The End of the World...Again? [Aziracrow]

3

Crowley kept his feet in the water, which had warmed to a tepid temperature. His feet had regenerated, but he still felt the burning sensation like a phantom limb. He pulled his feet out of the bucket and stood up, walking to what used to be his room. He looked at himself in the mirror there; he was thinner, a shadow of a beard was visible on his face, and some scars could be seen. His hair reached halfway down his back, and his clothes were wrinkled. Disgusted with how poorly he was dressed, he stripped off his garments, standing exposed before the mirror. There he noticed the tattoo of the serpent; in the last two years, it had grown and now displayed fangs for some reason Crowley did not understand. It was now coiling around his right pectoral; sometimes it was like this, at other times it wrapped around his collarbone, and sometimes it slid down to his forearm. But most often, it rested on his shoulder, rising up to have its head near Crowley's neck, trying to stay close to where it used to linger.

Letting out a sigh, he snapped his fingers, making an elegant black suit with a wine-red waistcoat appear, adorned with a pair of chains. His feet were covered by leather boots with a buckle, and as he walked, bright red was visible on the soles. He ran his hands through his hair, which instantly transformed into a shorter style, slightly covering the nape of his neck and with a fringe that, despite looking rebellious, stayed in place. What was behind this sudden urge to tidy himself up? If there was one thing Crowley used to despise, it was self-pity, and that was all he had been doing—feeling sorry for himself. So, once he was well dressed, he put on his usual dark glasses and walked into the living room. There, he snapped his fingers again, making the mess disappear. He looked at his plants; they began to tremble. He took a deep breath and spoke to them calmly.

"We'll be moving again, my dears. Don't be alarmed; I don't wish to speak ill of you—not today."

Just as he said, Crowley moved that day, climbed into his Bentley, and drove to his old flat. It had stood empty since Shax had been promoted, so he would reclaim it.

In heaven, everything was quieter than usual; there was nothing to do, and Aziraphale was on the verge of losing his composure. Keeping his mind idle led to involuntary flashbacks, and remembering everything he had experienced on Earth only brought him pain.

"Please, make it stop..." -he told himself, struggling against the memories, suppressing them as best he could. What Aziraphale didn't notice was that every time he avoided or suppressed a memory, his eyes shone more intensely with purple.

"Supreme Archangel..." -a small voice called from behind him.

"Yes?" -He turned eagerly, feeling grateful that someone had appeared to pull him from his thoughts.

"I've been sent to tell you that today things are quite normal, both on Earth and here in heaven," -said the little smiling angel before taking their leave.

Azira smiled, but internally he was screaming in agony. As calmly as he could, he took a seat at his desk, closed his eyes while focusing on his breathing, and this time it was inevitable; the starry blue opposed the purple, and the memories flooded him, starting from the time they were in Job's basement while the wager between God and Satan was being fulfilled. His friend was drinking wine while he merely watched until the demon offered him some. Naturally, he had rejected it with a look of disgust, but when he offered him meat, upon tasting it, something inside him awoke, as if he had been starving for eons. Then he remembered ancient Rome, the Middle Ages when they were knights, and Crowley was the one who brought the legend of the Black Knight to life, the French Revolution, and Crowley rescuing Aziraphale from certain execution, all because he craved crêpes. Azira smiled nostalgically, recalling the forties, the Second World War, when the demon had caused the bomb to fall, saving them both and even his precious books. The Archangel's heart raced as he remembered the exact moment he had handed over the briefcase and that night when he had given him the thermos with the most blessed water.

"Oh, Crowley..." -he whispered.

He knew the demon had been contemplating erasing his own existence with holy water, and in recent months, he had been wreaking havoc in churches, which had suddenly stopped.
Pained by the thought that Crowley might have succeeded in such self-elimination, Aziraphale stood up abruptly and approached the image of Earth that was present there. He wanted to look, just to catch a glimpse and ensure he was well or that he had simply ceased to exist, but he lacked the courage. He fell to his knees and covered his face with both hands, feeling pain, anger, and yearning—yearning to have his best friend back, regardless of how much of a demon he was. But he knew deep down that he still retained a piece of kind-hearted angel, and that was enough—for him. Unbeknownst to him, amid his desperation and longing, Azira had let out some of his power while thinking about how much he missed Crowley, causing an event that no one in heaven would have believed possible until that moment.

"Hello?" -a timid little voice greeted from behind the archangel.

He turned, surprised, and upon seeing who it was, he felt not only shocked but incredibly disturbed.

"What...? What did I do?" -he exclaimed, panicking.

Crowley had fully mobilised to his old flat; there, he was no happier, but his anxiety and depression had subsided somewhat... Or so he thought until he suddenly found himself back in an empty church, standing in front of a font of holy water.

"It's just a sip and done... It doesn't have to be slow. It will be painful, but once it's over, it won't matter... Will it?" -he spoke to himself, debating whether to end his existence or not.

Then he remembered the day he had poured a bucket of holy water over one of the demons who were after him for "betraying" hell when he was trying to stop Armageddon. The poor demon was filled with such fear that he didn't have much time to think before he was inside the Bentley, speeding towards the pub he used to frequent. Once there, he drank and drank, as he used to say, consuming industrial quantities of alcohol.

The problem with such quantities of alcohol was that he would end up so drunk he began to babble about an angel who had abandoned him. He even got into his Bentley, which practically drove itself to the places he used to visit, especially the park, as Crowley enjoyed watching the ducks. On one occasion, he picked one up and cried internally while stroking it.