Crowley'd found the note just under the mailslot, while he'd been watering the fern by the front door to his apartment. He'd stared at it a moment, at the blankness of its envelope, giving nothing away as to who'd sent it.
It was stupid of him, really. He didn't know who he expected it to be from.
(Ker didn't want anything to do with him. That was clear enough. It was wearying, but obvious. It was just as well. He was exhausted, anyway. And it's not like he'd expected much - well, maybe he had, for a foolish instant. But at least he knew Ker wasn't dead. That helped - no, it really did. It was enough.)
He stared at the messy scrawl blankly, absently digesting the words.
(He hadn't been talking to Hastur, with that post. He hadn't been talking to anyone. And this letter had reminded him of how exhausting it was, to talk to Hastur. He wanted to apologize? Now? After the crippling loneliness period had passed, and the numbing agent long set in? If Hastur had wanted anything to do with him, he should have said so two weeks ago. When it hadn't been a month since. When Crowley hadn't started fortifying himself behind the walls he'd need to survive before being able to go to sleep for another century or so. But now? With Hastur already running to AJ, like he'd never even existed? No. Not even because of that - Hastur running to AJ was understandable, even if Crowley wasn't thinking about it with a bitter edge. No. If he thought about it, fairly, it made sense - AJ had been the only one to treat Hastur right. Crowley just wasn't able to do it, platonic feelings notwithstanding.
But they'd just keep making each other sick. It was too late.
It was too much.)
Crowley dropped the letter on the floor by the mail slot where he'd found it, and turned to head back to his bedroom.
It was snowing again.
Maybe if he sat still long enough he'd freeze like that.
