I Forgive You

Chapter Three

This eh...went much darker than I anticipated, so look out for yourselves. Maybe this is so heavy to make up for the lighthearted Taylor stuff last chapter, I don't know.
This chapter wasn't planned but it just kind of wrote itself because apparently I haven't tortured myself enough yet. If you like your fics with a healthy dose of angst and pain...enjoy, I guess? xD
Also yes I totally wrote this instead of sleeping, originally posted this on Ao3 at 6 am whoopsie

Warnings for unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, alcohol abuse, and dubious consent (at least kinda, but not really...you'll see)

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It had been a year.

He hadn't heard from Aziraphale in a year.

He should have been prepared that he wouldn't hear from Aziraphale ever again, but knowing that you should be prepared for something and actually being prepared for something were two different things entirely.

His flat felt cold and empty. It had felt cold and empty ever since that day.

All his things had still been there. Shax hadn't bothered getting rid of anything, or maybe the flat had simply known to rearrange itself upon Crowley's return. But everything was hidden away now, locked up behind closed storage room doors where Crowley wouldn't have to lay eyes on anything that would remind him of Aziraphale.

That was the problem. Everything reminded him of Aziraphale.

Of course it did. He had never bothered keeping much of anything except for the sole value of it reminding him of Aziraphale. There had been the eagle statue he took from the church in 1941. The sculpture of a demon and angel wrestling. Even his plants had reminded him of the angel, how he'd whispered kind words to them when he thought Crowley wasn't looking.

They were all dead now, his plants. Every leaf and stem withered away along with the love in his heart.

Crowley hadn't cared to keep them alive. He barely cared to keep himself alive.

He hadn't left his flat in months. He rarely left his bed. His days were spent trying (and failing) not to think about Aziraphale. A lot of the time he drank, hoping that it would make him fall asleep for at least a few days at a time. It didn't always work. Sometimes it just left him in a corner on the floor, crying and feeling sorry for himself like the pathetic excuse for a demon he was.

He had never had trouble sleeping. He had liked sleeping, had done it for an entire century if he felt like it. Now he couldn't. Because there were dreams that wouldn't let him. And what if Aziraphale came back while he was sleeping? He knew Aziraphale wouldn't come back. But what if he did and Crowley missed it because he was asleep? He couldn't risk it.

The days were long, the nights were longer. Then he lost awareness of whether it was day or night altogether.

What did it matter? The world kept turning. Great.

His world had stopped the second his angel stepped into that elevator.

Empty bottles had begun to fill the apartment floor, but he was too weak to miracle them away, and he certainly wouldn't be getting up to get rid of them by hand. No one was going to see his mess anyway (the mess his flat was, the mess Crowley was). He didn't have anyone.

Sometimes he wondered. Did Aziraphale feel as lonely up there as he did down here?

Maybe he did. It was both a depressing and comforting thought.

Perhaps he'd made new friends. Better friends, friends he didn't have to hide with, friends he didn't have to be ashamed of, friends he didn't have to break his precious heavenly rules for.