All Your Faith, All Your Rage, All Your Pain

It Ain't Over Now

Disclaimer: New disclaimer to go with the new season! Obviously, I don't own Good Omens or its characters, locations, etc., or else I wouldn't have let Neil Gaiman destroy my entire soul. I love the characters he and Terry Pratchett wrote, and I wouldn't change them for the world, except maybe to make them a bit smarter and more observant. But, alas, that's what fanfiction is for.

Summary: Crowley tries everything he can, from reading books to learning human magic to trying to foods, to make Aziraphale love him. When Aziraphale shows and asks what he's doing, Crowley asks what he needs to do to be loved. Language warning. One-Shot.

A/N: I just wrote a Sherlock smut fic, so now I need to write a fic with feelings in it for my night to be complete. I hope you enjoy!

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All Your Faith, All Your Rage, All Your Pain

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Aziraphale was gone. Aziraphale was gone. Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley couldn't think, couldn't feel anything besides the echoing chasm of loneliness that had opened in his chest the moment that Aziraphale had stepped into the lift to Heaven. There was no room in his head for anything besides the reframe of Aziraphale is gone.

He had truly thought that Aziraphale had loved him. He had thought that their millennia of friendship had overtaken the angel's belief in Heaven and hatred of Hell (not that that was unwarranted), believed that, even if he had a general disdain for demons, he had loved one in particular. Crowley thought that Aziraphale had loved him.

And now Aziraphale was gone, and Crowley didn't know what to do.

He left, for a while. He drove across the country and then through Europe and then into Asia and literally anywhere but London. He found himself on barstools in countries that he couldn't even name, speaking languages that he had to dust off from the back of his mind to ask for another pint, another shot, another bottle.

Crowley spent a long time wandering, wondering what exactly he was going to do with himself now that his only friend, the only constant in his life, the only reason he really had for living, was gone. For good. Aziraphale was gone, he was never coming back, and Crowley was along in a pub in Satan knows where, drinking dubious whiskey and sobbing silently when he thought no one was looking.

Aziraphale was gone, and Crowley was lost.

After a few years, Crowley decided enough was enough, he sobered up for the first time since That Day and drove back to London, shooing the cobwebs out of his flat with his best Look and splaying out on his bed. Maybe a nap would make him feel better, it had in the past.

But then again, in the past he had always had someone waiting for him to wake up. If he never woke up this time, well...

Crowley closed his eyes and slept for a few years, willing himself back to sleep every time he started to wake up. What did he have to wake up for, anyway?

When his body couldn't take it anymore, damn that thing, Crowley stood and stretched and showered so long that his skin turned red, scrubbing the grime out of his hair and the dust out of his eyes. He pressed his sunglasses into his forehead to hide his orange snake eyes (after all, yellow will turn to orange when you throw in enough red, and he had been crying) and sauntering downstairs to the Bentley.

He drove aimlessly, possibly looking for another pub, but the Bentley had other ideas, steering him toward Soho until he was pulled up on the curb next to A. Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop. Crowley grimaced and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, but the car wouldn't budge, so he miracled himself a bottle of whiskey and stepped out, pushing his way through the front door.