Work Text:
Grief is a funny thing.
-
"I forgive you," he remembers him saying.
Crowley runs out of the room. How could he have been so callous, so impulsive.
He tries to run down the road, the Bentley honks at him. Turning back, the Bentley turns a faint tint of yellow. Maybe he should stay.
He reassures himself. He always comes back to your side. He 'll come out of the shop, with a fresh mind, and will walk towards to Bentley to finish-
He doesn't feel it at first. It's a creeping feeling. He sees him walking out of the shop, a little hope soars in him. If he rejected the offer, maybe he would take his offer to run away now, now that they are once again enemies of the world, them against the world. Maybe they could live in a little cottage by the sea, planting their favourite plants, in their little garden, in-
He sees him continue walking, he 's walking away, his head turning around one last time, he thinks he 'll turn back to him, yet he keeps on walking.
Crowley watches as he steps into the elevator. The door closes. And once again, it is him and only him here. In this mirthful and sorrowful world, he is once again without his other.
He stares blankly at the once there now gone entrance.
Opening the door, he gets into the driver's seat. The Bentley, little shit, starts playing their favourite song. He slams the radio. It stops.
He needs to get away, he can't stand to see this shop. He can't stand to see this shop, thinking, no, knowing, that he will never be there again.
He slams the peddle, and the car speeds away.
-
The streets are silent. The Bentley drives across the gravel-paved road, and Crowley notices it’s slower than usual.
He doesn’t actually know where he’s going. He just drives, thinking about how he looked at him, how he felt then, when his voice broke, his eyes welling, him pleading. He was an idiot, pouring his heart out like that, saying too much. Who would want to be with someone like that? Of course he walked away, left, to heaven again-
His body is heaving. His breathing is choked and ragged, eyes becoming blurry. Then he’s crying; tears pouring out of his eyes, he can’t stop them. He curses at himself. I brought this to mysel f, he thinks.
He rubs his eyes, he needs a drink. The Bentley skids on the floor as it takes a big turn. He needs to drown him out- he can’t feel like this anymore- like he’s-
He’s dying. He lays on his couch (half of his body is on the floor, not bothering to move anymore). His apartment is a mess. Bottles of alcohol are lined up on his table. There’s a glass of liquor that has dropped and shattered onto the floor. Crowley watches as the liquid soaks his carpet. He can imagine Aziraphale’s face, his reaction if he sees him like this. A drunken mess like this, Crowley thinks, ought to be punished, avoided, thrown aside-
But Aziraphale wouldn’t. He thinks about Aziraphale’s voice, soft and soothing. He remembers his gentle and comforting touches, a pat on the back or a hand on his. He sees him. On the leather seat in the corner, In the doorway with worrying eyes, next to him on the couch-
He has to stop. He slaps himself awake. He can’t be thinking about him, not right now. He left. He’s never coming back. He’s left for heaven, to be an angel, something he can never be for him. He blinks and Aziraphale is there, again. There in his white coat and curly white hair. Crowley wants to reach for him, touch, feel something - He rubs at his eyes and Aziraphale vanishes. He chokes.
He can’t be here. Crowley rubs his face and grabs his keys. He trips heading out the door. As he turns around to shut the door, he swears he catches a glimpse of Aziraphale again. Him, sitting cozily on the chair like he has a million times before. Looking at him, his gaze loving, kind and warm.
As he slams the door shut he thinks, he’ll never look at me the same again.
-
The Bentley has a cup of travel sweets. Yellow, tacky, glistening travel sweets. Who dared to put travel sweets in his car-
Oh.
The air gets heavier.
It was gone when he turned back to look at it. Maybe he was hallucinating, who knows what else is wrong with him.
He starts driving again, out of this neighborhood. Pass the rows of two-storey apartments, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. He gets to the busy streets, the cars around him are honking at each other, the roundabout is so crowded, the cars are all stuck here. If only they waited for the cars adjacent to pass, then they could’ve passed smoothly. There would be no jam, no people late for labor, no people losing their position, no people missing out, no people losing their time, no people having regrets-
Humans and their inability for patience, no wonder they doom themselves to tragedy all over history. Guess they’ll never learn. The jam eventually improves and they can all move again.
He drives out of the city, the noise slowly dissipates, he is once again drenched in the rare silence of this world.
Across the corn fields, his windows are blocked by the crops, he’s completely swallowed in the field. He drives faster, at the usual acceptable speed, not below the minimum speed like his-
He keeps driving.
-
It's night time again, how many nights had he been here, Crowley stopped counting.
The Bentley is going slower. Crowley steps harder, but it’s not listening. Maybe the Bentley is not okay either.
He stops at the side of the road, still among the fields, a field of white chrysanthemums. His black Bentley in the middle of the field, a black spot. A stain in the endless sea of snow.
He lays back on his seat, head gently tilted upwards. He rolls his window down, the air outside feels colder. He remembers to breathe again. The air fills his lungs, shards prickling his throat, the breath turns shaky.
He gulps down the air. He needs this, he needs to breathe, he needs to feel his shoulders lifting and resting, he needs his lungs filling and emptying. His breaths quicken, there’s a burn in his stomach. Why has the air suddenly turned so hot?
His breath gets stuck. Why is breathing so hard? He knows sometimes he forgets to do it, but he knows it was never hard, it was never difficult to allow the molecules in the air to enter his body. So why is he struggling?
He leans out the window, taking a breath of the air outside, the air stings.
His face feels heavy, he lets his head lay on the open window. He gazes starward.
The stars shine brighter tonight than ever. What happened to the human pollution shadowing the twinkling lights?
He gets lost in the millions of little sparks, he tries to recall it. He remembers placing it in the sky. The stars were always so playful, they never wanted to get in place, they loved moving around. He hasn’t seen them so clearly in a long time.
Maybe he’s losing sight of himself. What is it he’s here for? Certainly not the stars in the sky, he failed them the moment he fell and couldn’t guard them no more. Certainly not for the humans, he’s here on this earth to tempt them to sin, to cause them pain. And he hasn’t even been doing that right.
Maybe his angel is somewhere there. Among the stars. Among the ones he failed. And fail will he continue.
Because who is he, if not the demon that ruins all of God's plans. Who is he, if not the source of suffering itself.
This is who he is, and it is who he’ll forever be.