Notes: So here's the chapter where we really lean into that post-accident imagery. Again, it's not gory, but it may be unsettling. Please be warned. Also some very mild thoughts of suicide on Aziraphale's part, the typical 'why don't I off myself to be with me husband instead' sort of inner monologue.

I drove back to The South Downs in the Celestial Blue Fiat Crowley had gifted me for our last anniversary on autopilot. I never really used the thing, to be honest, so I was astonished that I hadn't run off the side of the road, especially when the thought was ever in the back of my mind. I kept the windows down, breathing in deep the brisk air and trying not to think too hard over what I was about to do.

Or what I could do instead. Those possibilities ranged between getting on with my life, selling the cottage, traveling the world, forgetting about everything that had led up to this point ...

And driving straight off a cliff.

Of course, if I was lucky, fate would decide for me, and I would catch pneumonia driving in the freezing cold with the windows down and only a thin jumper for protection.

I put the radio on and cranked the volume. The London Symphony Orchestra performed Holst's The Planets as I tried to focus on everything and anything besides my dead husband, lying naked on our bed, packed in ice with several brand new swamp coolers blasting on high to keep decomposition at bay.

Waiting for me.

I thought it best to stow him out here in the middle of nowhere for the time being instead of at our flat in Mayfair. Less a chance of anything going wrong, of the swamp coolers drawing suspicion (seeing as it had barely broken seven degrees Celsius over the past month), or (if this worked) people who knew my husband to be dead seeing him walking around, and asking questions.

Accepting that that was a possibility led me back to the question of why was I doing this? Why was I so set on bringing my husband back? Why didn't I leave him be, allow him peace? Why didn't I take the opposite route, off myself, and go be with him instead? Had to admit, it was a lot more natural than what I was intending. But there was a simple reason for that.

I'm a coward.

A bloody coward.

I don't know what awaits us after death. Not truly. I'd been raised a Catholic, and I hold strong to many of those principles still (mostly out of guilt inflicted upon me by my dear old mum). According to the teachings of the church, a Heavenly kingdom would be ours after death … but not if I killed myself.

Suicide was an unforgivable sin.

If I wanted to see my husband again, this might be the only avenue available to me.

I didn't want to wait, rely on "faith" that we would be together again, and risk being wrong. I was tired of playing guessing games with my future.

I felt like a massive ball of contradictions flying down the motorway at felony speeds, both exhilarated and terrified at the venture I was about to embark on. The old woman wasn't wrong. For as blisteringly angry as I got with her, that was the worst part. I was tampering with the laws of nature. I knew that. I loved Crowley more than anything, more than my own life, but Crowley was dead, and in the eyes of the universe, there should be nothing I can do to change that.

But apparently, there was.

I'd found it.

And I was going through with it regardless, even if it scared the shit out of me.

I'd not told another living soul about this. I had a pretty good idea of what might happen if I did. I didn't require an intervention, and I didn't need institutionalization. I wasn't crazy. I was grieving, searching for the same solutions that dozens of people have probably thought of but would never admit to. But other people - people who knew me as the eccentric bookseller of Soho who didn't actually sell any books and who once rented a live python for the sole purpose of roaming the store in order to keep uni students away at the start of the school year - might not see it that way.

I had also entertained the possibility that this might be a scam - a way to extort five thousand pounds out of a grieving widower willing to pay anything to have his husband back. Except that the old woman, possibly a hundred or so years older than God, put on a convincing act of being afraid for the paltry sum of five thousand, considering what her granddaughter had said about their financial straits: tens of thousands in mounting debts, interest on bank loans that have ballooned into sums greater than the principals, not to mention the shady men who dropped by late at night to 'browse' even though they bought nothing, but always broke something in ways that implied mishaps more sinister.

They probably could have gotten twenty thousand out of me easily.

I switched off the radio when I turned off the motorway. It wasn't like the music would disturb anyone. I lived miles away from my closest neighbor. But it seemed disrespectful to keep the volume so loud.

Disrespectful to the dead.

I love our cottage, fell in love with it the first moment I laid eyes on it, but that was back when it was about to become a home.

Now, it was a tomb.

What would our property agent think - that kindly, middle-aged woman who kept making moon eyes at us every time we snuck a kiss - if she knew I was harboring a corpse in my bedroom? The expression of shock that would erupt on her pinched face nearly made me laugh. But the overwhelming pitch blackness of the cottage sapped me of anything even remotely similar to glee.

When I had left earlier in the day, I had neglected to keep any lights on. It seemed fitting to have the place dark while my husband's body lay within. But I wished I had left one light on at least, or put a torch by the door. My cellular phone battery had died somewhere along the way, so it was of no help whatsoever.

As I opened the door and peered into the living room, I held my breath, half-expecting Crowley's naked corpse to meet me at the entryway. I chided myself for being an idiot, though how ridiculous was it really? A day ago, when I went searching Soho shops for that horrid incense Crowley used to love in the hopes of keeping his favorite scent alive in the house, I would have agreed that the concept of life after death was ludicrous.

That was until I stumbled upon a teenage girl who promised me the secret to bringing Crowley back.

"Cr-Crowley? Crowley, honey? I'm home, my dear," I called out, hoping that he wouldn't actually answer. I was thirty steps away from walking out of my comfort zone and into a world I would rather not know existed, so Crowley coming back to life on his own would tip me over the edge into insanity.

I reached out a hand and turned on the light. My living room, warm and comforting, decorated in muted blues, cinnamon browns, and subtle creams, welcomed me. There was nothing out-of-place here.

Nothing dead.

I continued to the bedroom, switching on lights as I went. With every step, I had to convince myself to keep going. I had pictured me racing into the house, eager to get this started. But with reality staring me in the face, I wasn't sure. But I didn't have the luxury of waiting to see if I would eventually change my mind. Crowley's internal organs, especially his brain, were decaying fast, regardless of how much ice or air conditioning I piped into the place.

Soon the choice wouldn't be mine to make.

Twenty steps brought me to the threshold of my bedroom, where I stopped, staring at the closed door. I reached down and patted the bottle in my pocket, feeling the lump through the linen of my trousers. Touching it gave me the strength I needed to move my hand to the doorknob, but I halted once more with it hovering when I heard a small creak – like a foot stepping lightly on the hardwood floor. It was the house settling, I told myself. That was what Crowley always said when I woke him in the middle of the night to the sound of odd creaking and whining.

"It's a mid-century house," he'd say. "The floors contract in the cold and expand in the heat."

"So what your saying is …?" I quipped.

"... the house talks in our sleep," Crowley had replied without opening his eyes. "Now go back to your reading so I can get some sleep, too."

"Just the house settling," I muttered in my best rendition of Crowley's accent, plucking the explanation from my mind and saying it out loud to make it real. "Nothing else alive in the house except for me."

Still, I couldn't bring myself to open the door.

I heard the creak repeat, closer this time.

I swallowed so hard, everything from my jaw to my stomach ached.

"Crowley? Are you there? Are you … are you waiting for me, my dear?"

Of course, he's waiting for you! I scolded myself. He's waiting for you to grow a pair and get this over with.

I sighed, allowing the rush of breath in my deflating body to give my hand momentum, touch the doorknob, and open it like I had hundreds of times before.

This time was no different.

Yup. Maybe if I kept telling myself that, it would feel real.

I turned the knob and switched on the light without thinking about the sight that awaited me on the bed. My eyes flicked up … and my stomach fell to the floor.

There was Crowley, right where I had left him, lying in bed, eyes closed. He looked asleep and, from this distance, normal except for a few cuts and bruises on his face. The accident hadn't banged his body up that badly, not from what I had noticed, though I didn't make it a point to look at him for too long.

His neck was why not.

His broken neck. From the whiplash that had killed him instantly.

He'd been leaning forward in his car seat, looking at street signs, stuck on a small, offshoot road that the GPS on his phone had apparently never heard of before. He had entered the intersection when a pickup flew through out of nowhere and slammed into him from behind. Crowley jettisoned forward and hit the steering wheel.

Being a classic car, restored to original condition, it had no airbag.

I blinked back the tears that leapt to my eyes as I thought about the accident that took my husband from me, the fact that the driver of the truck, sloshed out of his gourd, walked away from that same accident with only blacks and blues. The police caught the bastard a few miles down the road when his engine stalled.

He claimed he didn't stop because he thought he had only struck a deer.

"H—hey," I said, trying to get comfortable with the idea of talking to my husband again. "I went out shopping today, and you'll never believe what I brought home."

I could see my own breath as it met the air in the room, like walking into a giant meat locker, making what I was doing that much more morbid. My knees knocked, but I clamped them together to keep them mobile. I reached the bed, and my casual, conversational tone disappeared, the words wavering as I spoke them.

"I think … this might … help …" I hiccuped, side-eyeing my husband's body. Crowley's skin appeared waxy, coated in moisture from the frigid air, and the color wasn't right. I knew that soon blood would pool, and Crowley's unnaturally pale skin would turn black. So I had to hurry.

But every muscle in my body screamed for me to turn and run.

I touched the bed, and I'm ashamed to say, I whimpered.

I can do this, I can do this … I chanted to myself. I reached out and let my hand brush Crowley's fingers. I tried to recall their warmth, the way Crowley's touch made me feel loved, desired. Whole. I wanted that back, and I wasn't going to let anything stand in my way. I knelt on the bed, crawled over to Crowley's body, and leaned over his serene face.

"I'm going to get you back," I whispered, cursing the fear in my voice. "If I have to claw my way into Heaven and drag you back with my own two hands, I'm going to get you back."

I pulled the blue bottle out of my pocket. I held it to the light and gave it a swirl, watching the liquid spin around the belly of the glass and then settle into a shimmering mass. Crowley's life was sitting at the bottom of that bottle. All I need do was give it back.

I yanked out the stopper and brought the bottle to Crowley's lips.

"Bottoms up, love." I pecked a kiss to his cold skin and then tipped the contents into his mouth. I expected to see Crowley's throat move as he swallowed, his eyes snap urgently open, but they didn't. The potion didn't act instantaneously the way I'd assumed then. He was still dead … but not for long.

I remained kneeling at Crowley's side, staring into my husband's face, heeding the ancient woman's words to be the first person Crowley saw when he opened his eyes. I knelt and knelt for over an hour, thighs cramping in the freezing cold. The sharp prickle that comes with poor blood circulation assaulted my skin, the thought that this was an elaborately planned and executed hoax becoming more a likelihood as time passed.

The sun started to light the grass and hills outside. I could barely see the early morning rays seep in beneath the blackout curtains, but there they were nonetheless - evidence of a brand new day. Still, there was no change, no sign, nothing on Crowley's face that might give me a reason to hold on. I struggled against exhaustion, grasping at thin straws of hope, but with each passing minute, I was failing.

It had been a dream – a wonderful dream.

But I had to wake up and face facts - my husband wasn't coming back to me in any form.

I'd been most grievously had.

I stretched my limbs - one leg, then the other. Then I lifted my torso, bending my arms and flexing my hands. I crawled backward off the bed, raising my arms above my head, listening to my spine snap and pop. I looked at Crowley again, peacefully expired – one last look before I made plans for his burial.

I was beginning to feel it was about time.

I walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer, looking for my pajamas. Before I did anything, I needed a nap, or I would drop dead on my feet.

I winced at the ill-placed pun but chalked it up as part of the healing process.

Gallows humor.

I could never appreciate it before.

That probably wouldn't change.

I rummaged through the drawer, looking past perfectly suitable shirts and lounge pants, but for what, I didn't know … until I found it.

A journal.

I have lots of journals, to be honest. Writing is a passion of mine, along with reading. In their pages, I have documented everything that has ever happened to me in excruciating detail - as if anyone would ever be interested in that sort of thing. As if reading about my pains or my triumphs would help anyone. I don't find myself to be remotely (as the kids put it) relatable. I have no desire to be famous, and the circumstances of my life (mainly my marriage to Crowley) have made me wealthier than I could ever possibly enjoy in my lifetime.

But not today.

Today, I felt numb to everything around me, and not just because of the intense cold. Nothing seemed to matter. I left my pajamas in the drawer and hopped back onto the bed. I might have been cavalier about it, but there was nothing here for me to fear. What lay in bed beside me was a body, nothing more - flesh and blood rotting from the inside with no unique soul to keep it all together.

Make it worth something.

I opened my journal - this journal - to the first empty page where a blue ballpoint pen had been shoved into the spine, waiting for me. For how long … I can't remember. I picked the thing out and uncapped it. I put the tip to the paper, but I didn't start writing right away. I hadn't written in a journal in weeks. Where should I start? Do I pick up where my last journal entry left off, no matter how long ago that was? Even if it ended on a happy memory, like Crowley and me going to the cinema, having dinner at The Ritz?

Making love in the backseat of his Bentley?

Or do I forget all that and start a few minutes ago when I finally decided to give up on the possibility of my husband coming back? A couple of hours ago, when the old woman almost refused to sell me the potion? Or that horrible night, when the police showed up at my door with apologetic looks and horrendous news?

While I juggled those thoughts, trying to decide, the world around me began to awaken. Birds sang their melodious songs in the bitter cold. The wind outside knocked against my window. A tiny critter scritched inside the walls, which would have had me running for the traps, but not today. Whatever you are, little creature, you have been granted a stay of execution.

Nothing would be dying within my home today.

The sun rose higher, and the room got brighter. To my surprise, it heated up a little, and the ice cubes on the bed began to melt. I heard them collapsing in their piles, having turned to water, making way for others to fall. The bed dipped as I shifted my legs beneath me, my crossed limbs having fallen asleep in their bent up positions. I cleared my throat, the sound rumbling in my chest, though the voice didn't sound entirely my own. My ears had been ringing during the drive home and for most of the night, so I imagined I must have caught some kind of cold.

But as I reasoned out all of this, going about my task, my heart realized a truth that my mind hadn't.

When my mind caught up, it went blank.

My blood turned to ice, secondary to the chill in the room, helped naught an inch by the invading sun. I didn't think I could get any colder, but I did. That inside out feeling returned as another started to register.

I no longer felt quite so alone.

I lowered my journal, glancing up from the blank page to find Crowley, rolled onto his side, staring at me with wide, emotionless eyes.