How long had it been?
A week, a month, a century, a millennia?
Please don't be in love with someone else.
This was the only thought in Aziraphale's head as he took the elevator back down to earth for the first time since he left with the Metatron.
He'd kept his eyes resolutely away from Crowley, knowing his resolve would crumble and he would go back to Earth in a heartbeat if he saw the demon's comings and goings. If he even thought too hard about those yellow snake eyes.
So, in that regard, he had no idea what Crowley had been up to. What he'd done, who he'd seen, not a whisper of a thought, not the foggiest notion.
Aziraphale had, after many years of work, locked up plans for the Second Coming in bureaucratic hell, so to speak. It should, hopefully, take at least a century of paperwork to sort out. That's exactly what Aziraphale intended. He wanted to delay that particular "event" for as long as possible. Now it was finally time to go home.
As he took the elevator back down to earth, he considered his time in heaven. Rules, paperwork, and politics for so long he lost track of time. Maybe Crowley wouldn't even be on earth anymore. At some point he had mentioned Alpha Centauri. The thought both relieved and terrified him. Every atom of him wanted to see Crowley again, but he had no idea what he was walking into and if the demon would want to see him, in any sense of the word.
At last, the elevator let out a soft ding and the door slid open silently.
Aziraphale stepped out onto a street that looked nothing like he remembered.
The coffee shop was gone. The record store as well. In their places stood metallic high rises, full of flats, laundry swaying in the wind. The leaves of plants hanging over the edge of railings like, what was that term? Ah yes, a concrete jungle. That was, however, the only greenery in sight.
The cars looked... different. Not completely, but enough to be noticeable immediately. Side mirrors were gone, apparently, replaced with what looked like little wings? That couldn't be right. He had to be seeing things, or at the very least, not understanding something.. Windscreens had what looked like holograms displayed across the front of them. The cars were absolutely silent. No raging Bentleys to be seen.
The only thing that looked the same in a whole sea of different, was his bookshop, which both baffled him and instilled in him a profound sense of joy. If the bookshop was still here, that meant something (or someone) he knew was as well.
As he crossed the street, trying not to be hit by one of those silent automobiles, he noticed how out of place the bookshop was, with its polished wooden exterior, surrounded by concrete and metal. How long had it been, truly?
"Excuse me?" he said, stopping a person rushing past him on the sidewalk, who raked their eyes up and down his beige suit like they'd never seen one before in their life. They reached up and removed something small from their ear.
"What?" The word was harsh.
"May I ask, please, what year it is?" Aziraphale was undeterred by their confused look.
"2125, obviously."
"Jolly good," Aziraphale said, as they put the small thing back in their ear and continued on down the street, casting a furtive glance back at the angel who was presently going through a small existential crisis.
What was that - 102 years? Crowley would be long gone. The shop was still being taken care of by Muriel, obviously, as Metatron had said it would be. Were the French still making wine? He would take a nice glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape right about now. His head was spinning. Maybe his first stop should have been the Rhone Valley for a bottle of the most expensive apology wine he could find. 102 years. Damn it.
A bell tinkled when he pushed open the door to the bookshop, tentatively at first, then all the way as he inhaled deeply. That musty old book smell never got old, and after a literal century in the sterility of heaven it was like every nice daydream he'd had sitting at his desk rolled into one, fantastic moment of pure nostalgia. All he needed was a nice cuppa. (Well, that wasn't all he needed, but one could pretend.)
Then he noticed that, mixed with that old book smell, was just a hint of smoke, which should have alarmed him, given his bookshop had already burned down once, but it was, in fact, the most familiar smell of all. Smoke and the peaty scent of whiskey rolled into one, and Aziraphale knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Crowley had not left.
An empty whiskey glass sat on a side table, under a lamp and next to an empty whiskey bottle. Well, more like twelve empty whiskey bottles which surrounded the table, absolutely strewn about in a haphazard mess. The one closest to the glass was still wet around the rim and Aziaphale ran his finger through a drop of the amber liquid that sat on the tabletop.
He'd never developed a taste for whiskey, but that didn't mean it wasn't one of his favourite scents the world over.
No one was in the bookshop. The smell of smoke and whiskey was faint, as if it had been a few hours since the demon had sat in the burgundy wingback chair, one long leg hanging over the armrest, swirling the glass and gazing into its amber depths, sunglasses dangling from the other hand…
Aziraphale gave his head a good shake to clear out that particular image.
Muriel must be out as well, though Aziraphale couldn't fathom where, in this vast sea of skyscrapers, one would go besides this exact spot.
He stepped back outside and scanned the streets, searching for the most likely location - a pub. Did pubs still exist? Oh, he felt so out of place. If only Crowley was here to guide him through this new world, help him make sense of all the changes.
He chose a direction at random and walked aimlessly for a while, peering into the occasional window. It appeared that, other than his bookshop, shops simply didn't exist anymore. Where would one go to, for example, buy a new magic trick, or a record?
Finally, as the sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings and shroud the streets in darkness, he stumbled upon what could probably loosely be called a pub, at least the kind Aziraphale was familiar with. Harsh, brightly coloured lights came on just then in the windows, making it harder to see through to the interior, but Aziraphale did his best, squinting against the glare and - just there. His breath caught in his chest.
He'd not changed one bit.
Crowley leaned back in one of the chairs, his head lolling just a little, indicating that the whiskey he had consumed in the bookshop certainly wasn't the last whiskey he had consumed this present day.
That wasn't the part of the whole scene that bothered Aziraphale. No, what bothered him the most was the person sitting across the table from him. It was a woman (which confused Aziraphale immensely - he had never seen Crowley with a human, never mind a woman, in 6,000 years), and she looked at Crowley as if he'd hung the stars (which, Aziraphale supposed, in a way, he had).
To Crowley's credit, he was hardly looking at her, instead much more focused on his glass of whiskey. But it bothered Aziraphale nonetheless.
The woman was admittedly pretty, with short, dark hair and glasses. Aziraphale wondered that in 102 years they hadn't fixed eyesight problems yet. She wore dark clothes and a broad smile which lit up her eyes spectacularly.
The woman leaned forward and touched Crowley's arm, and Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, if he had somehow been wrong with his interpretation of the events leading to his departure to heaven.
Please don't be in love with someone else.
What other interpretation could there be? Crowley had kissed him, he had 'forgiven' Crowley, likely breaking his best friend's heart, and then he had left. And stayed away for a century. But on the other hand, Crowley was a demon, and demons were wont to do things that created chaos, though Aziraphale had a hard time believing that had been Crowley's only intention.
As Aziraphale continued to watch from the window, Crowley put down his whiskey glass and leaned towards the woman. She leaned even closer as well until their heads were nearly touching, and just then, Aziraphale had enough. Enough of hiding, enough of questioning, enough of doubting and enough of pretending.
He pushed the door of the pub open, and strode in with great purpose. The room was crowded and loud and everything that Aziraphale couldn't stand about pubs, but he was willing to put up with almost anything at this point, if only to stop this infernal closeness between his best friend and some random woman he had never met.
As he stormed up to the table, he watched, almost as if in slow motion, Crowley's head lift. Behind the dark of his sunglasses, Aziraphale saw Crowley's yellow eyes meet his, and at this, time truly stopped.
This wasn't a metaphor, time actually stopped. All the patrons of the pub stopped moving, stopped speaking, except for the angel and the demon, who might as well have been frozen in time themselves, as they stood and stared at each other.
Then, Crowley slowly raised his hand and removed his sunglasses, and Aziraphale's breath caught when he saw the one look that Crowley had never leveled at him in 6,000 years of friendship - pure, unadulterated rage.
"Angel," he hissed, and his intoxication made his words slur together. "What, in the actual heaven and hell, are you doing here? Come to gloat about how many lives you've saved? How much incredible work you've done for heaven?"
Aziraphale was at a loss for words, and the way Crowley sneered at him was like a punch in the gut.
"I-I came back for you," Aziraphale managed to stutter, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.
A bark of a laugh burst from Crowley, but there was no mirth behind it. The demon's eyes shone and Aziraphale thought it looked like unshed tears. Surely he was seeing things.
"You're bloody kidding, angel. In the century you've been gone, I've moved on. Don't need you anymore. This lady here, what's her name," he said, gesturing sloppily to the woman who was still leaning across the table towards him, a smile on her face and lighting up her eyes, "is just the most recent in a long line of humans who've been keeping me company, none of whom have ever left me for a hundred shitty years to rot alone on this godforsaken planet." This was, of course, because Crowley left them first, but Aziraphale didn't know that.
Aziraphale wrung his hands, then tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat, a flood of emotions roaring through him: misery, jealousy, and the most overwhelming sense of guilt he had ever felt in his entire existence. What had he done?
"Now you're telling me you came back for me," Crowley continued, speaking less to Aziraphale and more into the thick air of the pub, "but did you ever consider maybe I didn't want you to come back?" A blatant lie, but he was a demon, so it was fine, obviously.
Crowley got up from his chair and staggered over to the bar, swiping a full bottle of whiskey before clicking his fingers. Immediately the pub roared back to life, and the woman blinked when she realised Crowley was no longer sitting in front of her. She looked up at Aziraphale, scowling.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm, well, you see…" Aziraphale trailed off, not fully knowing what to say.
"An old friend," Crowley said, throwing an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and tipping back the full bottle of whiskey against his lips. "And he was just leaving."
A/N: Using fanfiction to cope with the ending of Season 2. This won't be super long, 3 chapters probably, but it's too long to make just one, so here's part 1! Title is from the song 'Please Don't Be' by Hazlett.