Chapter Text
“Well that went down like a lead balloon.” The words left a faint echo in the empty hallway as Crowley tilted his head back and contemplated the ceiling.
He had arrived back to his recently vacated apartment after driving in a loop for fourteen hours. The Bentley had rattled in protest the first few hundred miles before eventually settling into a sympathetic silence.
The radio had - mercifully - stayed off.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around how badly that day had gone. He also wasn’t at all sure what he was supposed to do next. For over six thousand years Crowley had leaned on certain angelic company; the world was vast, the decades were long, and frankly being a reluctant demon was quite a bit more legwork than came naturally. Generally speaking, whenever things had got a bit much in the modern age, he had blasted music in his Bentley while partaking in pedestrian slalom.
…And (particularly in the past four years), if that just wasn’t doing it for him, he’d had the bookshop. He’d had good wine and whisky, in quite generous amounts. He’d had enjoyable, sometimes drunken conversation. He’d had an assured and comfortable spot for lounging.
He’d had Aziraphale.
He stalked to an armchair and fell into it, collapsing like a tangled puppet. He stared into space as he considered this new situation.
Aziraphale was gone. Crowley had watched him go, watched him step right into the lift. The fucking idiot.
He had taken his shot and, well, there weren’t words for how far off the mark he had been. Apparently he’d been overestimating things this whole time. For all of time. Six thousand years of overestimating. Impressive, really.
So that was it then. Crowley was on his own. The only person he had ever known to even marginally understand him had, in the space of literal minutes, abandoned him for a blasted job promotion.
They didn't deserve him. Maybe neither did he.
He breathed deep, willing the air into his lungs. He really had to wonder if Aziraphale had ever really understood him at all. Six thousand years of conversation. Six thousand years of discussing their respective points of view. Had he truly expected Crowley would take him up on the offer to rejoin Heaven? Had he really thought that after years of being a black pawn, switching sides and becoming a white pawn was Crowley’s best possible move? The only right move was to knock over the whole damn chessboard! He had thought the last few years might have… Well. Anyway. Crowley’s breath hissed out between his teeth.
Anyway.
His thoughts flicked back to the day the bookshop had blazed to a smouldering shell. That day hadn't been dissimilar to this one, really; same gnawing loneliness. He had been here before. It was fine! He was fine. Or at least he would be.
Hopefully.
Eventually.
Maybe.
Something extremely, extremely unpleasant had lodged itself somewhere between his chest and his tonsils. With a great deal of effort he forced himself to tamp down on this something that felt suspiciously like panic. It was fine. He had been here before.
This is not the same. The thought hissed its way around the back of his mind before he could stop it.
Last time, you thought someone had taken your best friend…
This time, he chose to go.
Bastard.
He rose from the chair as if yanked by strings and set a twelve month alarm. Maybe by then this hideous feeling would have dulled. He wasn't overly optimistic, but he thought maybe in a year's time it might feel less like an obsidian blade was dicing his soul into infinitesimally small pieces with the ruthless efficiency of a line cook at a busy restaurant.
Maybe he could hope for something a little less… sharp? The dull hacking of a machete perhaps. Or the determined carving of a blunt saw. Something that might give him enough breathing room to think about what to do next. Something less… less… just less. Something that might allow him to at least drown the feeling in copious amounts of alcohol.
Currently, all the alcohol in the world wouldn’t be a help.
He dragged himself to bed with great effort, feeling as if each limb were made of solid stone. Every part of him, inside and out, felt heavy. Heavy and tired.
He dropped his sunglasses on the bedside table, closed his eyes, and shut out the world.