Work Text:
“Will you be alright here on your own, Mr. Crowley?” Muriel asks, concerned evident on their face. Crowley waves them off, acting occupied with his mobile device despite having not even interacted with it for a while now.
Muriel remains persistent in bothering him with their unneeded concern over him. “If you say so.” They say under their breath. “I’m sure you could spend your time enjoying… whatever it is on an eephone.”
Crowley sighs, “Muriel, it’s an I-Phone.” He tells them, now looking up from his phone only to see that there’s this fond and disgustingly warm and soft expression on their face.
“Of course, Mr. Crowley. Thanks for correcting me!” Muriel says, before waving him goodbye and shutting the door behind them.
Muriel is going on vacation– paid vacation, so technically this goes under whatever the Metatron asked of them (to watch over the bookshop like they work there).
He needed the space. Desperately so. Crowley might just explode with how much he’s been keeping on his own. Crowley sighs, snapping his fingers so he could deadlock the doors to the bookshop. He flicks his index, and the sign flips closed.
Crowley rises from his seat, one that is his now that Aziraphale would never come back down from Heaven, and he shoves it back to its place before sauntering to the back of the shop where the windows wouldn’t bother him.
He sits, alone on his couch, and he sinks into the soft but aged cushion. Despite the decades that it’s spent in this same spot sat on by the same beings, it still holds up pretty well. Still comfortable, still wonderful, still warm.
And still being sat on wrong by Crowley, who would never sit on a couch in a convenient manner.
Until now, that is, because he’s going to have to be comfortable.
Crowley leans forward, away from the couch’s backrest.
Crowley shouldn’t be expected to pray. He’s a demon. They’ve long forgone prayers, especially now that they have no one to direct it to. For the denizens of the underworld, where it stinks like shit, there is no praying to anyone else but yourself– and that is too redundant, so nobody in the nine circles of hell bothers with it. So he hadn’t expected to pray. Hadn’t done that in a long time, even.
Yet with his hands clasped together, fingers intertwined and hands pointed down, Crowley prays.
“Aziraphale,” he whispers, feeling ridiculous. He doesn’t feel like his message is being received. Not at all. “How the Hell do I start? I haven’t prayed in so long.” Crowley hisses, breaking the links of his hands to rub on his face. He exhales, teeth grit, and he links his hands again and this time leans his head against it so he could continue. “You bumbling idiot.” He says, and his voice breaks. Crowley doesn’t stop.
“I’d ask you how you’re doing up there, but I don’t think I have it in me to hear out your answer.” Crowley chuckles, thinking how he’s so pathetic. So desperate, to be placed down to his metaphorical knees and praying– not to Her, but to Aziraphale. “Angel, you haven’t gone down to Earth since you’ve left.” It’s been two hundred and sixty three days since he’d left.
Two hundred and fifty two days to muster his courage so he could even think of talking to Aziraphale again.
“Come home.” He ends up pleading. “Please.” Crowley swallows, something getting stuck in his throat as he speaks.
And his prayer for the night ends at that.