Work Text:
Crowley was in the garage, in his Bentley. Aziraphale was in the house, watching Adam. Crowley wanted to be able to go in there and act like he hadn’t been ardently in love with the angel since the beginning of the beginning.
They had stopped the end of the world but they were also starting over. Crowley couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle not being with Aziraphale for another 6,000 years. He was done.
_______________
You’re in the house and I’m in the car. I just need a quiet place where I can scream how I love you.
_______________
He had gotten Aziraphale back, Heaven hadn’t taken Aziraphale. Hell hadn’t taken Aziraphale away. They were finally able to be themselves with each other. But when he stepped into that house he knew that Aziraphale wasn’t taking that step.
Being an ethereal being, he could feel the carbon monoxide slowly taking over him. It was a sweet calming feeling; slowly choking him and filling his lungs. It was a sweetness he had never known.
He’d been in love with Aziraphale for ages, but the angel just didn’t feel the same. It didn’t matter what Crowley did, Aziraphale would never love him back.
_______________
We're starting over and I love you darlin'. And I am done, dear.
_______________
After a few more minutes, Crowley started to feel lightheaded. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had. He had left a note, hanging out the window. It explained everything. Crowley was done. There was no more hope. He and Aziraphale could never, would never be together. Why should Crowley bother trying?
_______________
I want you. I want you.
_______________
This is what it felt like to love someone who would never love you back. Crowley never thought he would be in love with anyone, he was a demon after all. He thought it was just lust and there could never be anything more. But then he met Aziraphale and he realized there was more to life than just lust. The world wasn’t just full figuring out how to ruin the Ineffable Plan. The world had color. But now that color was fading and so was Crowley.
