"Sorry, right number!" Crowley slammed the phone down, hanging up. He leaned back against his bed frame, sinking into it slightly, his mouth suddenly dry, and open, his eyes wide in shock and horror, and he gripped his short red hair, as he coiled up into himself like a snake.
ONE DAY TO THE END OF THE WORLD
For the first time in years, Crowley closed his plant shop with an apology note under the closed sign. He felt bad about closing up, he felt guilt for letting his customers down, but he needed to. He pressed the palm of his hand against his angular chin, and dragged his face down, over his hand, his hand going up his face to his forehead, squashing his nose up in the process, and he closed his eyes, "please guys! Bloom, and blossom for me! I'm in no mood t' actually try today!" He called out to his lovely plants, hoping the tone of his voice was loving and nice. He hoped they didn't fear him... he talked to them, encouraged them to stay beautiful, and when they didn't, he fixed them, while telling them; 'I'm not angry, just disappointed.'
His short, quiff styled red hair was a mess, standing and sticking up in all random directions, having ran his long, shaking fingers through it multiple times, while tugging at the strands, and his clothes were crumpled and dishevelled slightly. He had been sauntering in a pace for hours, and hours, and hours.
He moved location, and paced his small office downstairs, The Book now on the desk, and he still had his cold coffee - he had just moved it. It was almost as if he needed to be reminded that this is in fact happening, and Agnes Nutter wasn't much of a nutter at all. His office was full of plants, flowers, (a bunch of roses in a white vase from Azirafell (it should be noted that the roses Azirafell bought him are never scolded, and instead are just complimented. (Crowley's theory is the demon yelled at them beforehand, warning them))), with bright lights and was rather open, it helped him relax and calm down... usually.
"I'll go t' head office 'n' explain." Said Crowley, his breathing nervous and wavering, as he shakily waved his hands. He sounded shaky, he is shaky, his hands are quivering, his heart is racing, he feels sick, his knees were quaking, and he feels like he wants to cry - he was about to cry, eyes rimmed with golden tears, there's a tingle all up his arm... why didn't he just tell Azirafell what he found?!
He looked to his radio that was playing music, and sighed annoyed, as it played Prokofiev's Suite No. 1 from 'Romeo and Juliet, Op. (64bis: No. 6, Death of Tybalt)'. How appropriate, this little news would be the death of everything, the world, he and Azirafell, him! Really, he should change the CD to a Queen song, but it was as close as he was going to get to Azirafell at the moment, and the CD's had been here for over a fortnight and would just play Azirafell's music.
"Yeah. So, Gabriel, ngk..." He swallowed back thick saliva, his heart pounding in his ribs. "Listen, Gabriel, most holy Archangel Gabr—" He shook his head, clenching his hands, nails digging into the palm of said hands, "nah, way too formal."
He paced the floor in a nervous saunter, hoping to relieve the stress he was feeling. Is this stress? It feels worse then stress... he feels dizzy, like he might have a breakdown. Fear? He suddenly looked to a lovely, yellow and delightful sunflower, and said, tense and overly friendly, yet filled with absolute terror, "hello, Gabriel, old pal! Old brother!"
The yellow sunflower shook in slight fear at it's gardeners odd behaviour, and Crowley frowned, "oh no. Don't fear, love!" He reached out, and gently nestled some damp soil into the pot, "it's all okay, 'm sorry. Daddy's just a bit stressed at the moment." He apologised, voice soft and caring to the plants he sees as his children, and he rubbed his fingers against the leaf gently, soothing the poor thing.
He turned away, and looked to a wall, and began talking, slinking and moving around much like a snake, "there's a-a-a kid we have t' deal with 'n'-'n' make everythin' okay again." Crowley whimpered out - he's pathetic! "Oh, God." He walked away again, back into his office.
Swallowing back bile and saliva tinted with poison from his fangs, he readied himself. He nodded with a deep breath, "hello, Gabriel." He greeted, tone softer and serious then ever. "Y'need t' know that because of a mix-up in a hospital, the Antichrist has been lost. But it's fine!" He walked over to his desk, waving his hand about to show he had a plan, and pulled out a map, "I've found him. He's livin' in the English village of Tadfield!" He smiled, pointing to the small village. "And his eleventh birthday was the start of..." He winced, recoiling from his notes, "ngk, the end o' things." He picked up a piece of paper with writing on, "here's the address, and now we have to kill 'im!" He blanched at that, at killing a child. He couldn't even smite a demon, he couldn't kill Warlock, their sort of Godson, when they thought he was the Antichrist, - he's a Healer, not a Soldier or Principality! (Though that would be respectable... back in the day. Archangels used to be on level with Principalities, sometimes lower, but after The Fall, Archangels gained power and used it, besides Crowley.) And now... "Then everythin' could still be okay, yeah!" He smiled, trying to convince himself.
"He'll have a big Hell Hound with him!" Smiled Crowley, "he won't be hard to spot!"
Best Cafe read the faded, old sign above the tiny cafe, it was a hideous combination of blue and red, with mucus green. There was a cartoon fried egg on the side of the sign. The small, run down cafe that was doing a £4.79 breakfast, as well as lunch and dinner, and the building was sandwiched between a row of tiny houses, and a small corner shop, that sold chocolate and magazines your Grandma would buy.
An old man with greying hair, and a large brown, nearing black parka coat and a dark, faded green, nearing brown satchel, walked into the small cafe. He saw Azirafell sat at the table, reading a newspaper, his sunglasses on as usual. He was sat straight, with a muffin in front of him, and so the man walked up to the white haired being. He stared at the half eaten cake, and said nothing about the fact His Honour needed to diet. He then noticed a big breakfast, a muffin and a coffee in front of the empty seat, as usual.
Azirafell looked up, and nodded, "Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell." He greeted, yes - it is the Sergeant Shadwell he met back in 1967. He folded the paper, and looked at Shadwell. "Take a seat, darling," he offered, with a wave of his hand, and gestured to the food he had 'bought' for the Witchfinder.
Shadwell sat down, "Mr. Fell." He greeted. "You're looking well." He complimented, and poked the breakfast, eagerly taking a bite to quench his growling stomach.
"It is a clean living." Shrugged Azirafell, folding his hands and interlacing his fingers together, ignoring the fact he was indulging himself with a cake, and held back a smirk. The demon was good at being a Gluttony Demon, making people eat with a simple gesture.
"And your father, how is he?" Asked Shadwell, rocking in his chair, his old and fading memories going back to 1967. He worked with, what he believed to be Mr. Fell's father years ago, and was hired by him permanently. "You resemble him very much, you know." Shadwell smiled, his eyes looking over the pale haired man. Exactly the same, actually... scarily the same.
"So people tell me." Azirafell replied, "yes, he is well." He held back a coy smirk, and laugh. When Shadwell found out about his former Honour's 'son' was taking over, he believed it and didn't question, despite the fact Shadwell believed his 'father' to be a bachelor.
"I've prepared the ledger." Shadwell said, opening the tattered satchel, and pulled out a green, old and well used book, filled with names and writing, while eyeing his coffee, "is this...?"
"With condensed milk just as you like, darling." Assured Azirafell barely looking up. He did glance over the few names he saw such as; Witchfinder General Smith, Witchfinder Colonels Green and Jones, and Witchfinder Majors Jackson, Robinson and Smith (no relation). And, so on, and so forth, he never read far enough or cared enough if he was honest.
"The men need paying, Your Honour. It's hard times for Witchfinder's in today's degenerate age." Shadwell said, spinning the book on the table, and pointing to a name.
Azirafell shook his head, "that shan't be necessary, dear boy." He looked to his newspaper. "Two hundred and fifty pounds." He assured, seeing Shadwell's pleased face, shutting the book, as the Witchfinder scooped scrambled egg into his mouth. "I'll bring the money to you on Saturday." - If they were alive for it.
"Only in cash," Shadwell reminded, "in an envelope. Don't take plastic." He sipped his coffee eagerly, and eyed the pink frosted cake, with a playful smile.
"You astonish me." Said Azirafell, looking outside as a modern car drove past. He stabbed a piece of the cake, and ate a bite.
Shadwell swallowed nervously, loosing his smile. In Shadwell's simple world, anyone in sunglasses who wasn't actually on the beach was probably a criminal. He suspected that Azirafell was from the Mafia, or the underworld, although he would have been surprised how right he nearly was. "So..."
"There is a village called Tadfield, it is in a town called Oxfordshire. I need your best people down there, and I need them to poke about a bit..." He glanced up at Shadwell, who sipped his coffee, his blue eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. "I'm searching for a boy, he is about eleven. I don't have any more information than that." He said, and looked to the old man, finally, "but look for anything... peculiar." He whispered, tone serious.
The employee looked around, nervously. "This, uh, boy... he's a witch?" Asked Shadwell, a thoughtful sneer on his face.
"Possibly." Agreed Azirafell, leaning in slight and cold smile on his dull face. "We will have to locate him first, won't we dear?" Ah yes, 'we', as if they were in this together. As far as the demon was concerned, he was only in this with Crowley, and that is it.
"Aye." The Witchfinder chuckled, taking another bite of his breakfast, not noticing he was nearly done.
"Oh, I was so sorry to hear of the untimely end of Witchfinder Major Milkbottle." Apologised Azirafell will a sad, sorrowful nod and soft pout. Though, he didn't really care. Something seemed odd about Shadwell, as if he was a liar on most days, but you couldn't help but like the poor guy. He waved a hand, and a woman came over setting more food down, another cake and left, - nobody would ask for money, they didn't in Azirafell's world.
"Aye, yea thank ye... well, my best operative, that would be Witchfinder Lieutenant Table." Said Shadwell, stumbling over his words as he shoved his book into his bag.
Azirafell collected his paper, and stood up, "do call me if you discover anything." He said, finishing his cake and strolled out the dim cafe.
"Witchfinder Sergeant Pepper." Shadwell continued, pushing the empty plate away and pulled one of the cakes in front of him, getting another coffee.
"Pip-pip!" Called the demon, the door closing behind him.
(And, so what if Shadwell grumbled out around a mouthful of cake, "'pip-pip'. Great southern pansy.")
Crowley stood in the open space of Heaven. He was desperately trying to keep slouched, and at ease to not alert anyone that anything was... completely wrong, or that he had been... helping a demon... he was still on good terms with Heaven clearly, as he heard, "so, Crowley..."
The angle looked up to see Sandalphon, Michael, Uriel and Gabriel walking towards him, all in a straight, single file line. Gabriel's fake, friendly smile spread, "got your message." He raised his eyebrows, "have you got something big? Lay it on us." He insisted with a jerk of his head.
"Sorry, wot?" Crowley questioned, a confused smile on his face, his confidence wavering.
"What's happening?" Asked Uriel, her golden lips pulled into a scowl, her scales so it seemed, glistening in the light.
"Okay, ahem, so..." Started Crowley, in a stutter. "Well, ahem... ngk..."
Michael scowled at him, his dull pink matte lips pursed, blinking. Sandalphon had a disappointed and annoyed frown on its face.
"It's-it's the Antichrist." Crowley got out, all the preparation and practice in his plant shop was no use when it came down to actually telling his siblings the issue.
"Yes?" Uriel pressed.
"I think that, um... ngk... well, it's not out o' the question..." He swallowed back saliva with an audible gulp. "Uh, in view of all-all the different things, that the-the other side," he nodded, going with the lie, proud of himself. "Migh' have lost him." He laughed out nervously, hissing slightly with each laugh.
Gabriel just looked at him with a confused smile, one that was smaller than his fake one, yet was still looking as friendly as possible, and he glanced to his right-hand Arhcnagel. Sandalphon looked to the other Archangels in the room, then to its boss, a sneer on its face, and tried to see how the others looked.
"The 'other side'?" Quoted Michael, his soft elegant voice holding one of annoyance, with his eyebrows raised in confusion.
Slowly, Crowley pointed downwards to the floor, Hell... he translated, and his face morphed into nervousness, swallowing back saliva.
"Lost him?" Asked Gabriel with a confused scowl, trying to stay the 'friend'. "He's the son of the U.S. ambassador. He's under constant surveillance." Reminded the Archangel, he was discombobulated at his brother.
"The other side," Michael said, "are currently transporting him to the plains of Megiddo." He looked to Sandalphon, who nodded in agreement. "Apparently, that's the traditional starting point." He said, with a tone of ease.
"Middle Eastern unrest. Everything else just follows." Gabriel shrugged, "the Four Horsemen ride out." He took a sharp intake of air, "last great battle between Heaven and Hell." He was acting like it was any other day at the office, like people would on Earth... albeit, a corrupted office, but an office nonetheless.
"Yeah. Well, um... it's possible that the demon, Azirafell, a-a-a crafty enemy..." Crowley laughed nervously. "Keeps me on my toes." He held himself back from gushing about the demon he adored so much. "But the, um," he swallowed again, like he was swallowing a rock, "ambassador's, uh, son, uh... ngk, well, it may have been a trick."
"A trick?" Asked Sandalphon, voice full of annoyed disbelief, clearly tired of Crowley's... Crowley-ness.
"And the real Antichrist migh' be, um... somewhere else." Crowley offered, shrugging with a strangled laugh, shaking his head.
Michael was staring him down, unimpressed. Sandalphon's mouth was open in bored shock.
With a now slightly angry, wide mouthed smile that you could happily punch, Gabriel asked, "where?" Smacking his lips together. He was annoyed.
Crowley stared, he knew where. He had a pretty decent idea where, and he could just be honest, get back on the good side! Stop being such a bad angel, and a bad former Archangel, and tell them where the boy is, roughly! These are his brothers, his sister and his sibling! Tell them! All five of them are Archangels, technically! Tell them, not bang on where, but close! A good idea, and his original plan! Okay, time to do his plan!
"Not sure." But, he can't... who knows what they would do the the boy. Who knows what will happen? Maybe, he could stop it? It was more clear that Heaven was less then good, but not bad... no, Heaven is Right, and they're all a bit on edge for the Antichrist. "I mean, I-I-I could find out!" Crowley offered seeing Sadnalphon shoot Uriel a look, (get more time to find the child before you do, in other words.) "I have a team of... agents. A good team who-who would look into the idea." He shook his head with a nervous smile, "um... hypothetically speakin'," Uriel was staring him down now, "if that were the case—"
"It wouldn't change anything, Crowley." Uriel spoke up, staring at him still unimpressed.
"There was War in Heaven long before the Earth was created." Gabriel said, nodding. "Azira and the rest were cast out, but nothing was ever really settled." He grumbled out.
Crowley scowled, "Azirafell." He corrected the Archangel, ignoring the annoyed and outwardly suspicious looks the group was sharing. "and, I guess it wasn't." He saw Michael staring him down, and asked, "wot?"
"Why do you correct Azira's name, Raphael?" Asked Michael, his lips pursed.
With a look of anger crossing Crowley's hazel, golden eyes, he hissed out, "Azirafell, and because it's his name! And, Raphael isn't my name anymore. As my siblings I thought you'd understand that." He looked at them all, "it was mean when you called me Crawly as a cruel nickname due to my serpent-like features, and mannerisms... and, now you call me Raphael? A name I let go of years ago?!" It wasn't just anger, it was fear. They said his old name, the name he hated. And, it wasn't said in; 'we're getting used to this, we care about you, sorry, it was a mispronounce' way, as they sometimes did, or gave the impression of doing. Michael used 'Raphael', blatantly used. He's not on good terms with Heaven anymore. Crowley scoffed, "there doessn't have to be another War, doess there!" It wasn't a question, and his voice was getting louder, and louder, and more serpent like, the s's in words a bit longer, but not too long.
Gabriel straightened up slightly, not liking the glare that was thrown his way, one with anger and malice. He was intimidated slightly, they all where. Quickly, Gabriel said, "as much as we appreciate your hypothetical's, Crowley," he corrected, hoping to calm the angel down. That, and to hide his suspicion. "I'm afraid we have other things to do. The Earth isn't going to just end itself, you know." He smiled, hoping the angel would ease up.
"Nah. Yeah. Righ'." Sighed Crowley, shaking his head and stumbling over words. He realised how unsavoury it was that he defended Azirafell. Crowley defending his own name was fine, but Azirafell? Less fine...
Crowley watch the archangels walk away in a single file line, and he relaxed, unaware just how suspicious his siblings were of him.
Crowley held his phone to his ear, tapping his foot as it rang, his fingers curling around the plastic in worry. Someone picked up the phone, and answered in a soft, posh and slutty voice, "hello."
"Sergeant Shadwell, please." Asked Crowley in a polite voice, "or, one of his officers." He said, looking out the window in worry, checking nobody he knew saw him.
The voice changed to a bit... squeaky, "I shall endeavour to see if he is available. Hold on."
Crowley messed with his goat necklace, twirling the charm as he waited. He tapped his foot, and watered a Peace Lily, trying to calm himself, chewing his lower lip as he waited for the Witchfinder.
"Aye?" Greeted Shadwell, finally taking the phone.
"Sergeant Shadwell. It's you-know-who." Crowley answered, with a whispered voice.
"Who?" Asked Shadwell in confusion.
"Me. Y'sponsor!" Crowley said, shaking his head brushing off the mans forgetfulness. "Listen, d'y'have any people free? I have a task." He looked around his shop again.
"Task? What task?"
The angel kept glancing around, worrying his golden ring on his pinkie, "Tadfield. It's in Oxfordshire. There's a kid, a boy, I need your lot to look over. I-I need to know where he's at, at all times. I can give y'his address." Assured Crowley, now worrying his lower lip.
"I'll put a squad of my best men onto it."
"Great! Thanks so much!" Sighed Crowley, relaxing hand over heart, practically wiggling in excitement. "Oh, and I should've asked about Witchfinder Major Milkbottle. 'M Sorry about his death, I sent flowers."
"Aye, the flowers were appreciated." Shadwell sounded annoyed, though he hid it well enough. "And so was the extra £20 for the family. He was a brave man." He would say something insulting to him, but much like Mr. Fell, made the assumption he was not someone to offend as well. He thought Crowley was a Russian spy, but unlike Mr. Fell, he would hesitantly roughen him up if needed... though that was terribly risky.
"I was shocked when y'told me how he died!" Crowley said, seemingly thrown off and surprised.
"Aye. A brave man." Shadwell said, quickly moving the conversation along. "I'll be by the plant shop, um, next week to pick up your annual dues." Crowley kept looking out the windows of his shop with jittery movements.
"Squad of best men t' Tadfield, sir. And keep 'em there 'til I give y'more instructions." Ordered Crowley, tapping his foot worriedly. He reached out, and grabbed a piece of paper with writing on, "the kid's called... Adam Young. The address is number four, Hogback Lane, Tadfield." Crowley read out, "you got it?"
"Absolutely, Your Honour." Shadwell assured, "Tadfield it is."
"Fab! Let me know when y'men are in place."
Shadwell hung up, slamming the phone down. (And, so what it Shadwell muttered, "'Fab', the swish southern bastard!" As he walked back to his room.)
Crowley was pacing back and forth in his shop, waiting for news from Shadwell, until suddenly, his phone rang. He slammed down his watering can, and rushed over, grabbing it with a smile believing it to be the old Witchfinder, but his smile dwindled slightly hearing Azirafell, "it's me, angel. Can you meet me at the third alternative rendezvous?"
Crowley frowned in confusion, his mind whirring, forming a headache, scrunching his nose up, "that the old bandstand, the number nineteen bus, or the British Museum café?"
"The bandstand, dearest." Azirafell said, shaking his head and his voice sounded shocked, holding back a fond laugh, yet his smile was not hidden. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Azirafell said, hanging up his phone.
The sun was setting, it was getting darker and darker, with pale pinks, and orange hues in the sky with the overcast of soft, fluffy watermelon pink clouds. Azirafell walked up the old, large, blue tinted yet faded bandstand in the middle of the park, surrounded by trees, Crowley was already there, pacing and sauntering back and forth, glancing around nervously. The demon walked up the three concrete steps, and was immediately hit by something... stinging him, or stabbing him... yet, it was... no, sizzling...
"Do you have any news?" Asked Azirafell, hands clasped together, ignoring the feeling. He's never felt that before, not at the bandstand, there is no one in sight, and so it can't be anyone else... maybe, he's just feeling a little off?
"Ngk... what-what kinda news?" Crowley asked, his voice full of nerves, leaning more on one foot than the other, trying to give off an air of ease.
"Well, have you discovered the absent Antichrist's name, address and shoe size yet?" Asked Azirafell, slightly annoyed, though the last bit was a joke.
"Shoe size?" Asked Crowley in a panic, and confusion. "Why would I have his shoe size?" He asked, shaking his head, clinging to that last question.
"It's a joke." Azirafell assured quickly, brushing it off, "I've got nothing either, calm down angel." The poor angel looked like he was about to faint. He moved forward, "angel, maybe you should..." He reached out to hold the angel, to steady both himself from the pain of sizzling, and the panicking angel.
Quickly, Crowley took a step back, eyes staring at the pale demonic hands warily, and if that didn't freeze Azirafell in his tracks, nothing will. The angel has never fled from him before, ever. Crowley looked down, "it's the Great Plan, Azirafell." He said, weakly, shrugging. (His entire interaction with Heaven shook him up, they were onto him, they no longer trusted him.)
Feeling hurt, as if hit by said angel, and eyes soft in worry, Azirafell dropped his hands. "Correct, yes. And, for the record," he began walking around the bandstand, swaying as he did. "Great pustulent mangled bollocks to the Great blasted Plan!" Screamed the demon with a snarl and a baa, glaring up at the roof of the bandstand, his gentlemen-like manners that he's carried around, despite being a demon, gone. This was ridiculous!
Swallowing, and now still,Crowley choked out quickly, face full of pain and worry, "may you be forgiven."
"I shall not be forgiven!" Laughed Azirafell bitterly, denying all forms of forgiveness, as he found himself pacing back and forth, eyes in disbelief. "Not ever, angel. You and I know that. It's part of a demon's job description. Unforgivable. That is what I am." He grumbled out, slowing in his swaying stroll, "I'm an unforgivable demon." He seemed broken, though he hid it well.
"You were an angel once." Reminded Crowley, softly and hopefully, as if that would... win Azirafell over... no, not win, the demon noted, to try and turn him back into one, or something along those lines... the demon is unsure, it's not something he ever gave much thought about... becoming an angel again, it was impossible... maybe, he was hoping Azirafell would join Crowley when the time came, join Heaven... that was a horrifying thought alone; to help Heaven... the very place that gave him the boot and lit his wings aflame, turning what was once an elegant white, black.
"That was a long time ago, dearest." Azirafell reminded back, voice soft. Hastur's voice was clear in his head, 'We are the Fallen. Never forget that.', he had responded, 'it's not the type of contrivance to forget.' Clearly, the white haired goat demon was wrong. This was something that should never be forgotten. "Never forget that..." He warned, using Hastur's words, voice blank. He moved up to Crowley, face to face, "we can find the boy. My operatives can do it."
"And then what?" Growled Crowley, annoyed and angry. His breathing was ragged, and uneven. "We... kill him?" He asked, with a bitter laugh of disgust and fear, a glare in his eyes, and he looked around nervously.
Azirafell nodded, shakily. "Well, someone does! I'm not personally prepared for slaughtering children." Azirafell said, shrugging, looking away from the angel. He couldn't meet his eyes, he was unable to.
"You're the demon. I'm the nice one." Crowley held up his finger, "I don't have to kill kids."
Azirafell frowned, the sizzle stronger, and shook his head quickly, "no, no, no, wait a second—"
"If you kill 'im, the world gets spared, 'n' Heaven doesn't have blood on its hands." Crowley said, nodding his head. 'But, how many people will be killed after the Great Plan? How much blood will be on Heaven's hands then?'
"Oh, no blood on your hands?" Asked Azirafell, looking to the angel, eyebrows up in disbelief and anger, again the sizzling was more sharp. "That's a bit holier-than-thou, isn't it?!"
"I'm a lot holier than thou! That's the whole point!" Scoffed Crowley, yelling, with soft eyes that held well hidden doubt.
"You should dispose of the boy yourself." Azirafell said, voice quieter now, in case someone was walking by. "Holi-ly." Azirafell said, lamely, swaying again. He has no idea what has come over the angel, but he hates it and he wants it to stop...
"I'm not..." He trailed off, lowering his voice, "killin' anybody." Denied Crowley, nervously looking between Azirafell and the trees.
With a scoff, Azirafell said, "this is ridiculous." He shook his head, and looked to Crowley, "you are ridiculous." He sneered, "frankly, I don't even know why I'm still conversing to you."
Crowley shrugged, "same here."
"Enough, I'm leaving." Azirafell turned, and strolled off immediately, going to the steps with an unsteady sway.
"You can't leave, Azirafell!" Crowley called out, desperately. "There's nowhere to go." He whispered, voice in a whimper. Broken and cracking.
Azirafell turned at the top of the steps and held his hands out, "it is a extensive universe." He waved one hand dismissively at the air, one that clearly gestured to the Earth, "even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning fire and destruction, we can go off together."
It fell silent between them, the two looking at each other softly, hopelessly.
Crowley frowned, and asked despairingly and choked up, "go off together? Listen t' yourself."
"How long have we been friends?" Asked Azirafell, with heavy emphasis on the 'friends', one that nobody could miss. "Six thousand years!"
"Friends? We're not friends." Crowley said, voice soft and sad.
Azirafell scoffed, "must I spell it out?!" He held up his serpent necklace, "1970! Not friends, not dating! Married!" He yelled out, desperately. "Crowley, we're husbands!" He corrected himself, something they don't talk about... their marriage. They weren't ashamed, but it Heaven or Hell find out about a marriage between an angel and a demon, who knows what would happen?
Crowley gripped his own goat necklace, the horns digging into his skin, and yelled out, "no! We are an angel and a demon. There is absolutely nothin' between us!" He lied, his face scrunched up in pain, "I don't even like you." He held back a cry, and turned, going to walk off.
"You do!" Yelled Azirafell, "you love me! And, I love you!" He yelled out, trying to sound cocky and confident, but was holding back tears, his voice hiding his fear of being left. Crowley was near the steps now, was ignoring him. "You can't do this again, Crowley!" He yelled out, voice boarding on hysteria and begging, not again. He can't be left alone again, he can't be away from the angel...
"I... I can!" Came the angels response and the sizzle in the demon grew. Wait a minute, the angel is the only one here, and this sizzling...
Azirafell frowned in hurt and confusion, "what are you not telling me..." He asked, voice full of disbelief. That sizzling was coming from Crowley, and Crowley was... "what are you hiding?" The angel was lying, and it wasn't a small fib like he sometimes did... no, this was a lie... surely, if the angel knew where the boy was, he'd say... "Crowley—"
The gig was up and the former Archangel knew it. Suddenly, Crowley stormed back, face full of rage, "even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn't tell you. We're on opposite sides!"
Angry and distressed, the sizzling making sense now, Azirafell stormed forward and baa-ed out, desperately "we're on our side."
"There is no 'our side', Azira!" Yelled Crowley, using the demons old name. He held back tears, "not anymore." Azirafell faltered in his tracks, in shock and horror, he even stopped swaying. "It's over," Crowley whispered, voice broken and was panting. Realising this was it, the end... no longer friends, boyfriends or husbands. But, this fantasy he built up with the demon... it had to stop... even if it hurt him, even if it hurt the demon... it was dangerous... it had to stop...
Azirafell's eyes welled up with read, bloody tears, staring at the Archangel he loved so much. He nodded, thankful for his black tinted sunglasses. He realised it too, it was a break up... a divorce of sorts, he was right to worry about the 'friend' talk over the phone. He was being left all over again, like he was back in 1862; he should fight and argue; he should beg for Crowley to reconsider; he should fall to his knees and repent for Crowley; but if it's what his angel wants... "Right." He backed up, shaking his head, "well, then... ah, um. Huh..." He held back his sobbing, making sure to keep the wavering from his voice. He's been in love with this angel for six thousand years, since the moment he saw the angel on the wall, and now it's all gone. The angel he worshipped, more than Her and more than Satan. He turned around and walked off.
Crowley's chin wobbled, and his chest shuddered, waiting until Azirafell was out of sight.
Azirafell turned to him one last time, and tore his serpent necklace from his neck and threw it to the angel, spitting out, "have a nice doomsday, Raphael!" He didn't mean it, he didn't meant to use the angels Archangel name, he was just hurt... Crowley hurt him, and... well, how ironic and funny; it turns out he did have a heart after all, and it was breaking.
The demon had used Crowley's old name, in a way to hurt him. It worked and he deserved it. It stung the former Archangel, and he watched his ex-husband walk down the cobble pathway, and he looked to the necklace that fell to the wooden ground with a deafening thud, despite it being so quiet.
The demon was now out of sight, and so, Crowley delicately picked up the necklace, his golden tears rolling down his cheeks in big droplets, and held the necklace close to his chest, right over his heart. He fell to his knees harshly, though he was too numb to feel the pain, and his chest shuddered as he cried, weeps ripping from his throat, he wailed a heart wrenched cry, one full of anguish and pain.
"I'm sorry, Azirafell..." He sobbed, his tears pooling on the floor.