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aqueeracademic · 6 months

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crowley // your needs, my needs

Oh well, who was I? Who was I to watch you wilt? You ain't gotta tell me what it means. Trace the outlines of your dreams. You'll always be a flower on my skin, and the pain that I am in.

Crowley didn’t know where he was going, but his foot had flattened the gas pedal and he was letting the Bentley take him wherever it thought was best. He hadn’t cried, he refused to. He felt cruel, crueler than he had since the Spanish Inquisition and that wasn’t even his fault. This was. He had chosen to tell Aziraphale what he had. He had made that decision and he had to live forever with the guilt of that. His mouth ached, his lips felt cold and tingly where he had just pressed them against his best friend’s. His hand found its way to his mouth and he traced it, flashes of Alpha Centauri crossed with Aziraphale’s face, shocked - no, disgusted - at what he had done. I would always know it was there, underneath, the angel had said. Now, more than ever, Crowley knew what he meant. And that would be the feeling Crowley would be burdened with forever. He punched the steering wheel.

It's all the same, the losing touch, the waiting game. You cross that county line; I promise to be there this time, alright?

He didn’t know where the Bentley was going, but he let it carry on at an alarming rate. In the meantime, he thought hard about where he went wrong. He wondered which touch of his it was that made Aziraphale shudder, which one of his quips or subtle flirtations were too soon. What is too soon for 6000 years? he wonders. You go too fast for me, Crowley. Apparently everything is. Everything is too soon. Aziraphale left too soon, Crowley left too soon. He pondered those final moments he had, looking at Aziraphale across the busy street, no one recognizing the importance, the ache of the moment except for them. Or, maybe, just him. He was so resolute so quickly, rejecting the promises Aziraphale began making before either of them could take it back. He couldn’t go back to Heaven. He thought the angel knew that; he thought he knew why. If he could take it back, though, if he could go back and be asked by Aziraphale again to reside in Heaven and save the world over and over and over again… would he?

You were a work of art. That's the hardest part.

The car carried on. Crowley was looking at the road, but he couldn’t see anything. His vision was clouded. He thought about the first time he encountered Aziraphale after the Fall, on the wall at the Garden, and how he knew that the feeling he had pent up from their first meeting had not been ripped from him as everything else had been. This was infuriating. It didn’t become less infuriating as the years passed. It became tolerable. An ache buried in his chest that felt like a bruise being poked every time he looked at the angel. If Crowley had not been damned for asking questions, he would have been damned for that; for worshiping every part of Aziraphale as if he were God, for wanting to memorize him, know him as he was meant to know religion, trust him as he was meant to trust the Ineffable Plan. For years, centuries even, he had a sick part of himself that was glad of the Fall, glad he had been banished, so he could feel that way about Aziraphale without fearing the repercussions. And then the feeling would be stamped out by the other fear, that Aziraphale would hate him if he ever knew, that Aziraphale hated him already. But looking was enough, reaching out but never touching. It killed him, sure, but it was enough. Until it wasn’t.

Howling like dogs in the light of the moon; holding our breath after 132.

The car swung a violent left turn and Crowley began to cry. The memories had started and wouldn’t stop. He thought about the second World War, how he had walked on hallowed ground for him. He thought about Aziraphale giving him Holy Water. He thought about the Beginning and the End of all things, and everything that happened after the End. Crowley’s skin was hot, burning even, the same way it had when he Fell. Mostly, though, he thought about the Ritz. Crowley wanted to drive something sharp into his skull as those meals danced through his head; him sitting and watching Aziraphale indulge, only wondering if he indulged in anything else. If he would be willing to indulge himself, that is, in anything else. He thought about the wine and their silly toasts. To the world, they had said. Crowley’s stomach twisted at the remembrance of those words. Because Aziraphale had meant exactly that. “To the world” for him meant Earth. It meant humankind and all the planet had to offer in its limited capacity. “To the world” for Crowley, though, just meant Aziraphale. It meant his love and his dedication and his realism and his joy. It didn’t take many decades for Aziraphale to become his everything, for the bruise in his chest to ache more insistently. “Go up there and tempt the world!” Beelzebub had said. And Crowley had, in his own way. His temptations just weren’t good enough. He just wasn’t good enough, he supposed.

You asked me why I wasn't sayin' a word. I'm namin' the stars in the sky after you.

The Bentley changed gears as it made its way back onto a rather busy street. Crowley leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears. Lights danced behind his eyes as he clenched them, and he thought about creating the universe with Aziraphale by his side. He remembered laughing, smiling harder than he perhaps ever had in his entire existence. And Aziraphale was there. He could feel his eyes on him as he watched the nebulas and galaxies form, rotating in and around themselves, creating the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Until he looked at Aziraphale, who was gazing at him expectantly, curiously. And, God, he loved what he had created, but looking at the angel next to him felt different. He remembered how Aziraphale had tipped his head to the side like a little puppy, which hadn’t been created yet, as Crowley pre-maturely mourned the death of this beauty all around them and that that was the first time he felt the ache in his chest. He remembered that he had pointed to a star, brand new, bright and innocent just like the ethereal being next to him, and decided it would be named Aziraphale. He blessed it, so it would keep shining even when the rest of the universe was gone. He watched as nine little spheres began to circle around that star, drawn to it just as Crowley was drawn to Aziraphale.

It was a work of art. That's the hardest part.

What Crowley had created when he was still considered an angel was beautiful, he knew that. He had lived for centuries in reverence of the stars, weighing the best ways to repent for what he had done without Hell catching him, wishing that God would somehow return him to his place among them. But She wouldn’t. He knew that. But maybe if She did, maybe if She had restored his angelic status a couple hundred years ago when She saw that Crowley wasn’t all that set on being a demon, Aziraphale would have looked twice. And yet he wore black and he tempted his angel to Earthly goods and he questioned the divinity of Heaven. Aziraphale would have to be an idiot to even consider him as anything more than vermin beneath his feet; weak vermin, but vermin all the same. Aziraphale, though, was rather smart. The tears had stopped and he readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, rubbing away the aching beating in his chest. The sun was going down, now, the stars were coming out. He doubted he would even be able to see them from this part of London. He was unsure, still, where he was. He couldn’t get his eyes to adjust or adapt or understand the street signs but he let the Bentley carry on, doing whatever it wanted. He considered his next move.

To spiral out, to try and float. To see a friend, to see a ghost.

He could start a war. Or invent a new type of social media that would really mess with people’s self images. He could leave the country and see what the modern happenings in Brazil or New Zealand were. He could go off on his own to Alpha Centauri. But he knew, and this pressed that same bruise in his chest, that Aziraphale would always be able to figure out where he had gone and that only made him feel worse. He wanted to slink into a hole and curl up on himself and vanish completely, but he would never be able to escape those prying eyes. He never wanted Aziraphale to look at him again, not after he had looked at him the way he had in the bookshop. As he drove, or, rather, as the car went along its merry way, he swore he kept passing that same street in SoHo over and over again. He felt he must be mistaken and continued his brainstorm.

Bitter-brained, always drunk. Rail-thin, Zoloft.

He was bold to even assume that Aziraphale would look down on him from time to time. He couldn’t even kiss him back. What made Crowley think he would bother to check up? I forgive you. Ah, yes. Forgiveness. The sin of lust, the sin of wanting more than you’re allowed to have. Indulging in something as human as love. He disgusted himself and could only imagine how Aziraphale must have felt just then, fingertips pressed to his lips, eyes wide, trembling and searching for something to say. He thought that the kiss might have done it. He couldn’t bear to risk any confusion in what it was he was telling Aziraphale, and despite their endless teasing of human customs in the way of love, he felt that that was the only way his angel would really get the message. Besides, what he felt for Aziraphale, he feared, was very human. His skin crawled. It felt like he was Falling all over again, the transgression of only an hour prior eating him from the inside out. The bruise burned. He decided a bender would do it. Crowley figured he could reenact the bacchanalia of the 1980s, just without Freddie Mercury or Mick Jagger around to curb his broader enthusiasms. His bony wrists ached with the strength of which he grabbed the wheel. He didn’t know what to do next. He didn’t know. He shuddered. The car sped up.

Subtle change, shorter days. Dead-eyed, dead weight.

Crowley could feel himself retreating inside. Whatever was left of his soul was withering quicker than the car was driving. He imagined Aziraphale was already in Heaven, that he had already changed into his new clothes and was being informed what the next order of business would be. It would all be rather overwhelming for him, Crowley imagined. But, then, no it wouldn’t. Aziraphale, a better being than him, would do his job right. And Crowley would watch. The aching stopped. Crowley stared dead ahead and felt the bruise under his ribs fade into almost nothing.

Your life, your dreams. Your mind, your needs. My needs. Your needs, my needs.

He figured that, in some ways, Aziraphale had done the right thing. But Crowley was selfish by nature; it was in his redesigned DNA to think of himself first. And he had been abandoned, first by the God he revered, and then by the man he worshiped, and he couldn’t take much more of this. The angel had always dreamed of returning to Heaven, of being allowed to go back and finding acceptance in his home. And he had been given a really good deal, all things considered. Aziraphale knew what he was doing. He needed to go back. But Crowley needed him. He wished so badly he could respect the angel’s wishes, that he would have told him he was happy for him and that he’d be waiting right there in the bookshop for him to come back. But Crowley didn’t say that. He told him - tried to tell him - that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Aziraphale did not return the sentiment, which hurt more than anything else. Even if they couldn’t actually do it, he wished that Aziraphale would have pretended, for the briefest of moments, that he wanted to, that he wouldn’t leave Crowley like a dog at the door. Crowley had waited for him for thousands of years. He wouldn’t wait for the angel anymore.

To spiral out, to try and float. To see a friend, to see a ghost. To see a ghost, to see a ghost. To see a ghost.

Crowley had just decided that the bruise of affection was gone, that the urge to wait for centuries for the angel to come back was no more, that the sensation on his lips was fading when the Bentley rolled to a rumbling stop. Crowley pulled his glasses off his face and looked up, out the window. Oh. The bruise ached, and he knew that he would be here forever. The car had driven him all around London, only to drag him back to the bookstore where it paused, as if expecting Aziraphale to come bounding out of the shop and join them in the passenger seat. Hundreds of miles and thousands of years from Eden, and Crowley still slithered to rest outside Aziraphale’s door even when he didn’t mean to. There was a shadow moving around inside the shop, and for a moment Crowley’s heart leapt. And then he remembered that Muriel was in there, eager to continue the work Aziraphale had left behind. Hoping she never sold a single one of those books, Crowley nudged the car away from the curb and drove away again.

#i did it #it’s not great #it was better as a video in my mind #but it’s okay #enjoy #crowley #good omens #crowly x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #azirowley #aziraphale #azicrow #noah kahan #your needs my needs

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