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Crowley waited outside the Bentley, watching for Aziraphale to realise at the last second that maybe he was wrong. He waited for Aziraphale to stop before getting into that damned lift and walk across the street to Crowley instead.
Get in the car, Angel. Crowley pleaded silently to himself as he watched.
They locked eyes for a second that felt like an eternity and Crowley thought, or rather hoped, for a brief moment that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale would stay.
Please Angel, just get in the car. We can work this out.
They’d had countless fights before, perhaps not quite like this, but they had gotten through everything relatively unscathed thus far. They could recover from this. They still could have their good ending… if Aziraphale stayed. If he didn’t cast aside several millenia of their arrangement, of their friendship, of— of whatever they wanted to call it.
But he didn’t.
Crowley watched as Aziraphale took one last look at Crowley and the life he was leaving behind and stepped into the lift. The doors closed gently behind him and Aziraphale was gone.
Alright then.
Crowley cleared the lump in his throat that had been threatening to escape since the moment Aziraphale shared his brilliant plan to fix heaven and to “fix” Crowley. He looked around, taking in the sight of Whickber Street one last time. He didn’t plan on coming back any time soon, there was no point, really.
Crowley climbed into the Bentley, letting out a breath that he’d been holding for who knows how long, and put the key into the ignition. The engine hummed quietly in the background as the stereo kicked on.
“—and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square—”
Crowley switched the audio off before Vera Lynn could ridicule him any further. In different circumstances he likely would have laughed, given the comically terrible timing of it all, but he really was not in the mood for it. So, for the first time in ages, possibly ever, he drove in silence.
Crowley needed to go home. The problem, of which there were far too many, was that “home” was currently inhabited by Muriel. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Muriel was at the bookshop, Crowley’s home was on his way up to Heaven in a fucking lift. Crowley couldn’t go home, not really, so he drove to his flat instead.
There was no racing through the streets of London. He didn’t go ninety miles an hour, he stopped at every light, he even used his turn signals for once. He wasn’t in any hurry, there wasn’t anywhere important for him to be.
In a time reasonable for someone obeying the laws of traffic for the first time in his life, Crowley arrived at his flat and parked in his usual spot. He didn’t get out right away though, instead he stayed in the driver’s seat, waiting. For what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he was afraid that if he moved from where he was in the Bentley, something else in his life would come crashing down around him. Or maybe he was just tired. He wasn’t sure.
Eventually, Crowley decided to leave the car, or rather his body decided for him. He wasn’t making any decisions at this point. He wasn’t there at all as far as he was concerned, instead he was just a distant observer as his body went through the motions, carrying himself across the car park and up to his flat. He didn’t feel much– he couldn’t feel much. Not now. Not yet.
Crowley opened the door to the flat that hadn’t actually been his in so long, shut it behind himself, and broke.
There were many times in which Crowley managed to keep his composure. He had kept it together when Aziraphale told him about his deal with the Metatron. He kept it together when he was pouring his heart out for the first real time in six thousand years. He kept it together when he was kissing Aziraphale and when Aziraphale wasn’t kissing him back. Perhaps Crowley’s definition of “keeping his composure” differed from most people’s, but however it’s defined is irrelevant. In those moments he was the most level-headed individual on the face of the planet in comparison to his current emotional state.
The tears wouldn’t stop. If asked, he’d say that he’d never been much for crying; it took a lot for a demon to shed a tear, after all. In reality, despite his protestations, Crowley had certainly cried many times before. Though, never like this.
There he was, a demon sobbing on the floor of his empty flat, letting the dam completely break because he was just too tired to put the pieces of himself back together. The downpour of tears from his eyes were seemingly in competition with the Great Flood itself. Each sob shook his body and choked out of him like a cry for help.
His face felt hot and his head hurt and he was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe. He just let his sounds of despair cry out into the emptiness of the flat around him. Eventually, his sobbing dwindled from a wailing lament to hearty bawling, before it finally fizzled out like a snuffed flame and he was just a quietly weeping puddle of demon.
To say that Crowley was sad, though true, would not be entirely accurate, or rather it would be reducing a very complex experience into a very simple, three-letter word. It would be like looking at the universe and the whole of existence from beginning to end and summing it up with the word, “big.” Not incorrect, but entirely missing the important bits.
Now, to say that Crowley was angry would be an understatement, though it would also be a lie. Anger was the sort of thing that filled up a person until it bursted at the seams, and in Crowley’s case sometimes in the most literal sense. He was perhaps angry at first, when he felt himself fighting against the flames rising up in his chest back in the bookshop, but the fire died out as quickly as it began. The feeling that consumed Crowley now had the shape of anger but was something else entirely.
He had been angry when he learned that Aziraphale was keeping Gabriel in the shop despite the risk it posed to both of them. That was anger— the electric, explosive, volatile kind. This however, was emptiness. As if the space where the anger should have rightfully been was hollowed out. Something was painfully, obviously, missing from Crowley and he desperately wished he felt the anger. At least that way he could feel something, anything, aside from the emptiness that was threatening to swallow him up from the inside out.
He needed to fill up the anger-shaped empty space. He needed to feel something. He needed… He needed alcohol.
Crowley finally rose to his feet. Whether it had been minutes or hours since he entered the flat, he didn’t know, nor did he care. He had a mission and by God, Satan, or someone else entirely, he was going to complete it.
With his entire body feeling heavy, and distant, and raw from the crying, Crowley rummaged through the kitchen in search of something that would fill himself up. Though “rummaged” was possibly the wrong word. A more accurate description would be that Crowley opened exactly two cupboards only to find absolutely nothing in either of them.
Even his flat was empty.
Rather than open a third cupboard, in fear of coming up empty-handed, Crowley sat himself down messily in his chair, raised his hand in the air and produced a bottle of wine and a glass. Then, after considering it for a moment, he waved his hand again, and the glass vanished. He wouldn’t be needing it.
He had planned on getting drunk that morning anyway, though not like this. This wasn’t the good kind of drinking he had hoped for, where laughter became coated with the taste of wine and inhibitions loosened perhaps for the first time in six thousand years. No, this was the kind of drinking that, were he human, he likely wouldn’t come back from it. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to be human. But he wasn’t. He was just a very drunk demon with the sole intention of getting even more drunk.
Crowley was drinking to fill up the empty parts of himself, to feel something where nothing was, and the alcohol wasn’t particularly keen on cooperating. He still felt hollow, just now he was incredibly drunk as well. The alcohol was a distraction though, and distractions meant no crying, at least for the time being. That was enough to keep at it, as far as he was concerned.
Crowley’s distracted mind dared to do some thinking, amidst the fog of his drunkenness. Refusing to think about him for fear of sinking back to the floor and shattering once again, Crowley ungracefully clung onto the next closest thought that floated through his head. Gabriel.
Oh, there he goes. There’s the anger.
He felt it rise up hot in his chest, all the way up his throat. With only himself and the walls around him to receive his words, Crowley started to speak with the eloquence of someone who had just recently put considerable effort into never thinking again.
“Why th’ fuck does Gabriel of all people get a happy ending? Why does Gabriel get to go off into the stars and run away with— with Beelzebub? ‘Cause that’s a thing apparently. He just went ‘whoops, I fell in love with the Prince of Hell, I’m retiring now, buh-bye’ and then fucked off to Alpha Centauri or wherever the hell. And they just let him. How’d Gabriel deserve that after everything he did? After everything he did to Az—”
Crowley stopped himself for a moment before rephrasing.
“After everything he did. And— and then he just gets to leave it all behind! And then here I am, fuckin’ drunk as all whatever, and what am I even doing here?”
Crowley uncurled himself from his seat, he was on a roll fueled by wine and rage. There was no stopping him, he’d have to crash on his own and deal with the aftermath.
“It’s not like I have anything left here. This flat wasn’t even mine this mornin’ and now I’m here and I don’t even wanna be here. I could go anywhere I want. ‘S just me and the Bentley and the plants and… and we could…” the thought trailed off. Crowley was very close to remembering something important but he couldn’t quite place it.
Crowley carried on vaguely rambling, in between swigs of whatever it was he was drinking. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, not just Aziraphale; Crowley was acutely aware of Aziraphale’s absence. No, something else was missing. He could have sobered up, maybe then he would be able to recall what specifically it was that he was forgetting.
But he couldn’t let himself be sober, not yet.
How many bottles deep was he? Crowley had no clue. He miracled them away as soon as he emptied them. He might have been a drunken mess, but at the very least he didn’t need to be a messy drunk as well. He still had standards.
While nursing his drink, Crowley paced around the flat, or rather clung to the wall and stumbled around, in search of whatever it was he was missing.
The wall was cold to the touch. The flat was always cold; Crowley liked it that way. The cool stone walls and empty spaces were much more appealing to him than the hot, cluttered, suffocating chaos of Hell. He felt like he could breathe properly in his flat, or at least he used to. Now, as he felt the smooth stone under his hand, it felt more like a tomb. There was no life left in the flat. Crowley’s things were gone. Hell made sure to get rid of anything he left behind that they didn’t deem useful; now there were no more suggestive angelic statues, no collections of real soul music, and not a single book on space to be found. It used to be so full of Crowley and his life and his– his plants.
Crowley was struck with the sudden and horrific realization of what it was that he had forgotten.
How long had it been?
Crowley was no stranger to losing track of time. It was not unheard of for him to sleep for several decades, on occasion he could miss an entire century at a time. How long had he been holed up in his flat, drowning himself in tears and booze? He knew that it had to have been at least a few days, having half-noticed the light from outside dim and brighten more than once over the course of his wallowing.
Sobering himself enough that he didn’t accidentally discorporate himself on the stairs, Crowley moved more than he had in, what, days? weeks? Regardless, he ran down the stairs as best as a mostly-drunk demon could and made his way out to the car.
Oh no, no no. Not you too. You don’t get to leave me too.
Crowley approached the Bentley, parked exactly where he left it and seemingly full of plants that had clearly seen better days. The leaves were wilting and brown at the edges, showing signs of heat damage from sitting in the hot car and in desperate need of water, among other things. There was no comparing these plants to the verdant, thriving garden he had been growing in his flat. It was almost comical that he’d once been so worked up over the occasional leaf-spot; these were going to need some major work to get them remotely close to their former selves. Still, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief nonetheless.
This was something he could fix.
After some juggling of boxes that really should have been a two-person job to carry, Crowley unpacked all of his plants into the flat and it felt a little bit more like himself. Not perfect, but a slight improvement.
Crowley assessed the damage more properly, now that they weren’t all crammed into the back of his car. It was very bad. He couldn’t single out any one plant to make an example of, they were all in equally rough shape. He’d have to address the plants at large and hope they all got the message.
Crowley inspected a particularly dry leaf on a pothos and, with his plastic plant mister in hand, began his botanical tirade.
“Listen up you pathetic excuse for foliage, I have been having a blessed time, and I am really not in the mood for all this wilting about, so you all need to get. It. Together.” He punctuated each word sharply in emphasis.
“You used to be good. You know, I hate to admit it but I used to be proud of you; I would come in here and go ‘oh hey, look at all those lovely plants, they really do brighten up the place,’ and now look at you. You’re nothing.”
This didn’t feel right. Crowley had been stern with his plants before, of course, but never like this. Now, his words bit at his tongue with the intention to cause as much damage as possible, rather than repair it. Pushing down the remorse that began to bubble up inside him, he carried on.
“I will not stand for this. You need to grow better— you need to be better! You aren’t enough, and you’ll never be enough. You aren’t good enough for—”
He stopped himself, nearly choking on the words. He didn’t even realise he was crying again until he felt it running hot down his face. Where had these tears come from? He thought he surely should have run out by that point.
Clearing his throat, he tried again, “Listen, just because someone who was supposed to be there for you, leaves you all alone in a car by yourself for the foreseeable future, doesn’t mean you can just shrivel up and die. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave too. You— you can’t just leave. You’re all I ha—”
He felt another tear roll down his face as his voice caught in his throat. This wasn’t working. The plants were barely trembling, clearly more concerned than terrified, and Crowley was just working himself up again. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and let out a pained groan. It wasn’t fair and Crowley knew it. None of this was fair.
The anger that had built up yet again, began to subside and in its place settled regret. There he was, in his empty flat, scolding plants that were dying because of him. It was his fault. It was all his fault. Crowley replayed the events of that last conversation, their last conversation. He surrendered in his fight against where his mind was aching to go, finally letting it touch the thoughts that had been off limits to himself.
Crowley did not regret saying no to Aziraphale. It was an impossible request; he couldn’t go back to Heaven, the same way he couldn’t return to Hell. Even if he was accepted back into the fold with open arms, neither side had anything to offer him that would make it worth the sacrifice. Not after everything he’d been through.
What he did regret was ever opening his mouth and taking his turn to speak. Satan, why did he have to let it all out? Crowley was quite good at keeping things bottled up; for six thousand years he managed to keep it all shut up inside him. Sure, bits of truth would slip out at times, but he never dared to put it all out in the open like that. Why did he go and say all that? Especially after Aziraphale told him, in more or less words, that he was bad— broken even. Why did he kiss him? Oh God. He kissed him.
What had he done?
Realizing the weight of it all, Crowley put a hand to his mouth, covering his lips as if to take it all back. That kiss— that one foolishly desperate final attempt to mend things, was Crowley’s biggest regret of all.
The image of Aziraphale post-kiss was burned into Crowley’s mind. He would never forget the look on Aziraphale’s face, twisted up with betrayal and anger and something else that Crowley couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. He wasn’t supposed to go. But he did. And Crowley couldn’t help but feel like it was entirely his own damn fault.
Somehow he deserved all of this, didn’t he? There was something deeply and fundamentally wrong with Crowley. Aziraphale could see it. Of course he didn’t choose Crowley over the whole of Heaven, why would he? Crowley wasn’t ever allowed to get his happy ending, he didn’t deserve it, and he had been a fool to think otherwise.
And all those plants were still dying in the middle of his flat. They didn’t deserve that either.
He couldn’t do it anymore. He was in no state to continue berating the plants, and if he was being honest, he didn’t really want to anyway. They were just plants. Still, they needed tending nonetheless.
He disappeared into his kitchen, only to return with a large glass of water a moment later. Crowley carefully poured the water into each of the pots, giving a much-needed drink to all his plants. Then he set the glass down on the table, and, with the full resignation of someone who was having the worst time of his life, walked to his bedroom and immediately fell into his bed.
The plants needed water, and so they got it. Crowley needed something too, but what he needed most he couldn’t have, so he opted for sleep instead. Crowley was good at sleeping, and sleep meant that he didn’t have to be there, or anywhere anymore, at least for a little while
And so, Crowley slept.