Good Omens Oneshots

♪9 • Don't You Love Me?♪

Crowley X Aziraphale

Trigger Warning: Suicidal Theme

This is possibly one of the saddest and most anger inducing things I've ever written.

»»1967««

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

It all started the following morning. The coughing fits and feeling of something unnatural in his chest. It started small, just like a chest cold.

For a week Crowley sat alone in his flat, drinking wine throughout each day to try and wash down this feeling of something stuck in his chest. Each day the feeling just got worse and worse. It took him the entirety of that week to realize this was no chest cold.

Crowley woke up quite early in the morning, before the sun had even risen, to a severe coughing fit. His chest felt so much worse now, far worse than it did when he fell asleep the night before. Heavens, it hurt the demon so bad. He'd never felt a pain so strong. It'd nearly made him forget about Aziraphale and the emotional pain he'd just gone through.

After he managed to stop coughing for the time being, he got out of his bed. The time was probably around 4 AM, but he hadn't really took that into consideration. He shuffled into his livingroom fairly slow. He was wheezing with each breath from the pain, but he still trekked onwards.

Once he made it to the table where he had his phone, he practically fell onto the surface. He rested there for a few minutes, sweating through his silk pyjama button-up. His chest felt like it was endlessly cramping, only twisting into a worse contortion with every passing second.

Eventually he managed to push himself up a bit. He propped himself on the surface with use of his elbow and forearm. He grabbed the phone with his free hand, resting it between his head and shoulder, then dialled Aziraphale's number. The last thing he expected was to have the Angel answer, especially not right away.

"Hello, Aziraphale speaking."

Crowley could barely get himself to speak. He had no idea if it was the pain in his chest, or if it was the anxiety of talking to the Angel after how they left off.

"Aziraphale..." He barely managed to breathe the other's name out.

"Crowley," Aziraphale commented with a bit of surprise. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Crowley began weakly, "I'm fine. I just, er..." He stuttered a little along the way. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I'm sorry..."

"Crowley, I..." There was a very quiet sigh within the momentary pause over the phone. "I forgive you."

Why didn't that ease Crowley's nerves?

"Y-You what?" Crowley stammered.

"I forgive you," Aziraphale repeated himself.

That didn't make anything better.

The phone hit the table as Crowley went sliding right off of the surface onto the floor. He would've groaned if it weren't for the coughing that started back up. He had a sudden flare of itching and soreness in his chest. He coughed and coughed until he could actually feel something coming up.

Three bloodied white flower petals.

He held the petals in his palm, that hand balling into a fist. He felt such a seething...

Depression.

This wasn't anyone's fault except his own. He was the one who fell, the one who was deemed unforgivable; unlovable. He was the one who fell in love with his enemy. He was the one who wasn't loved back.