a continuation of this post
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Demons do not need to sleep, and yet he does, mostly because time spent unconscious is not time spent crying, which demons also do not do, and yet.
A deep, crushing pain resides in the middle of his chest—a heartbreak not entirely unfamiliar; he never forgot the smell of burning books and the lack of his angel's presence anywhere on earth. He never forgot what it felt like to lose Aziraphale, and the reminder he received was entirely unnecessary.
If anyone were to ask, he'd deny the crying, arguing that technically not a single tear has left his eyes in the last three months, sixteen days, and seven hours—not that he is keeping count—although there is no one left to care. Except Muriel, who adjusted surprisingly quickly to living on earth and having a demonic snake curled up by the window.
Crowley sleeps and endures a never-ending series of nightmares for about two months, and while he wakes and slithers out of his chair, he decides to remain in his serpent form.
The most surprising development is perhaps how easily he bonds with Muriel. They offer up a steady arm, having switched the uniform for a sunshine-yellow pastel jumper and a simple black skirt, and to hell with it all, the warmth, the touch, the soft breaths, and the regular heartbeat pulsating next to him do not heal the wound, but they stop the bleeding; for a while, anyway.
So they go about their days, Crowley coiled around their shoulders while they read or do inventory, reorganise books, and then organise them differently as soon as they're done, never selling a single copy. They sing, too, having apparently discovered a lot of earthly pleasures during his nap, low and quiet, soothing in a way he did not expect.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, the Serpent of Eden wrapped around an angel's shoulders was a familiar sight. The serpent remains unchanged, although if you were to ask anyone regularly passing by the shop, they'd tell you it seems sadder now, somehow.
The angel has changed, however.
As time passes, Crowley waits not in a garden but in a bookshop, longing for a thunderstorm and a white wing above his head. He watches the sky, he watches the door, and he waits and waits and waits.
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i will never get over how pained aziraphale looks during the kiss.
i will never get over how pained he looks because you just know that this isn't how aziraphale wanted it to go. this isn't how he had been planning it to go.
you just know he wanted it to be tender or even passionate but loving, and instead it was a goodbye. crowley’s final farewell.
i will never get over how pained aziraphale looks during the kiss.
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whatever you do don't think about how fundamentally unloved crowley must feel. cast out by his brothers and sisters in heaven. an outcast in hell. rejected by the one person who made him feel less alone in the universe. always alone. never enough, not for heaven, not for hell, and certainly not for aziraphale.
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In Love's Secret Domain
page 7
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beginning
Dear Diary,
I miss writing my entries in you. These days I write them in my mind in hope that one day I will remember.
I use my beloved pen to sign heavenly documents, but making private notes is out of question.
It's too dangerous! So I'm thinking this instead, as I work.
My personal investigation seems stuck as new urgent documents pile on my desk. I keep falling into slumber and having the mostq vivid, pleasant dreams about Crowley. In last one I saw a vision of our life together.
We were officially married, which I felt rather than saw.
We owned a lovely cottage surrounded by lush garden, thriving under Crowley's hands.
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"It's a bit different when it's someone you know."
Sometimes I think about this line of Crowley's from the Edinburgh minisode "I Know Where I'm Going" and picture Aziraphale watching the Fall and finding Crowley's face among those about to be eternally damned.
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