Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To: Angel The Fire

From: Your Bestfriend

Subject: I hope this paper burns well

So.

I'm sorry I didn't write this earlier. Truly. I miss you. How are you doing? Well, I hope. Because I'm not. How's Heaven? God treating you well? 

Alright, since you're never going to read this, might as well get into it. No use wasting ink and paper.

Somedays, I forget you're not with me anymore. I walk into your bookshop ready to sprawl on your armchair and start whining about something or the other, when it hits me. The realisation catches me by the throat, and I can't speak for a moment.

Somedays, I pass by the Ritz and feel a pang go through my chest. Somedays, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel empty. I feel useless. I feel hurt and angry and stupid and pathetically wish you'd come back and tell me you were "having a go at me". Hell, I wouldn't even be mad.

When If you ever decide Heaven is getting a bit dull, and you wish to come back down for a spin a tour a ride Hell, anything, please tell me. I would trip over my shoes in haste to get to you before anyone does. 

I'm a lovesick, forlorn fool, and I know I'm the absolute last person in this universe that deserves you but...but sometimes I really do wish you had considered me. You didn't even give us a chance, Angel.

I suppose I must make my peace with whatever you choose. I can't take your choices away from you, and I don't wish to. 

Angel, Angel, Angel. I miss you terribly. Do you miss me?

Do you think about me? Do I ever come to your mind when you're alone? Do you wish you hadn't left me? No, I suppose you don't. But that doesn't stop me from senselessly hoping that there's a part of you that regrets your choice. 

Always Yours Faithfully,

Crowley.

Chapter Text

To: Az The Fire On My Stovetop 

From: Me

Subject: Can't you choose me?

I thought I'd stop writing these, but once I started I apparently can't stop. I'm sorry, again. I spent all six thousand years of my existence believing you to be a constant. I assumed (rather foolishly), that you’d stay that way.

I think I fell in love with you the first time you defied God. After you gave your flaming sword to Adam, I knew by then that you’d matter to me more than I expected you to. This is blasphemy, but really, what are my feelings for you if not religion? I am a selfish, pathetic excuse of a demon, but really, can you blame me for falling headfirst into love? (Falling isn't as bad as you think, Angel. In a way, it's almost like flying.)

I think I am getting better at letting parts of you morph into my very essence.

I think it was the mid-eighteenth century, sometime in the middle of the Seven Years’ War. We were on a merchant ship and I tempted you to try gin. It was all the rage back then. You immediately spit it out, but I suppose the taste warmed up to you eventually because later that night you were drunk. “Is this what it feels like to be in love?” You were warbling and I didn’t have the heart in me to ignore your stupid question. No, I told you. And you didn’t say anything after, but I could feel you wanted to. So I rambled on, to spare you the indignity of sputtering out a question in your state. “It’s worse. Like…a bleeding wound.” You nodded, seemingly satisfied by my half-arsed reply.

I ask that you give me one more chance to answer. I think after almost three more centuries of being hopelessly in love with you I can tell you that love is a bastard, really. No more pondering to that question, then.

There is a space in my heart that holds the sun from your eyes six millennia ago. (The ball of gas was just being created, then.) My hand on the nape of your neck, gazing longingly, wondering, "What if I love you?".

I lie when I say I do not want to worship you.

I know that if I ever set eyes on you again I will not be able to stop myself from falling to your feet. 

Angel. Really, now? Do you want me on my knees that badly? Come back, and I’ll spend the rest of eternity on my knees, being your hopeless pet. You could even grab me by my hair and ask me to crawl to you. I’d do it with my dignity in between my teeth like an offering to a higher power. You could ask me to do all sorts of wicked things, Angel, and I don’t think I would even spare a thought for hesitation before I trip over my own legs to do what you want.

In how many different ways do you want me to ask you to come back pleasepleasepleasepleasecomeback? I miss you.

Yours, in whatever way you want me to be,

A.C.

Chapter Text

To: I Write Letters For Only One Person 

From: Anthony 

Subject: I had a dream 

About you. Obviously. I had a dream of you and me. Us. It's all a bit vague, really. But you were saying my name, again and again and again. It was so real, Angel. You told me you missed me. Hearing my name like that made me feel as if your hand was wrapped around my heart, so close I could feel it beating against your palm. The resultant sharp ache lingered. It lingers still. There is no rest for the wicked, not even in their sleep, it seems. You made sure of that. 

I think that if you ever decide to give me a chance, I'd take being something with you over being everything with anyone else. Stupid of me, I know. I am so stupid for you. I am stupid only for you. 

You're in my veins, Angel. Poison of the slowest kind. 

We could've had eternity, you know? Forever with each other. We wouldn't ever get tired of just it being the two of us. 

I can't even hate you. I don't even have it in me to resent you for leaving. Do you know you're killing me, Angel? And I am ready to die for you, silently, secretly, steadily. Still. And I always will be. 

I hope that I cross your mind even once in a while, so I won't feel so mortified and miserable for thinking of you all the damn time. 

I don’t know how to be something you want something you miss. I don’t regret you, ever. 

Today, I peeled a clementine in the bath while the water was spilling out on the tiles. Today, I made Earl Grey and downed it in one sip (I know that’s not how you drink tea) just to feel closer to you. Today, I walked through Hyde Park and caught myself thinking of how the sky perfectly matched the blue of your eyes. And I had to stop. 

Because even though I keep doing this, refusing-to-move-on, lovesick-heartbroken-fool act, I do know it’ll have to end one day. And the thought, that one day, I’ll barely spare a passing thought to your absence pains me even now. I need to stop, I know. 

My car keeps playing the music you miracled it to. That slow waltzing, candlelight dancing, in-the-refrigerator-light-kissing kind. I don’t have the heart in me to even tell it to play my preferences anymore. So I drive and keep listening to your sappy music and hope you haven’t forgotten me (because really, what else can I even do?). 

I know you so well. 

It’s a shame we’re strangers. 

It’s a shame that I wish we weren’t. 

It’s a shame I still wish for you.

It’s a shame I can’t abandon you the way you abandoned me. 

It's a shame, really.

Yours,

Crowley.

Chapter Text

To: A Fire, Somewhere

From: Me.

Subject: Can I Confess Something?

I know I have forfeited all my right to you (if I had one, in the first place) but bear with me. I know you hate to hear it, but I love you. God, I really do. Still. You said you forgave me for kissing you and I confess I wish you hadn’t. So that I would have an excuse to come traipsing into Heaven, apologising for my sins. Isn’t it pathetic funny—the only sin I wish to apologise for is one I have already been forgiven for.

You said you forgave me. You may as well have ripped my heart out of my chest and handed it to me, haematic and beating. You broke my heart so stunningly.

Let me confess something else. I prayed for you. I’ve never prayed for anyone before. I could almost hear God laughing down at me, seeing me kneel before her like one of Her devotees. She didn’t listen to me. Why would She, when I think God is lesser than you? (She must’ve taken offense because dreams of you torture me still.)

The truth is, Angel, I’m either yours or nothing at all. I am aimless without the certainty of your presence around me.

Another confession, then. I’m going to miss you forever. For the rest of eternity. We stopped Armageddon and defied Heaven and lost each other in the process. I wish we were forever stuck in the time-space where I still meant something to you. 

Another: If I was crushed, my bones dust, that dust would want you. Even when I'm fucking dead, my ghost is going to come back just carry on wanting you. I wish I were dead.

Was I born with blood on my hands? Was I made an angel so I could fall? Late at night, when I’ve had enough of myself and champagne, I honestly confess to my quietly pathetic self: I never deserved you. I knew that from the first moment we met. God didn’t make you for me, no, but She certainly made me for you. I was yours and belonging to you is was my identity.

Sorry, it’s getting late and I’m feeling overly sentimental.

Confession: I feel wretched sometimes, like I should cut off my fingers just to spite my palms, like I should jump and see if the soft animal of my body loves me enough to keep me alive.

I suppose I just wanted to be worthy of your kindness that I clung to like a parasite. I wanted to cut out all the rotted bits of my soul like necrotic flesh.

You said forgave me. You pried apart my ribs and left me there, gutted, ocean eyes wide with ‘I didn’t think it’d be so full of want’. Obviously, you never asked for any of this. Any of my feelings or the longing that spills out of me. Obviously. Still. I didn’t think you’d forgive me for it. Hate me, maybe. Tell me I was a useless, selfish demon and I should just leave you alone. But never this. Never forgiveness.

Take back your forgiveness. Come fight with me. Come and hate me and scream at me. Say you wish you never met me. Say you never held a scrap of affection for me. After all, it took you six millennia to admit we were friends. I’ll wait another six for you to admit we were something more.

Dont forget me (please),

Crowley.

Chapter Text

To: Anthony J. Crowley
From: A.Z. Fell
Subject: What Are These Letters?

Crowley,

I wasn’t supposed to read these. Truly, I wasn’t. What happened to burning them, hmm? You wrote about how that was the plan. Fire, ashes, forgetting. I can almost hear you saying it — “it’s cleaner that way, Angel.” But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And now I’ve found them, stacked outside my office door, unaddressed. Like God Herself sent these (divine intervention and all that). I knew they were meant for me.

I read them. All of them. I couldn’t stop myself. Each letter felt like pressing a bruise — painful, but in that strange, human way that feels almost alive. If there’s one thing humans are doing right, it’s this. Loving and getting their hearts broken and loving again. I applaud them for it, really. We angels and demons don’t really know anything involving matters of the heart.

And just after I thought I was done with hurting you (done with all the bad things that I’ve done in the name of Good), here you’ve come again and made me think about everything. Made me think how I ought to have done something to stop this. Made me think how it wouldn’t have mattered in the end.

I thought that I had made peace with it. With you. With us. But I read your words and suddenly six thousand years came crashing back like a wave — every little moment, every nearly, every almost. I thought angels didn’t ache, but I do.

You said I never gave us a chance. I’ve repeated that line to myself for hours. You make it sound so simple, Crowley. As if I could’ve just reached out and said yes and everything would’ve fallen neatly into place. Like both Heaven and Hell wouldn’t have tore the Universe apart to find us. You know it would’ve never been as easy as just going somewhere and hiding out there for all eternity. We were born to opposite sides of the same story. You and I — we were never supposed to exist in the same sentence, let alone fall into it.

And yet, here we are.

You wrote that falling isn’t as bad as I think. That it’s almost like flying. I hate that you’re right. Because every time I think of you, I feel that drop in my chest again — wings burning, air rushing out, the whole world collapsing into the sound of your voice saying my name.

You’ve written that I broke your heart. But Crowley, you broke mine first — when you looked at me like I was the only good thing you had left, and I still turned away. I had to. I had to. Do you think I don’t ask myself every night what would’ve happened if I hadn’t?

You wrote that you prayed for me. I wish you hadn’t. Or maybe I wish I hadn’t heard it (did you know I heard it? At two in the night I heard your voice in my ear like you were sitting right beside me). I thought angels were supposed to be accustomed to prayers, but not like that. Not one that sounded like you — soft and desperate and so full of something I wasn’t supposed to deserve. I almost came to you then. Almost. You have no idea how close I was.

I keep thinking about what you wrote — that your ghost would still want me. That even in death, you’d come back just to keep wanting me. I think if that’s true, then perhaps my ghost would be foolish enough to wait for you. Two idiots, haunting each other forever. That sounds like us, doesn’t it?

I’ve tried to hate you, truly. Tried to tuck you somewhere small and harmless inside me. But you’re like light — every time I try to grasp you, you slip through my fingers and leave me illuminated anyway. You ruin me gently, Crowley.

Sometimes, I still imagine your voice beside me in Heaven. I turn around expecting to see you sprawled on the desk (because you hated sitting on chairs), pretending not to care about the Angel gossip I’m babbling about. I still make two teacups out of habit. I drink them both too fast, like I’m afraid the warmth will disappear if I wait too long, and I end up burning my tongue.

What I’m trying to say — and I fear I’ll say it badly — is that you were right. I forgave you because it was easier than telling you the truth. Because saying I wanted you to do it again felt too much like falling. And now I can’t stop falling, even when you’re not here.

I don’t know what this is. A confession, perhaps. A reply I should never send. Maybe I’ll hide this one too. Maybe it’ll end up in your hands somehow. You’ve always had a knack for finding what you shouldn’t.

If you do find it — just know this: I never stopped thinking of you. Not for a single day. I don’t think I ever will.

Yours,
still (and I wish I wasn’t),
Aziraphale

Chapter Text

To: Angel

From: Crowley

Subject: What The Fuck

Who on God’s green earth sent you those letters. Bloody hell. I’m sure I burned all of them but then again I was also sure I was sober when writing and here we are. I’m drunk this time too, in case you’re curious. Can’t get through one of these letters sober without falling to the floor and bawling my eyes out like a goddamn baby. Whatever.

If I knew you were going to read these, I would’ve written them better. Cussed a lot less, for one thing. Complimented you a lot more, for another. I dunno why you thought it’d be a good idea to respond. Drive the blade in deeper and all that. A dead man can’t die twice and all that. I digress. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to believe that you did, after how easily you left. Packed up and went away like you were never here in the first place. An empty bookshop and a sullen demon that are still waiting for you to return, soothe over the wound of your absence by your obvious signs of affection. God, I really do sound pathetic.

Can’t believe how it must’ve been for you, reading all this. Ignoring everything you wrote back (I assume you did that only because you knew I was going to read it, and wanted to flatter and melt me like hot wax, despite it being of no benefit to you at this moment, cause you’re so far away and if you really cared you’d have come back), I want to say some things to you first. Other than all the obvious ones I said anyway.

One, I don’t consider myself totally in love with you. Just to set some boundaries, you know? I take myself to be about sixty-seven percent in love with you. Mind you, that is a generous estimate. (Can’t be accused of catastrophic devotion if I don’t hit a full hundred. You’re a bloody gravitational force, and I’m a fool with two left feet and a penchant for self-immolation.)

Two, I feel like a child right now. Lost and directionless and left staring at his hands, no idea what to do. I don’t really know how to put this devastation into proper words. Not yet, anyway. I will however, tell you this. Most days I feel like an arsonist, lingering around just to get my hands on the best scrap that’ll burn. Most days I myself am the scrap that lies on the floor, waiting to be burned. Waiting for someone to pour oil on me and stay in my heat until I’m all used up. But some days — the bad ones, maybe, can’t really tell anymore — I’ll think of you as a forest. And darling, for all my flaws, I’ve never wanted to start a wildfire.

Three, You probably think I’m lying. I would be, in this situation. But it’s you. And I stopped lying to you after that Friday in 1880 where I got you drunk and you were slurrin’ all your words, mumbling about some guy that did the polka better than you. You asked me then, all innocent eyes and unconscious smile, if I ever felt bad for lying all the time. Granted, I had done worse things to feel bad about, but that’s what you asked about. And God, it fucked me up, I tell you. Kept thinking about it for days afterwards. You never mentioned it again, so I assumed you forgot. I hope you did. I don’t want to be a drunk and a liar to you.

Four, this letter’s getting too long and the whiskey’s wearing off. So. I think this is how it’ll be. Forever, I mean. Me writing these stupid, self-piteous, self-indulgent letters. And you sitting there on your Heavenly chair, responding like you actually care about me. I don’t blame you for that. I never blamed you for leaving me, Angel. I’d do the same too. I just want to know why. Suppose even a demon like me deserves some answers even though they’ll just make me more sad, no?

Five, I’m getting tired of finding new ways to come up with ‘I miss you’. I do, and that is the truth of me. Nothing less, nothing more.

Six, I tried to move on. Not just once, but so many times. Got myself talking with the best-looking man or woman in the area, and then I’d notice that they had blond hair, or blue eyes, or that the corner of their mouth looked exactly just like yours, and I’d feel sick to my stomach, wanting to get out and throw up in the nearest alley. I used to do that too. Throw up my guts whenever I thought of you. Still want to do it sometimes, to be honest.

I think I’ve told you everything I had to. Won’t be writing any letters after this one, probably. I have just one request: don’t respond. For the love of God, if this letter somehow ends up outside your office door again, and you read everything in it, don’t send me a letter back. I don’t think my heart will be able to handle it. Please.

Yours,

Crowley.