Aziraphale lingered in the bar's dim corner, where shadows clung to the edges of worn wallpaper and time itself seemed to slow. Outside, rain painted the windows with restless strokes, the neon glow from a flickering sign casting soft reds and blues across his pale features. The scent of damp wool, old wood, and whiskey hung in the air like an old song, but none of it reached him. Not truly. His focus was singular.

*Crowley.

There he was—slouched at the far end of the bar, all sharp angles and slumped shoulders, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His dark glasses caught the low light, but they couldn't hide the way his frame sagged with weariness. The usual smirk, the glint of wicked amusement, was gone tonight. Replaced with something quieter. Something broken.

Aziraphale's hands, folded tightly in his lap, trembled as he stared. He had told himself this was the right decision. The higher calling. The duty he had always clung to. But now... now all he saw was a demon who had stood by his side for six thousand years, slowly unraveling in the dim haze of a world they no longer shared.

He had thought Heaven would fill the silence. It hadn't.

He rose before he could second-guess himself. The soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his polished shoes barely registered as he crossed the room, guided more by feeling than thought. His coat brushed gently at his knees, rain still clinging to the hem. Each step toward Crowley felt like stepping off the edge of something—something final, or perhaps something new.

He stopped beside him. Not too close. Not yet. He simply sat. Close enough to be noticed. Far enough to be refused.

Crowley's head turned just slightly. His mouth was a thin line, unreadable. Aziraphale felt a spike of old terror in his chest—had he already lost him? Had too much time passed? But then, Crowley didn't move away. Didn't speak. Just... waited.