Chapter Text
Crowley has never been good at emotions.
Even as an angel, he never knew what to do with them, how to control them, and put them to use. He never liked the clean, bureaucratic, emotionless feel of Heaven, but didn’t mind it so much back then (before he started asking questions, anyway). He was always feeling, always trying to act on that feeling, and almost always failing to act appropriately on that feeling. He thinks of it as 'almost' because he doesn't fail every single time.
This time is not an exception because he has terrifically failed at acting appropriately on his feelings so far.
Crowley felt bravery. He confessed his stubborn, undying love for his- the angel who his life almost seems to revolve around (it pains him that he can’t even say “his angel”). He felt love because he has always loved Aziraphale. He acted on both by confessing and then kissing him, and oh my somebody he kissed him . He didn't just kiss him; he grabbed fistfuls of Aziraphale's coat and practically smashed his lips to the other's and he savored that feeling because if that kiss won't convince him, nothing will and he won't ever know that feeling again.
And nothing did.
Crowley waited outside looking at the angel, and the last look he got was one of vague regret.
Crowley feels betrayal. It twists into him deeper and deeper like a cruel jagged blade into something beyond his miserable imitation of a heart and into something he never thought would be hurt by Aziraphale. He hasn't felt that kind of betrayal in a very long time, not since… the revolution. Even then, he doesn't remember that hurting as much as this does. The revolution was never personal (except for Lucifer, maybe) but this? This was as personal as it would and could get with Crowley, because Aziraphale is the one person he truly, actually loves and he just… left.
And isn't that such a terrible thing? That he thinks all that in present tense? He loves Aziraphale, not loved or did love. Loves. Loves so much. So, so much.
And he feels betrayed by him all the same.
He will love Aziraphale and feel betrayed by Aziraphale for a very long time, and a very long time may as well be eternity for him.
Crowley got in his car. He felt angry. He started his Bentley, stepped on the gas pedal, and drove. And drove. And drove. He went to the limits of his speedometer, probably beyond it, but didn't harm a single living thing in his way; just swerved around and honked angrily at them. He drove until his legs ached, until he realized he couldn't see familiar stone roads and quaint restaurants anymore.
He felt anger because of how terribly unfair this all was. Beelzebub and Gabriel had been meeting for 4 years and they got to go fuck off to Alpha Centauri which he made and they're all sappy and shit, meanwhile he was in the middle of god-foresaken nowhere, angry over an angel who's rejected him after their wonderful, hand-carved 6000-year lifetime together.
Yet, he could never really be mad at his angel, not truly and not forever.
Even still, he can’t help being mad in the moment. He yells at nothing and honks at nothing for a little bit. When he gets out of the car, he’s smoking like a volcano about to erupt, and he does erupt. Flashes of forked lightning strike the sky from his soul, followed by deep, rumbling thunder. Rather unusual for a sunny day, but he doesn’t care. He kicks the ground until his shoes are starting to thin around the toes.
(And what was the "I forgive you" even for? What was Crowley meant to be sorry for? What had he done wrong that the angel needed to forgive him for?)
Crowley feels sorrow because his little outburst only vented his anger. He feels sorrow because Aziraphale didn't just reject his love; he rejected him. Rejected Earth. Rejected their wonderful, hand-carved 6000-year lifetime together. Rejected every moment, emotion, and action they had ever shared. He mourns. He mourns what they could never be now. He mourns his loss of the one angel he could rely on, through thick and thin, heaven and hell, except the last part doesn't ring so true now. The sorrow aches deep within the depths of his soul.
When he's done with that, he looks outside. He's in the middle of nowhere, of unoccupied green plains and looming, greener trees. He gets out and lies against the nearest tree he finds. When he does, he quietly cries himself to sleep, to dreams of haunting smiles and vaguely regretful eyes. He’s just as distressed in his dreams as he is in his waking hours, but he sleeps anyway because it’s easier to address the muddled visions he makes up for himself than the reality he had created.
He feels empty when he wakes up a day later, head hurting and back aching from sleeping against wood. He feels empty when he starts the car and drives back to his flat that has now reappeared but sparks no relief or joy. He feels empty when he lies down again and sleeps again and doesn't wake up for days, dreams consisting of muffled words and aching emotions. He feels empty when he does wake up and stares into the sun, spotting his eyesight with flashing colors.
He is empty.
And because his emptiness is now what he is and not just what he feels, he does nothing about it aside from open a bottle and drink to his emptiness.