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For humans, no matter how great the tragedy, the touchpoints of the day reassert themselves, and by necessity sooner rather than later. Eventually you have to go to bed, to sleep, to eat, to use the bathroom. You have to talk to others, sit, stand, walk, breathe. For a demon none of this is true.
He made it back to his old flat by sheer instinct and unloaded his plants from the Bentley. The place was the same as he’d left it, the furniture the same. He sent the plants into their old room and miracled up a watering and feeding schedule for them. He wasn’t planning on doing it himself. He considered where he wanted to be for a few minutes, then sat on the edge of the couch. He closed his eyes so they wouldn’t be damaged. He thought he’d probably be sitting there for a long time.
Then he suddenly changed his mind, drew in a harsh breath and with a snap, all the gifts, trinkets and everyday items the angel had ever given him appeared in a pile in front of him. He considered burning it with hellfire but then just started throwing objects into the far corner. He shut his stupid, sore, leaking eyes and on impulse miracled the objects to stick randomly together, blindly building a kind of sculpture as he indiscriminately tossed clothes, mugs, jewelry, pens, books, even feathers and bits of food, into the corner. When there was nothing left, he slouched back onto the uncomfortable cushions and just sat there, eyes closed, not sleeping, not thinking, not doing anything. Both snakes and demons can hibernate when they need to. Aziraphale had left in autumn. When Crowley opened his eyes again, it was summer. He had no idea of what year.
At first, he didn’t remember throwing the objects and was horrified to see what looked like an angel statue made of trash in the corner of the room. Then he recalled hurling the stuff without caring where it landed and grimaced. His subconscious had apparently formed the items into the shape of an angel. A shrine, you could say. He spoke the words aloud, naming it. “Shrine to a faithless angel.” He couldn’t help the tears that pooled behind his eyes and ran traitorously down his cheek, or the miserable headache that followed them. He snarled at the statue and, waving a hand, broke it into a million pieces. The pieces scattered and whirled around the room, a hurricane of detritus. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was snowing. Outside, luckily. Not in his flat, although he was stiff with cold. The pieces of trash seemed to have re-formed an angel statue again, and he certainly did not remember moving them around after he smashed the last one. He almost didn’t care anymore. He waved a hand lazily at it and broke it again. The wings fell off and smashed, the head rolled into the center of the room, an arm was attached by a thread with the hand and fingers on the floor. With an angry flick of his fingers the pieces broke again, smaller, swirling, and now it was snowing inside his flat. He closed his eyes and hoped to never open them again.
In Heaven, Aziraphale was finally done. In so many ways. He’d managed to prevent the Second Coming, the Earth seemed safe for now. He was so tired, used up; Heaven had sucked the very light and soul out of him. Crowley was safe, he assumed, but he wasn’t sure what the demon had done with himself while Aziraphale was gone. He’d have known if something bad had happened to him, so he assumed his love was more or less all right. Whether he’d ever forgive or even speak to the angel again was a different question, and Aziraphale didn’t feel up to thinking about that right now. But he could go back, at least, and see how much damage he’d done. He knew Crowley wasn’t in the bookshop, but he went there first anyway, instinctively. Muriel hadn’t seen the demon since the fateful day and had no idea where he was. The angel looked around the place feeling oddly detached, not possessive of it anymore. The books were…just objects. He couldn’t feel anything for them. He’d been suppressing his feelings for so long he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all anymore. But he thought he could sense that the demon was at home in his Mayfair flat.
He went to the flat and knocked, even though he was certain his friend was not conscious. When there was no answer, he twisted the knob and entered; the lock opened to his hand the way it always had. So, Crowley hadn’t locked him out, at least. Crowley was sitting stiffly on the couch and didn’t respond to his entrance. Ignoring him? Asleep? No, he realized, certainly hibernating. As he approached, he could see that the demon was coated with dust and that there were spider webs on his legs and shoes, even his hands. Aziraphale turned and gasped, then, seeing the angel statue made of trash. Crowley’s last thought, the name of the statue, whispered in the air around it. ‘Shrine to a faithless angel’. Aziraphale, calm all the years he’d been gone, never giving in to his emotions, wondered if he deserved that. He decided he probably did and blinked back tears.
He briefly touched Crowley’s face and hands. He was so cold. Aziraphale wondered if he could actually will himself to just sit here forever, to never wake up. To never warm up. He seemed colder than the air in the room. Aziraphale didn’t necessarily want to wake him, but the demon’s frigid skin worried him. He sat down next to him, miracling a blanket to cover them both. He lightly kissed the demon’s cheek, murmuring to him, “I am so glad to see you my dear.” After a few minutes Crowley was still not warming up at all; his skin was blue, he wasn’t breathing. Aziraphale shuddered, turning up his body temperature and enclosing them both with his wings. Aziraphale closed his eyes as well. He was so tired; he’d worked so hard and had worried so much during the years he’d been away. He thought maybe he could take a rest too. But he found himself agitated and upset. He’d wanted to tell Crowley about what had happened, had hoped that his beloved demon would be able to find the grace to forgive or at least understand, but he’d taken himself out of the picture. Aziraphale was disappointed but then realized that he could still talk to him. Maybe it would even be easier this way, or at least he could try out some ideas and see how they sounded before Crowley could actually hear him.
He slid closer to the demon, still not touching. He looked at the beloved face, cold and still and he wanted to cry but let out a long shuddering groan instead. “I wish I could tell you how much I missed you,” he began, thankful that the demon made no sign that he could hear. “I wish I could tell you how much I love you, Crowley. And for how long.” No answer, and that was a good thing. Aziraphale sighed and continued. “You know, even from the beginning I found you so intriguing. So sly and mysterious. So sure of yourself, so beautiful. Certainly, more fun than anyone else I’d ever known. And such a big heart, so kind, always caring about people even if you had to pretend not to.” He paused for a moment and peered closely to see if there was a reaction. “OK, good, I know you can’t hear me because you’d never let me say that.”
He smiled a real smile for the first time in She only knew how long, leaned his head briefly on Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, my dear, I knew you loved me. I could feel it, of course. Angels can do that. I’d known for a while, but then in 1941 you came into the church to save me from those awful Nazis. I was so stupid, I’m sorry. I know how badly burned your feet were, but you pretended that it wasn’t a big deal. And you even saved my books. To let me know, I think. How much you cared.” He sat quietly for a while, thinking. “When I said you went too fast for me, Crowley, I didn’t really mean it. I was afraid of what Heaven would do if they found out, and even more afraid of what Hell would do. I hated myself for turning you down and leaving your car. Walking away was so hard. And you didn’t deserve it. You deserved so much better than that. You deserved better than me. I tried to make it up to you by giving you the holy water, and I thought that maybe you did understand.”
He was quiet, remembering. “I loved working together with you as godfathers to Warlock. Even though it was scary knowing we would have to face the apocalypse, facing it together with you made it much better. And then, those years after the non-apocalypse were the best! We did so many things together! It was so lovely. I wanted us to do more, to be more to each other. I was working on that. I know you were too. We would’ve gotten there. But then the summons from Heaven. That’s what it was, I hope you knew that. I know you wanted us to be together, and I wanted it too! I wanted it so much. I hope you didn’t think I didn’t want it. But I had to be tough, Crowley, I had to be! I had to go, there was no other way. Please understand, I did it for you. I did it for us. I did so want to be us. But I wanted you to be safe more than anything else in the universe. I thought I could come back but I didn’t dare promise that, didn’t even really dare to think about it.” He paused for a few moments, the memories difficult.
“It was so hard up there, Crowley, so cold and bleak. So lonely. You know how it is up there. I thought about you all the time, your warmth, your smile, the things we did together. I wished you were there to help me. But I knew why you couldn’t be. I didn’t blame you. Your love kept me going. Because of you I could finish the job. It took a long time, I made small adjustments, changed some minds, changed some hearts. I found the backchannel to Hell and realized several of your lot didn’t really want it either, and in the end, we worked together a bit. Finally, I was able to convince head office that this wasn’t the time, and they agreed, and I asked to come back to my life on earth and to be left alone again, and they eventually agreed to that too. So here I am.” He slumped back against the uncomfortable couch and glanced over at the demon. Crowley’s skin had warmed in the angelic tent that Aziraphale had made for them; he was pink rather than blue, and had resumed breathing slowly. “Oh, Crowley. I’m so sorry about everything. I wonder if you’ll ever forgive me. I’ll never forget how cruel I was to you. I don’t even deserve to be forgiven. Saying, ‘I forgive you...’ I didn’t mean that, I just didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t explain it with the Metatron right there. I’ll never forget how you looked at me from across the road. I see that every time I close my eyes.”
“I wouldn’t blame you…” Aziraphale found he couldn’t speak any more around the lump in his throat. Crowley’s eyes were still closed, and he hadn’t moved.
After a few minutes his hand did begin to move. His eyes were still closed. His hand slid slowly to Aziraphale’s hand and stopped, covering it lightly. Without opening his eyes the demon whispered, “Tell me then. I’ve been waiting. How much do you love me? And for how long?”