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Crowley's body aches, rocks digging uncomfortably into his side, and concrete pressing hard against his ribs.
It is unpleasant, but it is better than sleeping inside the bookshop, better than seeing the pieces of Aziraphale he was not allowed to have-
Better to mourn against the stone than it was to mourn among the book littered shelves. There just was not a space for him there anymore. Nothing that screamed Crowley, and with the upkeep Aziraphale had always kept there before, there had never been proof of Crowley past his physical presence. No bottle was left out, and coats always stashed away where customers could not see. Crowley had always seemed nothing more than a more frequent customer.
Even still, Crowley missed the place, missed things like the ease miracles, because with them, he may still have an apartment, and more of his plants, and-
He could still have those things, he had more than enough skill to float him by for the rest of eternity. It's just that he had convinced himself that if he forced this body to endure hardship, to experience a different pain-
Maybe he could forget about the rejection, the loss of a 6000 year friendship-
Maybe he could forget about Aziraphale, drown his thoughts away with cheap wine and booze, and wake up among the garbage he had always truly belonged with.
Yes, Crowley was not fit for heaven, not anymore, and yet he would use up every miracle he had ever been given if it meant he could have his friend back, meant he could-
Meant he could love Aziraphale, meant that his love could be reciprocated and received.
Crowley doesn't feel well, and he forces himself to roll over onto his other side, and endure the discomfort of his now all too familiar alleyway. His…home.
‘Better than Alpha Centauri,’ he thinks bitterly, fighting down the bile that rises up his throat, and forcing himself into some messy equivalent of sleep. It is fitful, unnatural for his kind, and his drunkenness does not do him any favors.
Crowley feels sick.
Crowley misses his friend.
—-----
It is cold today, and Crowley finds himself freezing. Not to death obviously, but stuck with a bone deep chill his usual outfit could not seem to shake.
He finds it almost pleasant, a numbing relief to the usual rocky terrain, and he finds it harder to think of Aziraphale when he is cold. That is, until he remembers the angel's hands, remembers how warm they were slotted against his own on the rare occasion Aziraphale would actually drag him along. All of Aziraphale was warm, his outfit, his curls, the weight of him pressed almost too close on drunken nights before they miracled enough soberness to write the moment off.
Crowley wishes he had not written any of their time together away, wished he had found his usual boldness sooner.
If he had confessed to Aziraphale before the angel had been able to meet with the Metatron, would things have been different?
Had Crowley really imagined all of their tension, all of their small touches, their too closeness, that look on Aziraphale's face-
That was one of the things that haunted Crowley the most, the looks Aziraphale had given him, ones of longing and guilt. They were almost wholly loving and if Crowley had just asked him out, asked him even a hundred years ago-
The look Aziraphale had worn when they had discovered Gabriel and Beelzebub's relationship, the look Crowley had spent months trying to name, had all but eaten him alive. Aziraphale had turned to him then, with something almost hopeful, and Crowley had been too slow to take his chance then-
Crowley loathed the Metatron, loathed what the man had taken from him, loathed heaven-
And if Crowley could perform a miracle now, it would be to fix everything, everything from before the Metatron-
Crowley would undoubtly try and fail to miracle his friend back.