The B in Bentley (Good Omens)

8

Immediately, the city of London was plunged into darkness. Crowley stepped out his flat, watching the sky. It was freezing, utterly cold and the demon wrapped his arms around his body. At this time, he instantly wished for a warm blanket and a fireplace, just like Aziraphale used to on cold evenings. They would have cuddled like every other couple or just lying around, safe in each others arm. Feeling safe. Feeling independent together. No more their sides lurking around, checking on them every single minute. Everything would have been all right. 

Now, everything was over. 

It all seemed like a nightmare, impossible to wake up. Aziraphale had rejected him. The truth feeling like stitches in his chest.

Stitches that never would heal again.

Crowley took a deep breath and stepped on the dark street, his serpent eyes glowing behind the sunglasses. He knew what he had to do now. What he wanted to do.

Maybe he could make things better. He could convince him otherwise. Maybe he could do something about it.

Aziraphale was all he had ever wanted in his life. And he wanted him back. Back in his arms, back in love.

The demon knew that he felt the same. Since 6000 years, he had known that, without further notice.

He really hoped getting him back. But he needed help from a higher authority. Even higher than he had ever been.

He needed her help. Only God could hear him. Not Satan. Not Beelzebub. He still believed in her, his faith wasn't vanished.

And Crowley begged that she wouldn't punish him again. Not for all his faults he had made in the past.

Sure, his fall - his sauntering vaguely downwards - hadn't been worth it. But it had been no choice left.

This didn't mean he could get cold like the others in Hell. Nasty. Evil.

The others had fallen just because of that. The others had failed God to burn forever in the sins of their own being. The others weren't like him.

Anthony Crowley had learned not to burn. He had learned from the past mistakes, ready to face his former master. He had survived the bookshop fire. He had survived driving through a massive ring of fire which would have killed him within a second. Luckily, he was fire proof.

Well, Hastur hadn't been so lucky...

And not forgotten to mention the holy water execution. That had been amusing - although it had been the angel inhabiting his body.

Despite all of that, he was absolutely ready. 

Crowley closed his eyes, letting his imagination do the rest. Wind started to blow through his hair, whispering from nowhere into his ears. 

The demon clenched his fists, unfolding his wings. He hadn't done this for so long now - breaking free from all issues and just flying away. He would have gone to Alpha Centauri if the angel would have agreed. Just them both, hovering over London...far away from all the worries. 

Maybe some day, he had the chance to. 

But now, other things were at stake. 

Crowley opened his eyes and snapped his fingers. The miracle began to happen and the dark streets of London disappeared into thin air, covering everything around him with thick fog. Unable to see something, the demon took off his sunglasses as the mist started to vanish so fast like it had taken place. 

He gasped in excitement as he realized where he was. 

He was back in Heaven. The real Heaven. Like it had been before his Fall. 

The massive clouds around him. The golden gate before him. All the golden lights, the choirs of angels singing...praising their Lord. It had been amusing times, times of glory and happiness. Times of Peace. 

Since the rebellion many, many years ago, this place had withered slowly. The warm colours had peeled off. The clouds once gathering the entrance, now spreaded over the whole sky. His former fellows banished or even had become demons. Or for worse...dead. 

Just the archangels had been left behind, now leading from their damn office a few feet above London. Crowley didn't have to speak out their names for anger flowing through his body once again. They weren't archangels. Not even Gabriel. They didn't deserve, just to treat anybody being not as high as them, like mud under their expensive shoes. 

Aziraphale didn't deserve being treated by them like mud. He wasn't like the others, he luckily realized. He hadn't fought in the war, he hadn't followed their commands. He didn't want being like anybody else. He was lucky with his bookshop, crêpes, Earth - and him. 

He was soft. And Crowley really hoped Aziraphale would forgive him. He had forgiven him one time - why not again? Things could get easier. 

The demon took a step forward until he was standing right in front of the gate. It had been broken in half, scattered in ruins the rebellion had marked on this once shimmering place. 

Crowley cleared his throath, the black wings outstretched to the clouds behind him. His voice booming through the silence as he finally spoke. 

"H - Hello. This is...Anthony Crowley and...I would like to speak to her, if...if it's possible! Uhm - anyone there?"

Nothing happened. Just the rustling of the cold night air, his wings bashing against his back. A few minutes passed. Ten. Eleven. Twelve...

Then a sudden flash of golden light dazzled him and Crowley covered his eyes. As his vision cleared, movement caught his eye - the shadow of an old woman appearing in the beam. 

God herself. 

The demon kneeled down, his wings folding alongside his feet. His face covered with pain as the light shone right through his soul, touching his heart. He almost expected her to...to what??? Throwing him down? Burning him? Stabbing a knife to his chest??? 

What exactly he had expected? He was a demon, not welcomed in Heaven anymore. The Almighty could do whatever she wanted. She could take revenge on him right now. He had betrayed her. So - why would She still have mercy?

Instead of that, God raised her voice. The softest voice he had ever heard. The most touching voice - a tune he had heard the last time falling from the cliff. 

"Welcome, Raphael."

Aziraphale sat in the bookshop, his red eyes swollen. It was nearly 2 am, but the angel wasn't tired. The whole evening he had tried to call Crowley - but only his voicemail was everything he had heard through the phone. After that he had decided to get drunk...with a dozens of empty wine bottles lying to his feet. And he didn't even think about to sober up again. 

Two hours had passed, the angel babbling about how to apologize. He felt like a horse, being knocked out, bathing in his own sin to fraternize with the enemy. He felt like rubbish. 

Sleep wasn't his concern now. Sleep would make him soft again, spending the next day along with issues. Sleep was for humans. He didn't like being soft. 

The sound of piano music swelled from the little kitchen corner, Aziraphale crying out in agony. Snapping his fingers, the music was cut off and the angel finally rested his legs on the wooden table. 

He couldn't help drifting away in the Land of Dreams within the next minutes. Where everything was better. Beautiful. Like he wanted. 

But the vision of Crowley and him faded away, still blurry in his drunken mind.