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After Aziraphale’s passing, Crowley took over the bookshop. It was the only thing he could do, after all. With his angel no longer around he wouldn't dare let allow the bookshop to pass on either. What would be left of Aziraphale then?
In all honesty, he craved to be able to burn it down, just as it had been aflame once in the past. In a dark twisted way, he thought that maybe that could give him closure. He wanted more than anything to have his angel back, but he hated the reminder that Aziraphale was gone. Truly gone. He wanted nothing more than to burn this place to the ground.
But A.Z. Fell & Co. was Aziraphale’s child. He had worked so painstakingly to cultivate his home, a trove of knowledge, just as pure, and kind, and a little bit of a bastard, as the owner himself. He didn't have to tell Crowley that he wanted someone to look after the shop should he ever not be around. It went unspoken. Crowley took no time in taking over the shop’s upkeep, though the shop felt empty without Aziraphale’s presence. Crowley thought it abhorrent that such a comforting place, as the shop had always been to him, felt so empty. He thought it a crime of nature. He tried his absolute best to keep the bookshop in top condition, despite it all. At first it was difficult.
After some time…
Well, it was still difficult. Maybe even more so.
The bookshop had a darker energy now. Perhaps it was just Crowley’s demon nature. Perhaps it was his heartbreak, his anger at the heavenly hosts. Perhaps it was just the Jeffery Archer books. More than likely, it was a combination of the three.
Reviews for the bookshop tanked. Needless to say, reviews were never high, not once since the advent of the internet. No one who went in ever actually managed to buy a book, after all. But people started to file complaints about the dark aura of the shop. And about Crowley himself.
“I’d like to buy this book please?” A middle aged woman asked him, with a smile.
“No. now bugger off.” Crowley sat behind the counter, leaned over with his arms crossed. He looked past her. He was always looking off into the distance, utterly bewildering the few people that still bothered entering the shop, which by now was consistently surrounded by dark rain clouds and the cracking of thunder and lightning.
“Excuse me?” She asked, rather incredulous.
“Look, I don't have time for this. Please just fuck off to wherever you live, okay?” Crowley briefly took off his sunglasses, just to rub his eyes, but without allowing anyone to see what his eyes truly looked like.
“Why open a bookshop if you won’t sell any books?” She questioned on. It seemed like she wouldn’t leave without an explanation.
Normally when clients got upset, Crowley would demonic miracle them away. Something outside the shop would draw their attention and they would suddenly find themselves kilometers away, without a clear recollection of where they had been before. However this time, he was more exhausted than usual, the pain of the loss of his partner dragging on him and his tired corporation more than he had experienced in a long while. He didn’t have the energy for any of that.
“He’s gone…” Crowley muttered in little over a whisper.
“Pardon?”
“He’s gone!” He shouted now, in a voice much more sinister and imposing than that of a human. The other surrounding patrons responded by rushing out of the dreary bookshop. The woman, however, stood frozen in place.
“He’s gone! And he’s never coming back and if I don’t keep the books in check he would be cross and every book has to stay here and in pristine condition and…” Crowley trailed off, his words turning into sobs.
At some point in his tears, the woman too scurried off. He was still crying when day turned to night, and the bookshop, by some long forgotten angelic miracle, locked up by itself. He was still crying, well into the night, when the sounds of the city completely dissipated. Crowley wouldn’t notice, but in the heat of the moment he had charred the counter before him with demonic fire. Had he noticed in the moment that he had done damage to Aziraphale’s prized bookshop, the grief would have swallowed him whole, possibly dooming him to the same fate as that of his angel.
The tears wouldn’t stop. They threatened to drown the bookshop, dousing it and the surrounding street in demonic tears that could burn through the flesh of anyone who came around. There was only one being that could possibly dry his tears. And that being was long gone.
He couldn’t risk crying anymore. He would wet and tarnish the books. Crowley, broken and weary, found himself shifting into snake form, and slithering up into Aziraphale’s loft.
Crowley slithered without thinking, and soon found himself curled up on Aziraphale’s bed. It was the last place that still felt like his angel, the one that he had not dared to touch until now. He would curse himself for sullying it in the morning. Whenever morning would come for him. But for now, he was working on instinct. He needed his angel, in whatever form or sense he could get, to be able to get rest.
Curled up all alone, Crowley slept. He slept for days, weeks, months, years even, until cobwebs had begun to envelop him. He would wake up, disoriented, still in serpent form, his first thought being that it would take a lot of effort to remove the dust from all the books. Part of him would hope for something else to have happened. But of course, nothing had changed.
Aziraphale was still gone.