"You go too fast for me, Crowley."

It'd haunted him since Aziraphale had said it, and roared in Crowley's ears as he'd watched the lift doors close. He had waited, waited for Aziraphale to change his mind, even after their final exchange; waited for the angel he knew so well to come to his senses and turn around, walk away from the Metatron, and come back where he belonged. He'd have driven them off at speeds central London could only have dreamed of, away from the Metatron, away from Heaven, away from Hell, somewhere the us that was Aziraphale and Crowley could have been safe and, whoever willing, maybe even happy.

But the waiting had been in vain. The Bentley crawled away from the bookshop with no fight from Crowley: he had paid no attention to either the speed or the direction of the car, lost in an aimless numbness. When the car stopped, it had taken several moments and an impatient beep of the horn for Crowley to stir, and realize where he was. Grumbling vaguely at the car, he had made his way inside the building and to the door of his old flat, which he'dfound unexpectedly open. A note from Shax was on the entry table: All yours again. The door clicked shut behind Crowley, and it was only then that he broke down, crumpling to his knees with the sob he'd been holding in for so long, pounding his fists on the floor, and with a roar of rage and despair, winging his sunglasses across the room to smash against the wall.

He wanted to storm Heaven and bring Aziraphale back. He wanted to storm Hell, and demand their help. He wanted to burn down the bookshop and either erase every trace of Aziraphale, or summon him back to Earth. But amidst his chaotic thoughts, the demon knew that Aziraphale had made his choice, and whatever his reasons were, he'd had them. So again Crowley waited. He drank, watched old films he'd watched a dozen times before, slept away the hours and days and weeks that piled up like unwashed dishes in the sink of someone who couldn't bring themselves to do them, despite a desperate desire. Once he even tried baking, but it reminded him too much of Aziraphale, and ended with the oven door slammed shut until the fire went out. Mostly he drank, and slept, and waited.

Now, Crowley stood at his fireplace, the crackling of the flames within distant as the moon as he leaned on the mantelpiece with one hand, gazing downward. In his hand was the photo Furfur had taken at Aziraphale's magic show in 1941, showing angel and demon together onstage, about to perform a discorporation-defying feat of prestidigitation. It was somewhat faded with time and soft around the edges, but still showed its subjects as clearly as the day it had been taken. Suddenly the image rippled, as with a faint splish, a drop of water landed on it, obscuring Aziraphale's face. With the back of his wrist, Crowley wiped his eyes roughly. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the photo again, as the drop dissipated.

"I can't wait for you anymore, Angel."

The photo hissed and crinkled as it landed in the flames, disappearing in a plume of chemical smoke.