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Crowley trudged through the door of the cottage, locking and warding it behind him. His feet dragged and his shoulders slumped until he could mercifully collapse onto the cutesy little padded wooden bench and remove his shoes. Aziraphale wouldn’t want him wearing his shoes in the house.
He remained there, for a full hour, with his head buried in his hands and his glasses thrown into the shallow gilt silver bowl Aziraphale had expressly designated for the entry table for that purpose. Aziraphale had acquired said bowl in Byzantium, on a summer day late in the fifth century, and the detailed relief on the bottom depicts a familiar winged serpent.
The merchant Aziraphale had purchased it from had haggled relentlessly but, in the end Aziraphale naturally prevailed. He had, however, failed to hide his endearingly smug grin as he tucked his prize into his satchel, and Crowley had had to pretend not to be impressed, flattered, aroused, or some obvious combination of all of the above, scoffing at him and rolling his eyes from a safe few feet away before they’d ambled off together to get lunch.
More recently, when they’d moved their combined things into the cottage, Aziraphale had been annoyingly (adorably) delighted when he’d revealed it to Crowley, and had positively wiggled and lit up, tittering as Crowley snatched it from his hands and smacked it onto the little table himself with faux indignation, grumbling, "Told you when you bought it, it looks nothing like me.”
“And what did I say to that?” Aziraphle had looked up at him coyly, taking his hand in his.
The bastard had somehow held onto the blasted bowl for over sixteen centuries, just to whip it out and tease him once they’d finally come together. It was possibly the longest wait to deliver a punchline in history. Rather, it would have been, if it weren’t for the rest of their fate, that was the real punchline.
Crowley had sighed in happy resignation and pulled him in to kiss him on the temple, “That it would have to do for now, until you could manage to secure something closer to the original.”
“And now I have.”
“No, Angel, you always had the original, and you know it.”
“But I’m certainly much closer now though, am I not?” Aziraphale had kissed him then, drawing his face down to his and pressing him against the front door ardently.
Crowley shook off the bright memories, both near and far, yet again, as he always did. His efforts today had provided no more solutions than the last four thousand and fifteen days before, so he roused himself and started his routine, trying not to think about everything he touched - or the absence of half empty teacups, or messy stacks of papers, or not finding an errant tartan sock. There wasn’t a single thing in the home that didn’t hold some sort of memory of their shared history and the bowl was only the first in the gauntlet Crowley would have to run.
He knew Anathema and Newt had exhausted themselves of potential solutions, as had Tracy (who to be honest mostly just listened to him with sympathy and patted his hand whilst feeding him whiskey). Same as Muriel, and even Adam and Jesus together, but they were all too afraid to try and force Crowley to stop trying. Every passing day scraped and ate at him from the inside. He was hollowed out, and his face showed it, his body felt it. He was a walking shell of who he was supposed to be, who he would be with a certain angel by his side.
First he went to the kitchen and removed the undrunk tea, left from this morning, pouring it down the sink and cleaning the cup and the pot. He dumped the plate of stale scones in the bin, plate and all, before ritually preparing a fresh set of everything for the evening, filling a single cup to which he added two sugar cubes and a dash of milk, stirring absently. Next he arranged a pile of fresh pink-iced biscuits on a plate. Methodically, he organised the tray. Teapot in its ridiculous cosy that looked like a cable knit jumper (complete with little wooden toggle buttons, a souvenir from the Aran Islands), pot of milk, sugar cubes, the delicate tea cup on its saucer, biscuits; he steadily shifted it all into place before leaving the whole of it on the table and turning off the light.
He made the remainder of his preparations for bed and then pulled himself up the stairs, slowing at every incremental advance. Halfway up he had to stop to wrench the handrail, forcing himself onwards, and bit so hard at the inside of his cheek that he drew blood, before he could finally proceed to the bedroom.
On the right hand side of the enormous four poster bed was a smooth glass box the size of a coffin with a mix of black and red roses and yellow chrysanthemums bunched on top. It rested on the black silk covers, pillowed by the duvet, and seemed to faintly glow with a golden aura, enough to illuminate the contents within and a limited space around it, like a halo. Inside the box, time was frozen, held in stasis by the constant effort of a miracle that Crowley couldn’t stop projecting. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t get too far away, he couldn’t let go of the tether at all or time within would resume and the light would go out.
If it weren’t for the blood and ichor, and the bruises, it would have looked as if Aziraphale were peacefully sleeping, his hands crossed low at his waist, his eyes closed with their long lashes fanned out over his cheeks.
The cuts, including one slashed across the back of his otherwise perfect left hand are still fresh, droplets of blood and gold suspended in their trails and defying gravity. There’s blood in his bright blond curls from a gash on his right temple that runs down behind his ear and soaks a portion of his collar and his bowtie. There are more lacerations through his jacket all down the length of his left arm and one in his side, deep blows that have cut through his layers of fabric and flesh all the way to the bone. The biggest and bloodiest wound of all is just right of center on his chest and still holds Michael’s dagger in imminently fatal place.
“I told you you shouldn't have kept coming back so often, you great feathered idiot. You knew they wouldn’t let you go if they caught you. Not after we put a stop to it a second time. If you’d have just stayed there, only for a little while longer, they wouldn't have figured it out,” Crowley groused as he pulled back the covers on his side of the bed, a familiar refrain. “Should have had some patience, which is not something I’d have ever thought I’d have had to tell you.”
As Crowley crawled in, scooting closer, he relayed his news from the day, putting a hand out to lay his palm atop the box and brush aside the flowers. He’ll replace them with fresh ones from the garden tomorrow. “Sorry. Nothing new again today, but I promise I won’t stop trying. I’ll never stop, I swear to you, Angel. I’ll fix this."
He stopped and started again, temporarily burying his face in a tartan cased pillow that had years ago lost its scent before continuing with a whisper, "I’m sorry I couldn’t get there in time. Seems I’m always too late." He blinked back tears and turned his head back to the box so he could look at Aziraphale in profile. "It's all my fault. I should have been there to protect you.”
Whilst the moon shone through the gap in the curtains, falling in a thin sliver across the end of the bed, he curled up to press his knees and forehead against the glass, imagining he could feel some of the warmth from Aziraphale’s skin and that he was nuzzled against him. “I miss your smell.” He paused again and took two deep breaths, his exhalations fogging the glass in front of him. ”I miss you. I miss you so much.”