Archive of Our Own

1

The first time it happens outside of his very vivid imagination is exactly three months, five days, and twelve hours after that blasted morning (not that Crowley's been counting, of course not). Naturally, he's pictured hi- the angel coming back before. He's imagined the arch-angelic ass coming down, doing the 'I Was Wrong' dance several times in a row until Crowley forgave him and agreed to running away together, as had been proposed to him so many times before. He's daydreamed about being grumpy until he couldn't, knowing damn well that if the time came, he'd crumble faster than a bombarded tower. But he always knew that it was just his mind coming up with ideas, not a real thing. No, the whole time he was way too aware that in reality hi- the angel was gone and it doesn't seem like he's coming back.

(Something he only started coming to terms with by the end of the first month, as it was twice as long as they have separated for in the recent times, and that was after pretty bad disagreements.)

It's the threat towards the bookshop that leads him to his current position. He'd been vaguely aware of the increasing mafia activity before the confrontation. They'd always kept clear of Whickber Street prior to That Day due to a certain bookseller and his out-of-this-world influence. Crowley was once an accidental witness to one of the encounters, back when those pretentious guys in pretentious black tried to barge into the bookshop, only to be sent away with a glare and a kind reprimand from the angelic being. But nowadays, as that presence is gone with only the negative influence of a demon left, nothing actually stops them from wrecking havoc between the shopkeepers. Crowley doesn't really care anymore, as long as the Bentley and a certain bookshop are left alone.

Now, though, it's a completely different case. Hell has decided to throw a fit and, in retaliation for their failed war and Crowley's involvement in it, limit his miracles to an amount that barely keeps the Bentley working, while allowing him to stay in a moderately good shape.

("If you and your angel buddy can pull off a 25-Lazaraii miracle without trying, it means you can survive alone with the bare minimum," they told him when he realised his new limitations and threw a fit of his own.)

So he can't deal with the guys nearly as efficiently as he wants to, which ultimately leaves him car-less at the very moment. He knows he can get it back at the beginning of next month, once his miracles are restored to their scarce number, but until then his Bentley is in the hands of Brian Cameron, and as he can't bring himself to actually sleep in the bookshop (he tried already), he decides to conclude the day by getting nearly black-out drunk.

It works somehow. The deep-seated ache dulls just enough to let him drift off semi-peacefully in the back alley of the bar he's just been thrown out of. Not that it matters much now. He has no one to keep up appearances for.

Admittedly, he did get drunk right after Aziraphale left. Not to this state, mind you, but enough to ramble to himself about Heaven, Hell, the Fall, and naive angels he stupidly thought cared about him enough to choose him. Because hadn't they always chosen each other in the past? When push came to shove, they always came back to face it together, despite everything.

He still had hope then.

Because Crowley is, deep down, an optimist. He tries to see the bright side. He hopes the universe is looking out for him, if not for any divine intervention, then at least for the fact that he had his fair share in creating it. So he didn't give up at first, not really. He was angry, he was disappointed, he was hurt, one could say heartbroken, but not close to giving up. But as the time passed with no positive outcome, as he watched Muriel close the shop for the final time, as his miracles got limited, things started looking more and more hopeless.

And now he's even lost his beloved car. The bookshop is too painful to be in, and he has no real home to come back to. And he finds himself not really caring anymore. Or at least at this moment. Demons don't need homes anyway. They don't need warm, angelic presence, hot cocoas, a place to stay. Evil creatures lurk in dark alleys, just waiting to spread misery among humans. The Fallen stay on the ground, forever reminded of being unworthy of Heaven and Her love.

If She is even capable of love still.

Maybe Aziraphale leaving was his final reminder. He is damned for eternity, and not in his mischievous, playful way. No. He used to think that he learned how to be more than that from humans. He used to think the job description didn't matter, because it didn't seem to matter, despite off-hand remarks with no bite in them.

In the end, it does matter.

It isn't like they hadn't hurt each other before. Usually on accident. They have a tendency to lash out, to cover up with anger and old principals, they get mean but never cruel. And at the end of the day, they always understand. But there's so little to understand about all of this that Crowley, for the first time, is genuinely struggling. Aziraphale had never left him like that. They'd walked away from each other, they'd argued, they'd disagreed, but once everything was said and done, once the situation called for it, they always faced it together. But now the situation calls for it desperately, he needs his angel more than ever, and he's not even on Earth anymore. He's somewhere completely out of reach, somewhere Crowley can't even sense him and it's like a black hole sucking him in deeper than he's ever done. He begrudgingly turns on his side, trying to find a more comfortable position, drifting in and out of consciousness in a pace that could compete with the slowest snail in the world and still lose. That's when he sees it. Sees him.

He looks different. He's got that ridiculous outfit on him. A grey suit? No tartan? No bowtie? It fits wrong (somehow still making him look absolutely dashi- NO.). Everything in him freezes for a moment. Crowley can't make out his face quite as well as he'd like to, but he can sense that he's nervous.

How can he sense it? Aziraphale doesn't even look real. He blinks several times, trying to come to terms with what's happening, but the vision stays.

Huh.

"Wh'd'ya'w'nt?" he slurs incoherently and it brings a plump hand up to the trembling lips. Crowley follows the motion as well as he can from his position, but everything is wavy and the world is spinning way too much to focus.

"Oh, Crowley…" a voice whispers, achingly familiar, and it opens something in Crowley's chest. Something raw and vulnerable, pressing at him from each side.

It makes him angry.

"What. Do y'. Want?" he asks again, clearer, with more conviction. The angel steps closer but stops himself. Crowley is fairly sure, with how everything swims, that if he reaches out, he won't even be able to touch his lifelong companion, that his hand will go right through him.

Is it Gabriel's suit that he's wearing?

"I just- I wanted to-" the angel stammers and breathes in sharply. "Why are you out here, you silly serpent? You- you know you can go in the bookshop, right? Muriel's in Heaven, you can be inside for as long as you'd like."

Crowley growls at that. He can't go to the bookshop. No matter how much his instincts tell him to curl up on the familiar couch or hide away in the upstairs bedroom, he just can't stand being in there for longer than a few minutes at a time. It hurts too much. The constant echo of their last conversation, the pathetic mirage of his last attempt at showing what he meant being thrown away like garbage.

"You like being inside," said Aziraphale, his voice nearly desperate.

Correction, he liked being inside. But recently he's realised that it wasn't as much for the building itself, as for who was occupying it.

And it makes him even angrier. Because he doesn't need this echo, doesn't need his stupid mind to torment him further, he doesn't need physical apparitions to remind him of what he's lost.

"Piss off," he mutters, curling into himself even more and closing his eyes. The stupid vision should disappear now. That's the rule of drunken hallucinations. You can will them into disappearing.

That's exactly what he gets, though he'd swear he hears a quiet 'I'm sorry' carried in the air before it happens.

His drunken mind forgets all about it by the morning.

2

The Bentley is back (a small miracle to trick the cards to find the Lady) and hidden carefully from prying eyes (a way bigger miracle taking out nearly all of his supply for each month). He slouches in the alley he's been occupying for the last few months, having just spent the last of his reserve on making sure the bookshop is properly guarded from humans with petrol cans. He might be angry, might be sour, but he'd be damned (for the second time) if he allowed the place to be destroyed. The thought of watching it go up in flames again is too much to bear, no matter how cross he is with its (ex?) owner.

That leaves him with no miracles and all the money he'd won at the casino up until getting his Bentley back. Just enough to afford the alcohol necessary to drown out the emotions he's not willing to process.

It works. Somehow.

Since he has nothing better to do, no proper mischief to pull off aside from the usual, manually-set inconveniences, no one to talk to and nowhere to be, he spends his days drinking. So they kinda blur together at this point. Not that he minds.

Him and Aziraphale spent extended amounts of time not seeing each other in the past. But back then Crowley could still sense him, while being simultaneously occupied with assignments and casual demonic activity. This is different. Heavier.

They'd never separated with one of them spilling out their feelings and begging the other to stay, neither had they separated with the other essentially saying I could like you, but not with the way you are now. All while having been convinced that they were accepted exactly this way.

So yeah, it still pretty much sucks.

He's making his way through the fifth bottle of wine when it happens again. He's been getting flashes of the presence in the span of last months, but never so solid. His whole body tenses. He's sober enough to register an unwanted guest, but drunk enough to not be sure if it's actually real or not. Maybe alcohol has been getting to him, since he is mostly miracle-less. It must be the case, if he keeps getting these flashes of the angel at random times and places. So he doesn't look up, too scared to hope, too scared to assume something positive this time.

"So you're back?" he asks, looking at the wall. There's a moment of silence and he can picture the angel wringing his hands, playing with the ring on his pinkie finger, he can clearly see the nervous expression without even looking.

"Not… really?"

"Ah."

He brings the bottle up to his lips and gulps down more of the liquor. So it is his mind playing tricks then. As delusional as he might be, his mind never really lies to him. So he's now hallucinating the angel. Cool.

The presence moves and it's closer now. Crowley can't help his instinct that moves his head to the side to get at least a glimpse. He sees the worry in those bright blue eyes, sees the way his lips move as if trying to form words and his stomach twists with the memory of how warm and sweet those lips are. That Moment might have been bitter overall, might have been desperate and far from what his angel deserved, but the taste was not affected.

It pains him to know it, simultaneously being aware that it's something he can't have. He wasn't thinking then. He was acting on pure emotions, both trying to convince the angel of his sincere feelings and being scared that if he didn't do it, he'd regret it for the rest of his existence. The notion that he needed to know.

He wishes he didn't know after all.

"I want you to come back," he says before he can think more of it. If it's just an illusion, it can't do anyone any harm, to be honest. It's just him and his crumbling mind, just them and his broken heart. Something in fake-Aziraphale's eyes cracks.

"I can't. You know I can't. Not yet."

Yeah. Of course he knows. The bigger picture. The promotion. There was a time Crowley would have given anything to be accepted back in the angelic ranks. That was before he outgrew the motion, before he learned. Heaven is just as corrupted as Hell, two levels of the same institution, and they're just workers doing their jobs. As much as the unfairness of it all still stings, he accepts it.

But to Aziraphale those will always be two opposing sides, Good and Evil, predetermined traits. Angels are Good and demons are Evil by default. No more place for shades of grey they seemingly settled on a long time ago.

He tries to hide the hurt, tries to mask the grief that crashes over him once more, and turns away, facing the wall again. It feels like back during the first failed Apocalypse, when he thought Aziraphale was gone. But this time it's arguably even worse. Because this is leaving by choice. The world without his angel is bleak. It's boring. Being separated by any means hurts way more than he's willing to admit.

"Right. Promotion treating you well? I bet it is," he mumbles. A hand hovers over him, but there's no warmth to it. Really a hallucination then.

"It's… complicated. Crowley, why aren't you in the bookshop?"

There it is again. His thoughts always come back to that blasted place and this blasted angel.

"Can't."

"What do you mean?"

Bitterness spreads on his tongue and he tries to drown it out by drinking more of the wine. It doesn't help.

"Can't go in the bookshop."

He feels fake-Aziraphale's frown at that.

"Is it not letting you in? It always lets you in. And it always will."

"It does. But I can't be there."

It takes a moment for the fake angel to register the meaning of it and suddenly the air feels heavy.

"Crowley…"

"It's safe, though, as you know. I'm not losing this place as well."

He'd swear he hears a sniffle, and for a moment he imagines this is the real Aziraphale, dares to imagine that he's really here and that he loves him and that he misses him too. He imagines he's enough to at least make the angel come back.

The thought burns in his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"I just need to make things better. I can change it, I can… I can save all of it, give humans a chance instead of the end of the world. I can change it so we have a chance too."

He laughs, a bitter, raspy sound that resembles a dying engine rater than the genuine cackling they shared in the past.

"You still don't get it, do you? You can't change anything." The back of his head thumps against the wall being him and he hears a small gasp as he lets the physical pain ground him and distract him from the one he cannot control. "You can't fix anything, angel. Can't fix Heaven, can't fix humans, can't fix me. Not everything is able to be fixed."

"Fix you? I've never-"

"Oh, please, spare me the bullshit, I heard you the first time. You were perfectly clear where you stand. So get the fuck out of my head."

"Crowley, please, I need you to understand-"

"I do understand! I understand that you want the bigger picture, I understand that things are more important, I understand it all, Aziraphale! Now leave!"

"Crowley-"

"LEAVE!"

Before he can think more of it, he throws the bottle in the general direction of the illusion. It goes right through and smashes on the wall, red liquid spilling to the ground, dirtying it further. The look on fake-Aziraphale's face is nothing short of crestfallen, but he obediently disappears, leaving Crowley alone.

The hole in his chest is too much to bear. Even his illusions need to mock him, apparently. His own mind reminding him that in the grand scale of things, he is not important. Usually, it doesn't feel so overbearing, but right now…

The tears finally fall and he curls into himself more. He understands. And he wishes he didn't, because now he can't even be angry.

Now it's all just… pointless.

3

"Why couldn't I be enough?" he asks when the illusion appears again. He asks this question every single day, mutters it out into the air, facing Heaven, but somehow it feels better when he can say it to someone who at least looks like his angel. This way he can pretend he's actually getting an answer.

He doesn't shift from his position on the dirty blanket he's stolen from the bookshop, but he can feel the hallucination coming closer and kneeling beside him. He wishes it was the real Aziraphale. He wishes it was his angel, his warm smile and gentle hands. Wishes he could go back into the bookshop with him and watch him make hot chocolate, sit next to him and sink into his presence.

"You are enough. You've always been enough for me, Crowley."

Oh, how he wishes this was true. But that's the thing, isn't it? He keeps wishing, keeps arguing, keeps trying, but it never works out. The universe used to look out for him. It doesn't seem like it does anymore.

"'sssss not true," he hisses. "If it wass, y' wouldn't have left."

The shoulders of fake-Aziraphale shake and it looks like the angel is falling apart, and while it breaks Crowley too, a dark, vicious, demonic part of him is satisfied with it. With the fact that Aziraphale might be hurting just as much as him, that he might be missing him.

It hurts him all the same. He doesn't want Aziraphale to be hurt, he doesn't want to see him sad. Especially not because of him.

But he can't help it. Words just spill out of his mind, they always come out wrong, and he's set to destroy everything he's built. He's a demon, after all. One of the bad guys. It's in the job description.

"I had to. I had to try and make a difference. I had to try and make it safe."

There is desperation in the angel's voice. A deep-rooted need to convey exactly what he means, the same one Crowley remembers from That Morning. And it makes the feelings connected to it so much worse. Because ultimately, at the end of the day, he knows it. He knows. He gets it. And he can't blame him for it. So it makes all the negative feelings, all the anger, all the sadness, all the despair and the overwhelming grief so much worse.

But he is a demon. Selfish is his modus-operanti. He's always been selfish. Maybe that is why Aziraphale wants the angel back. That angel would've understood. That angel would've been good enough to accept it without all the bitterness.

"Yeah. You did," he says because he can't help it either. He doesn't want Aziraphale to be sad. "Sorry I can't give him back to you."

"Who?"

The fake angel seems to be genuinely confused, and isn't it so sweet of his subconscious to try to protect him enough to give him that illusion.

"The angel I used to be. I can't- can't be him anymore."

"Oh no- no, Crowley, I- that's not- I wanted you safe." Hands twitch above him, but never settle. "It's not about- not about the labels."

Something twists inside him. He's been longing for these words. But it's nothing more than a sweet lie from the depths of his mind. The real Aziraphale maybe cares about him, maybe even loves him in some way, but he can't accept him. Can't see him as one worthy of staying for. He's been hanging around because he had no other choice, in hopes that he can get that person back one day.

(He's trying to fix Heaven, save the Earth, save the world. He's being noble. He's being Good. Crowley can't blame him for that.)

(But he can be bitter about it.)

"I'd follow y' anywhere, y'know. Anywhere but there," he says and the words burn. He can feel the sizzle of them on his skin.

The one place Aziraphale wants to belong to is the one place Crowley can't join him in. It's something straight out of Shakespeare's gloomy plays, and he hates the gloomy ones.

Fake-Aziraphale says nothing to that and Crowley swallows heavily.

"Would y' 'ave stayed had I not kissed y'?" the demon asks at last. The question has been burning him inside out for the last weeks. It was after that thing that Aziraphale seemed to give up. Maybe because he couldn't lie to himself anymore and purposefully misinterpret his words, and he felt disgusted for it. "'m sorry."

"No- no, it's not that. I-"

Fake-Aziraphale cuts himself off and Crowley hums in thought. He's tired. He's so, so tired. He'd like to sleep until the inevitable end times. Maybe even longer.

"I can't be 'im again. Sorry, angel. W'nna sleep now, 'kay?"

There's a moment of silence, and maybe the illusion has left. Maybe he's all alone again.

He'll always end up alone after all.

"Why don't you at least sleep in the Bentley?"

He groans. Not alone yet then.

"Hidin' her. Uses up all miracles."

"Hide with her."

"Can't. Bookshop."

There's a moment of silence and a sniff.

"Oh, my dear."

It hurts. It hurts to be called that in his own mind. Just because he can't have it in real life.

"Sleep," he mutters weakly, a ghost of a hand hovers over his head. He longs for it to touch him, really touch him. But it doesn't. Instead, it draws back and disappears.

When he looks to the side, there's nothing there.

4

He's inside the bookshop again. No matter how much it hurts to stand in these walls, he can't quite bring himself to stay away. The only progress he's accomplished is that he can stay for longer now.

But this is the first time he actually drinks inside.

He's sitting in his usual spot on the couch, sprawled all over it like he owns the thing. His eyes are glued to the empty armchair, only sound of the old grandfather clock keeping him company. Bottles cling as he throws another drained one among them, but he doesn't care. The mess at least makes it look lived in, despite the silence and the heaviness hanging in the air.

"You had the bookshop for hundreds of years," he mutters, his voice bitter and dangerously shaky. "You loved your bookshop. Right?"

You loved me, is what he really wants to say, but once more he's too much of a coward to say it straight on. He wants to believe that lie. He wants to believe that he didn't imagine it, that whatever was between them was real.

It just wasn't enough.

He still doesn't know which one's worse.

"I do love it, yes," comes a voice from somewhere to the side and Crowley sighs, leaning back in his seat. He's getting used to the hallucinations. His drunken mind keeps bringing his angel back to him, and as bad as he knows it is, he can't bring himself to stop. Sometimes he drinks too much on purpose, just to see him again, at least for a moment. Like a drug addict fighting for his next fix.

"But you decided to just… give it up," he says, words barely coming together, hand gesturing vaguely and clumsily before dropping back on his thigh. It feels almost like back in the old days. They're talking. And for this moment this is enough.

It makes him feel better, as pathetic as it is.

"Because I don't want it gone, Crowley. I'd rather separate from it for a while than see it destroyed."

And it doesn't feel like they're talking about the bookshop anymore. But this is the only way they can tackle this and they both know it.

Or rather, Crowley does it, that's why his mind is giving him the answers in the same roundabout way he's asking the questions.

"So noble," he spits out. "So angelic."

"I miss it. I miss it every day."

Crowley's throat squeezes and for a moment he can't even make a sound. It hurts. He thought it would bring him relief, but it only hurts more.

"Do you?" he rasps out, his vision blurring.

"Yes."

It's certain, it's undeniable. And yet, he wants to deny it. He wants to argue. He wants to be stubborn. But he can't. First of all, he does understand. Second of all, he'd be arguing with nothing but his own mind.

"It misses you too."

"I know. I'm gonna come back, dear. I promise. I'm gonna fix it and then I'm gonna come back and we'll be truly free. I'll make it possible for us."

Oh, sweet promises. He wants to believe them.

"And you won't mind hanging out with one of the bad guys anymore?" he asks, voice wobbly, quiet, vulnerable. He's scared of the answer. Scared it's gonna play out exactly like in all of his nightmares — Aziraphale spitting in his face, disgust in his eyes, telling him how vile he is, how pathetic, how evil. And how could an angel ever even like something like him?

"I said it wrong. I didn't mean it like that," comes another sweet lie. At least his semi-conscious mind is gentler to him than his subconscious. "I denied it, yes. I- I was cruel, sometimes. I know you're not evil, I know you're not… not like the rest of them. I just wanted you safe. That's all I ever wanted, Crowley."

"I was safe with you," he says to that, curling into himself. "You didn't have to go up there. We could have fought from here. Like we used to."

"Not with how outside of it all we would have been this time."

Yeah. Two traitors on the run. They wouldn't have been able to do much. But that knowledge doesn't make it hurt any less. He can't bring himself to look up as a shiver runs through him. He wants this feeling to go away. He wants to escape it. He wants to sit next to his angel, hold his hand, lean into him, even if it's the only thing he can do. Even if he can never get any closer, if he never tastes those lips again, if he never finds out what it's like to be wrapped in those strong, unassuming arms.

He just wants to stop feeling so empty.

"I just wish you were really here, angel," he mutters at last.

The only thing he gets in response is silence.

5

It's quiet, the next time he shows up.

He's standing a few steps away from Crowley's slumped form. The demon can't think of anything to say. Everything hurts and he's trying to numb the physical and emotional pain with whatever's awaiting him at the bottoms of countless bottles littering the ground. He's been cornered by some mafia people demanding to know how he outsmarted their card trick. They had some trouble locating him before, but Crowley didn't care much about where he was going or how loud he was when doing so, so they found him.

He doesn't have any miracles left to heal himself, so he simply lets the bruises under his ragged shirt blossom, lets his face swell, lets the blood seep lazily from cuts on his brow and lip, trickle from his pulsing nose.

He doesn't remember slipping away. He just somehow made it to the alley and drowned himself in alcohol. Fake Aziraphale showed up sometime after the sixth bottle. It's nearing his eighth and the illusion is still there.

When he manages to focus on it for longer than a few seconds, he notices that it's shaking. If it's the fake-Aziraphale or his own vision, he doesn't know.

"You need help," it whispers at last and Crowley would've flinched if not for the numb state of his limbs.

"I n'd you, b't y're n't 'ere," he slurs, letting his eyes fall closed. It's easier to focus this way.

"Crowley, please- you can't keep doing this to yourself."

The voice is pleading, tight with unshed tears, with care so familiar but so alien at the same time.

He wishes, not for the first time, that the real Aziraphale was here instead. Crowley would most likely try to hide from him, pretend he's fine, be prideful, but at least he would be here.

"'sss wha' demonss do."

The hiss just slips out but he can't do anything about it anymore. He feels lost. He feels alone. He's hurting in a way he has never hurt before. And there's no one around that would actually hear or care.

"You're better than that. You're so much more than that."

"Am I? Lassss' I checked I wasss juss one 'f th' bad guysss."

There's heavy silence after that and he'd swear he hears a hitched sob.

"You're not- I'm sorry, I-"

He hates the shakiness in this voice. Hates the guilt and hurt. Shouldn't his mind know he'd rather see his angel happy?

"'sss okay. I know m' place."

"No. No, you do not," the voice is stronger now, speaks with conviction, and it sounds so much more than his Aziraphale. "You don't belong here."

He doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't have the strength to.

"I'm gonna fix it. I promise."

With that, the illusion is gone.

The next thing he knows someone else is speaking to him, way harsher than his angel ever would.

When he comes to, his injuries have been tended to and he is faced with two familiar faces ready for another serious talk.

+1

He can't sleep anymore.

The nightmares are getting to him. He's tired. He doesn't really need sleep, but his corporation has gotten used to it over time. It adds to the existential exhaustion that has haunted him ever since the failed Apocalypse — he doesn't think he ever fully recovered from the strain of pushing his Bentley through the wall of fire, keeping it going while very much aflame, and then stopping time all in the span of hours, if not minutes. He thought that he'd get to rest soon, but once things settled, he couldn't help but feel on edge.

Rightfully so, as it turns out.

Now his exhaustion is just deepened by the angel-shaped hole in his demonic essence. He tries to get himself out of the dumpster. Tries his best to move on. He gets coffee every morning, does anything he can to keep Nina in business. He buys LPs from Maggie and puts them in the bookshop. He owes them both this much, as they put it after they had patched him up in the alley over a year prior. How they found him there and what gave them the audacity to demand of him that he put himself together, was beyond him. He struggled at first, but in the end, he folded anyway.

At least partially.

He keeps the mafia out of the street's business as much as he can. One thing the two women were right about was that no human would push him around, miracles or not. He's a goddamn demon, not a frightened shopkeeper they can torment. He drove the Bentley far away to use up his miracles on protecting the street instead. Frightened the lesser mafia members out of their business. Aziraphale loves this street. Crowley can't just watch it fall apart. He needed a literal smack on the head to come to that conclusion, but it still counts.

He's exhausted. He can't bring himself to appear put together any more than he could at the very beginning. But that doesn't really matter, does it? He has no other point in his existence than pathetically clinging to what used to be, than protecting the very thing that once brought him joy.

Those people, these places, they are not responsible for his ache, they're not the source of painful memories, they're not the reason for the echoes that haunt him, nor are they the cause of his loneliness. They're not at fault for him being unable to step into the Ritz, for the darkness creeping around the edges at a certain bench in St. James' Park, for his demonic heart constantly swinging between stupid hopes and the deepest pits of despair.

Aziraphale put value on them. Crowley used to do that too, back before the Great Plan actually threatened everything. Aziraphale deemed this place, these people, worthy of saving. Placed them higher than them. And Crowley has a bad habit of preserving and nurturing everything his angel loves.

It would make Aziraphale so sad to see it all ruined. He's always been the better one out of them. That's why he's still an angel and Crowley isn't.

But he's growing more and more tired. It's been nearly three years now. The street is a bit worse for wear, but it's still standing, the shopkeepers still in business despite the gloomy atmosphere hanging over the place. The bookshop is still there too, standing tall and pristine in its organised chaos, as it always has been.

He's looking at it now, misty eyes guarded by his cracked sunglasses. He doesn't know if he can keep it up for longer. Even his hallucinations have mostly abandoned him, their appearances becoming far and in between. But that doesn't mean he starts to forget. Quite the opposite. Everything is still just as alive as it was That Day.

His mind might just be giving up on him.

One last gulp drains the bottle of whisky completely and he tosses it aside, into a pile of papers near the wall. He can feel something coming. Building up in the air, like a faint electric buzz before the storm. And he knows that whatever is going on, it's not gonna be pretty.

"I know you're trying, angel," he says quietly, still facing the shop, pretending he's talking to the only entity in the universe he longs to talk to. "But some things just can't be stopped."

Golden irises risk a quick glance up at the grey sky. He doesn't know how much time they have left. Frankly, doesn't have the strength to even think about it. He's had time to think. To recognise the reasons. He's been around these people way more than he used to and he can admit that they are worth saving. Worth fighting for. And Aziraphale is fighting for them.

"I'm tired, angel."

He gets no response. And it breaks something in him even more. He pushes himself more upwards and saunters back into his alley, back to the stash of alcohol hidden away from prying arms. Another bottle gets uncorked with his bony fingers and he downs at least half of it in one go.

Drunk sleep is dream-less sleep. The only escape he has now.

The last time he felt so alone was after the bookshop had burnt down. But that was brief. Merely a few hours. It has been granted time to fester this time, to grow, and it's all-consuming in a way it's never been. He can talk to Nina, chat with Maggie, rant to Mrs Sandwich, he can visit the magic shop and even handle Mr Brown's prompting, but nothing substitutes for the company of his angel.

He misses him.

The rain starts slowly. Just a drizzle morphing into a storm. He curls himself into a ball, half covered with his quickly soaking through sleeping bag. His vision swims and he's drunk enough not to even notice his own shivering. Drunk enough not to care.

His corporation is stronger than any human body could ever be, but it's cold, it's freezing for someone who's partially a snake. He has no miracles left for the month and he already can't move. He knows it's bad. He should wait the rain out in the bookshop, or in any of the other shops on the street, as he's done all this time, but he can't bring himself to move anymore.

He's pretty sure there's nothing Hell can do to him after discorporation that could ever hurt more than this anyway.

It's one of the bad nights, he knows it. They catch him off guard sometimes, along the better days. He's been going for so long, he just can't force himself to keep doing it. He's been lucky that usually during those nights someone somehow found him and forced him back into shape. But tonight's Nina and Maggie's first anniversary and they're busy enjoying being partners. Something that shouldn't make Crowley so bitter, but it does. He's a demon after all.

"Ssss'rry, ang'l. You've g't thisss, right?" he mutters into the air, feeling his eyelids get heavier. A stupid way to discorporate. A fucking pathetic one. But he's long past caring about such things. Long past nurturing his pride.

He's lost worse things than that.

The bottle slips from his hand and rolls down the pavement, the sound just as sad as everything else around him.

"Crowley? Crowley!"

The corners of his lips tug up involuntarily at the muffled sound of his favourite voice. There's a sound of footsteps, fast and frantic, water splattering under shoes halting to a stop beside him.

He forces his eyes to crack open.

"Y're 'ere," he whispers. The illusion is back. His mind grants him the last bit of company before possibly facing the rest of eternity in endless darkness.

How nice of it.

"Of course I'm here, Crowley, what- oh, you silly serpent, what are you doing out here?"

There's a hand on his arm, another cups his cheek, and it's warm, it's soft, and isn't it beautiful that he can picture it so vividly?

The face in front of him is blurry, twisted in worry, heartbreak darkening the usually bright eyes, and it's not the thing he wants to see.

"Jussss' tired," he admits once more. "I kept 'em sssafe. Taught 'em."

Is that a tear or a raindrop on his angel's face?

He hopes it's a raindrop.

"I know. I know, dear, you did so well. Oh Lord, you're freezing."

The hands leave him and a pathetic, whiny sound leaves his throat in response. He wants to feel that touch, he wants it to be the last thing his consciousness registers before he inevitably slips and goes away. But he doesn't get to protest in any other way because then there's old fabric wrapping around his shoulders, warm and… dry? And it smells like… smells like…

His head falls slightly in his attempt to get closer to the smell. Books, vanilla, hot chocolate, very human cologne, something sweeter than a field of flowers in the midst of spring.

His angel.

Home.

"Stay with me, Crowley, for Go- for someone's sake, stay with me."

The voice keeps fading in and out. It definitely says something more. Something about warmth, about sorrys, about shops, about silly serpents, about idiots, but he can't glue it together anymore. He's just glad he gets to go with his angel's voice talking to him, with his hands and his arms wrapped around him, with his smell filling his nose.

When he finally succumbs to darkness, his lips are forming a smile.

He's warm. That's the first thing he notices upon his senses returning. But it's not the scorching heat of Hellfire he expected. It's not even dark. He can feel light probing at his closed eyelids, making him scrunch his nose in distaste. He wants to move his hand to cover his eyes, but not only are his limbs slack and heavy, they're also trapped in something wrapped around him like a cocoon over a transforming caterpillar.

The next thing he registers is the smell. Books, vanilla and fresh cocoa. A memory swims at the edge of his consciousness. Arms wrapped around him, hands touching his face, soft and gentle. Did his brain completely lose it? Did he go batshit crazy at last?

Snake eyes finally open and take in his surrounding. It doesn't take long to recognise it. It's the bookshop. How did he get in here? Last thing he remembers is the alley, the drinks, the rain soaking him to the bone. The knowledge that he should move but having no strength to do so.

How did he get back here?

There's shuffling somewhere nearby, rustle of clothes and quiet footsteps pacing back and forth. He knows the sound of those footsteps. A frown etches itself onto his face. His head is pounding but he's surely not drunk anymore. Did his hallucinations move into the sober world as well? Is he that desperate?

Or maybe he discorporated after all and it's just a prelude to something sinister, cruel and twisted. Some sort of game Hell prepared especially for him.

He doesn't dare move or signal in any way that he's awake. He should get as much comfort as possible before they get their claws in him. Or before his mind gives into reality and he's left alone again.

It doesn't last long. The footsteps grow closer until a familiar silhouette shows up in his line of sight and his breath hitches for a moment.

Aziraphale looks just as the day he left. His coat is gone, yes, his hair a bit more messy and eyes more tired, but it's him. Just as flawless as Crowley remembers. Without the ridiculous grey suit his imagination conjured up a few times before. Something he's glad for. At least this vision stays true to his angel.

"You're awake," whispers the angel, relief palpable in every syllable. He steps closer to the sofa. "Oh dear, for a moment there I thought you'd truly discorporate."

Crowley looks at him for a moment longer and decides that if this means he's going insane, he can accept it. It's better than being stuck out here all alone. So what if he's basically talking to himself? It's not like people here aren't used to him being weird at this point.

So he shrugs as much as he can under the blankets covering him and allows his gaze to fall down on the slightly dusty floor. He was supposed to come in this week to clean up but never got around to it.

It was just a bad night in a bad week. He usually sticks to his more optimistic approach as much as he can. The strain sometimes just gets too much.

It was much easier to be optimistic when he knew that there was a certain angel to fuel it. To share it.

"Just a bad night, you know how it is," he mutters, wiggling his fingers to check them. His body is still stiff but it should go away soon. Maybe he can occupy himself with cleaning. It often helps to distract him.

"Crowley, that was way too close."

He groans at the tone. He doesn't need his mind scolding him on top of all of it.

"Been worse," he grits out, moving under the blankets. He needs to get up and move around or he'd go completely crazy. "Just a little rain."

"You nearly discorporated! You need to stop this!"

"Stop what?"

"This careless behaviour, this- this- this madness- this-" the fake angel sighs and steps even closer. His smell gets stronger and Crowley frowns in confusion. "Listen, I know that you're cross with me right now, and I'm the last person you'd listen to, but please- you need to take care of yourself."

The demon scoffs, finally forcing himself to sit up.

"Demons don't need care, you know it."

Something crumbles on fake-Aziraphale's face and it awakens another painful pang in Crowley's chest. He both wants the illusion gone and to keep it there for as long as possible.

"Please, don't say that. Don't ever say that."

"Ngk."

He turns away and rolls his shoulders in what maybe in another world could be called a shrug. It hurts. The care and pain in the angel's voice. The way he wishes it could be real.

Silence falls over them and Crowley expects the illusion to fade. It doesn't. So he leans back with a sigh.

"Will it ever end?" he asks quietly, eyes locked on the ceiling.

"Soon. I promise. Everything's on the right track. Well, kind of."

He hums in acknowledgement. Maybe if he keeps telling himself this lie, it will finally solidify, become real.

"You'll come back then, right?"

Just another slither of hope, just a little bit to help his optimism gather itself from under the rubble of everything else.

"We can forget what I said That Day," he continues without even waiting for an answer. "We can go on like before."

One, two, three footsteps, each one closer to him.

"I'm here, Crowley. I'm here and I… I don't want to forget."

Wishful thinking will be the death of him. And suddenly he's angry again. Angry at his stupid brain, at his imagination, at the deep seated hope that his angel would finally come back.

"You're saying that, but the real Aziraphale won't, stop-" He squeezes his eyes shut, reaches up and clumsily hits his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Stop being so fucking naive!"

"No no, stop, stop!"

A hand grabs his and he freezes.

A hand. Is holding his. It's warm. It's soft. It feels real. He looks at the joined limbs with wide eyes. What…

"You're not naive, Crowley, what- what are-"

"You're real?"

His quiet voice thunders in the bookshop, followed by silence so heavy it feels almost crushing. He looks at the angel, now sitting beside him — the dip in the couch, the familiar brush of their knees and shoulders — and for a moment forgets how to breathe. That face, his angel's face, is pale, dried tears marking his cheeks, red rims around his eyes watering again. His eyes, those gorgeous eyes are so filled with sorrow that it hurts something deep inside him. Crowley wants whatever hurt his angel to go away. He wants to protect him, make him smile. But the confusion doesn't allow him to move.

"Of course I am," the angel's voice is just as quiet as his, tight with held back tears, trembling with too many emotions. "Did you- did you think I wasn't?"

Crowley's throat is suddenly dry and all he can do is nod. He curls his fingers around Aziraphale's, trying to make sure they're really here. The angel responds in kind, realisation glistening in his eyes.

"You thought that the whole time?"

The question makes Crowley frown. The whole time?

"Wha- what do you mean?"

Aziraphale's eyes widen and the tears actually escape this time, falling down the well-known track down to his chin. Crowley's heart aches. He wants them gone.

"Oh, Crowley- I'm so sorry- you thought- I didn't-"

"Angel-"

"How could you think I wouldn't check on you?"

That almost makes him recoil, old anger coming back to the surface, the connection starting to materialise right underneath it. Connection he refused to make. The hope he never quite let go of.

"It didn't exactly seem like you would, you kno-"

"You thought you imagined me?"

Crowley froze, the puzzle pieces clicking without his control.

All those moments he thought he saw the angel. When he pictured him standing nearby. When he talked to his 'illusion'.

His limbs are still fragile but he tries to stand up anyway. He needs to move, needs to-

But his legs fail him and he ends up in more or less the same position, renewed grief making his head pound even more.

His angel really was there. All this time. The moments he thought he was losing his mind, the little glimpses-

He was there and he saw-

But Crowley couldn't feel him back then. Not the way he does now. Why couldn't he feel him?

"H-how?"

"Astral projections. I used the globe."

Shit. Shit shit shit-

He doesn't know how to process, how to respond. Aziraphale was there the whole time, and he's both angry and unreasonably hopeful. All those promises he thought were false, just a pigment of his imagination…

"So… you saw."

Aziraphale nods, more tears filling his eyes.

"I never- I didn't mean to-"

He can't stop himself. He wriggles his other hand free and gently wipes the tears away from the angelic face. Anger is one thing, Aziraphale crying is another. Especially crying over or because of him. That has never been his goal.

"I know," he says softly, but that only seems to make the situation worse. The angel basically crumbles right in front of him.

"I- I was trying to do the right thing, I never meant to hurt you."

"Me neither," Crowley admits. Because as hard as that pill was to swallow, he has to admit that he did some things wrong as well. He lashed out in hurt and desperation, in disbelief over the situation.

"It was so hard to sense you up there, I couldn't stand it. So I- I projected myself. And then I couldn't stop. I thought you knew."

Well, he definitely didn't know that, but somehow the whole thing doesn't surprise him.

"Did you mean it?" he asks after some time, his voice way smaller than before.

A small smile tugs Aziraphale's lips upward and Crowley's heart does a little flip despite his better judgement.

"Every word. I wanted to make it better. Save our place. So everyone can be happy, including us. I didn't- oh, Crowley, I thought you being an angel would mean you'd be safe, I didn't realise-"

Crowley groans and looks away.

"It's okay-"

"No, it certainly is not." The hand squeezes his even tighter and Crowley's corporation might be losing circulation in it but he didn't care. The contact is grounding. It's proving to him that it's real. "I don't need you to be an angel. It wasn't fair to ask that of you. I just… I wanted you to be happy again. To be able to create again. Be who you are without Hell punishing you for it. Because you are a good person, Crowley."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're kind, you're creative, you're curious, you're- you're you. I just wanted you to be free to be that person. I wanted to save our world, secure a place for us and it all came out wrong and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He can't take it. The onslaught of praise, of kindness, is entirely too much. It's overwhelming.

"I get it," he mutters at last. "I… I wasn't fair either. With what I did."

The words are bitter on his tongue despite their defeated sound. He's had a lot of time to think. He realised some time ago that they pretty much abandoned each other, despite Aziraphale starting it with accepting the offer. And he weaponized his feelings in order to change the inevitable.

Aziraphale will always leave if his duty calls him. Because that's the right thing to do. Because he's an angel. A true one.

"Crowley… my dear…" A hand gently cups his cheek and Crowley shudders slightly. "You must know, the only thing I didn't like were the circumstances. That's what my forgiveness was for. Not for anything else."

He looks up at that, searching for a lie. For something misleading, something false. But he doesn't find it. Instead of that, he's almost crushed under the pure, unfiltered love pouring from the angel.

He isn't made to handle it well. He isn't made to receive it nor to feel it. But he does. And it's overwhelming. It's beautiful.

Tears gather in his eyes and he's completely speechless.

"In fact, I very much wanted you to do it again."

He can't stop himself. His snake orbs flicker down to the angel's soft, plump lips, the memory of them burning on his own.

When or how it happens, Crowley has no idea. All he knows is that one moment he's just looking, and the next he feels. Aziraphale's lips are on his, just a soft touch, questioning, waiting, and it takes Crowley an embarrassing amount of time to catch up and press back.

Every thought in his mind comes to a stop. There's only this meeting of lips, a hand in his, warmth of a palm against his cheek. He reaches out, but his other hand doesn't go further than the curvy line of his angel's waist. But that's okay. The grip tightens and he brings Aziraphale closer, their lips move, slowly, with hesitation of someone who's learning how to walk for the first time. It's clumsy, slightly awkward, but utterly perfect.

It's difficult to stop. He's not sure how long they've been doing it, but stopping seems like an impossible task. It's different than That Day. This time they're making up for years of longing, centuries of unspoken affection, millennia of hiding and running away. It's everything all at once. Clumsy, sweet, heated, slow, desperate, loving, too much and not enough. It feels like the angel is trying to devour him and this time he's not afraid to reciprocate, to take as much as he can. Once they do separate, though, they're basically on top of each other, hair messy, clothes rumpled and askew, lips swollen and pulsing, completely out of breath despite not needing air.

And they're both crying. Openly. They cling to each other and Crowley can't get enough of his angel's warmth, of his scent, of his touch. Every single longing, every need not spoken aloud came back with tripled force and he doesn't think there's any kind of power in this universe that could possibly make them let go.

"I tried, angel."

"I know. I know, my dear, you did so well."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's okay, I've got you now."

Fingers tangle into his hair and Crowley melts into the touch.

"You did too," he says. "You did do the right thing. The brave thing."

"I'm not leaving again. I promise. I love you so much"

Crowley's body trembles at the words. A part of him knew all along. But hearing it out loud… especially after everything…

"I love you," he responds in kind and they somehow tighten their grips even more.

Time passes somewhere outside the bookshop, but they're not aware of it. The only thing that matters is this moment. He finally feels whole again. Complete in a way he hasn't felt in the last three years.

The shaking stops eventually. Their hold on each other loosens. The desperation fades. And then there goes talking. Catching up. The issue of the Second Coming. Vision of finally working together again.

Everything works out whenever they work together.

I remembered I loved you,

Came back when it mattered,

I saw you standing there in the light of the window

wearing that same smile,

man, it's been a while.

But I knew it, I knew you.

~ "I Knew It, I Knew You", Taylor Swift