Chapter Text
After it was all done, after the Second Coming was finally over, and they really were properly free, an Angel and a Demon stood in a bookshop.
They hadn’t had the chance to talk about anything that had happened prior to Aziraphale’s departure to Heaven, and the weight of the unspoken hung in the air between them. Despite helping Aziraphale to stop the Second Coming, Crowley had been abrasive and surly throughout, and for once Aziraphale could feel that he meant the harsh words that he said. Or at least, he wanted to mean them. For his part, Aziraphale had done what he always did and pretended that everything was fine, he was fine, everything was absolutely tickety-boo.
Truthfully, he had hoped, foolishly, that when he saw Crowley again for that first time after Heaven, they would each forgive and forget, that Crowley had missed him as desperately as he had missed Crowley. That even though they hurt each other, it didn’t matter because they still loved each other.
But it was clear from the reality of their reunion that any notions of love that Crowley once held for him had long since soured. He had barely looked at him, barely spoken to him. He had done worse than that, he had been cruel to him.
Crowley was only even in the bookshop because he’d wanted to say goodbye to Muriel before they went off to explore the world, otherwise Aziraphale was convinced he wouldn’t have come near the place. But with Muriel gone, now he stood by the door, still, like an animal ready to bolt.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, keeping up the charade while he tugged at the edge of his waistcoat anxiously, “I’m glad that everything worked out ok.”
Crowley made a vague noise, only acknowledging that he heard.
“I don’t suppose you would-” Aziraphale stopped himself. No, he couldn’t just try and jump back into how things used to be, “Actually, I was- I wanted to talk to you. If that’s ok?”
“It’s not ok.”
“Oh. I- well. Can I- I’ll just say one thing then,” Aziraphale swallowed, “Crowley, you know that I-“
“Stop. Just… stop.” Crowley said, interrupting him and turning away to avoid looking at Aziraphale’s face, “I can’t anymore, Aziraphale.”
“Can’t- can’t what?”
“I can’t do this. This whole…I can’t do this whole charade anymore.”
“I wasn’t suggesting-“
“Aziraphale. I mean it," he said sharply, "It’s like you said, ‘nothing lasts forever’. So… so this is it. I’m done. There is no more us, I can’t do it.”
Even though he had tried to prepare himself for this, the reality of his last hopes being destroyed was like someone had stabbed Aziraphale through the heart, “But- Crowley, we-“
Crowley snarled, “No, don’t you dare Aziraphale. You don’t get to beg after what you did to me. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for something that is your fault. For once in my life, I’m doing this for me and not for you.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could talk even if he wanted to. His throat felt blocked, heart racing and tears escaping no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t need to breathe but he couldn’t get enough air.
“I’m leaving,” Crowley said, turning to face him. There was a beat where something like compassion passed over his face, before it settled into stoicism, “Goodbye, Aziraphale.”
And with that he left.
As soon as the door closed, something tore within Aziraphale, within his very soul. All the aura of comfort and love he had ever associated with Crowley’s presence vanished, the change to bleak nothingness so stark it made Aziraphale collapse to the floor. It really was over; any love Crowley had bestowed upon him was gone.
He was alone.
Through the dusty voiles evidence of the still-turning world shone through, the warm hues of the sun followed by the buzzing neon streetlamps of a city still living. The cycle repeated over and over, dust settling on the familiar cream coat, a figure still but for his eyes following the shadows curling around scattered furniture.
He stayed on the floor for quite some time, cold and lonely and in pain. He imagined this is what the fall had felt like, the burning of skin replaced by the burn in his soul. He deserved this.
Eventually, he pushed himself to his knees. He didn’t know how long it had been since Crowley left, or what precisely had roused him now, but it hardly mattered to him. Hands still shaking, he stood, almost in a trance, going through the motions. He stumbled to the kitchen, trembling, and spilling water all over as he tried to make a cup of tea. As he poured the milk into the cup, it began to spoil in front of his eyes, previously miracle fresh, it curdled and congealed into the bottom of the cup. He snapped his fingers to right it, but again as soon as the milk hit the cup it split. He grabbed the tin of his favourite tea, watched as the leaves rotted and crumbled from his mere presence alone. He set the tea down. He deserved this.
He poured himself some water instead, his mouth dry from the silence of what could have been days or weeks on the dusty carpet. It tasted bitter, vinegar-like, and as soon as it hit his stomach, he felt a deep-rooted nausea that he’d never experienced before. Running to the sink, he barely made it before he vomited. Among the watery bile was a golden sheen, a bit of his Angel essence cast out. Even from the one sip, the vomit lasted hours, and found him once again collapsed to the floor. He felt hollow, and yet, despite it all, intense hunger pangs wracked his body. He deserved this.
More weeks went by, and one rainy Sunday saw Aziraphale rise from the kitchenette floor. Once more, he set about making tea. He ignored the foul odour of the milk, and the fetid rot of the tea leaves. He ignored the sugar bubbling and burning into bitter molasses on the spoon. He took the cup with its hellish contents over to his armchair, sat there prim and proper. If you were to glance in the window, you’d think all was well with the old angelic bookseller. But if you looked for more than a few seconds you would see the despair in that blank expression, the brokenness of his being.
But the few who had once been welcomed to the bookshop no longer cared to glance in, were no longer curious about where the ever-present Mr Fell had gone. There had been Nina and Maggie once, though any sympathy either had for his situation had dissipated as his months in Heaven had dragged on, and by the time he returned to Earth they looked at him thinly veiled anger. And there was Muriel, of course. They had grown rather attached to Crowley over the years, and it wasn’t a surprise that they had greeted Aziraphale just as coldly as everyone else. The other residents of Wickber Street carried on with life, with barely a thought to the old eccentric bookseller who once lived there. And the most welcome visitor of all- well, it hurt too much to think of him. Looking back, it was easy to see the ideal life he’d traded away. He had no-one now. He deserved this.
He puttered about the shop, cups of rancid tea accumulating on various surfaces occasionally coupled with a plate of mould ridden biscuits, decaying into mulch. It wasn’t until he picked up a first edition of Atonement that he allowed himself to notice his books were suffering too. His older editions had always been a little more fragile, but now even the bindings of his modern classics were disintegrating in his palms, paper darkening under his fingertips, and speckles of mould creeping along the pages. He looked at Atonement, cleaved open to the middle of the story. He watched as tiny creature punctured its way through the pages, creating its home within the husk of the book. It scuttered its way across the page, drawing his eyes to some of the text.
How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.
He considered the words for several long moments, before closing the book softly, shelving it away among the rest of the despoiled collection. Lowering himself back into his armchair, he allowed himself to cry. He deserved this.
The rot had spread to almost every corner of the shop now, plaster and paint crumbling, black mould growing in every soft furnishing. Aziraphale was sure it was in him too, the cloying scent of damp and decay filling his lungs, so each breath was laboured. It became hard to see through the gloom, the electricity long since cut off, and the only natural light obscured by the layer of filth on the windows. It didn’t help that his eyes ached, half from the tears and half from the dust. He rubbed them red raw trying to clear the haze from his vision, but to no avail.
He deserved this.
In his is darkest moments as his mind drifted far beyond the bookshop, scrying through time and shared history, he allowed the bitter tendrils of suspicion wrap around his heart. He deserved this, he deserved everything, yes, but who was the executioner? Who was delivering his sentence? Heaven did not care for him, nor Hell, nor God. The only person he could conceive could have the power to tear away everything he held dear, who would know what in life he treasured was… no. It couldn’t be. But hadn’t Crowley already taken away the most precious thing of all? Had he not already ripped away the unspoken bond they had shared for millennia, the bright bloom Aziraphale would feel growing stronger and sweeter as his Demon drew near? What more was it to miracle any other scraps of life he had remaining? He deserved it.
When his mind would come to, when he could see beyond his pity, he would despair and weep for even thinking Crowley would be capable of this cruelty. Crowley had not removed anything that belonged to Aziraphale, he wasn’t entitled to be put up with let alone loved by him. Aziraphale had been the one to break them all those months ago when he left for heaven.
No, whoever had caused this, whatever had caused this was not Crowley, was not his dear Demon. But he knew for the crime of entertaining the notion, he deserved the punishment all the more.
The first feather fell one year after he had last seen Crowley, the second soon after. His wings itched uncontrollably, and no matter how he clawed at him it didn’t abate. Instead, more feathers fell and in their place were oozing sores, blood tainting any remaining feathers pink. Maybe he really was falling.
Angel feathers held their own power, but the fallen plumage radiated a vicious energy, a malevolence that spoke of a deep, dark magic. He stared at them, watched as others joined them, forming the shape of a sigil that had haunted his dreams.
In Heaven he had gained access to a vault, where behind the seven seals of protection sat The Book of Life. He had stolen it, shortly before he left Heaven for good and averted the second coming. This he had little choice but to reveal to Crowley, but there was a secret he did not disclose. He had been unable to stop himself from looking in the book.
Initially he had willed the page to turn to Crowley. There was his name, his sigil, scrawled in deep red next to another name in looping gold ink; Jophiel. He had pressed his fingers to both names, sighing longingly. That angel, that beautiful happy soul, was not entirely gone; battered and bruised and burnt he lived somewhere inside Crowley, was fundamentally one and the same. Aziraphale loved him with an odd sort of love, not quite grief but something close to it. It always made him feel tremendously guilty, as if loving who Crowley used to be detracted from how he loved him now. Crowley had certainly seemed to think that’s how he felt, and now in the deep dark days in the bookshop Aziraphale couldn’t help but torture himself into thinking it was true.
After a few painful moments of reflection, he had decided to check his own name. What he did not understand was that The Book of Life was not only for the present, it also showed possibility. Life was just as much about who you could have been as who you are now. So, when he turned to see his own name in similar gold text, he froze at the black chicken-scratch next to it, a sigil too, demonic.
He had shut the book tight at the sight of it, but his ears rang and behind his eyes he could still see the sigil, the name. Eligos.
A coin flipping over and over, Aziraphale on one side, Eligos on the other, endlessly turning, awaiting fate. In his dreams he would always wake just before it landed. In one dream and one only, the coin landed on its edge, and then began to spin again on its axis.
He had seen who he was in infinite other dimensions. As each feather turned black and burst into flames of bright blue, Aziraphale sank his hands into the ashes. He deserved it, he thought, as he smeared the soot over his barren wings. It stung, it burned, but he deserved it. He would mark himself for a future he was sure of, blacken his wings and accept his fate.
He deserved it. He deserved it he deserved it he deserved it he deserved it he deserved it he deserved it