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They are running hand-in-hand along the beach… The sand warm between his toes contrasting with the coolness of the water as his feet hit where the waves have washed themselves upon the shore.
The hand in his is warm and holds onto him tightly, there’s a lovely ethereal glow that seems to encapsulate their grip.
Crowley feels something glowing inside the very center of his chest as he looks out across his surroundings. There are lovely hills and sweeping green and tan grasses over the downs. The waves crash, and while there should be families or tourists or other images of humanity enjoying the beautiful day, there is just the two of them. Running and running and running seemingly without end.
Everything feels safe, everything feels bright, and just up over the ridge as they run, he sees this beautiful stone cottage overlooking the gorgeous sea. The Bentley is parked off to the side, he can just see the tops of the branches of their apple tree in their beautiful back garden that Crowley has been tending with love for years. He momentarily thinks about Aziraphale cooking delicious things from the fruits and vegetables and greens they grow together.
It is bliss, absolutely everything he could have ever wanted from what remains of his eternity...
And he turns to his right to look at his beautiful angel… and he cannot see him there. He looks and looks and looks, he can still feel the hand gripped in his, but still, he cannot see him, his love, his best friend his everything… Aziraphale.
Suddenly, the warmth is gone, the grip on his hand dissipates, all he feels is cold along the right side of his body. Hard like stone, maybe concrete, maybe asphalt. The sounds of London and cars and hustle and bustle just in the background. The smell of garbage from dumpsters back behind the shops along Whickber Street. And it all comes crashing like the waves back onto him. There he is. Lying on a dirty blue sleeping bag in the alley where he passed out not long ago after downing an entire bottle of Talisker.
He is suddenly back to his current reality: Pining, wasting, waiting… What for he isn’t sure, and for how long he’s even less sure….
He’s just about to roll over and try to let more sleep and pleasant dreams take him… When he hears it… a voice he has only recently heard in his dreams, suddenly bright and loud and fully real.
“Crowley… is that you…?”
It must be a dream, something residual, but it isn’t. He’s there. Crisp and put together as the day he left.
He’s come back for him.
He feels rage and relief bubbling within him in equal measure.
And while part of him wants to turn away, he can't help but turn towards him, like the sun.
Slowly, he picks himself up, and answers, “Aziraphale…?”