This eh...went much darker than I anticipated, so look out for yourselves. Maybe this is so heavy to make up for the lighthearted Taylor stuff last chapter, I don't know.
This chapter wasn't planned but it just kind of wrote itself because apparently I haven't tortured myself enough yet. If you like your fics with a healthy dose of angst and pain...enjoy, I guess? xD
Also yes I totally wrote this instead of sleeping, originally posted this on Ao3 at 6 am whoopsie
Warnings for unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, alcohol abuse, and dubious consent (at least kinda, but not really...you'll see)
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It had been a year.
He hadn't heard from Aziraphale in a year.
He should have been prepared that he wouldn't hear from Aziraphale ever again, but knowing that you should be prepared for something and actually being prepared for something were two different things entirely.
His flat felt cold and empty. It had felt cold and empty ever since that day.
All his things had still been there. Shax hadn't bothered getting rid of anything, or maybe the flat had simply known to rearrange itself upon Crowley's return. But everything was hidden away now, locked up behind closed storage room doors where Crowley wouldn't have to lay eyes on anything that would remind him of Aziraphale.
That was the problem. Everything reminded him of Aziraphale.
Of course it did. He had never bothered keeping much of anything except for the sole value of it reminding him of Aziraphale. There had been the eagle statue he took from the church in 1941. The sculpture of a demon and angel wrestling. Even his plants had reminded him of the angel, how he'd whispered kind words to them when he thought Crowley wasn't looking.
They were all dead now, his plants. Every leaf and stem withered away along with the love in his heart.
Crowley hadn't cared to keep them alive. He barely cared to keep himself alive.
He hadn't left his flat in months. He rarely left his bed. His days were spent trying (and failing) not to think about Aziraphale. A lot of the time he drank, hoping that it would make him fall asleep for at least a few days at a time. It didn't always work. Sometimes it just left him in a corner on the floor, crying and feeling sorry for himself like the pathetic excuse for a demon he was.
He had never had trouble sleeping. He had liked sleeping, had done it for an entire century if he felt like it. Now he couldn't. Because there were dreams that wouldn't let him. And what if Aziraphale came back while he was sleeping? He knew Aziraphale wouldn't come back. But what if he did and Crowley missed it because he was asleep? He couldn't risk it.
The days were long, the nights were longer. Then he lost awareness of whether it was day or night altogether.
What did it matter? The world kept turning. Great.
His world had stopped the second his angel stepped into that elevator.
Empty bottles had begun to fill the apartment floor, but he was too weak to miracle them away, and he certainly wouldn't be getting up to get rid of them by hand. No one was going to see his mess anyway (the mess his flat was, the mess Crowley was). He didn't have anyone.
Sometimes he wondered. Did Aziraphale feel as lonely up there as he did down here?
Maybe he did. It was both a depressing and comforting thought.
Perhaps he'd made new friends. Better friends, friends he didn't have to hide with, friends he didn't have to be ashamed of, friends he didn't have to break his precious heavenly rules for.
Perhaps he was finally making the difference he had wanted to. Perhaps he had found a purpose, had found happiness.
Or perhaps he was fucking miserable. Perhaps he had regretted leaving the moment he stepped foot on those disgusting white floors. Perhaps he hadn't liked what Heaven wanted him to work on. Perhaps he had disobeyed, had been removed from his position, had been punished and tortured and cast out or killed-
Crowley gagged violently, empty stomach cramping as he doubled over in pain.
No. Nonono, he couldn't think of such things.
Just because it had happened to him didn't mean-
Fuck.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, swaying back and forth where he was sitting on the floor. He didn't want to remember that time. He didn't want to think of how it had felt, how he'd tried to do the right thing and ended up- and Aziraphale...Aziraphale always tried to do the right thing, too. Crowley knew that. He didn't just obey blindly, not anymore. He didn't just follow orders without question if he didn't agree with their methods.
And as Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale would consider it his duty to speak up, because that's who Aziraphale was. Always kind, always caring, always considerate, always worrying about humanity, empathetic in a way the other angels had never learned to be, in a way they wouldn't understand.
Crowley knew. He'd been there, done that.
What if he asked questions? Crowley had just asked a few questions, too.
Just a few too many questions...
He drove a hand through his hair, fisting the red strands and tugging until it hurt. The pain was good, grounding. Most of the time he just felt empty these days.
Perhaps he'd get him back, if they made him fall. Perhaps they could be together, if they were finally the same after all.
We can be together, Aziraphale had said. Angels.
What about demons, then.
And what an absolutely vile, dreadful thing to think. He hated himself for thinking that. He hated himself for the millisecond he actually wished it would happen.
He didn't want that. Of course he didn't want that. He could never want Aziraphale to suffer like that just so Crowley could have him back.
He drowned a bottle of whatever alcoholic drink was lying closest, tasting nothing. He needed to forget about that, needed to forget the image of Aziraphale on his doorstep, cream-coloured coat stained with pitch, his wings burned black and drenched in the stench of sulfur.
Time passed. He didn't know how much. Didn't care.
This was his eternity now.
Until it wasn't.
Because there Aziraphale was, standing on his doorstep. And his wings were still white, his eyes filled with tears as he begged and apologized.
Crowley was sober for the first time in months, emotions he had carefully locked away breaking free and washing over him in powerful waves at the sight of the angel. Relief, surprise, confusion, hurt, love, pain, so much pain - all muddled together and culminated in an overwhelming explosion of anger in Crowley's chest.
It had been a year. A year.
Aziraphale had left him behind, had left him alone. And it had taken him a year to realize he'd made a mistake. It had taken him a year to realize that Crowley had been right all along, that Heaven wasn't what it pretended to be, that no matter how hard Aziraphale tried, he couldn't be what they wanted, couldn't make them happy, couldn't change a damn thing.
The angel cried and pleaded for Crowley to let him explain, promised that he had learned his lesson, proclaimed that he had been foolish and blinded by his desire to finally get Heaven's approval.
He said he should have chosen Crowley.
And of course, Crowley ate it all up like the pathetic, desperate thing he was.
Of course, Crowley agreed to take him back. But there was still so much anger inside him, so much hurt he hadn't come to terms with, so much betrayal he couldn't quite forgive-
When they kissed, it was forceful. It felt like Aziraphale meant for it to be an apology, a promise, a vow. To Crowley, it just felt like it needed to be a punishment.
When they undressed, it was hurried and without finesse, seams ripping and buttons flying and Aziraphale didn't say a single word when his precious waistcoat was torn.
Everything was a haze. Aziraphale's skin, slick with sweat where it slid against Crowley's. Aziraphale's taste, the hint of copper when his fangs drew blood on the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale's sounds, hungry and desperate and wanton in a way that fuelled the fire in Crowley's soul, made his hands grip tighter and his mind swim even more.
He didn't care if he left bruises. He didn't care if this was nothing like his dreams.
His dreams had been shattered, and maybe he would never manage to put them back together. Maybe his dreams were gone, but Aziraphale was here, was finally here and pliant and willing to let Crowley do with him whatever he pleased.
Aziraphale was finally back where he belonged, and Crowley would be damned (again) if he let him or Heaven or Hell or anyone in between ever forget that this angel was his.
"Turn around", he heard himself hiss. "I said turn around!"
Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes, but obeyed without a word. He was beautiful, glorious, opening up so readily. He moaned and writhed, the picture of pure sin, and wasn't that just the most deliciously ironic thing to ever enter Crowley's mind.
"Look at you." He didn't even sound like himself anymore, words leaving his mouth beyond his control. There was nothing of him left, just numbness and anger and need. "What would Heaven think of their precious angel now? What would they say if they could see you? Letting yourself be defiled by demonic hands-"
Aziraphale made a noise unlike anything Crowley had ever heard when Crowley joined him, and he didn't know how something could feel so wrong and right at the same time-
There was silence, once it was over.
No nightingales, Crowley remembered. No nightingales.
And Aziraphale turned around, looking over his shoulder with tear tracks on his cheeks.
The angel opened his mouth, then-
"I forgive you."
Crowley jolted out of his bed violently, drenched in sweat and cheeks stained with tears just as Aziraphale's had been a moment ago.
He panted hard, desperately trying to catch his breath, to chase the dreadful memory of his dream - of his nightmare - as far away as he could. Aziraphale wasn't here, wasn't back, hadn't been gone for a year, not even for a day, he wasn't here, he wasn't hurt, he-
Crowley pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, choking on a sob that wanted to claw its way out of his throat.
He knew it hadn't been a good idea to sleep.
He couldn't have foreseen quite how awful it would be.
It had barely been a few hours since Aziraphale entered the elevator, leaving Crowley's life in turn, and he already felt like he couldn't breathe. How could he live on air Aziraphale did not exhale?
Was this his future? That dreadful vision his dream had shown him? Was this what was to become of him?
His whole body trembled, his shirt clinging to his clammy skin. It was disgusting, he felt disgusting, flashes of his dream-self invading his mind, popping up behind his inner eye and making him shudder in horror and utter revulsion.
The mere thought of him acting like that made him feel nauseous, his hands trembling as he balled them into fists. In his mind, he had to watch as those hands wanted to leave bruises on Aziraphale's skin, grasping too violently, clinging too tightly. A previously unblemished canvas, painted with Crowley's fingertips in blues and purples. An untouched surface, torn to shreds by sharp teeth and pointed claws.
It made him retch, memory of the vile taste of stale whiskey prominent in his mouth.
He would never treat his angel like that. Never.
It didn't matter how much he was hurting, didn't matter how much pain he accumulated in his chest, how much anger it fuelled in his heart. He would never use it to hurt Aziraphale in return, and certainly not like that, never like that.
All he'd ever wanted was tenderness, to shower his angel with all the soft and gentle and loving and decidedly undemonic things he shouldn't be craving.
Crowley fell back into the sheets with a deep sigh, terrified to close his eyes again.