Crowley has a bad habit of being the architect of his own misery.
From what he's sure was Earth's first (and, in his opinion, worst) hangover, to shutting down London's mobile networks only to have to make an urgent call himself, or purchasing the cheapest plant mister and using it in a bluff only to have it leak giving the damn game away, Crowley is frequently frustrated and frequently so at himself.
Now is no different.
He's sitting alone in his car (it still smells like angel and yellow and good lord he didn't know he could be this miserable) with only his plants for company and running through the last few days in his mind and wondering exactly where he cocked the whole thing up.
There was progress, he's sure of it. There were touches, moreso than usual. Hell, he thought he was going to drag the angel off to, well, somewhere, when they were at the pub and he just oh so casually placed his hand over Crowley's useless heart.
He can still feel it, those thick, strong, warm hands that even through layers of fabric felt divine and it made him want things. Tangibly want.
Imminently want.
How was that mere days ago? How had it gone so pear shaped so quickly? He went slow, he did the right things, he tried to protect his angel like he's always done. Well, bugger him for a lark considering how all that turned out.
He knows things now, like the depth of commitment Aziraphale had to the almighty and certainly not to him.
He knows what it's like to love and hate someone in a moment in equal measure. Knows what it's like to have someone awfully close but never further away.
He knows how the angel tastes, the love of his damned pointless, interminable existence, but only when tinged with fury and betrayal and desperation. (It was never supposed to be like that, it wasn't). He knows how soft those lips really are and he knows how those hands would grab him and maybe, in the right circumstances, pull him closer and then maybe-
He wishes he knew less. He'd like to know nothing at present.
But there's nothing for it now, Aziraphale's gone where Crowley can't follow and for the first time in six millenia, Crowley is untethered and entirely alone. Not the kind that protects you but the kind the hollows you out.
He had always promised himself he'd never tell Aziraphale howhe felt, would never break that boundary. Now that he knows how it plays out, he can't help but think he was right, Maggie and Nina be damned.
For the original tempter, the being who brought knowledge to humans and defended that with his entire infernal being, he's currently questioning if this is just one, big, awful joke with him as the natural punchline.
Knowledge, it turns out, is a real heavy burden.