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He had no idea why he did this. It felt like torture to be here, sitting on the cold wood bench under the grey February sky. Crowley was well-acquainted with the tortures of hell, and he was absolutely certain that sitting in St. James Park, watching the winter fowl eat the food that bundled-up couples on dates tossed out, was a more intense torture than even Bee would think up. Could have thought up. Bee was off in the stars with Gabriel now, he reminded himself. Even fucking Beezelebub got to be happy.
Not him, though. Never him.
He’d been self-flagellating like this for two years, since Aziraphale had left to go to heaven and do whatever it was he had to do. Crowley knew and understood that Aziraphale had had some motive that he hadn’t shared with Crowley. He knew that Aziraphale had gotten onto that lift with that son-of-a-bitch Metatron out of a sense of duty, and that he would not have left his bookshop or Crowley without a very, very good reason. Humanity was on the line somehow, and Crowley knew it. Aziraphale would not have left his little life on earth or Crowley without a fight had there not been an existential threat to not only humanity, but the quiet little life he they had carved out for himself themselves. He knew it. He knew it.
That didn’t make the rejection sting any less. That didn’t soften the sharp agony of the loss he felt every time he remembered those lift doors closing, and it didn’t quell the gnawing longing for his best friend the angel he loved that ate away at him, deep inside. Duty could get fucked, he thought as he watched the birds scamper on the brownish, near-dead grass in front of him.
Crowley could have left after Aziraphale did. He could have, but he didn’t. He knew that, when Aziraphale returned - be it in fifty years or five hundred - he’d need Crowley. He may not want to admit that he needed Crowley, but he would. There would be something he couldn’t handle, some aspect of the Plan he couldn’t quite do on his own, and Crowley would swoop in and bail him out, the way he always did. Secretly, in places he scarcely even acknowledged himself, he loved when Aziraphale got into tight spots. Those were the times Crowley was able to show his emotional state without being mushy and stupid and -
“They’re a harbinger, you know.”
Crowley looked up to see a vaguely familiar, pretty face hidden behind round glasses sitting on the bench beside him. It took him a minute to place her, but the smile, the dark hair, and witchy clothes helped. His eyes widened when he realized.
“Book girl!”
“That’s me,” Anathema smiled.
“The hell are you doing here?”
“What do you know about swallows?”
Crowley gave her a look that reflected his deep confusion. “Sorry?”
“Swallows. The birds. What do you know about their lore?”
“Nothing. Why would I give a damn about a bird?” he demanded, a stinging thought about nightingales intruding.
“Swallows are harbingers of spring in most cultures,” she explained patiently, producing some seed from her pocket and throwing it. “Of new beginnings.”
“Why should I -”
“Sailors also view them as a sign of coming home.”
Another pang. “Look, I don’t know what you’re -”
“Agnes left me a new book of prophecy. I burned most of them, but some of them I kept. There’s one about you.”
“Me?” he squawked, suddenly more interested. Agnes had proven remarkably accurate before…
“On the date love is celebrayted, the winges of the springetyme bird prepare the aire for the winges of the angel to returne with the spring. The return wille not be without strife, but love will be celebrayted again.”
Crowley blinked at her, trying to make sense of all of it. “On the date love is - that’s got to be Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s my guess,” she agreed, smiling.
“Which is today.”
“Correct.”
“The springtime bird -” he glanced at the little gathering of swallows. One was beating his wings, seemingly without purpose. “Prepare the air for the angel?”
“Something like that, yeah,” she grinned. Then she put her hand on his knee. It was the first touch Crowley had had since The Kiss, and just the sensation shocked him. He didn’t look away from her brown eyes, though, that were boring into his. “He’s coming back. Soon. You'll have to handle some shit, and then love will be celebrated. Your love.”
Crowley’s eyes were wide. “He’s coming back?”
“Soon,” she repeated, then patted his leg and got to her feet. “Better get ready for spring. It’s coming,” she advised without looking back as she walked away.
Crowley watched her go, mind swirling and eyes wide.