Chapter Text
Human reasoning was strange. There were so many things to think about, so many contradictions, that you ended up trapped in an endless cycle. It wasn’t that he was human—at least not in the literal sense. He was a demon, one who had existed for more than six thousand years, long before anything known to the world. Living among mortals for all that time had shaped who he was now. He had always been someone, of course, but those centuries had helped him carve out his own destiny.
Right then, though, none of that mattered. His mind kept circling the same point, the same word drifting endlessly on its own axis, making no sense at all.
The Loneliness.
People always say it’s better to be alone than in bad company, but Crowley didn’t see it that way. He wished he had someone he could just sit with for hours in comfortable silence, no need for pointless words. Up there, he had never felt this. He had his brothers, his creations, everything a devoted angel could possibly want. Then he fell, and a dark emptiness wrapped itself around every fiber of his being —even though he didn’t technically have fibers or cells or any of that—. Hell wasn’t as bad as he’d once imagined. It hurt, it drove him half-mad, but it wasn’t the endless torture he had pictured back when he still believed everything was bright colors and the love of a Creator.
Then he came to Earth as a serpent, and his whole world spun one hundred and eighty degrees. Why not three hundred? Because you have to play it cool when you turn to look at someone who matters so much your heart feels like it might actually explode. That was when the change arrived in the form of a plump, heavenly angel. And the loneliness that had been crushing him finally eased, no longer feeling like the dull throb of a bruise.
He liked having company. He liked chatting or bickering over ridiculous things, watching the principality’s loyalty, principles, and morals rise like a wall between them, only for a tiny crack to appear letting everything glow. It was warm in a way he couldn’t explain, a warmth that took shape the moment you really paid attention to every detail.
Aziraphale was the heaven Crowley loved so much but could never quite touch.
The whiteness and softness of those curls reminded him of the clouds drifting across the great celestial dome. The blue of his eyes was like lying back on a wide grassy field, staring up at the endless sky. A smile felt like sunlight on your skin, and a soft rain fell whenever something annoyed him enough to make him frown. But the best part always came at night, when the stars scattered across the dark curtain, filling it with beautiful sparkling points that didn’t even have to try.
To Crowley, the angel was like having the beauty of the world he had always longed for right there beside him.
But good things never last. When the black clouds of an infernal storm roll in and blot out the vastness, there’s nothing left to admire with the same quiet devotion you feel when the sky is so clear you almost believe you’re in paradise instead of London.
When his sky clouded over, Crowley had no choice but to take shelter from the downpour.
He never thought alleyways could be so cold, so brutally miserable. He had never spent a night in one before. But after everything went to hell, he took refuge in the only place that didn’t remind him of his old life. He could have stayed at the bookshop—asking Muriel wouldn’t have been hard—but he was a proud demon, and honestly the shop held far too many memories.
The Bentley was out of the question too. Just imagining sleeping in her made him shudder, not from fear or disgust, but because his girl didn’t deserve some pathetic, earthly creature dirtying her seats every day. So he chose the truly infernal option: threadbare blankets, old cardboard, and the quietest alley in all of London. Keeping anything that might help him remember would mean admitting he could forget.
He didn’t know how long this endless dance had gone on, but it felt like the worst stretch of his very long existence. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the echo of two words that had shattered him more than he thought was possible.
“I forgive you.”
Forgive him for what, exactly? The kiss? His words? For not agreeing to change who he was just so everything could be peaceful? Sometimes he wondered if he should have said yes and gone with the angel. But the deeper he thought about it, the more pointless it seemed. Physically he might have returned to his old post, but he had grown far too used to doing evil. He was terrified of what a second Fall would feel like.
He would sit there imagining what would happen if Aziraphale showed up right then. He would curse him, tell him to go to Hell, then forgive him anyway and throw himself into arms that wouldn’t catch him. Because that was Crowley—overflowing with love he needed to give to the one person who had built a wall to keep it out. His own personal cross was falling for someone who didn’t feel the same.
His plants had withered, mirroring their owner’s state. Crowley apologized to them silently for failing to give them the care they deserved, for not protecting them from his own stupidity. It was an endless loop of suffering, and he couldn’t even buy alcohol to drown it in. A homeless demon was such a pathetic sight it could headline a bad novel or one of those cheap old movies.
He thought about death sometimes. Maybe he’d reincarnate as a human and live a simple mortal life without all the drama. Or maybe there would be nothing at all. The worst that could happen was just darkness, and that was fine. He didn’t need to meet the Grim Reaper right now anyway, had a weird sense of humor that made him uncomfortable. After existing for so long, he still couldn’t tell a properly structured joke. That alone was reason enough to drop the idea.
That’s life. Sometimes it gives, sometimes it takes, exactly like a ball game where one moment you’re the center of everything and the next someone snatches it away. He hoped the new Archangel was doing well with his grand mission to change the world.
“It’s not his fault, darling. He’s just a blind fool,” he muttered to the Bentley, blinking hard so the tears wouldn’t fall. Demons don’t cry, after all. Then something played on the radio and he claimed it was just dust in his eye, but the sad little whimper that followed was unmistakably a demon’s. Crowley was so weak that even he knew it.
He didn’t remember Heaven being quite so echoey, so blindingly white and empty. It must have been all those millennia spent wandering the Earth, blending in and enjoying the pleasures of his Lady’s creation. He wouldn’t lie, he missed Europe. He missed his old bookshop, the smell of the oldest pages, the faint scent of cocoa waiting for him while he read the same favorite book yet again. He missed the blare of car horns and the click of shoes on the pavement as people walked past. But more than anything, he missed him.
He missed Crowley in a way he couldn’t put into words, the same way Heathcliff missed Catherine, only without all the revenge and drama. He didn’t regret his decisions; what mattered most was still up here. Yet his heart kept begging to be sent back where it belonged.
Being an Archangel hadn’t changed who he was, but it had brought a level of stress he never knew existed. His optimism was no match for the cold indifference of the other celestial beings, who only cared about beating evil, teaching humanity a lesson, and tearing down everything their Mother had created.
Jesus looked different from the figure Aziraphale had once known. He had never interacted with him this closely before, but he had watched from afar ever since the boy was the little miracle growing in a virgin’s womb. The young man could hardly speak without sounding nervous and shy. He reminded Aziraphale of a newborn lamb in an enormous flock. The Second Coming was written to bring new life, for the Son to bring peace to every mortal soul.
He hoped the sacrifice would truly be worth it. That was his optimism talking, trying to quiet the doubts.
What could possibly go wrong?