Archive of Our Own

There was no food in heaven, no music, no fictive books, no autobiographies from famous people (unless you thought of personal files as autobiographies, though Aziraphale certainly didn’t), no heat, no shadows, and no Crowley .

The second he stepped into the elevator he knew deep down that he made a mistake. He should’ve run, run as fast as he could to that dark-colored Bentley, to the arms of the only person who thought Aziraphale was good enough to love. He should’ve reciprocated that kiss, that wish to run. Oh, how he’d been played for a fool.

“No nightingales.” He remembered Crowley saying. He wanted to dine at the Ritz just once more, wanted to think of the nightingale in Berkeley Square singing for the two of them and whoever else cared to listen. He wanted Crowley.

One thing he could do with his job was to watch Earth from heaven. He could watch anything– a football game, a race, an author in the deep throes of creativity, anything. Even his Crowley.

The first few times he did it, he’d watched anything but Crowley. He’d watched Nina, a young author, the bookshop, anything but Crowley. When he finally did take a look at Crowley, he wished he hadn’t.

It didn’t matter that Crowley was a demon, or that he blatantly refused to be an angel with Aziraphale. What did was the way Crowley was head first in liquor at a pub near the Ritz, talking to anyone who would listen. Any words that came out of his mouth were slurred and jumbled and a complete mess. His hair had grown out, his clothes were a mess, and he was broken.

“It wasn’t like I meant to fall in love,” Crowley said to no one in particular. “It just happened. And now he’s off doing whatever while I’m here thinking about that stupid nightingale.” 

Aziraphale listened to the broken voice of the demon he once loved. He thought about Gabriel and Beelzebub, but he wasn’t Gabriel. He had the same heavenly position now, sure, but they were still different.

“He asked me to work with him,” Crowley continued, “but I just couldn’t work for those bastards again–” Aziraphale turned off the feed. He didn’t need this, not while he was trying to stop the second coming. 

It took him another week before he was able to check on Crowley again. He was in the Bentley this time, curled in a ball and ignoring the fact that actual tears were welling in his serpent eyes by staring into nothing. It broke everything in Aziraphale to know that he caused this. Crowley had once been hell’s best demon, but now he was living in his car, heartbroken above all else, and it was all Aziraphale’s fault. 

He wanted to go down there and sit with Crowley, but he couldn’t. He had paperwork and it wasn’t his place to comfort Crowley anymore. He gave up that right.