A/N:

Hello!

So, I have been off of this platform for a while. I still very much enjoy the SoC duology and the Grishaverse, however, I would not expect updates on unfinished stories within those fandoms as I have grown into a new hyper fixation! Good Omens!

This story will very much have spoilers for the series adaptation Season 2 of Good Omens. If you are not up for spoilers I recommend another story. Hope you enjoy :)))

Aziraphale had never loved anyone more than he'd loved Crowley. Oceans and seas of care and warmth and light would fill him when he saw the Demon smile. That much was clear, to anyone with eyes who wasn't trying to deny themselves something they couldn't have. Unfortunately, Aziraphale was a contributor to the latter group.

Sure, he'd admitted it. He hadn't been able to not after 1941, when… He didn't like to think about it. But that didn't mean he accepted it. That did not mean he processed it, or thought about it.

He was afraid.

At this moment in the story, though, it was not 1941. No. It was just after Aziraphale had arrived in Heaven. The teeniest, tiniest part of his mind, one that he hid away from everyone including himself, knew he'd made a mistake. When the scene replayed in his head when he was free of paperwork and whatnot, he could see where he'd made bad decisions and where he'd torn apart everything they'd built.

But he could also see where he'd been hurt, where he'd been scared.

How Crowley had taken what Aziraphale truly thought was their one biggest shot at peace, at happiness without fear or stress, at them, and Crowley had squashed it right before their eyes.

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. He hadn't expected to even think of that, not then, not when he had so much paperwork… Why doesn't he understand? Why doesn't he see how good an opportunity this is? he wondered. Oh how blind Aziraphale could be sometimes. Why did he choose his hatred of Heaven over us?

A tear slipped from his eye. That was a thought that recurred over and over and over, and yet, it managed to draw a salty drop of emotion each and every time.

It had only been a year since he'd left. A singular, measly year. He supposed he had more time to get over… everything that had happened. He had all the time in eternity, in fact, to try and fix Heaven so that he could finally show Crowley that it was worth it. That he didn't have to feel that pain Aziraphale knew he did when he truly thought about Heaven.

He wiped his face.

Weeks passed after that, becoming a year and a half. And then two years. Still, Aziraphale had not moved on from what he felt. Not an inch. He really didn't know why he ended up doing it, nor how he would ever get away with it, but he found himself having miracled some sort of ethereal phone into his office and he'd already dialed Crowley's number before he processed what was happening. His hand shook as the ringing subsided and he received an answer.

"Hello?" a familiar voice asked. It sounded different. It sounded slurred and groggy and clogged with tears. There was a prick at the back of Aziraphale's Holy eyes.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. His voice was close to shattering just as his heart had.

Dead silence went on for quite some time. Crowley didn't hang up, and neither did Aziraphale. The only sounds that were really discernable were a few guttural breaths and, to Aziraphale's disdain, sobs.

"Crowley, I-I…" Even with their pain, raw and open in the mind space before them, the Angel had lost every single one of his words. He felt closer and closer to leaving Heaven to find his friend, if he could even call him that anymore, and he hated himself for it. He shut his eyes, hard, barely feeling the trickles of thousands of years worth of love and pain running over his cheeks.

"Why did you call me?" Crowley asked, his voice broken and tired. Quiet again. Running words. Running feelings. "I can't save you, Angel."

Angel. Crowley had always called him that. It had meant nothing, once upon a time, and then it had meant something of a bond… and now it meant that same nothing, except that nothing had always been something. It had always been true. Angel, he calls me. Does he know I am slipping through the floors of Heaven? He didn't dare let those thoughts continue. Nonetheless, they rang true in his head, and they tugged at every one of the organs he didn't need.

Crowley still had not hung up. Aziraphale wondered if he was even able to press the button. A rock, a lump, a ball, fell directly into his stomach. Guilt crashed over him in waves he couldn't fathom, in waves that had once been warm and welcoming like the yellow eyes he'd stared into so many times.

"Please…" he whispered. What was he asking for? What did he want, or moreover, what was it he needed?

He certainly didn't know.

"Don't you dare ask me that. If you 'need me' so fucking badly, come down here yourself and prove it. I'm tired of the dance, Angel. I'm tired of crying," Crowley said, and even then, when he'd said he was tired of the tears, you could hear them climbing from his eyes and choking him harshly.

Only one other time in his life had Aziraphale wanted Crowley so badly. Only once before, he'd wanted to disappear with the Demon and never be seen again by anything other than those yellow eyes.

And that time before, just as now, he failed.