Clutching despairingly at the goose feather quill, Aziraphale's heart ached thinking about the other man. Thinking upon dear Crowley's face in St. James' Park, requesting of the angel something he refused to provide, no matter the depth of his affection.And so, as Crowley often did when faced with a situation he disliked, the man took off and abandoned his life. Vanishing for extended periods doing Heaven knows what, and with Heaven knows who.

The angel knew in all likelihoods that Crowley was just asleep, retreating to his bed as he often did. For how long, Aziraphale did not know. And as the weeks stretched on into months, and then the months into years, the angel's despair only grew, wishing desperately that every customer entering his shop was Crowley. Glancing around at every flash of red hair, hoping that the man was no longer asleep, and thus available to meet again.

But then, as happened every time Aziraphale lingered on that line of thought too long, hot flashes of shame and regret leeched their way into his thoughts. Theorising that, even if Crowley was awake, why would he want to see the angel, after such a cruel parting. That if he did see Crowley across the street, or in a shop, or as part of a crowd, then it meant the demon was making the choice not to see him, and that was a pain Aziraphale couldn't begin to dwell on.

So instead, he holed away in a tiny office in the back of his bookshop, passing the time as best as he was able, trying to ignore the lack of Crowley that seeped into every aspect of his life. Hopelessly trying not to cry as he committed his feelings to paper and ink, lest the ink bleed and ruin his work.

My Dearest, C,

Your absence is felt in every fibre of my being.

The days pass as they always have, and shall continue to until the ineffable plan decides, and yet it feels as if time has ceased in its tracks without you.

Centuries ago, decades could pass before happening upon your fair face in a far off local, away from prying ethereal eyes and demonic forces, yet to do so now is an agony like no other, an agony I thought myself unable to feel, but one I am feeling all the same.

The world is continuing to surge head on into a new tomorrow, a better tomorrow, and despite this selfishly I wish for a return to the past, if only to remain in your presence.

I busy myself with work when commanded, as is expected of me. The world is changing, dear boy, and you more than anybody would adore what humanity is becoming around us.

There is a quaint Irish writer in the social circles I frequent, and I think you would adore him, his plays and poetry are enough to set ones heart alight.

Alas, it has been some time since human delights enthralled me as much as you.

You would think me foolish, pining my days, weeks, months, years away whilst you sleep. Never saying it, as you are kind, despite your protestations, and uncruel to me. But you would think it nonetheless.

It is, really. A silly infatuation unable to be acted upon, and thus should be ignored. A valiant effort on my part was made centuries ago, mere moments after our escape from the hands of French Revolutionaires, for my heart to stop lighting up at the mere sight of you, the sound of your voice, the gentleness of your actions.

Futile, but valiant nonetheless.

And so I have resigned myself to the quill, scrawling my affections away like some dreadfully trite Romantic, in love with everything that should catch their attention. Fawning over you, alone, in my bookshop, whilst you sleep away the end of the century.

Affectionately Yours,

Mr. Fell

Somehow, signing their names felt too serious, too final. Solid evidence that his heart has been captured by the red haired demon. Aziraphale found himself finding comfort in very little, and so if rationalising why penning letters upon letters to Crowley containing his deepest, long hidden, thoughts and desires was okay, yet signing their names was not, then it was a comfort he could afford himself.

It often occurred to the angel that perhaps he should burn the letters. Their existence put him in a compromising and precarious situation, should somebody find them. He had come close, many times, yet each time could not stand to turn his written feelings to ash. It wasn't as if anybody but himself was ever going to read the letters anyway, so why shouldn't he keep them. Folded neatly and stored away in a box, hidden in a dark corner in the back of his small office space.

Writing eased his weary soul for a brief moment, as it always did. The absence of Crowley still clawing at his heart, but not as painfully as before. For a brief second, Aziraphale rested his head against the already antique writing bureau, before standing and brushing non-existent dust off of his waistcoat and trousers. He had lasted without his demon before, and no doubt he would again.

The century was beginning to draw to a close, and with a new century comes new work to complete, new people to guide, new miracles to grant. Busy work to distract his tired mind from the lack of Crowley in his life. Perhaps this time, Aziraphale thought, absence would clear his head, and not make his heart grow fonder.