Crowley drives down to Aziraphale's bookstore at least once a month. It's been awhile since the shop has been occupied, but he can't seem to let go. Old habits, it seems, die hard.
He's heard the saying, but only now has he thought to apply it to himself.
The thing is, he wouldn't be so bothered - or at least that's what he tells himself. It's all about the resolution, or rather, the lack thereof. In all honesty, he has no idea where Aziraphale is, and that's what bothers him. Not that he left, not that he's gone, but that he left without saying goodbye.
The least Crowley deserves, if he deserves anything at all, is a proper farewell.
He pulls up to the curb and peers out of his window, lowering his sunglasses a little. Empty. Vacant. Abandoned.
Just like him.
He'd lived thousands of years with the angel. He'd thought about dying, about getting stuck in hell for eternity, but never once had he contemplated living without Aziraphale. Only now that Aziraphale was gone did Crowley realize his importance.
This time, he doesn't drive on. He parks the car and gets out. Walks up to the bookstore. Lets himself in. The place is dark and dusty, full of cobwebs and unpleasant, wet odors. He magically pulls a bottle of wine from his jacket and sits down in the old familiar chair he always sits in.
He doesn't bother conjuring a glass; he drinks the wine straight from the bottle, setting it down every now and then to set up the chess board. He stares at the pieces, thinking that maybe if he sets them up Aziraphale will come back and play with him, like old times.
No one comes.
He was a fool to expect anything. With a coy, tragic smile Crowley raises the nearly empty wine bottle in the air.
"This one's for you," he says, downing the remnants.