#aziraphale to a fucking T

[icestorming]

Just a demon.

[mx-anthony-janthony-crowley]

GUYSGUYSGUYSSSSS [x]

[tacobellabeanburrito]

Question for a Good Omens Au for Ace Attorney, who do you think would be the angel and who do you think would be the demon?

[beebleguese]

HOW ARE THESE ALL THE SAME MAN IT IS IMPOSSIBLE

[bekobler]

Hey @neil-gaiman ! Just finished watching Good Omens 2!

Are you a sadist?

I waited months for the second season to come out of Good Omens, and waited with a friend for our childhood best friend to fly down to watch it with us. I saw some leaks so early, I decided to stay as far away from the fandom before then, having loved Good Omens with all my heart and hating spoilers. Imagining seeing the second season of my favourite thing ever with a friend we get so little time with was a dream.

Tell me why I instead ended up being a screaming sobbing mess infront of best my friends?

Why why why whys wheyshwyshehshsh

Why did you hurt my boys like this!? they don't deserve this, THEY ONLY HAVE EATCHOTHER NO WHY YOU HORRIBLE MAN

[7-crows-in-a-trench-coat]

i’m sorry they’re making a W H A T

Actually if Crowley can't get Aziraphale to come back from Heaven, you know what will?

The new Dorian Gray adaptation they're making where Dorian and Basil are siblings.

The outrage. The outcry. The wrath of the New Supreme Archangel of Heaven shining down like a burning ray of misfortune on the production.

[wrengrif]

Okay! * slaps hands on desk *

So - Get The Fuck Off My Lawn, Self Appointed Ambassador Crowley and You Bullied Me And Now I'm Your Boss Bitch Supreme Archangel Aziraphale have hit over 2000 NOTES.

Thus, I promised to play the Note Game.

But ... with Good Omens.

SO.

100 Notes - I spend the extra $2 to get BEST CONTENT for @gleafer

200 Notes - I finally buy a Good Omens laptop vinyl sticker.

500 notes - I finish Chapter 3 of my fic 'I See A Silhouette' before Saturday and get it put in for editing.

750 notes - I start Chapter 4 right after.

1000 - I buy new Good Omens t-shirt AND work on Chapter 5 to be finished by sometime next week.

1500 - I rewatch the entire series, and perhaps record train of thought commentary? Add another Good Omens artist to my Patreon? Not sure about this one. Open to suggestions!

2000 - I finish my fic in the next 3 weeks, I buy NEW art for everyone to enjoy, and I start my Human AU Good Omens. DUN DUNNNN DUUUUUUN.

Motivate my Good Omens obsession, Tumblr!

[ennas-aesthetic]

What the fuck is Jesus up to in Good Omens season 3?

This is a question I've been thinking long and hard these past couple of days and I have some THOUGHTS SO. Buckle up.

Aziraphale and Crowley watching the Crucifixion (Good Omens, 2019)

First off. The answer to the question posited is relatively simple. What is Jesus up to in GO3? With s2's ending in mind and with the hints we've gotten for 668: Neighbor of the Beast over the years, we know he's descending to Earth to initiate the Second Coming. And that Aziraphale would probably make that happen - or do everything that he can as Supreme Archangel to sabotage it.

But I wanted to examine on how Jesus might fit into Good Omens' overall narratives and established themes - about morality and humanism and free will, and. I'm just saying, there are A LOT of fascinating routes they could do for his character.

(Disclaimer as usual: this is a theory that I obsessed over when I was stuck at the cemetery during All Souls' Day and must be treated as such. In no way am I insisting this should be how canon events must happen. I am just doing this for the funsies.)

The THING about Jesus if you situate him in the world of Good Omens (with the assumption that most of the pop culture Christology mythos associated with him remain intact) is that in this context he very quickly becomes: 1. Adam Young's narrative foil; and 2. an Aziraphale parallel.

Now, the first one is obvious. Of COURSE he is Adam Young's foil, duh. Adam isn't called the ANTICHRIST for nothing. Brought into the world just for the sole purpose of ending it. However, when the time comes for him to fulfill the Will of his Satanic Father, Adam flat out REFUSES.

Both the book and the show attribute this to Adam's human upbringing. He was raised as a human, and because of that he has the trait that the book uses to DEFINE human beings: free will. At the end, Adam had the AGENCY to reject the destiny planned out for him.

'Adam stood smiling at the two of them, a small figure perfectly poised exactly between Heaven and Hell.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm. "You know what happened?" he hissed excitedly. "He was left alone! He grew up human! He's not Evil Incarnate or Good Incarnate, he's just… a human incarnate—"'

- (Good Omens, 1990)

That is NOT what happened to Jesus.

Adam Bond as Jesus in Good Omens (2019)

Like Adam, he was raised as a human -- being a human incarnate was his WHOLE DEAL in Christology. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us... yada yada yada.

UNLIKE, Adam, though, Jesus wasn't able to REJECT his Destiny of Dying Really Horribly and Painfully on the Cross. Narratives in the Bible also made it clear that the Crucifixion was NOT his Will, but that of God's. Like... him begging to be spared from torment but ultimately following God's Will is such an important event entire devotional practices are made out of it.

"39 And he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt."

- (Matthew 26: 39, KJV)

We get a glimpse of that in s1ep3 of Good Omens, too:

"JESUS

(muttering through the pain)

Father, please . . . you have to forgive them . . . they don’t know what they are doing . . .

Crowley, in black, comes up next to Aziraphale.

CROWLEY

You’ve come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?

AZIRAPHALE

Smirk? Me?

CROWLEY

Well, your lot put him on there.

AZIRAPHALE

I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

- (The Quite Nice and Fairly Accurate Good Omens Script Book, 2018)

SO. Here we have the character of the Christ whose free will and agency had been STRIPPED from him in the guise of a "noble sacrifice." He comes back again on this Earth to fulfill another "inescapable destiny."

Aziraphale and Crowley need to stop him. The solution the Good Omens narrative offers to "inescapable destinies and systems" (both in s1 and s2) is for the character to realize they have the freedom to choose their own fates. It happened with Adam, and it happened with Gabriel, and perhaps it will happen to Jesus.

(At this point my sister frowned and said: "Are you telling me you think Aziraphale and Crowley are going to help Jesus realize he has agency and that him Dying on the Cross for the 'Great Plan' was kinda fucked up actually?" which sounds crazy when you put it like that BUT NEVER SAY NEVER BABIE.)

Because that brings me to my second point: if this all happens, Jesus becomes an AZIRAPHALE parallel.

In the same way Anathema is an Aziraphale parallel and Sergeant Shadwell is an Aziraphale parallel. Here is a character stuck in a suffocating status quo. To save the world, he needs to know he can escape that status quo and decide for himself. In the same way Anathema has to learn how to stop being a descendant or Shadwell to stop being a Witchfinder, or Gabriel to stop being an Archangel, and Adam to stop being an Antichrist, perhaps Jesus has to learn he can stop being... Well, the Christ, as well.

And this, of course, supplements Aziraphale's journey of letting go of the idea of being an idealized vessel of God, so he could finally enjoy the freedom of personhood and choice on Earth, with Crowley.

Or they could turn Jesus into a cackling villain who Aziraphale and Crowley need to kill in season 3, and I'd probably eat that up, too.

[ineffable-suffering]

Aziraphale, I love you. But you lied. And here's why.

Okay. I’m not gonna beat around the bush for too long. It’s time now for me to also throw my try at a personal Good Omens Season 2 Magnum Opus into the mix of already existing magnum op..i? Opusses? (Smited? Smote?)

If I’m honest, it isn’t fully my own magnum opus, as I read this meta not too long ago that made me go: „Oh! My God! That’s it!“ And I’m pretty sure a lot of other people have clocked this too by now. Of course I’m not saying it’s the objective truth but after having mulled it over for many endless nights and days, wading through the onslaught of coffee theories, body swap theories, The Metatron re-writing the Book of Life theories and many, many more, this is the one I think is most plausible and, if you look closely, most obvious.

And it goes as such: Aziraphale lied.

To all of us. All of them. And most of all, to Crowley. He lied to him. Well, he sort of did and also sort of didn’t. He certainly didn’t tell the truth. At least not all of it. I hear you ask: “OP, what the fuck are you talking about”. I answer you: Let’s start from the top and under the cut.

(Small note: this meta ended up being way too large for Tumblr, which is why I will redirect you to an external doc at the end of the post, where I have written it all down nicely and accurately. It's about 35 digital A4-pages long, just in case you want to save it for later.)

(Word count: 12.831 | Approximate reading time: 50 minutes)

Let’s start with a short recap of what happens before the Metatron crashes the bookshop party and everything goes to shit. The proper visuals for this are in my Tumblr post but I am absolutely convinced that right up until when the Metatron comes to take Aziraphale away and talk to him, the angel is fully ready to get into Crowley’s Bentley-chariot and finally ride off into the sunset (or Alpha Centauri-set or whatever). You can see it in his face and body language. You can see when the penny drops for him that a) Crowley loves him b) he loves Crowley and c) they can finally start their happily ever after. Aziraphale realizes this all throughout said Brielzebub reveal in the bookshop. And he’s such a lost cause once he does. 

I mean, look at that. Look at it. This (very shitty recording, sorry, I'm not tech-savvy enough to avoid the Amazon Prime screen recording blocker) is the very second Aziraphale realizes hat Crowley loves him. When he hears him suggest Alpha bloody Centauri as a getaway for Gabriel and Beelzebub, as Crowley has done to Aziraphale for so, so many times now. He finally understands what Crowley was trying to tell him with that all those times.

Aziraphale realizes this all throughout the Brielzebub reveal in the bookshop. And he’s such a lost cause once he does.

Right when Crowley suggest Alpha Centauri as a nice getaway spot to the two, Aziraphale looks at him and he gets it. That Crowley has loved him, has been loving him for millennia. Truthfully, they've both known that for a long while now. But there's a difference between knowing, wanting, craving and actually being able to finally have something. And that's exactly what we see on Aziraphale's face here. This is it. This is where it all starts working out for Crowley and him. This is were they can start their eternity together.

So from that second on, Aziraphale only has eyes for Crowley. He keeps physically pawing at Crowley with complete heart eyes, as if to say „Look, look, that’s gonna be us too! Finally!" He’s actually so smitten that he doesn’t even hear what Crowley is saying when he asks Shax if he can have back his apartment now because he’s sick of living in his car. (Also, what way to drop that bomb right in this moment Crowley, lmao). 

Once the Metatron comes in, the first thing Aziraphale says is that they don’t need to talk because „he’s made his position quite clear“. He doesn’t even want to talk to the Metatron, because in his mind, he’s already made the choice. Actually, he made the choice way before the bookshop showdown. For starters, I’m convinced that the Jane Austen Ball actually never was for Maggie and Nina but for Crowley and him (you can read more about that here). And apart from that, for this whole season we have seen Aziraphale trying to advance his relationship with Crowley romantically and domestically and move them to the literal next base (our car!). And after everything he just witnessed with Brielzebub, the final nail in the coffin of ethereal-infernal romance being possible, his choice is absolutely crystal clear: It’s Crowley. It’s always been Crowley and it always will be Crowley. And now it can be Crowley. They can be an us.

The whole of Season 2 is such a massive learning curve for Aziraphale’s character, with him remembering all those important pivotal points of his past,  and this very moment is the peak, with him not only understanding that Crowley loves him (because he certainly knew for quite some centuries now) but accepting that love, letting himself have that love, being allowed to want that love and taking that love and starting their new and final chapter with it. Nevertheless, the plot clock ticks for them. The Metatron saunters into the bookshop, evil and stinky as Metatrons do, and urges Aziraphale to come with him with his whole Take The Coffee schtick, which I will get into later. And Aziraphale, immediately sensing there’s Something Up, does. Can’t really turn down someone as high-ranking as the the voice of God, after all. Even if you were currently already planning how you were going to elope with a certain red-haired serpent of Eden. 

he next time we see Aziraphale on screen, it’s so painfully evident on his face that he is neither happy nor excited. Not even the slightest bit. We’d know if he was, thanks to Mr. Michael master-of-microexpressions Sheen. None of the usual “Aziraphale is happy”-signs are there. No blinding eye-smile, no giddy wriggling, not giggles and gasps. No, when the Metatron tells Aziraphale to „go tell your friend the good news“, his expression looks like this:

I’m gonna go out on an entire limb here and say: That does not look like someone who’s absolutely tickety-boo hyped to tell his demon soulmate that he just got the juiciest promotion and that they can both be angels and live happily ever after in ethereal eternity now.

This, folks, looks like someone who knows exactly that the news he has to break right now, are going to be tickety-shit awful and very upsetting to said demon soulmate. And already, from that very short snippet of conversation, we can tell that Aziraphale isn’t really given a choice by the Metatron. Because while the Metatron does tell him that he doesn’t have to „answer right away“, he immediately follows it up by: „Go ahead and tell your friend the good news!“ Very distinct and definitive choice of words here. It’s “good news” because it’s already been decided. Because it’s already a done deal. There is no “yes, no, maybe”. This is the only choice he’s giving to Aziraphale. Because it’s ‘Coffee or death’. 

And he already gave him the coffee. 

***

Tumblr won't let me continue this over a certain character limit and I am not even remotely done yet – so, I feel like this is a good moment to redirect you to the continuation of this insane meta before we're in too deep. You can do so right here!

I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions about this once you've fought your way through it. Hope you have a good time with it!

[mx-anthony-janthony-crowley]

@thirteens-pocket-watch

[knifeforkspooncup]

I'm bored and well fed so here's some of the fics I've read lately so you can eat well too!

Spooky Action at a Distance (E) - @zehwulf

This fic grabbed me by the throat and thrashed me like a chewtoy. And then it put a hello kitty bandaid on my wounds and sung me sweet sweet lullabies. No actually though I have reread parts of this fic twice in the last week because my demisexual genderqueer heart went "yes this appears to be tailor-made crack cocaine. we should injest through our eyeballs repeatedly." Read the tags and be prepared to cry. But also be prepared for disgustingly tender feelings and smut hotter than the sun.

South Downs (E) - @summerofspock

Listen. I know I'm sooooo unfashionably late to this party about this actors AU fic. But (Scottish!) Crowley discovering his sexual orientation and diving in full send with the giddiness of a love drunk teenager is just. Muah. Kissing this fic on the forehead. It does that "realizing you're queer and your whole life making wayyyy more sense all of a sudden" thing so well and with so much grace and humour. Also Aziraphale being the most incorrigible little flirt. Featuring regency costumes, awkward boners and existential crisis. I want to curl up at this fic's feet like a smug little cat.

Crazy Little Thing (Called Love) (T) - @hermiola

The way I adore this chaotic, bitchy bicker flirting romp. The characterization is just unbelievable, this is exactly how I could see the events of their foray into "dating" going. Preposterous, ridiculous, and perfect. Also possibly the cutest first kiss in existence (the setting for the kiss had me particularly tickled, i read that scene 4 times.) Dumbass4dumbass was never so adorable. They literally bicker while kissing. 10000/10

Whatever We Deny or Embrace (E) - @voluptatiscausa

Sigh. This fic. This fucking fic. Set in 1020AD. The start of the arrangement if it was the most soul-flayingly tender thing you've ever read. The amount of yearning and love and whispered sweet nothings. I'm gonna die. Nothing has ever been described as "lovemaking" more accurately than what these two pining goobers get up to in this fic. Also I could eat this prose like pop rocks. My mouth actually salivates when I read vol's words. Also "big juicy carrot." You'll understand when you read it.

[aziraphales-library]

I wish every fandom I’m in had something like this lol. Browsing your tags and recommendations is so much fun!

This might be a bit specific but I’m looking for the following: it’s between season 1 and 2, Crowley’s been kicked out of his flat by hell and living in his car; Aziraphale, somehow, finds out and makes him move into the bookshop.

Thanks so much for the help and all the great work you do, I hope you have a great day!

We have some fics along these line here. Now I have a few more where Aziraphale finds out Crowley is living in the bentley...

4 times Crowley lies about living in his car by dat_carovieh (G)

and one time he doesn't

And They Were Roommates (Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time) by WritingAspirations (M)

Aziraphale found out Crowley was living out of his car, and drags him to live with the angel at the bookshop. Revelations, apologies, and steps forward are made.

Home by RitzWrites (G)

There were very few things Crowley enjoyed about being a demon. The best one, in his opinion, was that he couldn’t get hungover. However, that didn’t stop him from getting drunk enough to black out. He was no stranger to getting blackout drunk, of course, but he was still shocked to wake up on a familiar couch instead of his Bently. or Aziraphale finds out Crowley has been living in his car and decides to do something about it.

let's sort the whole thing out by moonyinpisces (T)

“But you like sleeping,” Aziraphale replies, as if that means something. “All the more reason to move in with me. And I have–I have your favorite couch, for starters. And a bedroom, with a lovely, fluffy bed with only the thinnest layer of dust–” Crowley scoffs. “Yeah, angel. A bedroom, as in, singular. I told you, there's just not enough room–” “Precisely,” says Aziraphale, relieved to be understood. “Singular. It’s not as though we’ll be needing more than one.” … Pardon?

Pet Demon by McRibFarewellTour (NR)

Aziraphale finds out about Crowley's recent living arrangements and takes action, both in protection of Crowley and of their friendship. Unfortunately, Crowley's got a well of evidence that said friendship doesn't even really exist, so the task is harder than it seems.

nature is healing (or something like that, anyhow) by nightbloomingcereus (T)

Well. If Aziraphale could be stubborn, so could Crowley. He didn’t need Aziraphale, or his bookshop, dammit. He was going to take a nap, exactly like he’d said he would, and he wasn’t going to get up again until the world, and a certain frustrating angel, stopped being such a downer. It was the perfect plan. Or it would have been, had he still had his bloody bed in his bloody flat in bloody fucking Mayfair. Or, the one where Crowley takes his three-year-long pandemic nap in his plant-filled Bentley.

- Mod D

[gildalilli]

i think about my rant to @starofhisheart (T) often about how the ineffable bureaucracy plot felt sudden and how it got me on board with a bit more angst and yearning for our boys before we get an eventual happy ending. Copied from my messages to our group chat:

ME: Maybe it's because it's too obvious, but I haven't seen enough people in the fandom talking about how ineffable bureaucracy becoming canon is a demonstration to the fans of why what we want for the husbands is romantic, but not satisfying or a Good Idea in practise.

My first point, which I've been thinking ever since it happened, is how.... unsatisfying it was that they just got together?

Like they were just suddenly very in love and ran off together without the same tension they had in season 1. There was no irony, no pining, no wrestling with dilemmas. Neil just ticked it off the list like "See how it feels when a romance is just handed to you with no further plot? There were 2 beings, they fell in love and went away and lived happily ever after. Great, cool. You want to feel this way about our boys? Or do you want me to give you something you can actually sink your teeth into to make the getting together delicious?"

And point 2: they were a demonstration that Crowley's plan, which is always to run away, does not work. It, in fact, is selfish and fucks up everyone else's lives. Two powerful political figures jilted their positions, leaving everyone else in the lurch. The breakup happened BECAUSE GABRIEL LEFT AND HEAVEN NEEDED SOMEONE ELSE TO MANIPULATE! Demons attacked and started threatening partially because there was no Beez to oversee anything! And it was our boys who were left to pick up the pieces because those two decided to RuN aWaY tOgEtHeR

T: Yes!!! That makes so much sense!

ME: This whole plot was like Neil holding up a big neon sign saying TRUST ME THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU WANT.

T, perfectly saying in a sentence what I took paragraphs to get out: They were a cautionary tale; a "what could have happened if Aziraphale had taken Crowley's offer of Alpha Centauri." I mean, sure, the circumstances were different but the result wouldn't have been a satisfying conclusion to the story.

[queer-reader-07]

i've been saying this for months, we do not need to know his angel name. we already know his old demon name but none of us call him that. you know why? it's NOT his name anymore.

no one is entitled to anyone's deadname and i know it's just a book/TV show but i see this same curiosity from cis people about real humans as well. it's not cool y'all.

We should never find out what Crowley's name was as an angel.

We don't need to be spreading people's deadnames around to satisfy our own morbid curiosity. Crowley is not that angel anymore, and he's named himself and told us his name, and we should respect that.

[hikarry]

I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing

I...Fucking hell

Just-

I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips

I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.

It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot

Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.

This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.

Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…

Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.

Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.

Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.

“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.

He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.

Then, he spotted him.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.

Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.

Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.

“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.

Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.

Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.

“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.

Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.

Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.

Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”

Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?

“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” Crowley’s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.

“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.

With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.

“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.

Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.

“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”

The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”

His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.

Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.

“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”

Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.

As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.

“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”

The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”

He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.

Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”

The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.

Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”

But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”

Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.

Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”

His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”

Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.

“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”

Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”

Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”

The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”

Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”

Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.

He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.

Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”

Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.

“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.

Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”

The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”

Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”

His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”

Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.

“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”

Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”

Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.

Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.

Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.

Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness

A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.

Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.

The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.

When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.

The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.

[vidavalor]

Why do you think Crowley didn't just get another apartment?

Hi! Thanks for the ask. I have French buttercream chocolate cake tonight. I know, right? It's amazing. *cuts you a slice*

To answer your question, I think we have to look at the whole thing with where Crowley parks The Bentley and when (in both seasons) and, also, the scenes that emphasize Crowley and Aziraphale avoiding being seen together anywhere in the mornings and what all this has to do with what he says is his living situation in S2.

Meta on Crowley "living in his car" in S2 under the cut.

For Crowley and Aziraphale, what has always been what *absolutely cannot happen* is Heaven/Hell figuring out that Crowley will stay in the bookshop until very, very late into the evening, as that is the one thing they'd have trouble justifying. If Crowley parked The Bentley in front of the bookshop in the afternoon/evening and it was still there at 7am the next morning, it would send a message to anyone watching that their relationship isn't just intelligence business, it's not just friendship...and it's not even really just sex. If Heaven/Hell saw The Bentley outside the bookshop all night often enough, they would assume that Crowley and Aziraphale are in a romantic relationship and this is the one thing that Crowley and Aziraphale do not want them to figure out. They can hatch a wild plan if they get caught to justify any of the rest of it and maybe get away with it but there's no way out if they get caught out being in love when they're supposed to be sworn enemies... so, if they want to spend time alone together in the privacy of the bookshop, how do they work around the problem of potentially being noticed? The show actually showed us subtly in S1 before a little more overtly in S2.

When Crowley is going to come over for awhile-- and especially when it's going to mean that he's there into the evening-- he doesn't park The Bentley in front of the bookshop. He parks it in the vicinity but not too close-- around where it was when Aziraphale called him in 2.01. Two or so minutes' drive out, on a side street. (A two minute drive is a 15 or so minute walk so not that far but a bit away.) If he's coming to the shop alone, he'll probably use the side entrance to the bookshop but if he's been out with Aziraphale-- like he was in their 'fuck everything, the world is ending' lunch at The Ritz in 2008-- they'll walk back to the bookshop. If anyone notices Crowley entering it, it'll be during the day, right? While not ideal, it's innocuous enough. Aziraphale's bookshop is theoretically a business and is also an angelic embassy and Aziraphale could say that he's trying to turn Crowley to the light and make him into an informant if they were caught. Conversely, it couldn't hurt Crowley-- whose job, like Aziraphale's, is to spy on his counterpart-- to seem like he's gaming the corruptible angel and getting intel to further the demonic goals of Hell so he could say he's luring the angel to trusting him. Being in the bookshop during the day, during what are (for normal businesses lol) business hours, when the business is also an embassy, is one thing. It's the evening that's the problem for them. At that time of day, the bookshop is nothing but Aziraphale's residence and Crowley's presence during those hours becomes much riskier. So, how to get around that?

Here's them walking back to the bookshop from wherever Crowley's parked The Bentley on a side street after lunch in 2008/Eleven Years Ago in S1:

During lunch in 2008, they already planned for Crowley to come back to the bookshop with Aziraphale and since there's no plan for him to leave in any hurry, Crowley is already not parked in front of the bookshop so no one can recognize his car there late at night. This is practiced between them; they've been doing it for awhile by this point. They still are in S2, when we have several scenes of Crowley in The Bentley parked on a side street near the bookshop.

Since Crowley can't be seen then leaving the bookshop once the sun is up or it'd defeat the purpose of the car not being parked in front of it, whenever he comes over, he leaves the bookshop through the side door at some ungodly pre-dawn hour, walks to his car a few streets over (apparating into it would be suspicious to anyone who might have found it so he usually walks, looking like he was just out late causing demonic trouble), and then, in the past, would drive back to his apartment in Mayfair. That way, when the sun came up, anyone who might be watching his place would see The Bentley parked in front of it. Didn't see Crowley leave the bookshop from the afternoon? You must have missed him in a crowd on the sidewalk somewhere because there's his gorgeous, old, very recognizable car, parked in front of his place in Mayfair, gleaming in that early morning sun.

No one was ever the wiser to the fact that on some of these nights, Crowley was not home in his apartment or out raising hell all night but was actually in the bookshop nearly until dawn.

Is it kind of miserable for Crowley to have to leave every time in the middle of the night and for him and Aziraphale to never really know what it's like to wake up together? To never get to have breakfast and mornings together? Of course. But it keeps them safe so they deal with it. As a result, though, they have a thing about mornings.

In 1.01, when Crowley calls Aziraphale in the middle of the night and they both have separately learned of Armageddon, he tells Aziraphale that they "need to talk" and then they both, without further discussion, are at their bench in St. James' Park the next day. During their talk, they decide to go to lunch and go directly there, which means that they met up sometime around 11am-12pm. So even Crowley calling in the middle of the night and setting up the meeting in the park with their code phrase means that the time of the meeting is always predetermined to be at least 11am, no matter what they need to discuss. Even after learning of Armageddon beginning, they waited until almost lunch the next day to meet up and talk about it because they never want to be seen in public together in the earlier mornings. They're afraid of someone seeing them going for a walk or getting a coffee together before midday and thinking they spent the previous night together. Crowley is always gone from the bookshop before the sun starts to come up and they never meet before 11am in an effort to keep anyone from figuring out that they are often in the bookshop-- and Aziraphale's bed-- together through the early morning hours.

Which tends to make this, their first time getting breakfast even if Crowley knew it wasn't really that because Aziraphale's "problem voice" was on, even more hilarious...

Crowley's like I left you blissed out and half-asleep in your bed *four hours ago*, angel... how on Earth is there a 'naked man friend' in your bookshop right now? He knows that Shax told him there's something going on and that Aziraphale called with a problem but this is the only time of day they usually spend apart and they always do so if Aziraphale is going to cheat on him-- which he's not lol-- this is when he would and based on the fact that Aziraphale panics at Crowley thinking there's another guy in the bookshop and based on Crowley's wtf? face at hearing there is, these two aren't sleeping with anyone else anymore and have a monogamous thing, even if they probably sort of forgot to have a discussion about it. Crowley can tell from Aziraphale's reaction that there's some misunderstanding here and then just gets bemused about it but also about ready to kill whatever guy, naked or not, is causing Aziraphale problems, only to find out that it's, well, the guy who tried to kill them.

In 2.01, when Gabriel makes his rather noticeable arrival on Aziraphale's doorstep, it is the mid-part of the morning-- probably somewhere around 9am as Maggie was just getting ready to open her store for the day, Nina was still busy but her more immediate pre-work coffee rush seemed to be winding down, and Aziraphale was having his breakfast tea on yet another day that his shop was not opening lol. The most major character to miss Gabriel's arrival is, of course, Crowley. Crowley's meeting with Shax is just before/happening in tandem with Aziraphale at Maggie's shop and then Gabriel's arrival and actually opens the storyline in the present in S2. The point is that Crowley misses Gabriel's arrival because he is not in the bookshop in the early mornings, which is then something that is heavily emphasized through Crowley and Aziraphale's first scene of the season via Nina to not just be about this particular early morning but all mornings.

When Aziraphale calls Crowley and has him meet him in Give Me Coffee, Nina has never met Crowley before. Give Me Coffee is fifteen steps across the street from the bookshop and sells coffee, tea and baked goods and Nina doesn't know Crowley. Nina has been there running it since post-S1. She knows Aziraphale though and, until the morning of 2.01, she thought the old bookseller a confirmed bachelor. In the span of 20 minutes, he gets a naked man possible deliveroo strippergram on his doorstep in front of the whole neighborhood and then then this other hot-- and surprisingly clothed-- Ginger Goth guy shows up to meet him for coffee. Nina's best guess for why the bookseller and his Crowley have never come across the street to her shop before and seem like they've literally never gotten breakfast together while they also "go way back" and have chemistry and affection for one another for days is that they're having an affair. Nina correctly guesses that their relationship is a secret and applies the most logical presumption that a human without knowledge of Heaven/Hell could-- that it's infidelity, not that they could be murdered if they were found out-- because these two live in London Soho in the year 2023 but are still afraid of being found out.

So, all of this shows how there's no Crowley in the bookshop in the morning. Neither of them have ever slipped across the street to bring back coffee and croissants for two at 7am or gone over to Nina's together. Aziraphale has been to Give Me Coffee alone before. Crowley and The Bentley are always nowhere to be found near the bookshop at this hour, which is how Crowley missed Gabriel's arrival.

So what does this all have to do with why Crowley doesn't just get a new apartment ahead of S2?

When Hell showed up in the form of Shax to reclaim the place in Mayfair in which Crowley was living, it really left Crowley with two choices. He wasn't about to tell Aziraphale because Aziraphale would feel like he had to ask him to move in with him for real and it was too dangerous. They can't have that so why bring it up and hurt them more? The two choices Crowley felt he had were to either get a new apartment or to just keep on as he's been living because the truth is... he hadn't been home to Mayfair that much lately anyway.

Before, Crowley and Aziraphale would try to go some amount of time between seeing each other but after S1, maybe with some exceptions around the Covid lockdowns but definitely not since they were lifted, they just stopped bothering that much. They were already together on borrowed time with no idea how much time they had until Armageddon: Round Two would start and they just wanted to be together so they kept up their whole routine of Crowley out before dawn and no mornings but Crowley had been more or less living in the bookshop for awhile ahead of S2.

As Aziraphale says here:

Meaning: they live together. Crowley's there all the time. Aziraphale does not mind. It's been months of Crowley in the bookshop every night. Aziraphale loves it. He hates him having to leave in the middle of the night as he always does but they've settled into a little domestic thing the best they can with the situation they have. The line is also laden with innuendo, suggesting they're not always just up talking and listening to old records until 4am but are regularly, ya know, setting off some alarm bells in Heaven together. (Couple Aziraphale's innuendo in the "plenty of use" scene with why Crowley says Muriel needs to leave the bookshop when he says he wants to take Aziraphale to breakfast at The Ritz. "We need a little 'us time'" meant all amnesiac angels and assorted representatives of Heaven and Hell need to get the Someplace out of this bookshop right now so I can finally watch that angel eat some pancakes and then take him to bed in our bed without worrying about someone needing a hot chocolate in the middle of the night.)

Their level of domesticity is actually shown to be pretty cute with this bit:

This is the most living together thing ever because it's saying that Crowley is just frequently in the bookshop while Aziraphale is out now. He's not even just there to see him but he spends time there alone while Aziraphale goes to the bank for change for the four books he sells a month and to his appointment with his barber and all his other little errands. You know Crowley likes waiting inside because he likes having a little time alone in a place where he's safe and won't be disturbed but also really the whole little domestic bliss of Aziraphale coming back and being all "Crowley? There you are" and showing him what he got at the shops and such. It's the most normal married thing imaginable and feels like they really live together and Crowley loves every minute of it.

So Hell taking his place in Mayfair back leaves Crowley with two options because it's still too risky for him and Aziraphale to just full on live together entirely: he can get a new apartment or he can basically just keep living with Aziraphale for most of the day and then spend the mornings in The Bentley/out.

If he gets a new apartment, he'd have to actually go there sometimes. He'd have to be seen moving his stuff into it and he'd have to get a new bed and he'd have to spend nights there sometimes to prove he's living there. It couldn't be suspiciously close to Aziraphale's place, so now he's got to drive more in the early morning hours. He's been spending so much time with Aziraphale, the thought of sleeping alone and spending the evenings alone again, even for a few nights now and then, is depressing. It was miserable before and now he can't to back to it again and he doesn't think Aziraphale would want to, either. He also doesn't exactly know how to tell him he'd have to be away some nights again without hurting him. They've both been alone more often than not for most of their existences and Crowley can't do it anymore. There's also, though, that getting another apartment also doesn't do much to help keep Heaven & Hell from thinking he and Aziraphale are involved... but pretending he's living in his car just might.

The only being of Heaven or Hell still talking to either him or Aziraphale is Shax and Crowley has to keep meeting up with her to get information on what's going on there and try to get a sense of how much time he and Aziraphale might have before Round Two. If he tells Shax that he's living in his car, then it makes him look less close to Aziraphale. Everyone knows Aziraphale has a private residence upstairs in the bookshop and that, if he and Crowley were really close, he'd have offered for Crowley to stay with him if he lost his apartment... so what if Crowley can make Heaven & Hell think they aren't that close, they just teamed up to stop Armageddon? He's even homeless now and the angel won't give him a place to stay. He tells Shax to tell Hell's Finance Office to send his bills to his car and Shax actually bought it and said she tried. Shax has been reporting back to Hell that Crowley is living in his car, which is what Crowley wanted her to think was the case.

Let Hell think they've won over him and taken his place and left him living in his car on a side street, let Shax keep meeting him in the early morning hours in his car on that side street... so that none of them figure out that he's actually living in the bookshop with Aziraphale.

In the meantime, no new apartment means no more nights away from Aziraphale. No commute back to it after picking up The Bentley on the side street means more time he can be with Aziraphale before he has to slip away in the early morning. He can just keep going from the bookshop to his car a few streets away each morning like he has been and that's the funniest part of it to him. Hell thinks they left him homeless and abandoned him and, really, they just made it easier for him to hide from them the fact that he's living with the angel he loves. All he has to do is bullshit them and he's good at that.

Crowley talking about living in his car is basically this in attitude, on steroids:

His pre-S2 conversations with Shax were like... Fuck, Shax, the crick in my neck from *sleeping in my car*... if Hell's Finance Office wants to find me, they can send the bills *to my car*... Bastard angel owns half of Soho, probably why I can't find a place... tell Lord Beezlebub if they're looking for me, they can go fuck themselves but if they absolutely have to contact me, they can find me *in my car*...

...and three hours or so earlier from every one of those conversations, Crowley was actually curled up in bed with Aziraphale in the bookshop.