fucking fix me?” Crowley snapped, his voice low and rumbly, every muscle in his face impossibly tense. It was too late to salvage things anyway.
“Crowley, you know I would never-”
“Oh god, I was right,” he murmured to himself, knuckles almost digging into his temples as he reflexively took a step back, aching to distance himself from the cherub. The warmth he’d always felt when around him was long gone, eerily frigid air taking its place like a ghost aimlessly wandering around its own bodily remains.
“You know - I get it,” Crowley scoffed, shaking his head as Aziraphale stares blankly at him, determinedly keeping his lips sealed so he wouldn’t accidentally say something wrong again.
“You’re a bloody cherub. You see something that’s broken, damaged, bruised, whatever the fuck it is angels call it, and have the burning urge to fix it, don’t you? Primitive, almost.”
“Crowley, I promise, I don’t-”
“All you want to do is pick up whatever shattered fragments you can find and somehow patch me up by gluing each little piece together like it’s a fucking art project.”
“Please, listen to me,” Aziraphale shouted, his voice resonating through the room, the desperation in his tone growing more palpable with each echo. Faltering, Crowley obliged, and resolutely stayed silent, his vision gradually blurring with tears. He refused to blink - refused to let the tears fall. He didn’t want to show the angel how deeply his words had stung, or how humiliatingly weak he was. He was a demon, for Someone’s sake.
Deeply, the angel wished Someone would bless him with the ability to say exactly what he wanted to - string his words together in a way that wouldn’t mercilessly stab Crowley in the chest and leave him with nothing to hold onto. Inevitably, he knew it’d impossible - nothing would ever be enough. Forcefully, he shut his eyes, rearranging the jumbled up words - which were now tumultuously swirling around in his brain - into something at least comprehensible.
“We could be together, doing good. I…”
There was a torturously thick blanket of silence suffocating them, Crowley hearing the cherub shove the lump down his throat as he valiantly tried his best to push through his ragged breaths, cheeks now mottled with a deep red, tear stains glistening in the warm light.
“I need you,” Aziraphale breathed, his voice audibly choked. Beseechingly, he clasped his trembling hands together ever so tightly, as if he was praying, no, begging that Crowley would understand what he truly meant.
“You don’t need me. You just think you need to mend me,” Crowley replied bluntly, hissing each sibilant, the ache in his chest so visceral it was as if his insides had been savagely twisted and wrung by Aziraphale’s holy, cherubic hands.
The angel was taken aback, the shallowness of his words like a dagger to the heart. How could he still think this, even after a near eternity of history between us?
Aziraphale’s mucous-filled sniffles slashed through the silence like a dagger through flesh, though they’re still taciturnly looking at each other, a thousand agony-soaked words conveyed through their searing stares.
“Please, I…” Aziraphale’s voice trailed off, unable to muster the last sliver of courage he so desperately scoured for to finish his sentence. Hands trembling, Crowley let out a weak, derisive laugh before swiftly perching his sunglasses on his nose, the fading embers of hope he kept in his chest now finally dying out.
Wordlessly, the demon turned around, trudging toward the bookshop door, a dejected sigh escaping from his lips. He had walked into the bookshop driven by such innocent glee and giddiness, having made the bold decision to finally pour his heart out to the angel, hoping he’d be able to walk out of it with his arms tightly interlocked with his. Now, he was one foot out the door, the achingly gaping hole in his chest as his only companion.
Impetuously, the cherub grabbed hold of Crowley’s bony, trembling wrist, fingers tightly wrapped around his arm, nails almost piercing his skin. Don’t leave me. Please. A scorchingly hot sensation bubbled in his chest - an unbearably agonising maelstrom of regret and hurt that filled every orifice in his body.
Callously, the demon peeled his fingers off of his sleeve like they were mere lint on a sweater, feigning insouciance as he tried to shake off the guilt slithering up his neck, constricting his throat. Without turning back, he took another slow step forward, ready to leave the bookshop - and Aziraphale, behind.
“I love you,” Aziraphale said quietly - almost timidly, even, albeit loudly enough for Crowley to hear.
Crowley froze for a moment, feeling like he was being yanked behind by a rope relentlessly pulling him closer and closer to the cherub behind him, but still, determinedly, not budging - his feet were rooted to the ground. He loosened his sweaty grasp on the door handle, his fingertips twitching as he felt his heart rate climb, pulse rhythmically throbbing against his neck.
For the past few minutes, Aziraphale had been so savagely chiseling away at his already chipped heart - or more fittingly, rather - he’d been ravenously clawing it to shreds. And now, he’d just uttered the very words Crowley had so deeply been yearning to hear come out of his mouth for the past thousands of years. He didn’t know how to feel - or what to say.
He briefly entertained the idea of it being a ploy - a desperate last resort to get him to stay, his eyes flickering at the thought. But despite the hurt stretching the hole in his heart wider and wider every second, he knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t ever stoop to that level - no matter how much of a bastard he could be. He knew it was real. And somehow, that made it hurt even more.
His back cowardly facing the cherub, Crowley blinked, finally letting his tears roll down his cheeks, the liquid almost burning his skin, the sensation ironically like holy water to the touch. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the droplet falling onto his leather jacket, his heart blown to smithereens. He was the broken one, now.
There were a thousand ways he could reply - ‘I love you too, angel, and I have since Eden ’, ‘Forget it ’, and ‘Don’t, please” being the main contenders, helplessly whirling around in his mind, the voice in his head now deafeningly loud as he tried to silence it with a thick sniffle.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say any of them, and instead did the same thing he did mere moments ago.
He said nothing.
Firmly, he pushed the door open, taking a decisive step out of Aziraphale’s bookshop, savouring the sensation of bibliosmia one last time before his whole body was out the door, knowing he would always miss the feeling of gazing around each rustically ornate aspect of the bookshop in pure awe. He steeled himself, trying his hardest not to crumble at the gust of wind he was so cruelly met with the moment he stepped outside; it was like She was mocking him. The absence of Aziraphale’s grip on his arm left his chest hollow, like there was something missing - and there was.
Helplessly, Aziraphale watched as the demon made his way to his Bentley, his strides large but somehow cowardly, the cherub waiting for even an imperceptibly small head turn toward him - which never came. His heart sank, an overwhelming sense of betrayal flooding through each vessel in his body, his lips quivering as the door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the walls, loudly reminding him that he’d been left behind. There’s a shrill jingle of the bells hung just above his bookshop door, as if jeering at him for his embarrassing display of vulnerability, only to be so heartlessly shut down, no, not even shut down - ignored.
“Wait, Crowley!”
The demon heard the cherub’s despair-drenched words in the distance, though not completely coherent due to the windy weather. He was able to make it out, though - he’d made the conscious effort to.
He chose not to react, not even stopping in his tracks before he lumbered over to the Bentley, each step heavy with guilt and sorrow, but not letting it show. As he’d always done, he shoved those pesky emotions back where they came from, a sigh escaping his quivering lips, utterly bereft.
Hurt, Aziraphale decided to soften the blow himself, forcing himself to believe Crowley had simply not heard him, slowly wrapping his fingers around the door handle - where Crowley’s hand had just clutched, the surface now slightly warm from his touch. It was the closest the cherub would ever be to touching Crowley for a long time, and he didn’t want to accept it.
Tears stung his eyes yet again, the Bentley morphing into vague black orbs that coalesced with the blurry spirals that the rest of the environment had transmogrified intotr. Frustrated, Aziraphale rubbed his eyes with his knuckles a little harder than he should have, desperate to catch a clear glimpse of the demon, even if it were one of him driving away.
Grandly, the Bentley door swung open with a hasty snap of Crowley’s fingers, the demon getting in the driver’s seat, not bothering to strap on his seatbelt - not that he ever did, anyway. Unexpectedly, the Bentley jerked, sending Crowley jolting slightly forward from his seat, as if the car itself could sense his heartache.
“Sod off,” he snarled, voice thick with agony.
And so he sped off, trying his best to stifle his pain-filled sobs, though Aziraphale was too far away to notice his anguished cries. Grey exhaust fumes began trailing behind the car as it slowly disappeared from the angel’s vision, which he reluctantly accepted as a coldly emotionless excuse for a goodbye.
And just like that, Crowley was gone, leaving Aziraphale alone in his bookshop, the space far emptier than how it was minutes ago. Ironically, the angel’s sanctimonious piety had damaged the demon irreparably, leaving him battered and bruised, the only one who could ever help him through his agony being the one who caused it.
“I’m sorry,” the angel whispered, knowing his apology wouldn’t reach the demon anyway - though Crowley would likely drown out anything that escaped from his lips, now.
The cherub buried his face in his shaking hands, and wept.