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Crowley had been ready.
He’d heard Furfur’s logic – surprisingly solid, really – and had seen the photograph. He’d known that there were no demonic miracles to save him. He’d sensed that Furfur was not to be bribed with anything that he had to offer.
Hell was coming for him. With the Infernal Code broken, there would be no mercy, not that Hell ever had any to give. Eternal damnation, surely. Heaven, Crowley imagined, would also punish Aziraphale. He’d always suspected that the two traded more information than they ever liked to let on, Beelzebub and Gabriel with some sort of Arrangement of their own.
So that was it, for the pair of them. No more representing their respective sides on Earth.
No more moral dilemmas. No more fraternising. No more tired allegiances that hadn’t made sense in a long time. It was as though his corporation became lighter with each thought. Utter relief, all of it.
There were only two options for them: submit to the punishment, or flee. Despite Aziraphale’s inclination towards loyalty, Crowley knew that he’d see reason, perhaps even more so tonight, with the book saving and all.
(Crowley hadn’t done it with any ulterior motive. He’d just done it to be… well. Kind. He supposed that it wasn’t such a disgusting word anymore, if he was officially a traitor.)
So they would go. He didn’t know where yet, but even after six-thousand years, there were plenty of Earthly pleasures left to explore. The world was at their fingertips. They’d have to get by without miracles to avoid detection, but he knew they’d manage.
He and Aziraphale had left the theatre in silence. The angel was remarkably calm, Crowley had noticed. He had expected panic, guilt, shame. Something very close to hope had flickered in his chest. Perhaps Aziraphale felt relieved too.
Crowley had thought they were going back to the bookshop, that Aziraphale might save a few of his more treasured possessions. A rare manuscript, or a bible. Abandoning Heaven before they came to punish him was one thing, but turning his back on the Almighty was another. Crowley understood.
But it wasn’t the bookshop. Aziraphale led them to a quiet restaurant in Soho that Crowley had never been to before. It made sense, he supposed. One last meal in London, for old time’s sake, then they’d be off.
They’d sat. Candles were lit. Still not a single word had been exchanged between them, but Aziraphale did order an expensive bottle of wine. A celebration of freedom.
Crowley was about to ask where the angel would like to live.
His thoughts sank to the floor when Aziraphale suddenly grinned, the secret finally escaping him as he pulled out the photograph.
Crowley has never been more furious; not when Aziraphale had refused to bring him the Holy Water, not when he’d tried to justify the Almighty’s flood. As Aziraphale sits, drinking his wine, a smile constantly at the edge of his lips for how clever he is, Crowley wants to scream.
It had been within reach.
Now there’s no punishment to submit to, no threat to flee from. All he has is the third option.
Business as usual; a damnation built just for him.