Aziraphale found himself alone in the elevator with Metatron, ascending to the stark and minimalistic realms of Heaven. His heart was heavy with the weight of his decision, the echoes of Crowley's intense and desperate kiss still lingering in his mind, on his fingers, on his lips. It had been a tumultuous moment, filled with both love and defiance, as if they were trying to communicate everything they felt for each other through that one anguished touch.
As the elevator ascended, Aziraphale's thoughts wandered back to the time he had spent in his cosy and warm bookshop in London with Crowley. The soft, old books, the comfortable chairs, and the expensive wine were all part of the home they had made together. The memory of their laughter and amity in that intimate space only deepened the ache in his heart.
Yet, Aziraphale had made his choice, and the cold, bare doors of the elevator had sealed his fate. Metatron's imposing presence beside him seemed to reinforce the gravity of his decision. The Archangel's words promised power and influence, but Aziraphale couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the offer than met the eye.
As the elevator doors opened to Heaven's lobby, revealing an endless expanse of office space, punctuated with unassuming angels, Aziraphale took a deep breath, preparing himself for the responsibilities that awaited him. In his heart, he yearned for the comfort of his bookshop, the warmth of Crowley's presence, and the soft comfort of their time together.
"Right that's us." Spoke Metatron behind him as the elevator dinged to signal their arrival.
No turning back now. Aziraphale stepped out of the elevator, resolute in his decision, and ready to fulfil the duties that came with his new position. Yet, even as he moved forward, he couldn't help but wonder what Crowley was doing at that very moment. Where in the world would Crowley drive to, consumed by his own pain and heartache?
The uncertainty of their future weighed heavily on Aziraphale's mind as he strode through the lobby, all the while holding onto the memories of the final looks of betrayal and anguish on Crowley's face, the slam of the Bentley's door, and the passionate kiss that had both united and torn them apart.
Crowley gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. The sound of the engine bellowed in his ears, roaring with the tumultuous storm of emotions swirling inside him. He couldn't believe what had just transpired – the profound confession, the bittersweet taste of a long-awaited kiss, and the crushing blow of rejection. The weight of Aziraphale's choice to return to Heaven echoed in his mind, each word reverberating through his soul like a never-ending echo.
"Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever." The dismissal stung, How could millennia not have been enough to prove to Aziraphale that, they could have been forever?
And worse, so much worse, Aziraphale's parting words… "I forgive you". He didn't need Aziraphale's forgiveness. He had done the only thing that was left to make Aziraphale see sense. But still, that wasn't enough.
"Maybe I should be the one forgiving you!" He spat. He wanted to throw his forgiveness in the angel's face, to show Aziraphale that he'd been the one to in the wrong. Crowley could never return to Heaven, not after the way Heaven had treated both he and Aziraphale; cast them out, threated to destroy them, carried on in their monstrous ways, treating their humans like play things.
The pain and anger refused to subside; however, a sense of gradual exhaustion crept into his still spiralling mind.
He drove through the night, the city lights becoming a blur as he sped towards… towards where exactly? He only wanted to distance himself from London, and from the pain of seeing Aziraphale choose a path that separated them completely.
The road stretched out before him like an endless path, mirroring the labyrinth of thoughts that consumed him. Memories of their shared history flashed before his eyes – the times they had thwarted the Apocalypse, the laughter they had shared, and the countless moments of camaraderie that had brought them closer together. And now, it seemed like none of it mattered.
Taking his hands from the steering wheel, Crowley muttered, "Just you drive." His usually smooth and confident voice was now hoarse, almost unrecognisable.
As if sensing its master's distress, the Bentley's engine purred with understanding. The dashboard lights glowed softly, casting a gentle, comforting glow in the dim interior. Crowley leant back against the plush leather seats, his mind clouded with memories of happier times. He remembered cruising down winding roads with Aziraphale by his side, engaging in spirited debates about the merits of good and evil while savouring the simple pleasure of each other's company.
The thought of Aziraphale's smile, once a source of joy, now only deepened his ache. The feeling of being betrayed by fate itself gnawed at him, leaving him bitter and angry at the world.
In the past, Crowley had dealt with heartache, but this was different. This was a wound that cut far deeper, for it was borne out of the realisation that he had lost not just a friend, but someone he had grown to love beyond reason.
As the Bentley glided through the city streets, Crowley felt an odd kinship with the machine. Like him, the car had weathered the passage of time, both carrying the weight of memories and experiences that had shaped their existence. And just like him, the Bentley had learnt to adapt and survive, gaining a personality of its own.
"Maybe you understand," Crowley whispered to the car, half hoping for a response, half fearing what it might reveal. He knew he was anthropomorphising the vehicle, but in that moment of vulnerability, the notion gave him a strange comfort.
The Bentley cruised along, its engine humming with a reassuring rhythm. Crowley allowed himself to get lost in the hum of the tires on the asphalt, letting the movement of the car gently lull him away from his pain and into a peaceful sleep.
When Crowley woke, it was dark, but even in the night he recognised the street of Victorian terraced houses and the sound of distant waves.
"What's it been… 80 odd years?" He stretched getting out of the car, his earthly body creaked with the movement, "I'm surprised you even wanted to come here, there's nothing good in Dartmouth.".
Although, he knew why, the Bentley had chosen to take him far from the bookshop, his old flat, or any other places that Aziraphale had once been. His feet felt iron-clad as he entered the little flat, despite Dartmouth being just so dull, he had always found some solace in this place, a small sanctuary away from the constant chaos of London and the machinations of Heaven and Hell. But now, even the once familiar surroundings couldn't provide the comfort he sought. The dusty emptiness of the flat seemed to mock him, reminding him of the hollowness he felt inside.
In the dim glow of the moonlight, Crowley stood by the window, looking out at the tranquil sea beyond. The waves crashed against the shore, echoing the turmoil in his heart. He wondered if Aziraphale could hear the echoes too, if he could feel the pain he had caused. Closing his eyes, he tried to push away the ache, but it lingered like a relentless shadow. The memory of Aziraphale's gentle hands, the warmth of his lips against his own – they were both a blissful dream and a haunting reminder of what he couldn't have.
As the night wore on, Crowley remained alone in his flat, grappling with his emotions and contemplating what the future held. The bond between an angel and a demon was a complex enigma, and he had dared to hope for something more. But now, he felt like he had gambled everything and lost. His heartache was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he knew that mending it would take time, if it could be mended at all. But in the meantime, it was nothing that wine or whiskey couldn't temporarily wash away.
In his solitude, Crowley found himself wrestling with questions he had never thought he would face. Should he keep his distance from Aziraphale to spare himself further pain? Should he try to salvage their friendship despite the unrequited feelings? Or should he set off on a new path entirely, one free from the entanglements of Heaven, Hell, and divine expectations?
For now, he had no answers. As the first rays of dawn began to paint the horizon with soft hues, Crowley still stood by the window, his mind a tempest of emotions. Dartmouth, with all its comforts, had become a battleground for his heart, and he knew that whatever he decided, the consequences would be profound. With the sun rising on a new day, Crowley faced an uncertain future, one where the pain of the failed kiss would be an indelible mark on his soul.