Chapter Text
The first thing Crowley realizes is that nothing hurts. Every part of his corporation seems to be at ease- muscles relaxed, eyes rested, head decidedly hangover-free, despite him forgetting to purge the alcohol from his system the previous night.
This is highly unusual, because he has rarely been pain-free since he Fell, and the only times he has been so completely relaxed have been spent in the company of his angel, drinking together through the night, dining at whatever the most luxurious establishment of the century was, or treating him to yet another play at the theater, both of their glasses full of bubbly champagne as he watched Aziraphale’s eyes widen with emotion at the tale being told.
He assumes that he's waking from having sauntered vaguely into sleep at the bookshop after yesterday’s nightcap. The standard tartan quilt Aziraphale has taken to covering him up with on such occasions is here, the surroundings are of the bookshop, novels carefully piled up on every visible surface and flooding out from the bookshelves to the floor, each book surely way more spoilt than it deserved, as usual. Yet, he cannot sense the barest hint of angelic essence nearby, atleast within the nearest 50 miles, and Crowley doubts Aziraphale would go farther than that in search of breakfast with Crowley slumbering in the bookshop.
The second thing Crowley realizes is that his nails aren’t painted black, which is also weird, because he remembers painting them yesterday, moving them around to watch the light from his apartment reflecting off them, and noting how pretty they looked. He remembers hoping, through about twenty carefully peeled layers of denial, that his angel would do the same.
The third thing Crowley notices is his heart. He’s grown used to it feeling empty and lifeless. 6000 years of being ripped apart from the Her love will do that to you. The lack of love festers in all demons, creating a noticeable hole in their blackened hearts, periodically regurgitating pain before chowing down on the cud of it, leaving them numb. No pain, no God’s love, nothing. It is pure torture. Yet, today Crowley feels something other than pain at the absence of Her love, or numbness, or all-consuming love for Aziraphale. It feels like the hole in his heart has been gently stitched together, leaving it a sensitive, healing thing, filled to the brim with Love.
That isn't possible, unless he has suddenly stopped being a demon, and turned into something else, perhaps an aardvark, as Aziraphale ever so eloquently predicted in Rome many lifetimes ago. So naturally, Crowley assumes that this is a dream, and allows himself to be lulled back into sleep. Or he would, if there wasn’t a knock on his door, causing him to tumble off the bed and swagger over to open it.
He squints disbelievingly at the visitor.
“Crowley?” says Aziraphale.
Crowley blinks. After a thorough stare down, which lasts for about a minute, he concludes that this is definitely his angel, unless the impersonator has somehow got the mannerisms, hair, outfit, everything, just right.
Here is the love of his life, who seems to be- oh, someone, he seems to be human. Crowley can sense him, all right. The slight, delicious, sense of Love which fills the air when Aziraphale enters a room is present, but fuck, Crowley cannot taste a single hint of angelic essence in the air.
“Angel?”