Chapter Text
The present day, Mayfair, London, England
The night was moonless and dark. Raindrops pelted the large window panes of Crowley's penthouse apartment without ceasing. He lay on his bed, staring up at a ceiling that he knew was there but couldn't see. Complete blackness surrounded him. He listened to his own breathing, which calmed only slowly. He felt the sweaty silk pyjama stick to him.
It had been another one of those dreams. Since he had returned from the past, they tormented him. He had actually resolved to sleep for at least twenty years and hoped afterwards to have gotten over what he had experienced. But his dreams had other plans for him. For three weeks now, he had awakened from them almost every night with a racing heart. The images of the torture he had experienced at the hands of Beelzebub and Hastur and also Agnes Nutter's death by their crime haunted him. He also dreamed of how Anathema, as Agnes, perished at the stake years later. And there was something else. Something that went much deeper. His daughter Virtue; she called for him. She didn't understand why he had to leave her and she had forgotten him. He had betrayed her. Taken away her memory of him. Cut the bond that connected them from one moment to the next. At least that's what he thought. In his dreams she was present, as if standing in front of him, pointing her finger at him and calling him a traitor. She was still a baby when he left her. He knew only from the few drawings he possessed of her what she had looked like throughout her life. She did not know him, and he basically did not know her. And yet he saw her clearly before him as a young woman. It was as if he remembered her as someone he knew personally. She was frustrated and disappointed, and he felt guilt. He also saw vague shadows of a young man, whom he did not know, but who was no less present in his dreams than his daughter. All this made absolutely no sense.
Crowley fumbled for the light switch on the bedside lamp and flicked it on. He flipped the covers aside, swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat up. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He pulled out the drawing that depicted him as Raphael with Agnes and baby Virtue from the nightstand drawer. It was a process that repeated itself almost every night. He looked at the picture for a while. Then he sighed and put it away again. This time, at least, he could hold back his tears.
He had to do something. It couldn't go on like this. Again he wondered if he should tell Aziraphale about his dreams. He didn't really want to burden his angel with it. Let the whole thing fade into oblivion altogether, if that was even possible. He was sure that Aziraphale had enough to deal with in coming to terms with the fact that Crowley, without knowing it or wanting to, had basically betrayed him as well. Moreover, he, the unworthy creature he was, had simply kissed Aziraphale without being asked and thus embarrassed the angel. An unforgivable action. Aziraphale had been polite enough not to throw him out the door immediately after they returned because of all this. On the contrary, although Crowley had certainly hurt him deeply, the angel still stood by him. Crowley did not want to further strain his relationship with Aziraphale, which he assumed must have experienced a rift. But there was no one else Crowley could talk to about it, and he had to get it off his chest somewhere or he would lose his mind. Of that he was sure. He reached for his cell phone. Dialed Aziraphale's phone number and immediately hung up. He dialled again. It wasn't long before the angel answered the phone. He never slept.
"Aziraphale, it's C..." He didn't get to anything more.
"Crowley!" called Aziraphale on the end of the line. Then he paused as he realized Crowley was calling him in the middle of the night and that was not a good sign. "What's going on?" he asked. "Did something happen?"
"No, I...can we talk?" asked Crowley. "Now?"
"Of course," Aziraphale replied. "I'll be right with you."